Shadows of Golstar (14 page)

He stopped before a counter and found himself facing a
servitor. Roughly humanoid in shape, its smooth head with twin ocular lenses
scanned his face. In a slightly feminine voice, it said, “Good morning, Mr.
Owens, your presence is expected. One moment please.”

It stepped aside, and a nondescript woman with a
pinched face and short gray hair took its place. The woman eyed him with frank
curiosity but said nothing by way of a greeting. Pointing to a small plate
inset into the counter’s surface, she asked him to place his hand on it. 
She looked at a holographic display and nodded to herself. She verified his
identity and confirmed he was not a diplomat. She read the lengthy notation on
his file and frowned. With a minimum of words, the woman told him that he was
being assigned to quarters normally reserved for visiting diplomats. He
detected a slight note of disapproval in her bland voice.

He was given a mag-key with a small auto-map disc
attached and the woman turned away without another word. He shrugged, not
surprised by the civil servant’s lack of civility. Guided by directions
flashing on the disc’s surface, Owens entered the proper lift and quickly found
his apartment on the 36
^th
floor.  

He unlocked the door and was immediately taken aback
by the apartment’s opulence. He assumed it was a residence normally reserved
for a member planet’s visiting,
high-level
diplomat. To call it well-appointed was an understatement. He entered into an
oversized, sunken living area festooned with obviously costly furnishings of
leather and rich fabrics resting on imported carpets of classic design.
Expensive works of art, ranging from paintings to sculptures, accented the
décor. The room was clearly designed to accommodate a large number of people in
luxurious comfort.

He moved to an adjacent room. It was an entertainment
lounge easily as big as the apartment’s living area. His attention was
immediately drawn to a long, carved wooden bar bracketing one wall. It had ten
barstools evenly spaced along its ample length. He couldn’t help but whistle at
the array of expensive liquors lining the bar’s mirror-backed shelves. Behind
the bar, a servitor waited patiently for an order.

He pulled his attention away from the bar and saw the
floor was covered with thick, dark-green carpeting. The remainder of the room
was scattered with burgundy-red leather chairs, loveseats and heavy wooden end
tables on which rested Tiffany-styled lamps with shades of authentic stained
glass. The three other walls had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stocked with
every conceivable literary classic recreated as genuine leather-bound books.
 

The dining room was likewise large-proportioned and
could comfortably seat at least twenty-five people. Crystal chandeliers
sparkled from the high ceiling. The adjoining kitchen was a stainless steel
monstrosity equipped like a restaurant. Two servitors stood by, ready fill any
culinary request. Just off the living area, were two oversized, nicely
appointed bathrooms that looked to be designed for the sole convenience of guests.
A surprisingly modest bedroom with a small private bathroom rounded off the
floor plan.  

He knew he shouldn’t be surprised. Clearly, private
entertaining is a key to diplomacy. So this is where his taxes went. He
wouldn’t be doing any entertaining, but he thought he could put the bar to good
use. Owens threw his case on the bed and checked his wrist-comp. He was cutting
it close. He would have to unpack later. He quickly exited the apartment and
headed back down the corridor. As he stepped up his pace, he wondered how many
other apartments in this building were similarly equipped.

He rechecked his wrist-comp. He could just make his
briefing. As he crossed the street, he reflected on the recent chain of events that
had led him here. A momentary sense of unreality passed over him as he
approached the Security office. What was he doing here on a planet full of
government bureaucrats?

The feeling quickly deserted him as he entered the
security office. He was back in a familiar territory. Two burly security types,
typical of the breed, in immaculate uniforms were waiting for him. Government
muscle seemed to be all the same in his experience; they projected an imposing
physical appearance, limited vocabulary and absolutely no sense of humor.
 

They led him to a hood suspended on an articulated
arm, terminating in a metal box mounted on the wall. They lowered the hood over
his head and flashed his retinas. They then sat him in an automated med chair
and performed an on-site DNA tag match. When they were satisfied with the
results, his identity now twice confirmed, they provided him an ID badge with a
3D holo-image of his face. They quickly escorted him through an unmarked door
and led him down a long, featureless corridor with a single lift at its end.
 

He boarded the lift alone. The doors closed before he
could ask his escorts for the floor number to program the lift. He looked for
the control panel and was mildly surprised there was no floor indicator or
apparent audio pickup for verbal commands. The lift had inertia canceling, so
he couldn’t tell if he was going up, down or still sitting at the first floor.
He had no choice but to wait until the doors opened. He estimated it was good
thirty seconds before the doors finally parted.

He found himself face-to-face with another security
officer stamped from the same mold as the previous two; stocky, well-muscled
with the exception that this one was female. He wondered idly, if there was a
secret government farm where these security clones were bred. He envisioned
tiny uniformed toddlers running around with side-arms and night sticks. He
grinned at the thought. The security officer did not react to the sudden upturn
at the corners of his lips. Without expression, the uniformed woman told him to
follow her.

They walked down another featureless hallway, passing
a number of unmarked doors on either side. They finally came to a stop before a
set of doors with a superimposed holo-display flashing, ‘Do Not Enter.’ She
stood in front of the small scanning panel next to the doors. It registered her
ID badge and verified her retina map. The doors immediately slid apart and the
officer gestured for him to enter. His escort did not enter with him.

He saw, sitting at a large oval conference table,
three people having a quiet conversation. Their voices abruptly stopped as
three pairs of eyes looked up as he entered. A blond woman in a gray suit stood
up. The others immediately followed. With the two men trailing in her wake, she
walked around the table and extended her hand. Owens noticed that her
penetrating eyes were cornflower blue. Her hair was trimmed short, and she wore
no makeup. Owens thought that she truly didn’t need any and found himself
wondering if the rest of her was as flawless as her face.

