A Lot Of Slime by T. J. Young

A Lot Of Slime by T. J. Young

            Captain Swisher of the Hegemony cruiser Locust sat at the console in his office, his face grim. His right hand dangled at his side, its fingers clenched in a fist. In his other hand, which was noticeably smaller, he held a slim tablet he had just finished reading. On the wall above him, mounted in a silver case, was a third hand, severed at the wrist and preserved in a clear polymer, its fingers splayed and slightly curled as if it were about to grab something. Next to that there was a tiny porthole in the wall of the ship through which could be seen a pale green planet, floating in the blackness of space.

            Swisher was muttering to himself, his voice angry, harsh, metallic. “Scientists,” he was saying, “are a bunch of goddam fools. They should know better than this.” He threw the tablet he had been reading on his desk with contempt and stood up, his fat, bulky body in its jet black uniform looming over the desk like a malevolent spirit. He raised the hand that had been hanging at his side and appeared to consult it. “You and I,” he said, flexing his fingers, “have waited long enough. We may never get another opportunity.” Fascinated, he stared at the hand for some minutes, admiring it, then he lowered it back down to his side and with his left hand punched a communication button on his console. The worried face of his exec officer, Major Anselm, appeared on a small view screen embedded in the desk.

            “Yessir?”

            “Anselm, get . . . ,” Swisher paused, picked up the tablet he had been reading, looked at it briefly, then tossed it aside again. “Get exobiologist Barry Fields up here, immediately,”

            “Aye, sir,” Anselm replied, and his face disappeared.

            Swisher sat down again at this desk, his large body wedged in place. He sat thinking for a while, then appeared to come to a decision. From a drawer he pulled out a blank tablet. He spoke softly into for a few seconds, then set it on his desk. He typed a command into his console and brought up his private file on Fields — something he kept on all his crew members. Swisher read through the file carefully, his large, bulbous, head nodding faintly as he read. He noted with interest Fields’s performance record, which was not good. He also noted with surprise that the file contained virtually nothing about Fields before he joined the crew, as if the man had materialized out of thin air. He made a mental note to have a private talk with his security officer about that. When he was done, he shut down the link and leaned back in his chair, a smug smile on his fleshy face. “The man’s a moron,” he thought to himself. “This will be easy.”

            A few minutes later, biologist Fields came in. He was a nondescript man of middle age with prominent, bulging eyes and a coiled, anxious manner.

            “You called for me, sir?,” he said tentatively, his eyes flicking about the room nervously. He had never had a private meeting with the Captain before, although he had, of course, seen him about the ship. There wasn’t much to see in the office, however. Other than the console, the desk, and the hand mounted on the wall, the only other thing in the room was a tray of half-eaten, greasy looking food.

            Swisher noted with pleasure the man’s apparent nervousness. “Let him fret,” he thought. He raised his right hand and held it up for Fields to see.

            “Do you know what this is, Fields?,” he asked after a moment.

            Fields blinked, then shook his head.

            “A prostheses, Fields. A mechanical device.”

            “Oh, I see.”

             Swisher smiled. “Do you know what it does?”

            Again Fields shook his head.

            Swisher spread the fingers of the hand wide, then closed it into a fist. With his other hand, he unscrewed it from his wrist and set it down on the desk. Of its own accord, the hand curled its fingers and began walking across the desk toward Fields.

            “It has a number of different functions,” Swisher said, his voice unconsciously taking on a note of pride. “It can, as you see, operate independently of me — it has its own intelligence, its own operating system. It gathers information for me, operates weapons for me remotely, goes places where I cannot. It, in the broadest sense, looks after my interests; and its very jealous, Fields. Very protective.”

            Fields eyed the hand apprehensively, his prominent eyes bulging. “I’m not sure I understand . . .,” he started to say, but didn’t finish the sentence.

            Swisher leaned back, leaving the hand where it was, a red light pulsing on its palm.

            “My real hand is there,” he said, pointing up at the one mounted on the wall. “The protheses seems to like having it around — I’m not really sure why. Perhaps it wishes to be a real hand itself some day.” He smiled.

            Fields swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his throat.

            “How long have you been on this ship, Fields?,” Swisher asked, changing his tone to a more conversational level.

            Fields looked back and forth between the prosthetic hand on the desk and the one mounted on the wall, as if he was unsure which one was which. “About, uh, six months, sir,“ he said finally. “I came aboard at Daedalus station.”

            “And where are we now?”

            Fields wiped the sweat that was beginning to bead on his forehead. The air in the room was hot and close.

            “We’re in orbit around Ceres III, sir.”

            “This is your first exoplanet, isn’t it?”

            “Yessir.”

            “You surveyed the planet, didn’t you?”

            Fields nodded. “Yes, although I had help, of course, sir.”

            Swisher leaned forward slightly, a stern expression on his broad face. “You know, I take great pride in this vessel, Fields, and the work of this crew. This ship is the finest in the entire fleet. We are the backbone of the Hegemony.”

            “I’m aware of that, sir.”

            “Everything we do — fighting battles, executing our enemies, conquering new worlds, or just conducting a scientific survey, as we are doing now — is critical to the overall mission of the Hegemony, to the perpetuation of its power and glory.”

            “I’m aware of that too, sir.”

            “Then why, Fields, have you given me such a shoddy, incomplete, unacceptable report?” Swisher spoke harshly now, his voice rising.

