The Golden Circuit (The Smith Chronicles) (20 page)

“Yep, I am rather, aren’t I,” he replied, with no lack of self-irony.

Mikita began to wait for a reply.

…

Nothing came back.

…

A minute went past.

…

C’mon, Tamashito!

…

Nothing.

17:22 - Monday, July 30, 2187 (nr. Kloq-888)

It
would be easy to say that Jon-7 was no longer interested in Mikita Smith, but this was not strictly true. He'd simply forgotten about her, as his own problems mounted up with his posse of degenerates. But, to his credit, he did know that this was a ‘do-or-die’ moment in his leadership.

And these problems had only served to make
Jon-7 mad. And not just mad in the ‘mad = crazy’ sense of the word. He was also angry. Angry at Sempre, angry at Budgie and angry at the rest of the Froome. In fact, he was angry at just about everybody he knew.
And his anger had made him choose to deal with his problems in the only way he knew how - with the use of extreme violence. Jon-7 had decided to attack Muhaze ‘properly’, and the Froome were already on their way to Tapi-36.

Earlier that day he'd summoned all 42 members of the Froome for a meeting - which was never a good idea. The Froome were a noisy bunch when they all got together. They were a noisy bunch even when they
didn't
get together, and now they were busy making farting noises and mixing in swear words with fake coughs, when Jon-7 got up to address them.

Their rambunctiousness made him uneasy. He thought their dissatisfaction with him could spill over at any moment.

“Ok, dears, settle down, settle down!” he shouted, over top of the noise. “C’mon, listen up! This is the plan!” He’d got their attention, at last. “We attack Muhaze tomorrow at 12:00. We’ll fly in a Q formation of 21 V-wings and use the camouflage distortion devices. This will help us get into the Tapi-36 airspace undetected.”

“But that’s not going to work, Mr. 7. That system is far too old for TAPCON,” said Grisshum, one of the more vociferous dissenters amongst the faction. “They’ll see right through us… Ha! If only they would!” Grisshum laughed at his accidental witticism.

“Look,” continued the Froome leader. “Sempre thinks that we’re waiting for the envoy to arrive here at noon, they won’t be expecting us to be coming for them. We’ll have the element of surprise. And if it’s not working out, then we’ll tell them that we’re in for maintenance at the airbase. It is about time for our annual MOT. That will work for sure.”

“Humpf,” said Grisshum.

Jon-7 carried on more confidently now. “So, first we take out the airbase, then we take out the TAPCON buildings. But we leave the Towers. I want that for my… sorry, luvvies…
our
headquarters.”

The Froome grew very restless at this idea.
What? A real, proper bit of terrorism?

“Hang on there, 7. Do you mean actually ‘take them out’ take them out?” asked Bardroola, Grisshum’s girlfriend. “But we don’t usually do that. What’s going on? What are you not telling us?”

A generous smattering of consternation spread throughout the Froome cabal.

Jon-7 was going for it. “I’ve had it with Sempre!” he said, emphatically. “We’re going to leave him begging for mercy!”

“You’re going to leave him begging for a city, if you’re not careful!” shouted Lapwing, Bardroola’s mate.

“And us for jobs!” rejoined Grisshum.

“Yeah, he’s right! If we bomb the shizzers, then who’s going to pay our wages?” said Turnstile McPheeters, the Froome’s chef.

“Yeah, I mean, you’re not really gonna to do it ‘properly’, are you?” chimed in Lance Flaatu, a big bloke.

“I quite like things the way they are!” said Baloney Tyre, a hopeless old git.

There was a brief, stunned silence.

Before the Froome jumped on Baloney!

Several of them began flicking his ears. Then Lapwing pulled down his t
rousers and Bardroola pushed him over then farted in his face. It was a typical example of Froome roughhousing.

Jon-7 had had enough: “Right! Stop it! Listen, listen! You’re all getting a bit ahead of yourselves now. Calm down, my duckies. Calm down!”

