4: The Enemy Within

         "She's fighting the anesthesia."
         "Give her another dose then."
         "There's so much in her system she should by rights be dead."
         "She shouldn't be alive at all."
         "I don't know why we're wasting our time on her. It's too risky."
         "It hasn't killed her yet. Give her another dose."
         "She can't wake up, not here."
         "All right, but I'll bet it won't keep her under for much longer."

--------------------------------------------------

         Kirte Chmielewski blinked and rubbed tired, sore eyes. Yawning and stretching, she pushed the send button, zipping the completed file lightyears across the galaxy to a small planet orbiting a star in Orion's Belt. The home of the Confederation's Defense Tribunal, Planet Aiax sported the most sophisticated defenses in the entire human empire. Prime Minister Paul Partin, of New Earth and leader of the Independent Party, currently dictated the movements of the Security and Information Department (SID) through its military leader, Admiral Faire B. Gillespie. Kirte reported directly to Vice Admiral Norman Liko as a special agent. He sent her coded reports from the front; mostly half- or partly-decoded secret messages from the enemy. Kirte's job was to finish the translation and get the reports back as soon as physically possible. Often that meant staying up twelve to fifteen or even eighteen hours to completely decode the messages.

         Sometimes, she thought ruefully to herself, it sucks to be the one with the brains.

         Kirte's two sisters, Debra and Nera, were pilots in the third branch of defense, the Star Force, a combination of naval and marine training which took teenagers and turned them into killers. The other two branches, the marine ground troops and the naval ships, carted the SF from planet to planet or chart-point to chart-point around the galaxy. The marines concerned themselves only with taking (and holding) enemy-occupied territory. If it came to a battle in the dark "space" above, well, the navy and star-pilots were on their own.

         On one of those ships were Deb and Nera. For a moment, Kirte frowned. Back here on Oldworld Earth, news traveled slowly, but she should have heard back from Nera several days ago. With her connection to the front lines, Kirte wasn't often in the dark. She knew the installation at Apollo had been attacked, but that was where her information ended. The latest communiques (Which still haven't finished transmitting!) were from an entirely different part of the galaxy, at 260theta - 10phi degrees and thirty thousand lightyears distance from Apollo and the Papillon, her sisters' ship.

         The computer emitted a soft 'BEEP,' signalling the completion of transmission, then immediately began flashing rapidly, the signal for an incoming broadcast, and the encryption was from Admiral Gill herself!

         Hastily, Kirte checked her security system, to ensure that no outside source would be able to intercept the conversation, and then opened contact.

         The admiral smiled tiredly. "Good morning, Kirte," she said.

         "Morning, Ma'am," she replied.

         "I have some urgent data for you to unravel for us, Kirte," the admiral continued. Her hand came into view of the camera, holding a small, circular disk. "This is highly classified data, Kirte, and I have my best people working on it all ready." She paused briefly, then continued, "But the responses have been . . erratic at best. I think the enemy has changed their code system. Why, we don't know," she said, shaking her head, "and the messages are proving hard to decode. Possibly, it could be a problem in the manner of the recording, or --"

         "How was it copied?" Kirte interrupted, thinking that patterns carried on lightwaves did not usually degrade.

         "Or," finished the admiral, with a frown, "as I believe, the enemy has found a new way to transmit communications. Our own way of communicating instantaneously has been one of the few things keeping us one step ahead in this game and we cannot afford to fall behind."

         "But, Ma'am, if they have a new way of transmitting their communiques, how did we manage to record them?"

         The gray-haired woman rubbed her chin a moment, trying to decide how much information to give away to this fifteen-year-old from the backwater. "Well," she said finally, "we have been toying with various means of incorporating boosters into our signals, so that messages can be sent directly from each individual source, rather than compiled on each ship and transmitted as a bundle of bites."

         Kirte nodded. That would indeed save a lot of time.