“Mr. Owens, my name is Paula Frizzen; I’m the Director
of the Confederated Planets Historical Archives Library here on Denbus. I’m so
happy to meet you,” she said warmly. She turned to the two men and made
introductions. This is Led Bensen; he works for me as a senior archivist. And
this is Stewart Reynaud, Executive Vice Consul, Diplomatic Corps. Owens shook
hands with each in turn. With the introductions over, she said, “Please have a
seat and we shall begin.”  

They all sat down. Paula Frizzen immediately opened
the briefing with an overview similar to that given by Neven the day before.
Although it was pleasant listening to Paula’s soft voice, Owens learned little
that was new. His mind was beginning to wander when she turned the discussion
over to the senior archivist to begin his presentation.

Led Benson was a heavyset man with red, unruly hair he
was constantly running nervous fingers through. He stood and walked behind the
podium at the head of the table. The room’s lights dimmed. A holographic
projection showing a spiral nebula floated in the center of the table.

“Mr. Owens, I was asked to show you this out of
chronological sequence. The event you’re about to see should… ah, demonstrate
why Golstar was put into quarantine. This is one of Confederated Planets’ most
closely guarded secrets.” He touched a panel on the podium and the projection
abruptly changed.

An
image of a formation of military ships approaching a solar system materialized.
Benson said quietly, “These recordings are from the few drones that returned
from the military excursion into the Golstar system over three hundred years
ago.”

Owens
asked, “How were these recordings made?”

Benson
hesitated, “Uh... I believe it was a standard procedure to deploy monitor
drones during fleet maneuvers. Additional information was provided by the
ships’ own internal monitors.”

Owens
nodded, “That makes sense.”

“Yes,”
Benson agreed. “Remember, the military was intended primarily to quell planetary
conflicts, internal to Confederated Planets. Under the amended Geneva
conventions of 2180, they were held accountable for any accusations of
citizens’ rights violations made during the course of their missions. All
missions are thoroughly documented.”

Owens
grinned, “CYA.”

“Ah,
I suppose you could look at it that way. Do you have any other questions, Mr.
Owens, before we begin?”

Owens
shook his head.

“Very
well,” Benson looked back at the holograph. “The data you see scrolling along
the bottom indicates all of our ships’ defensive and offensive systems were on
standby alert when they entered the system.”

Owens
watched the image as three of the six destroyers began to separate from the
main force.

Benson
said, “You can see they’re breaking formation, beginning their search for the
missing expedition. They had the advantage of using military tactical sensor
arrays far superior to those employed by civilian agencies. On their initial
scans, they failed to find any of the expedition’s ships, but they did locate
some debris that matched the alloys used in ship construction. Soon after, the
battle group discovered the infamous satellite grid.” Benson’s voice took on a
somber tone, “But as with the expedition earlier, they were unsuccessful in
detecting any activity within the grid.”

The
scene shifted to the bridge of the flagship. Uniformed men and women were at
numerous consoles watching screens flashing sensor data and status messages.
“Ships log entry 0791, this is Fleet Admiral Benjamin Norris,” the deep voice
announced. “We have just encountered what looks to be an early-warning
satellite grid. It matches the description reported by the lost expedition.”

“Although
our analyses are incomplete, it appears to be de-energized. Our instruments
have not detected any form of energy originating from the satellite matrix.
However, we still believe the grid may be active. Fleet logistics and weapons
departments concur in their estimation that our sensors might not be attuned to
the technology employed by the inhabitants of Golstar. We will therefore act as
if the Fleet is being actively tracked and appraised by the grid. We
will…”  The admiral’s voice cut off.

“The
remainder of this voice log was garbled,” Benson interjected. The image
momentarily went blank. When it reappeared, the activity on the bridge had
suddenly increased, and the lighting shifted in red. “Ah,” said Benson. “This
is where TacOp reported a number of the spheres orbiting the planets had been
detected. The Admiral and his staff assumed the spheres could be military
posts, housing troops and armaments. He unhesitatingly called for the fleet to
go into DefCon. All ships of the fleet immediately went to full alert.”

The
scene shifted again and focused on one of the huge battleships. This must have
been recorded by one of the drones, Owens thought, as he watched massive plates
of hardened armor rotating and shifting into battle configurations. The image
shifted once more and ships’ personnel were shown going through their assigned
routines. Charges were verified on the laser cannon capacitors and master
switches were armed for activation. Independent reactors powering the ship’s
energy shields were switched from standby to active.  

The
holograph flickered, and it displayed the attack carriers beginning to spew out
their Stingers, looking like so many angry Hornets charging from their metal
hives. The image shifted again and again, showing the frenzied activities of
the ships and their crews as they prepared for battle.

Benson’s
voice grew somber, “The inhabitants of Golstar didn’t take long to react to our
fleet’s battle-ready posture. This next image is from another monitor drone.” A
grainy picture of one of the orbiting spheres now appeared. Dark apertures
quickly irised on the sphere’s surface, then the picture vanished. “The data
readouts from the few message drones that returned indicate the shipboard
sensors might have auto-triggered the activation of all the fleet’s shields
when the spheres began to change.”

 “I
believe the fleet’s monitor drones’ last images require no further
explanation.” The holograph flickered, and a new scene coalesced.  

Owens
watched as the first salvo swept across the swarming Stingers rendering them
into glittering clouds of metallic vapor. In three seconds, of the two-hundred
and fifty attack fighters that had launched, little trace of the human
squadrons could be seen. Along with the destruction of their Stingers, the
attack carriers sustained crippling damage. He could see, on three of the carriers,
the beams had penetrated and collapsed their energy shields, much of the
secondary hard-armor boiled away into space.