The Froome slowly settled into a hideous form of repose.

“Good. Thank you. Now look,
I have an idea... It’s time for the Froome to take charge.”

“Take charge?” they all said, in unison. “Of what?”
The Froome broke off into another hurly-burly of murmuring. ‘No, no, no’, they whispered. ‘He’s lost it’, ‘we can’t possibly’ and ‘what’s for dinner, Turnstile?’ - much to Jon-7’s annoyance.

“SHUT IT!” he bellowed, at the top of his pitch range.

And they did.

Jon-7 adjusted his wrap-arounds and ran a hand through his flowing locks. He wanted to look good for this next bit, even though it was only going to be brief.

“We CAN do it and we WILL do it,” he said, surprising himself with his simplistic eloquence. “Tomorrow, we take out TAPCON, we rob them of all their cash and we set up business on our own. Simple.”

It did the trick.

“Um… OK,” they all said, as one.

It was probably the mention of the word ‘cash’ that swung it.

18:18 - Monday, July 30, 2187 (Starship Argon, nr. Kloq-888)

Crim buzzed the Stateroom door, and waited for a reply.

“Yes?”

“It’s Crim, sir. I hae yon Agent Smith for ye.”

“Send her right in, please, Sergeant.”

The door slid open and Crim allowed Mikita to walk past her into the room. Jameson was sitting pensively at a triangular-shaped onyx table.

The Stateroom was a further throw back to times gone by
, and the old days of classic Earth-based starship design. It was all there: the multi-level open plan layout, the soft, white leather furnishings, the assortment of darkly-coloured glass objects and geometric accessories. The kind of room that, if you were at all perturbed by mankind’s nebulous relationship with the universe, made you want to put on a black roll-neck sweater and some beige slacks, and stare out of the main-viewer saying things like ‘We are like so many grains of sand, floating through the cosmos’. It would have been very ‘now’ back in the 21
st
Century, but here in the 22
nd
it just looked… quaint.

Phil
Jameson was not dressed in a black polo-neck or beige slacks, he was in his TAPCON uniform. But he did look bothered about something.

“Miss Smith.
I regret to have to inform you that we have decided to keep you here, onboard the Argon, for the time being. There has been no response from Kloq-888. The Froome can be somewhat unreliable, to put it mildly.”

“Yes, Captain. Thank you, sir.”

“You are new at TAPCON, I gather. When did you begin working here?”
Something in the eyes…

“Oh, you know, recently, sir.”

“How recent, exactly?”
That dark green colour…

“This morning,” replied Mikita
, owning up.

Jameson nodded. “And were you a Primo?”
So familiar…

Mikita was taken aback by Jameson’s abilities. Either he knew all this already and was just testing her, or he was very perceptive.

“Yes, a Primo. That would be correct, sir.”

“And
you had a Sourcer, latterly, I mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see. And you have undergone the commissioning process, I would imagine?”
She is so like her…

“Yes, sir.”

“And you came willingly to TAPCON?”

“No, I mean, yes, sir. Very willingly, sir.”

Jameson, looked at her, quizzically.

“What exactly is your mission to Kloq-888, Agent Smith?”
The resemblance is uncanny…

“To a
rrange a peace initiative with the Froome. Well, to prevent Jon-7 from attacking Muhaze with the amount of force he has recently threatened. A falling out with Mr. Sempre, I gather, sir.”

Jameson paused for a moment. “Miss Smith, do you think I am a ‘by-the-book’ leader? I mean, from what little you have seen of me?”

She was surprised by the question, but felt she knew the response he wanted. “Oh, yes, sir, definitely.” Mikita smiled, just like McGilvary had done.

“Really?”

“Oh, I’m positive, sir. Yes.” Mikita was still smiling.

“Hmmm. That’s disappointing. But you are quite right, Miss Smith.
” Jameson looked forlorn. “Now, tell me about your education... Mu-U, I would guess?”