         "As you know, our broadcasting range is quite large, however, increasing the width of each band has proven . . difficult to achieve. You also know that the enemy never leaves a ship behind."

         Again, Kirte nodded, feeling excitement make her heart beat a little faster. "Have you captured one?" she whispered.

         "Yes," answered the admiral. "The recent events following the attack on Apollo have allowed us the opportunity to capture several enemy fighter ships. One of our agents copied the data on one of the ships shortly before it exploded. Apparently, the fighters are rigged to explode upon the deaths of their operators."

         "Who . . . ?" Kirte began.

         "We don't know. The ships in question were in a cargo bay of an enemy transport ship. The transport exploded, killing the entire boarding party, and nearby ships out to half a kilometer."

         Wow! thought Kirte.

         "Only our agent, with one of our prototype transmitters, managed to send off any data. Now, I need for you to translate this data as best as you can."

         On the screen, the admiral slid the computer disk into the terminal and a light began flashing on Kirte's console, indicating and incoming data exchange.

         "May I ask a question?"

         "Please."

         "Ma'am, is this -- was this battle one which involved the Papillion? I've recieved no word, from either of my sisters."

         Was it her imagination? Or did the admiral stiffen a little?

         "Yes, the Papillion was involved. But any other data is classified."

         Kirte groaned. "But, Ma'am! Please! Do you know anything?"

         The admiral pursed her lips together, considering. She sighed. "All I know, Kirte, is that the 612th squadron went into battle and took heavy casualties. The Papillion was in pursuit of the enemy from Apollo and uncovered a . . an unexpected situation. Communications with the battlegroup have not yet been reestablished. A team from Apollo is being sent to assist, so we should know more soon."

         The light on Kirte's console ceased. The admiral looked down at her desk, to presumably the same message, then back at Kirte.

         "Unless this," she pointed to the disk she now held in her hand again, "has the information we're looking for."

         The young woman swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the responsibility, and hope, suddenly placed on her shoulders. "Yes, Ma'am," she said. "I won't let you down."

         The admiral smiled. "I know."

         Kirte sat back in her chair as the screen darkened. Despite herself, she yawned, swiveling around to look at the clock on the far wall. And sighed. Groaning, she pushed herself to her feet, to the door, into the hallway, and down the steps into the kitchen.

         True to her norm, Kirte's mother, Eliza, sat drinking coffee and reading the daily paper. "Good morning, sweetie," she said, her eyes meeting Kirte's over the rim of her cup. "A productive night?"

         Kirte opened the refrigerator, looked inside, and said, without glancing up, "Yep."

         "Anything exciting happening?"

         Kirte shrugged.

         There was an awkward silence as Kirte fished out a carton of milk and poured herself a glass.

         "Going to school today?"

         "Nope."

         Eliza frowned, concerned. "You're sure?"

         "Yep."

         Kirte's mother sighed, exhasperated. "You know your studies are supposed to come before all this nonsense."

         "It's not nonsense, Mom! And it has nothing to do with school. I could sleep and still ace those classes."

         "Kirte --"

         "What?"

         Eliza picked her paper back up and shook it a little to ease the creases. "Put the milk away."

         Grrrrrr! Kirte grumbled. But, the bagels were also in the fridge; she might as well put the milk inside while she was at it.

         The bagels in one hand and glass of milk in the other, Kirte headed back upstairs and to her room. The door slid open with a soft hiss and she kicked aside a thick manuscript blocking the door to her mini-fridge. She tossed the bagels inside and secured the glass in the door, then stumbled her way across the mysterious shapes and lumps and piles heaped all over the floor, to fall, exhausted, into bed.

         Much sooner than she would have liked, Kirte rose, rubbing grit out of her eyes. The clock on the wall showed 1310 hrs, some 4 hours of the day having passed. Right, she thought, let's get to work.

