The Universe — or Nothing by Meyer Moldeven (summer reads .txt) 📖

any unique manpower requirements the government might have to the UIPS index, cross-check phys-psy profiles, professions and technical skills plus experience, competence, reliability and anything else that we crank in as rating factors. You mentioned 'three men and three women'; your mission can not exclude gender compatibility consistent with the prevailing psychosocial construct — this is what we are.

"In my line of work, our data bank produces an optimal selection of personalities, skills and identities for the best possible teams we might need to support our contingency plans. Old stuff; we've been doing that throughout history. Why you folks? The computer selected you, showed where each of you was located and why, and that you were all, shall we say, relatively unknown and available. None of you will be missed."

Brad and Ram locked eyes as Ram added, "As far as the mission goes, you and your colleagues were sent here for confinement and rehab, whatever the reason and however rehab was to be done. It's just that your team has been diverted. Coddling and other amenities of confinement are not part of our program. If you feel you're being treated unfairly, that's unfortunate. We need every qualified man and woman we can get. The prime requisite is that the team, meaning you and your colleagues, have and share the intelligence, initiative, guts and whatever else it takes to do the job."

"That's another point right there," Brad shot back. "You've assigned us a mission, you tell us it's dangerous, and then add, as an aside, you've judged us up to it, whatever in hell that's supposed to mean. But let me tell you, if I'm the guy to run it, I want to know a lot more. I've got to have confidence each team member will be there when the chips are down. So, what can I expect?"

For a moment, Ram gazed shrewdly at Brad. His eyes twinkled, and his features mustered a sly grin.

"You seem to have slipped into the role of team
Commander," he said.

Brad looked away, hesitated a moment, and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.

"Well," he said, "I agree with what you've said about the mess we're in. No question in my mind that Slingshot is our only option. Obviously, I have nothing else on my schedule. Just doing time in this tin can would be a bore. But that doesn't justify your pushing me — us — around. OK, that's said, let's get back to my crew. I'll not pry where I've no business to, but who are they?"

"Their psychological profiles are available to you," said Ram. "I agree, you'll know all you need to know about them to get the job done. I can give you a quick rundown on each now, if you wish."

"I do."

"Myra is a logistician and a Medic certified to Level 4 in space-related trauma, physical and psychological. She was Med-Exec to a research team in a mini-tank town off Venus. Somehow, she got involved with the leader of a gang running controlled substances around the Inner Region. When the net was pulled in, there she was. Tried as an accessory and judged guilty. Nowhere near criminal in my judgment. She's quite bitter because she was used, and then convicted and sentenced on what she feels are false charges."

"I understand her bitterness."

"Nothing we can do. Your engineer, Hodak, is a damned good heavy-duty spacecraft maintenance engineer. Also lots of experience on a broad range of space support equipment used in surface ops. He's been all over the Inner Region, and worked on Ceres where he was the spaceport's Chief of Maintenance for about ten years. Got into a fight off Mars while on R & R and killed a guy. Convicted of manslaughter. He's an expert in the martial arts and in using exotic weapons. Space-wise."

"Understood. Next?"

"Zolan. As he said, a communicator and, I might add, from way back. As a child, he was classified 'gifted' and treated accordingly by the system. At the age of twelve, he came up with design refinements for spunnel cracking and transmission that raised eyebrows among the top pros in the field. His skill caused his downfall: he was convicted of illegally penetrating and modifying a database that was integrating a highly sensitive project. Just enjoying the challenge, he claimed. The project engineer didn't get wise until too late. During the trial he told off his former bosses; called them incompetent and not qualified to pass judgment on him or his work. Anyhow, he got a couple of years to cool off."

"Does this job call for his kind of communications expertise?"

"Yes, and more. Zolan is an extremely important asset for your mission. You'll agree, I think, when we get to your orders and the operation. I should add that, when your training is over, you will all be good communicators. But Zolan is at the hub."

"That leaves Adari and Kumiko. What's their input?"

"Adari is your navigator. She knows both Regions like the palm of her hand, and her record shows she's well versed in nav for the entire system. She got drunk on duty and borrowed the ship's recreation funds without permission to have a gambling holiday on Luna's Station Vegas. She returned broke as well as hung over. To add to her problems, some joker on Vegas gave her a whiff of Titan's deep strata gas. Almost blew her mind, but she's OK now. Spent a year in hospital on Guardian 18. No permanent damage. Now, she's doing time on the funds charge. Excellent navigator and gutsy."

"Kumiko?"

"Ah, little Kumiko," Ram smiled. "Last, but far from least. Kumiko is a former officer of the UIPS Space Force and an expert in space armaments. She can break down entire systems, and repair and reassemble them, blindfolded, from micro-miniatures to the big stuff. For some reason, her talent made her rather defiant of authority. Took manual control of her ship's guns when her patrol's sensors tagged unknowns inbound across no-mans-land sunside of the Jovian orbit. The unknowns were under a heavy screen and wouldn't cooperate with the Space Guard's self-identification requirements. Her Commander told her to punch a tiny hole in the screens, just enough to identify.

"Instead, she not only blew the screens away, she scorched the bow of a UIPS cruiser on a classified mission. The cruiser was out-of-line, of course; they should have responded to the query; protocols call for them to do so. But Kumiko went too far. She was forced to resign from the Service, and offered a choice to either join a penetration team to the Outer Region or work in an arsenal under tight supervision. She made her choice."

"Quite a group."

