It's A Deadly Job, But Somebody's Gotta Do It

I jumped as the doors slid shut, missing me by less than a centimeter. I shivered, remembering the academy vids on ingress malfunction. With images of unlucky pilots and techs crushed by substandard entranceways flickering through my head, I stepped away from the access port, looking over my shoulder nervously, as if I expected the door to open up and suck me in.

That door was outside the guidelines stated in High Command's Proper Parameters for Automatic Ingress and Egress Mechanisms - 172nd edition. I'd never actually read the manual, but I'm certain it was out of spec. It had to be.

I made a mental note to tell the techs about it. Techs love fixing that sort of thing.

Commander Fear punched a new series of numbers into the keypad on the interior of the hangar. The lights winked out for a second, then returned to full brightness. A disembodied, semi-female voice said, "Authorization accepted. Sound dampening field activated."

Commander Fear sighed. "Sorry for all the secrecy, pilot. The information you're about to receive is classified. So classified I can't even tell you what classification it has."

"Is it classified Alpha-Omega-Four?" I asked. Generally, one did not speak so informally to one's commanding officer, but Fear and I had a long history together, and I felt a certain amount of familiarity to the older man.

He shook his head. "More classified than that."

"Epsilon-Epsilon-Three?" He shook his head again. "Gamma-Alpha-Gamma-Thirty-one?" When he shook his head a third time, my eyes widened in shock. "I didn't think High Command had a classification higher than Gamma-Alpha-Gamma-Thirty-one!"

"Son, the classification on this mission makes Gamma-Alpha-Gamma-Thirty-one seem like the kind of thing admirals' wives talk about over brunch. The people who know what you're about to be told number fewer than Grand Admiral Terraza's mistresses."

The Grand Admiral was no slouch in the mistress department, but it was still an impressively small number for a bureaucracy as large as the FEDs, especially when coupled to the juggernaut that was the Stellar Fleet.

A tense silence followed his statement. "I have to give you the opportunity to refuse this duty now, Jon," he finally told me, "before I go into specifics. Once I begin, you're committed."

I eyed him askance. "Do I really have a choice, Commander?"

He shrugged. "You can back away now. But even knowing what little you know, it'll earn you a lifetime in the brig, if not a quick and painless execution."

My decision was immediate. "I'm happy to serve the Fleet in whatever capacity High Command desires."

"I had a feeling you'd say that, Jon," Fear replied. He reached to the wall and flipped a switch.

Another peculiarity I've noticed about High Command is their stubborn refusal to do away with outdated devices like the switch and dial. Most pads are touch-capable, like the vid-screens, and all but the oldest environmental regulators are voice-controlled. Nevertheless, High Command spent countless millions of Fedrons each year to pay for the installation-and inevitable repair-of light switches, volume dials, etc . . .

Lights flared from every corner of the room, illuminating the ship that sat in the hangar's center. That was odd in and of itself, but something else was odd too. Aside from the solitary ship, the cavernous chamber was completely empty.

"Well," Commander Fear said, "take a look at her, Jon. Let me know what you think."