* * * * *

         The voices were muffled, muted, and echo-y. The blur of colors and images wavered and shimmered, as though seen through a cloudy glass bottle, half filled with an amber liquid.
         "Woawcan teep hurrr ndrir"
         Disturbingly familiar, the voice wobbled and fell, bubbling underwater and through a tunnel, but almost understandable. The desire to know more willed the brightness away and the bass dull roar lessened. Gradually, a beep          beep                    beep          beep                    beep beep beep                              beep could be heard.
         A rustling of wings and feathers and tissue paper and the tramping of heavy feet . . . and darkness . . . silence . . . a sense of motion, then stillness. Fingers twitched and remembered nerves fluttered in a vain attempt at unconsious command. A soft surface whispered skin, the sense of touch returning in a rush of sensation. A headache . . and a puckering of skin above the eye and along the line of the jaw. Suddenly, fingers connected and a soft moan came from somewhere.
         The interrupted tour flopped limp hands back on a surface which now registered as foam and slightly later as a mattress. A whisper of sound -- a sheet! -- and the toes tingled, sending goosebumps up legs now waking from a deep sleep. Convulsive shivering; the recognition of coolness -- a breeze from above.
         Now, blinking: alternating white and dark blurs. Open, then closed on command. Open, quick to close and open once more. Above, long, glowing, tubular panels. A puckering of the skin and involuntary groan. No squinting then; more blinking. Harsh, bright light, blinking quickly against the stimulus.
         A sharp, jabbing pain in the left thigh elicited a hastily suppressed moan. Experimenting, then: created sound. "Ahhhh . . . Ohh Owwww . . . ."
          More pain . . clenching of a fist. Wondering? Yes, the sensation was familiar: wondering. There was a numbness in the right half, tingling and awakening in the left. A discovery! Two eyes! But only one functional. A mouth, numb on one side. A nose, ah, yes, the dull, stale scent of recycled air. An ear -- sound! Yes, a muffled hum of electronics, a whirring of motors.
         The chest moved: rose and fell to an artificial demand. Rebellion then! Coughing . . wheezing . . gasping . . . surrender. The bellows opened and closed, sending air in . . . and out again. The mouth opened and closed, the nose flared, then relaxed, and another breath followed.
         "Dough Thor . . . ."
         The ears flinched from the sudden impact. Reason applied meaning to the words, but logic refused to understand. The eye rolled, sending the world back into glare and white brightness, but with differences. A splash of color there, blacks and metallic grays, a uniform? A pinkish blur pulling the eyes from far left to far right. Hey! A nose!
         "His notice. Nome oar."
         More trumpeting but with better definition.
         "Yeti."
         Almost sense, for a moment there. Then the pinkish oval retreated. Echoes: slap, slap-slap, slap. A whoosh! of indrawn atmosphere. A brief cacophany of nonsense, then a whoosh! and silence once more. The left cheek trembled, a muscle near the eye spasmed and the great, glaring mysteriousness faded into sleep.

* * * * *

         Kirte sat back from her desk with a sigh, rubbing bleary eyes. There was a small message flashing, to let Kirte know the computer had finished running the last compilation she'd set it to do. She didn't hold out much hope for this solution, either, but as the screen opened, Kirte sat straight up.

         I don't believe it! she thought, her fngers racing across the keyboard. Cramps and tension forgotten, Kirte hastily scanned the resultant code. The transmission had been only partly decoded, but the results! This was her own, personal code-breaker, for an encryption program not even completed.

         Now she searched the hard drive of her own computer, anger beginning to take the place of surprise. When Kirte finally found the not-so subtle hacking, she leaped up and grabbed the first object to come to hand: a composite sculpture of the new fighter pod design. With a maniac scream, she threw the creation and was following that with several other heavy items, when her mother slammed open the door, curlers in her hair and one of her grandfather's archaic guns in hand like a club.

         Eliza and Kirte faced off, each breathing heavily and looking as if they faced the devil himself.

