The Methuselan Circuit (34 page)

Ignoring their angry curses, Alexander ran to the weapons board. He knew this display, every cadet did. This was where Alexander Galaxus single-handedly fought the Golkos from the bridge of the
Iowa,
annihilating the last of the invading fleet—not giving in until Terra was safe. Now Alexander sought to save Terra again from the same control board. He reached it and touched the combat display. It worked as well as it had one hundred and fifty years earlier, only this time Alexander didn’t target Golkos ships. He selected the left gun in the number one turret, the only gun of the nine still outlined in green—meaning it was operational. As soon as he selected it, the
Iowa’s
blaster capacitor began to charge. Alexander could hear it, a growling coming from the ship’s hull, slowly the image of the gun began to solidify to a vibrant green.

As the gun charged Alexander took the targeting joystick and slewed it from space to the Methuselan ship. He searched for the exhaust port visually but it was almost impossible to find the half-meter hole in the mottled metal hull. He gave up, and linked his compad with the antiquated weapons display on the
Iowa.
It took a moment for the two systems to synch up, but when they did the guns targeting computer obediently slewed to the exhaust port. The gun aimed, Alexander turned his attention to the firing button. It would illuminate when the gun was charged to ten percent—or so he thought he remembered—regardless, he was going to fire as soon as he could. If he waited until the gun was fully charged the level forty-eight blaster projector in the sixteen inch gun barrel would tear the Methuselan ship in half. Besides, under the minimal power of the
Iowa’s
station keeping generators it might take hours for the blaster capacitor to charge. Even now, it was slowly climbing through five percent. He waited, sweat beading on his forehead. The readings changed to six percent.

Whoomph! He started, did the gun fire? No, it was climbing through six-point-three percent. Whoomph! Whoomph! Alexander looked behind him. The Praetorians had figured out what he was doing and they were firing their blaster rifles at the energy screen. It was no use. They couldn’t get through it. The zooted away and Alexander could only guess they were heading for the nearest airlock and calling for help on the way.

He was running out of time. The charge climbed through seven. After what seemed like an hour it hit eight. Alexander’s hand quivered over the firing button. Sweat dropped on the board beneath him. His breath became ragged, and he pounded the Plasteel board with his free hand, shouting, “Come on, come on!”

“Cadet Wolfe, what in the blazes are you doing?” Alexander looked over his shoulder to see Centurion Fjallheim running at him. “What are you trying to do; are you mad?” He rushed Alexander and grabbed him, dragging him away from the weapons board.

Alexander hit the firing button before the centurion could drag him off, but the button was dark. The charge read nine-point-six percent. “No!” but he hadn’t the strength to resist Fjallheim, who dragged him across the bridge.

“Cadet what’s gotten into you; you don’t realize what you could have done!”

Alexander’s head spun, but Fjallheim’s words hit a nerve. He remembered the centurion warning him before he stood watch, “Don’t call the dead to battle; you won’t realize what you have done!” Alexander hit his comlink to emergency broadcast.

“All hands on the
Iowa
to the bridge, all hands to Alexander, all hands to the bridge!” Alexander used the same immortal words used by his namesake in the last desperate hours of the Battle for Terra. Fjallheim’s grip became tighter, but it was not through anger.

“My God Alexander look out!”

There was fear in Fjallheim’s voice, and Alexander soon found out why. If his previous experience on the bridge of the
Iowa
was unnerving this was terrifying. Ghosts flooded the bridge but this time they were mad with bloodlust. They attacked Centurion Fjallheim and they attacked Alexander, they were mad, howling with unearthly cries. With the last shred of their tortured souls they sought to defend their ship, their planet and their civilization.

Fjallheim released Alexander as a horde of ghosts tackled him. Alexander was hardly able to maintain his sight through the flashing, translucent ghosts, but then he saw something turn red. He fought through the phantoms, pummeled by sudden winds and torn by swirling tempests, deafened by hideous shrieks. He struck the red light with the palm of his hand. CAAA-WHOOMPH! The ship shuddered and a blinding orange-yellow light flashed through the gaping hole in the bridge. The blow staggered Alexander, but when the concussion faded he didn’t feel the winds anymore. The screeching stopped. He looked up and there was no one on the bridge of the
Iowa
except Centurion Fjallheim.

#

As Alexander sped to the
Iowa
, the President of Pan America stepped to the podium. Behind him were the flags of Pan America, Pan Atlantis and Pan Pacifica. All of that was visible in the Holo-V in Kilo flight, but going through the minds of Lisa and Treya was Alexander’s plight. Lt. Mortimer stood behind them, watching the unexpected Holo-V. She was none too happy. How she happened upon their scheme was unknown, but she’d appeared shortly after 0300, when Khandar’s flight attempted a mid night raid.

“Don’t think this is going to get you girls off the hook,” she whispered harshly when the Holo-V came on and announced the Presidential address. “I know you’re in on this!”

The girls said nothing, but listened as the President began, “My fellow Terrans. We face unprecedented times, times which we have not seen since we fought three World Wars, times which we cannot have imagined.”

He continued, but Treya, who was not used to the way Terran politicians spoke, whispered, “Why does he start and stop like that? His voice sounds like a waterfall, loud-soft-loud-soft. Is he doing that on purpose?”

“It’s called inflection,” Lt. Mortimer hissed. “He does it to keep everyone’s attention!”

“He’s got mine,” Treya said. “He sounds as if he’s going to be ill.”

“Maybe he is,” Lisa whispered. “He keeps looking from side to side as if there’s someone there—doesn’t he know we’re right here where the camera is—maybe he’s drunk?”

