Torna
Live
by
the
Sword . . .
An Adventure Novel of Swords and Space and Such by B W Canfield
Torna: Chapter Three
I managed to keep busy. There was always something to do, always someone to get to know, and it was pleasant to feel that time was passing quickly. Lt. McAbee's journal was becoming very interesting. With 250 intelligent people from different backgrounds and countries, the journal was a xenophile's delight. Frank Jones had become good friends with Jillian Fraser. Together, they organized some group activities, where computer simulations that Frank wrote were a highlight. Staff meetings weren't needed as frequently, as the ship ran very smoothly; we had no problems at all.
Everything was going along just swimmingly, as they used to say. Then one day Frank brought up something that made my antennae twitch.
"Why would Dr. Kessel and General Markovski be concerned with stores?"
"I would imagine they need to know weight totals for calculating deceleration or something like that. Why?" I shrugged my shoulders.
"Nope. I already thought of that. Those figures come to us—Navigation and Propulsion, I mean—as prepared data. In other words, all the numbers they need are entered automatically when anything is used or moved. You know that. They were looking at the raw data, consumption figures, stock lists, everything. And I know Markovski is the main brain behind everything, and he's on the review board and planning staff. So he might have been working on something for planning or staff meetings." He paused.
"OK. Keep going. Did you ask him what was going on?"
"And that brings me to the point. I did ask him. And he lied. At first it looked like an innocent mistake. But it happened twice. And this time, the second time—he said something totally different from two weeks ago. And it wasn't even a good lie. He wasn't really trying to make me believe him. It was like "I am big and powerful, and you're the hired help—mind your own business." He can really be an arrogant ass when he wants to be."
"All right. He lied. He isn't working on something for the staff meeting? Is it for his research? Is it even a breach of security?"
"Not research. And I'm not sure if it's a security breach or not. There are two ways to look at it. If I say it is a breach, it's a breach. I do have that authority under the ISEG charter, since the computers are my responsibility. Or, I could talk to Capt. Fordham and get her take on it. But that might make a big deal out of a little deal. Come on, Al, you're the analyst and problem solver. Help me out here."
We were in a booth at the Bulldog, the pub on the Strip. I wished we were in my quarters. I like to put my feet up when I think. I put my hands together, rested my elbows on the table and rested my chin on my thumbs. Frank was right—it was no big deal, except that by lying to Frank about a little thing, Gen. Markovski made it a big thing, sort of.
"What if you looked at it the third way. What if you just monitored the situation without making any waves. Could you do that? Use a bot or whatever it's called to track his keystrokes or whatever? Could you get away with that without raising a stink?"
"I was hoping you'd say that."
Frank's knowing grin could really irritate me at times. "Oh really. You're not manipulating me, are you, Frank? Just tell me what you want."
"OK, OK., don't get your knickers in a twist. I'm serious, and I do need your help. Seriously, I'm not sure what to do, and I really want your advice. Sincerely."
"So, could you? Keep track of him, I mean?"
"Sure, better that you realize. You know how our uniforms interact with the life support systems? The automatic light switches and all that?" He was talking about the computer chips in the shoulder boards of our uniforms. We were in constant link with the onboard life support net. We could communicate with anybody anywhere on the ship, or within about a mile of the ship, if we were on a space-walk. We could pre-program the system to open or close the blinds in our quarters, lock the door when we left, order a meal at the galley or pub; it was very handy, a really amazing technology.
"Yeah, what about it?" It instantly dawned on me what he was going to say next. I said it first. "They're a tracking or monitoring device? Big Brother is watching us?" He could hear the edge of irritation in my voice.
"Think about it, Al. With the size of this ship, personnel management could be a nightmare. It's actually a good idea for safety and security measures as well. And since when has the military ever guaranteed any privacy?" Now, it was Frank's voice with the edge.
"All right. I guess I'll have to give you that one. So how do we use it on Markovski? Why would you need me? Isn't this your territory?"
Frank leaned in a little. "You speak Russian, right?"
"Yeah, fairly well I might add."
"If I have to take a closer look at Markovski, you can bet most of what he does is going to be in Russian. I can already tell-it would be a matter of pride with him to keep everything he can as secret as he can."
"I think you're probably right, at that."
I did agree with Frank that Markovski was an arrogant S.O.B. You could deal with him on an 'official' basis, but informally, anything that wasn't strictly business, he was an old fashioned snob that wanted you to know your place and keep your distance.
Something crossed my mind.
"Frank, is this going to be recorded? I mean are we going to keep a record of what we look into, or can we keep it informal?"
"I think the next step or two we take will definitely be off the record. Then if there's any hanky-panky, or a security risk, then we'll have to put everything on the record."
And that is how the real adventure began.
General/Dr. Anton Alexandrovich Markovski was definitely up to something. His scientific and military career was dedicated to it. His meteoric rise up the chain of command, his position in the scientific community as a bonafide genius, dedicated to the betterment of the peoples of the world; his devotion to his students at the Academy of Sciences; his tireless research into the phenomenon of fusion, his exemplary family life: all of these were carefully planned and executed moves leading to his goal. He was satisfied with his progress to date.
He now felt he had reached an important turning point. He was happy—as happy as he ever got—which with him was more a lack or absence of irritation and anger than anything else. He was 38 years old, young for a general, and he had already accomplished more than most great men do in a lifetime. He was different than most megalomaniacs. He functioned reasonably well in society. He had enough patience and self-control to stick to his outlined plan. He was able to keep his massive ego under control, to a degree. He didn't see himself as anything but a good, hardworking, dedicated servant of the Russian people. And really, there was only one thing that made him dangerous at all, because he had never been in trouble in his life. Not at school, not at University, not at home. He never put a foot wrong. He just felt, deep down in his heart of hearts, that he had been given his talents, intelligence, his position and status in life, for one thing: to prepare the earth for God's Kingdom. To sweep the earth of evil. To unite mankind. To wipe the slate clean.
He was going to bring Armageddon.