         "What is going on here?" Eliza demanded, not yet willing to let go of her her club. Her desperate gaze took in the shambles of a room, the broken figurines, and the impeccable computer.

         Kirte dropped to the floor, folding in on herself like a string puppet. "Oh, Mom," she sobbed, her hands still intent on strangling one of her dolls. She waved helplessly towards the computer, unable to give voice to the betrayal and hurt she felt.

         With some concern now for the heirloom she wielded, Eliza set the gun down and knelt next to her daughter. "Oh, baby, shh, it's all right . . . ."

         "No! No it's not!" Kirte fought back, still angry and getting angrier as she fought against more tears. "It'll never be all right again!"

         "Kirte, baby, please, tell me what's wrong!"

         The hatred in Kirte's eyes when she looked up made her mother flinch back. "I'll tell you, Mom!" she hissed, her hands clenching even tighter around the defenseless doll. "I'll tell you! My -- my program's been stolen! Stolen! Gone!"

         "But, but, baby, that's not --"

         Kirte yanked herself out of her mother's grasp. "NO! No, it's not that! My code -- my code -- was taken . . by the Grasens!"

         "What? A -- Are you sure? H - How?"

         Kirte succumbed to more tears, falling back into her mother's arms. "By Nera, Mom. Nera took it!"

* * * * *

         Kaidara sat up gingerly, cradling her burned arm. She blinked against dizziness, waiting a few moments to stand. This wing of the infirmary was crowded, the patients mostly asleep, and she had to tip-toe past a couple of exhausted nurses in order to escape to the main portion of the ship. The corridors were deserted, the walls and floors still glaring back the red of warning lights.

         She found Colonel Veek in his office, looking tired, but otherwise unhurt. Kaidara rapped lightly on the open door, then stepped through without waiting for reply. Tired and beginning to feel light-headed, she sank into the nearest chair as the colonel leaped to his feet to help.

         "You should not be up," he scolded her gently, retreating back behind his desk to allow her a few minutes of privacy.

         "I had to know how things ended up, sir," Kaidara murmered. "My girls? Are they . . . ?"

         The colonel sighed. "Regretable losses, but they could have been worse. Much worse."

         "How bad?" Kaidara croaked.

         "Few escaped without injury. We're down to forty percent effectiveness and resupply is still quite a ways off." He grimaced. "There is some good news, however."

         "What's that?"

         He gave an apologetic shrug. "You've been promoted to my vice."

         "Is that supposed to be a joke?"

         Shaking his head, the commander of Spectre Group, winced as he smiled. "You're now our most senior major."

         Kaidara settled a little more into her chair. "Ram? Julie?"

         He shook his head. "Sandra Kelley and Alani Taylor are now second and third squad leaders."

         "Well," Kaidara sighed, "I guess Nera's ready anyway . . . What? Sir, what's wrong? Is it . . Nera?"

         Colonel Veek turned away. "We were unable to recover her pod. Both Nera and her sister are among the dead." He looked down at his desk and the writing screen there. "I'm trying to write a real letter . . . But, I don't even know where to start."

         "What happened, sir? Nera broke formation to fly support, and then?"

         He sighed, not meeting her gaze. "Unfortunately, I can't say. We ran into scouts among the outer asteroids and we were split up to deal with them. The recorder on Nera's pod tracked her position for a little longer, then all signal was lost. The blast from the transport effectively destroyed any chance of locating any wreckage, from any of our pods . . . ."

* * * * *

         She tried to ignore it, but the pressure on her stomach continued to grow until finally, she blinked open her eyes and struggled to a half-sitting position, resolved to fumble her way to the bathroom in her section -- but a sudden, sharp pain accompaning that movement halted both thought and action as her body crumbled in response.

         She lay a moment, blinking the spots out of her vision. As if the one hurt had awakened all the others, there was no place which did not now ache. She breathed shallowly, the need precariously balanced against the ribs reluctant to expand due to some unseen injury.