“Yes, sir. After my parents died. I was taken in by the Airforce Kids programme. I went wild for a few years and then - ”

“Your parents, they died? So, for you to be taken in by Airforce Kids they must have worked for TAPCON, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir. My mother was in Psych, my father was a pilot. He was killed in a Froome skirmish, along with my uncle.”

Jameson’s heart almost left his chest. He sat down rather abruptly in his big Captain’s chair.

Mikita looked concerned. “Are you OK, sir.”

“Yes, um, Miss Smith. I’m fine, thank you.”

Mikita nodded.

“Your mother’s name, Miss Smith. Tell me, was it… Kaori?” He'd not said that name out loud for over 10 years.

“Yes, Captain, my mother was called Kaori. But…”

Jameson froze. “Married to a Flight Lieutenant Ichiro Smith?” he said, with trepidation.
I’m such a fool…

“Yes.”

It’s her…

“Why, did you know them?”

“I did, yes.” But Jameson said this like he wished he hadn’t known them. Or rather, that it was a source of profound regret that he’d done so. He knew now that his suspicions were correct.
Such a fool…

“Are you all right, Captain Jameson,” asked Mikita. “You don’t look very well, sir.”

“Yes, yes, I couldn’t be better, Miss Smith. Really.” Jameson’s head was swimming with memories. Bad memories. Dangerous memories. Memories that could tear people apart.

“So, you knew my parents, then?” Mikita asked, now eager for more.

“Yes, and they were special people, Miss Smith. Very special.”

At those words, Mikita was transported back to the day when that nice man from the airbase came to tell her, and her brother, about their mother’s death. She could still picture the moment as if it were yesterday. The bright morning, the sun through the window, the shadow of the door opening as her teacher, Miss Pauwels, let
the tall man into the principal’s office…
‘A special person’ - he’d said that about my mother…
She looked at Jameson again, then it flashed into her mind.
Oh, fire!… It’s him!… He’s the man!
“You’re the man that came to my school and told me and Kané about my mother! It was you! Wasn’t it?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no. You were very kind. You were nice to us. You gave us sweets.”

“Yes, I did, didn’t I,” he replied, then paused. “Miss Smith, there’s something else. Something important that I need to tell you. Something that may sound very strange. Something that you probably don’t want to hear.”

Mikita tensed. “Please don’t tell me I’m really an alien, or an android, or something,” she laughed, nervously.

“By Herra, you look so much like her…”

Jameson looked at Mikita’s dark green eyes. It was as if he were peering into his soul. He picked up a photo lying on his desk and held it out to her.

She looked at the image.

It was a picture of her, aged about 12.

She turned it over.

Written on the back was her name, in her mother’s handwriting.

“But… I don’t understand… This is a picture of me? How did you get -” she looked up at Jameson, his brow was furrowed.

“Miss Smith… Mikita… your mother and I… we… well, we…”

“What are you trying to say, Captain? What are you trying to tell me?” she said, her heart
racing.

“It was such a long time ago…”

“What? What was?”

“Such a very long time ago…”

“Tell me, Captain!”

“Yes, yes. I must, mustn’t I?”

Mikita looked at him imploringly.

Jameson steeled himself, and
, finally, told his long  kept secret, for the first time, to anyone: “I’m your father, Mikita.”

She shook her head:
“
No… No! My father’s dead. He was killed in a Froome Skirmish. You must be mistaken, Captain Jameson. I mean how could
you
be my father -” Then, something struck her. “No… Oh, no! This is another one of Sempre’s games! One of David Sempre’s evil, draining games, isn’t it?”

“Mikita, no
. Of course not. No. Oh, I shouldn’t have said anything -”

“Where are they? Where are Mitchell and Quince then, Captain? Are they behind the door? I suppose that horrible loud noise is going to start again and you’ll all just sit there smiling at me, laughing at me?! You’re a liar! A draining, firing LIAR!”

Mikita ran out of the Stateroom in tears, and headed for her cabin.

Jameson held his head in his hands
, and regretted his very existence.

Such a fool…