Fundamental Force Episode One (5 page)

“But, but...
that’s... impossible!” babbled Gates after a brief hiatus. He fell
silent, unable to find anything coherent to say in reply and
looking almost pleadingly at McAllister in the hope of hearing some
intelligible criticism from him. The president and the program host
followed his glance.

McAllister sat
in his chair with his head on his chest. The green ring on his
microphone lit up when it was switched on, but instead of his
voice, the sound of quiet snoring carried across the studio. The
president could hardly stop his face taking on a triumphant
expression. He looked back offstage, where LeRoy, along with his
two secretaries, was observing the discussion. Even from that
distance, a wicked smile could be seen spreading across his
face.

Coming out onto
the doorstep of his house, Space Fleet Commander General MacQueen
stopped for a moment, taking deep breaths of the cool
moisture-laden morning air. At this early hour, when the Sun had
not yet even risen above the horizon, everything around was covered
in cold wet dew. In such weather, the organism of any warm-blooded
animal opposes with all its being the idea of leaving a warm dry
dwelling and poking its nose into the street.

In cold damp
weather, the amount of energy expended on maintaining the body at
optimum temperature rises sharply, which is why, recalling many
millions of years of evolutionary experience, every cell of
MacQueen’s organism was urging him to change his mind and go back
to bed.

Time served in
the Special Space Service kills off sensitivity to such weaknesses
of one’s own fragile shell once and for all. At first, effort is
required to force these weaknesses into the remotest corner of the
consciousness, to prevent them influencing behavior, but over time
this becomes second nature. In the whole Solar System, the last
thing to whose complaints the general was prepared to listen and
give way was his own body. Having made several circular motions
with his arms to relax his shoulder joints, still sluggish with
sleep, he stepped onto the asphalt path in front of the house
towards the invigorating cold. At first his steps were slow, but he
gradually speeded up. A little faster still and MacQueen was
running.

Twelve
kilometers stretched out ahead of him, after which he would return
invigorated and with a clear head. His sleepiness and inertia would
leave him, and his brain would begin to work rapidly and
efficiently. This state of vigor and filling the organism with
vital force was why every day, before anyone else in the district,
he left his warm bed and submitted his body to the cool of the
morning, or to cold rain and wind.

Over the past
forty years, the general had not missed a single morning run, no
matter where he was, whether in a space ship in the open cosmos, an
orbital station or another planet of the Solar System.

At one time, he
had been quite different. Having grown up in an ordinary,
unremarkable family, like billions of others on his home planet
Earth, he had not had any kind of special abilities or iron will
that had distinguished him from his peers. The parents of several
of his acquaintances had had their own small shops and their
children had had to help them in their work from an early age, but
MacQueen was not among those who had learned the burden of hard
work from childhood.

Nor had he
suffered any deprivations. His family had not been rich, but he had
never been short of the basic necessities, even if he had not been
able to permit himself anything special. Life had not been sweet,
but need had not made it bitter either. By the time he left school,
the future general was among those whom most teachers would
describe as a lazy kind of lad. They didn’t spare the jokes when
they learned he was preparing for the Special Space Service
entrance exams. In the eyes of the average Joe, in what they called
popular culture, the typical SSS soldier was stupid, but hard as
iron. The diametrical opposite of the young MacQueen, whose sharp
mind fitted comfortably in a spoiled body.

Looking back,
it must be admitted that they were partly right. The SSS seemed
much less suited to him than studying in some university. The
comfortable seats of an academic auditorium were closer to his
nature, he believed, than physical deprivation and regular mortal
danger outside assimilated space. Nevertheless, though he had had
some doubts about his choice of profession at first, they were
finally dispersed by his resentment of the jokes of those around
him who considered him a spoiled brat.

Once in the
SSS, he was initially haunted by the thought that he had sold his
soul. The space fleet took all of him, including the buttons on his
shirt and the laces in his shoes. Whereas the colleges that people
normally went to on leaving school filled only part of their time,
the Fleet permitted no such indulgence. It avidly took up all of
his time, apart from a few free minutes before sleep.

He found it
hard, just like all the others. But after a few months, once his
body was in good shape, MacQueen suddenly realized that his
personality had somehow thrown off its rough scale and rusty crust,
laying bare a core of sterner stuff. His service changed something
in him for the better, and this in itself began to bring him
satisfaction. He liked what was happening to him, how the harmful
impurities of laziness and indecisiveness were being sweated out of
him, leaving a pure residue of an unknown but unusually strong
material.

In the combat
simulator, his platoon started as a disorganized mob, but suddenly
an internal structure took shape in this random group of rookies.
They began to understand each other from half a word, half a look,
and the chain of command ended with MacQueen of its own accord.

The sergeant
yelling at them was no longer yelling at all of them, but mainly at
him, when they did not manage to take cover from the virtual fire
of the holographic enemy in the close corridors of the simulator.
When the platoon failed to complete a combat mission, it became
MacQueen’s fault. They began looking at him as a leader long before
he was officially promoted to powers of command.

And that was
how he realized that the SSS was his calling. To the astonishment
of all who had known him as a civilian, and to his own even greater
astonishment, the SSS proved to be the element that had been
lacking in him, the catalyst of his personality, without which he
would have remained an ordinary clerk, lawyer or shopkeeper just
like all the others.

He had now
covered half his jogging route. MacQueen left the city and ran
through the morning forest. The air gradually became filled with
the songs of awakening birds and the upper edge of the Sun peeped
over the distant mountains, hidden from sight by the trees. His
time to be alone with his thoughts had passed and he would now be
inundated with calls. Although he had personal secretaries to sort
the unimportant from the important without mercy, it was not much
help. As commander of the space fleet, the mightiest force in the
Solar System, there was so much coming in every second that he had
to be on the line continuously.