         But she still needed to go to the bathroom. And there was something else strange. Although not yet accustomed to her new quarters on the Papillion, the ceiling was not the usual tannish color and lacked the vent in the corner by the door. Instead, the walls and ceiling were a metallic gray color, almost as if made of steel. Which it probably was, she reasoned, and yet, the psychologists had long ago decided that living quarters should be painted lest the drab grayness contribute to crewmembers' depression. The tan was supposed to be both military in nature and more cheery.

         She slowly wiggled fingers, ankles, and legs to take stock of her situation. Then, switching to fingers, hands, and arms, she assessed the damage, taking pains to control her breathing. Most of her right side, she noticed, felt stiff and itchy; the left leg felt heavy as well as stiff, and some kind of thick bandage covered half her face. There were intravenous lines hooked up through her right arm, and the beeping nearby sounded like a heart rate monitor. What concerned her, though, was the effort it took just to breathe. Each breath made her throat and lungs burn and expanding her chest was another kind of agony.

         She couldn't lift her head high enough to see her toes, but she managed to look both left and right far enough to see ... !

* * * * *

         Kirte drummed her fingers restlessly on her desk. Should she or shouldn't she? What to do now? The message was certainly cryptic enough. Oh what was she to say?

         "Kirte? You certainly are a wonder, kid! What does the message say?"

         The young woman frowned at the tired, but excited face of Admiral Gill. The older woman was leaning forward, into the screen, as if by moving closer she could actually whittle the distance between Ajax and Old Earth. But, her winning grin was infectious, and Kirte felt a little excitement of her own stir the butterflys in her stomach.

         "Well," she started, "The code they used was unusual, but I've got it figured out and can beam it over directly. But -" she held up her hand, shaking her head at the screen, "you'll find it's entirely uninteresting, merely a random collection of words."

         The admiral sat back in her chair, utterly deflated. "Are you sure?" she asked, a little hope that this child prodigy might happen to be wrong, just once, showing through.

         Kirte nodded. "The message itself says nothing."

         The admiral brightened once more, reading more on Kirte's face. "But?" she pressed. "What else have you found out?"

         "There was a second message, audio, recorded at the same time. I can't decide whether it was on purpose or just a coincidence. It's badly garbled, but ... it seems to be a recording of a voice!"

         The admiral's mouth dropped open in shock. "What?" she demanded.

         "I can't make out the language," Kirte continued, crossing her fingers out of sight, "The recording's too garbled for that. But I have every reason to believe that these ships automatically record everything their pilots say. We could learn a lot, just by harvesting the data off one ship!"

         Admiral Gill didn't say anything for a minute. She rubbed her jaw, staring to one side, away from the screen. When she did look back towards Kirte, her face had a strange, tense look to it. Kirte could see the muscles move as the admiral gritted her teeth several times.

         "Kirte," the admiral responded at last, "this is fantastic work! You have been useful to my department for some time, but this is the most incredible breakthrough. I want you to come to Ajax and work for me!"

         Now it was Kirte's turn to stare in amazement. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting, but this was beyond even her dreams! "Leave this rock? Really?" Kirte squealed in delight. "When can I leave?"

         "I'll send you your instructions by beam in a few hours, when I've had a chance to make the arrangements. We'll be seeing each other soon."

         "I won't have to join the military, will I?" was Kirte's parting remark.

         Despite herself, Faire smiled as the picture faded. She liked Kirte. Liked all the Chmielewski girls, actually. Nera was loyal and dependable and Deb was rash and impetuous, but both were superior pilots. Kirte had the best qualities of both her sisters, but more than twice the intelligence. Which, Faire mused, made her all the more difficult to handle. Kirte's one fault, if fault it should be called, was her naivete, her desire to always believe the best about people. Faire sighed.

         "Second thoughts?"

         Faire jumped, having forgotten about her visitor. "Always," she replied, frowning. "Always."