“As reluctant as I am to take them, positive and historic steps are required to quell our current crisis. As your Overlord, I must answer to the necessity of action. Yet these times require a boldness heretofore never seen on the political stage. Never before have we used such revolutionary means for the cause of hope and change, a fundamental change in society, a change that will bring equality and social justice to the masses who before could only look and ask, ‘Why are we not Citizens as well?’ Today, indeed this very hour we bring this hope to reality. We take the downtrodden and pull them up to the level of Citizen and we take the pampered few and tell them—you have a responsibility to the masses!” He paused for his words to sink in, shaking his head and saying, “There are those who would say they have borne the burden of Unioneers for years, and that Unioneers have no wants, no needs, no responsibility other than the eight hours of labor five days a week that the contract demands of them—yet what of dignity? What of respectability? What of the right of self determination? Unioneers deserve that right; they’ve worked for it—they demand it, and I demand it for them!”

The ship rang with a metallic sound, and it lurched enough so that the President had to grab the podium to keep from falling. Stunned, the President simply stood there as if the stream of words he meant to communicate simply disappeared. He stood silently, eyes wide with surprise, until an aide entered the picture. The President’s dusky features turned ashen and the hologram went out.

#

“Cadet Wolfe step away from the weapons board!” Centurion Fjallheim ordered. His blaster was in his hand and it pointed at Alexander. “It’s set on stun Alexander, but I don’t want to shoot you. Believe me, though, if you make a move to fire that gun again I will shoot.”

Alexander stepped away, saying, “It takes time to charge anyway; it won’t be ready to fire for several minutes.”

Fjallheim went to the board. He was extremely agitated. “What were you doing; why throw away your career like that—for what?” He powered down the gun, and then Alexander saw him bring up the targeting display. “What in the world were you aiming at,” he muttered, looking at the two meter hole Alexander blasted in the hull. “Really, what in the world were you trying to do?”

“You know what I was trying to do,” Alexander told him defiantly. “I was trying to destroy the Methuselan Circuit!”

The centurion froze at the mention of the Circuit. “There’s no way to destroy the—” he stopped himself, shifting the camera quickly to the ring antennae. To Alexander’s relief it no longer emitted the blue beam. Terra was free. Fjallheim turned to him, gun raised, demanding, “What do you know about the Methuselan Circuit Cadet; tell me everything you know!”

“I know the President was using it to control the minds of Terrans in order to implement his Gaian policies,” he said, and then he took a deep breath. “I also know he promised you the Commandant’s position!”

“That’s what they told you is it!” Fjallheim’s finger quivered on the trigger and his face contorted into a grotesque mask. With his other hand he twisted the blaster ring, changing the setting. Alexander swallowed hard. “Your career is over, Alexander Wolfe. After today you will no longer be a cadet in the Academy!”

“That’s not your call to make centurion!” said a voice thick with menace.

Fjallheim’s face contorted, running through anger, surprise, confusion and every other wild emotion Alexander could think of in that split second. Alexander followed his eyes, looking back at the breech in the bridge bulkhead. An inky black figure floated in the hole. The figure stepped through the energy screen and Alexander caught sight of a dim radiance in the shape of a man with what looked to be gossamer thin wings sprouting from his shoulders. He stepped to the deck and the wings retracted into what looked to be a form-fitting suit of armor. The armor appeared to take the hue of whatever was around it, but it shifted constantly so it was very hard to focus on.

“You’ve done your duty Centurion Fjallheim,” said the figure evenly. “You discovered the malfunction in the
Iowa’s
weapons board caused by an interaction between the Methuselan Psionic Wave and the ship’s weapon systems. You got here in time to turn off the gun before it fired again—saving the Academy and all on board.”

Fjallheim stared at the man in disbelief, and then he looked down at the weapons board. After shifting through several different files, he shook his head in astonishment. “You’ve already altered the computer’s memory files!” Shocked, he dropped his blaster to the deck.

“Yes, you’re a hero Centurion Fjallheim.” He held out his hand and the Centurion’s blaster flew into it. Fjallheim grimaced. “Be careful what you say in your report, centurion, because according to the surveillance files of the
Iowa
neither Cadet Wolfe was here, nor was I.”

The figure plucked Alexander off the floor and leapt back through the hole into space. Alexander felt his sustaining field come back on, but he didn’t need it for long. The figure flew to an airlock at one of the docking stations and opened the door. He set Alexander down inside the hatch, but he didn’t follow him in. The figure glanced at the blaster. Alexander’s eyes followed his; the blaster was set to maximum.

“He was going to kill me!”

The figure shook his head, and told him, “Fjallheim was going to kill himself. Why kill you? You’re career was over, but so was his. Fjallheim’s a good soldier deep down; he couldn’t live with that. Now you have his secret. Be careful with it. We need him.”

“Yes sir,” Alexander answered, and he stared hard at the dark figure in the dark suit. “Who are you sir?”

Alexander couldn’t be sure, but he got the distinct impression that one of the two eye-like lenses on the figure’s helmet winked at him before the door closed.

CHAPTER 27: Christmas Leave

The events of the past hours rushed through Alexander’s head as he walked down the docking bridge to the terminal. It felt like he was leaving the theater after watching a movie, except here he was at the Academy with Terra rotating slowly beneath him. There was no blue beam assaulting the planet. That didn’t make things right, but it was a step in the right direction; the question was, what next?

As he mulled that over, wondering whether he’d actually be taking finals in a few weeks or whether he’d be unceremoniously returned to Terra, the tramping of many feet caught his attention. He looked up, and there was no mistaking the Presidential entourage flanked on either side by the Praetorian Guard. Alexander snapped to attention and plastered himself against the nearest bulkhead, trying to shrink to as small a size as possible. It was no use, the President saw him and though he said nothing and did not stop, he glared at Alexander with an expression of mixed curiosity and venom. Did he know?