The watch on
his wrist vibrated. This was the first call to get through.

“Good morning,
general. Have you heard the news?” It was Shelby’s voice.

Their first
conversation had taken place five years ago, when an alien ship
crossed the boundary of the Solar System for the first time. The
team of this droll professor, the dean of the astrophysics faculty,
had been the first people on Earth to set eyes on the strange
flight trajectory of the alien craft. It was still far beyond the
orbit of Neptune at the time.

“Good morning,
professor. What news, exactly?”

“The president
spoke about the SM openly on the air yesterday.”

“Well, it had
to become known to the public sooner or later.”

“I am amazed by
your calmness.”

MacQueen just
smiled sadly. It was easy to observe an actual battle in space and
take note of the losses of one’s own ships with an indifferent
appearance. Unlike many of his secretaries however, who had seen
such clashes only on a computer screen, he had actual combat
experience and knew very well what a direct hit from a ship’s gun
or missile meant.

Images of an
explosion wave spreading through the compartments of a damaged ship
passed before his eyes, how the eardrums and lungs of those
unfortunate enough to be inside burst, how the blood flowed from
their mouths and ears. In a flash, an unsealed ship loses its
atmosphere to space, allowing the cosmic vacuum in. To be in space
at such a moment with no protective spacesuit, mouth gaping like a
fish pulled ashore and without the strength to fill the lungs with
air, was the worst nightmare of all those who served in the SSS.
Suffocation was a terrible death.

The objective
laws of battle cannot be changed, however. This element is not
under human control, so it is easy to maintain a professional calm
at such losses, however awful they might be. But when the most
important link in the command chain permits himself to blurt out
matters of the highest secrecy as if it were just some sort of
gossip, endangering the mission and the lives of many people, then
this really made the general furious.

But there was
no sense in crying over spilt milk. What was done was done. Rage
should not be allowed to enter the soul or it will eat away at the
consciousness from the inside, giving rise to a fury that clouds
common sense.

“It had to
become public knowledge sooner or later,” answered MacQueen
laconically. “It’s my job to safeguard the mission and leave
emotion to the politicians. Hot air is their prerogative.”

“In that case,
we shall have to plan the technical parameters of entry all over
again.”

“I’ll order a
ship to be sent for you.”

“This way
please, Mr. LeRoy...”

Swinging her
hips coquettishly, the shapely secretary led the president’s
advisor along the corridor. Her markedly business-like appearance
and slightly cold attitude did not fully conceal her flirtatious
inclinations.

A position high
up in the hierarchy is always an attraction for women. The
president’s chief advisor, despite his unsightly looks and
dwarf-like height, was a prime example of this.

While studying
at school and then at university, he became accustomed to being
totally deprived of attention from the opposite sex. His first job
upon graduating had taken his bank account well into the black. His
hopeless poverty was gradually lost in the mists of the past,
however, and the subsequent success of his career sent the mocking
glances from women the same way. He suddenly became interesting to
those who had previously looked down on him.

They say that
for people like him, career success in some way compensates for an
inferiority complex. Maybe so, but he wasn’t bothered about that.
The main thing was that it worked, enabling him to obtain in excess
that which he had previously lacked. The rest of it didn’t
matter.

They reached a
closed door at the very end of the corridor. The secretary pressed
her finger to the electronic lock, which clicked loudly as soon as
her finger passed over its biometric scanner, unlocking the door.
LeRoy looked around the sparse furnishing of the corridor. “It’s
rather gloomy here, isn’t it?”

The secretary
turned her head towards him more sharply than usual, playfully
showing off her thick head of hair braided into a pitch-black
plait, and giggled guiltily.

“You don’t say!
It clearly lacks a woman’s touch. But sessions aren’t often held
here. Usually...” She broke off after noticing someone at the other
end of the corridor and immediately put a serious expression on her
face.

Not bothering
to take even a brief glance towards what had so frightened her,
LeRoy stepped into the room and, ignoring the customary behavior
expected of guests, flopped down in the chair at the head of the
table. He put his hand in his pocket, got out a small object and
set it down on the table in front of him.

Half a minute
later there was the sound of approaching steps. Three people in
smart business suits entered the cramped room. LeRoy, sprawling
languidly in his chair, did not think it necessary to stand up and
greet them or shake hands.

Showing no
surprise at such disrespect, they sat a little further along the
table. Two of them were taller than the third, who was the oldest.
To a trained eye, their subordination to him was obvious. In spite
of their height, they looked up to him and he behaved as one would
expect of the leader of a herd, appearing almost indifferent.

“Well, Mr.
LeRoy, it seems to me that our job has become a lot easier,” began
the tallest of the three, who appeared to be the lowest in
rank.

“Why is
that?”

“We still need
to cooperate, of course, but...” cut in the other one, then stopped
significantly.

LeRoy nodded
approvingly and, maintaining his usual smile, lifted the small
object from the table. It proved to be a holographic cube. With an
exaggerated basketball-throwing movement, he put it in a black
briefcase standing open by the table leg. It could be heard
striking the leather interior of the briefcase a few times as it
came to rest.

“I think you’re
right, we won’t need this...”

His opponents,
instantly becoming animated, made calming gestures.

“No, no, of
course not...” said the leader, no longer with any trace of
arrogance. “Without your invaluable help, we would not have had the
faintest idea of how to proceed with the project. Please, Mr.
LeRoy...”

LeRoy looked at
them across the table.

“With your
permission, I’ll get down to business. So, the entry parameters
will be changed. We don’t yet know exactly how, work on that is
going on right now. There are several proposals, but the president
will only have the exact information on his desk a few hours before
switching on...”