"All different, yet six of a kind," he said. "None
of you, by far, are hardened offenders of the law.
The crimes you were convicted of were, how shall
I put it, less than deliberately malicious."

"Hah!" Brad's bitter snort curdled in his gullet.

Xindral shrugged. His manner changed; tightened.
He motioned toward the view tank.

"Let's get on with it, Brad," he said. "There's a lot we need to cover."

Chapter SIX

Brad leaned back, drew his legs in and stretched them straight, heels to the deck. His eyes followed Ram to the dais and as he turned to face him.

"You and your crew will start intensive training in intelligence operations using our most advanced methods. It will cover infiltration, interrogation, psychological defenses against psychic probes and other means that might be used to acquire information from you, under duress or otherwise. You will absorb intelligence countermeasures and counter-countermeasures, identification of military spacecraft and weapons used by both the UIPS and INOR, analysis of our military capabilities and those of our adversaries, covert communications through conventional, unconventional and spunnel channels, and other tricks of the trade. Your quick reaction reflexes will be enhanced through means that will not be apparent to you."

"What does that last part mean?"

"I'll get to it. First, your mission. Your escape from this Station has been arranged. The pieces are being moved into place. Your immediate destination is tanktown Coldfield on Planet Pluto."

The view tank's image of Pluto expanded as did the gray-black contrasts of the planet's surface. A white light in a mottled area blinked, drawing Brad's momentary attention. His eyes returned to Ram.

"Your initial field of operations is centered in Coldfield," Ram pointed to the light. "Where you go from there depends on the contacts you develop and how well you exploit each opportunity. The tank town has a permanent population of about fifty thousand plus about ten thousand transients. Mix with the transients for starters."

"Get to the mission, Ram," Brad cut Xindral short.

Ram sighed. "We've sent a succession of formal diplomatic missions to INOR," he said, "including a few to the renegades that now run Planet Pluto. We've asked them repeatedly to not interfere with the Slingshot program. We've emphasized to each INOR government that Slingshot is as important to them as it is to us. They're not listening. We're still pressing diplomatic means, meanwhile, our logistics is being disrupted by Pluto's President Narval's hoodlums."

"How does this team fit in?"

"If we send in a military force to sweep away these scoundrels, our action will be seen as an imperialist intrusion into the Outer Region. It will create such resentment among the governments out there that the Slingshot schedule cannot help but suffer serious harm. Getting INOR's cooperation will also become more difficult than ever.

"Maybe, if we gather enough hard evidence of a conspiracy and confront them with it, they'll change their ways. Right now, they're blaming the attacks on partisans over whom they say they have no control. We don't buy that. We need you to gather and send confirmations to us and, while you're doing that, disrupt the plans and weapons being marshaled against us. Use whatever initiatives you can devise on site. Go where you need to, do whatever it takes to frustrate our adversaries."

"What happens if we fail?"

"Failure is unacceptable. As long as you or any of your people are alive and useful to us we'll get through to you and we'll expect you to keep us current on developments."

"Big order."

"Yes, it is."

"I am, or rather, I was, skipper of a space freighter," Brad said, tenting his hands. "I know almost nothing of military operations, intelligence gathering, and especially covert actions, whatever those might entail. I'm not familiar with space weapons except for garden-variety small arms. Other than Kumiko, I gather that the members of this team are not experts in the weapons and explosives we are likely to encounter or use. You're sending us in against a rough crowd, from the way you describe them. Aren't you risking a lot on us?"

"Absolutely."

"I refuse."

"You're not being given the choice. Neither are the others."

"I can withhold my cooperation."

"I repeat, Brad, you have no choice."

Ram paused, eyeball to eyeball with Brad, whose eyes had gone cold. Ram's voice went as flat as when he had read the group their orders.

"You will be psychologically adjusted as you progress through this indoctrination. The 'adjustment', for want of a better term, is necessary for several reasons. It applies to the entire team."

Brad stared.

"What does that mean?"

"Just that we can't afford to let normal human weaknesses and scruples interfere the mission."

"The hell you say," Brad raised his voice. "You're telling me we're expendable?"

"You're in covert intelligence work, Brad, and you'll be in the enemy's camp. Doesn't that answer your question?"

"Come on, dammit."

Meeting Brad's eyes, Ram shrugged.

"Each of you will be full to the brim with motivational boosters to keep you oriented to the mission. You won't stray, whatever the temptations. We'll install undetectable barriers against psychic probes; then there are…"

"Damn you, Ram." Brad cut in, his voice crackling with rage. "You sons of bitches are going to robotize us. Expendable is bad enough; you're programming us into suicide."

"Not quite, Brad. Hear me out."

Ram paced restlessly as he spoke, his tall, slender frame swaying, his head changing direction to maintain eye contact.

Brad rose and stood erect, legs apart, fists on hips, fury pouring out in his body language.

"Your team has just been assembled," Ram said, "yet we don't have a moment to lose to get you in place and operational. Orientation and training will allow no more than four sleeps. The special knowledge and skills each you needs for this mission will be implanted into your conscious and subconscious minds, and, as it suits our needs, into your survival instincts. We have a long history at this game."

Brad rose and strode angrily up the aisle to the door and pressed the panel that would slide it open. The panel did not function. Other than raise his eyes to follow him to the door, Ram continued talking as if Brad had remained nearby. After a moment's hesitation, Brad returned to his seat. Ram paused and gazed at Brad sympathetically.

"If you're all going to operate like a well-lubed machine, without appearing to be doing so," he said, "you'll need all the gimmicks