            Fields, taken aback by Swisher’s tone, gaped at him in bewilderment. The sweat on his forehead began to run down the sides of his head. There was a moment of silence. The red light coming from the disembodied hand flashed in Fields’s face.

            “I . . . um . . . ” Fields, said slowly, “uh, I don’t think I know what you mean, sir.”

            “The report concludes, in several places, that there is nothing remarkable or unusual about the biology of this planet, doesn’t it?”

            Fields nodded. “Yes, that’s right, sir. Nothing unusual. Some organics, but all very basic. It’s just a lot of slime.”

            “But in fact that’s wrong, isn’t it? Totally, completely wrong.”

            Fields shifted his feet, as if he were searching for solid ground. He wiped his forehead. “Wrong, sir?”

            “Fields, why are you lying?”

            Fields started to squirm, his eyes fixed on the prosthetic hand sitting on the desk. Its fingers were waving forwards and backwards as if wishing him goodbye. “I . . . I . . . I’m not lying, sir.”

            Swisher stood up and walked around his desk. He picked up the tablet he had dictated to earlier and waved it in front of Fields’s face, forcing him to flinch.

            “I have here,” he said, “a report from a biologist employed by Hegemony security. It says that this planet — that one right out there,” he pointed at the viewing port, “harbors a form of organic molecules that have the potential to prolong human life. These . . ., what did he call them?,” he pretended to consult the tablet, “alkaloids, that’s the word, slow the aging process significantly. If they can be synthesized and adapted to human use, people could live for thousands of years, perhaps forever. Now, why are you hiding that fact, Fields?”

            Fields just stared at him.

            “Well?” Swisher went back behind his desk and sat down, his eyes glued on Fields.

            Fields collected himself. Swisher could almost see the man’s thoughts swirling in his skull. “I don’t know of any other reports on this planet, sir,” he said finally, his voice almost inaudible. “I thought we were the first ones here.”

            “No, Fields.”

            “Can I see that report?” Fields held out his hand but Swisher shook his head emphatically, and Fields dropped his hand back to his side. The prosthetic on the desk twitched as he did so.

            “It’s classified, Fields. I can’t let you see it. Obviously, the magnitude of the discovery is such that it must be handled very, very carefully. Very delicately. The security services warn that premature disclosure may cause chaos — a stampede or even a war.”

            Fields said nothing. He looked thoroughly confused, but also alert, wary. His body was tense, like a coiled spring. Swisher studied him carefully. He seemed like nothing more than a concerned scientist, yet Swisher sensed there was something else in him too — an adaptability, perhaps — an instinct for survival. He seemed made of sterner stuff then Swisher had expected.

            I can work with this man, Swisher thought. Mold him.

            “This is why we are here, Fields,” he said aloud. “To confirm this security report so that the discovery may be made known and the work of synthesizing the compounds may begin.”

            Fields’s head gave a jerky nod.

            “Here’s what I want you to do,” Swisher continued brusquely. “I want you to redo your tests and I want the accurate results this time. I want you to erase this ridiculous, incomplete, first draft you’ve given me, and I want the complete report on my desk within two days. Is that clear?”

            Fields looked as if he had eaten something distasteful. “I . . . uh . . . don’t know, sir. We might just get the same results, the tests are pretty simple, so . . . . “ He trailed off, leaving the implication hanging.

            Swisher’s broad, powerful face assumed a hard, set expression.

            “I’ve been reviewing your file, Fields,” he said, his voice tight, “keeping an eye on you, just like I do on all my crew. And you haven’t exactly done very well, have you? You’ve made mistakes — quite a few mistakes just in the short time you’ve been here. Isn’t that right?”

            Fields shifted uncomfortably but said nothing.

            “If you can’t do your job, Fields, I’ll have to send you back to Earth.” He paused meaningfully. As he did so, his prosthetic hand stopped glowing red. It crawled across the desk and screwed itself back onto Swisher’s wrist. Fields watched this with fascination but Swisher hardly seemed to notice. “Its a long, long trip, back to Earth, Fields,“ he continued, flexing his prosthetic fingers, “and, needless to say, impossible for you to do any research in your field from there.”

            Fields tore his eyes away from Swisher’s hand and tried to meet his gaze. “Sir, those mistakes were nothing — just trivial misunderstandings. I’m fully capable . . . .”

            “Trivial!,” Swisher interrupted, his voice rising. “There is nothing trivial here, Fields! This planet is critical to the ongoing power of the entire Hegemony! We’re talking about the potential for everlasting life! Do you know what that means, Fields? Whoever controls this planet may control life itself — humanity’s entire future!” Swisher lowered his voice for emphasis. “What we do here may well determine who rules the Hegemony in the decades to come. Do you understand that, Fields?”

            A look of understanding dawned in Fields’s eyes. He straightened up. “Yes, sir, I think I understand.” he said. I’ll get on this report right away.”

            “You’d better make sure of that,” Swisher said with more than a hint of menace in his voice. He raised his prosthetic hand and studied it, the fingers wiggling like so many snakes. “Its my job to separate the wheat from the chaff, Fields. You don’t want to be part of the chaff, do you?”

            “No, I don’t want that. Sir.” Fields turned to go.

            “And remember, Fields,” Swisher called out as Fields reached the door, “The Hegemony rewards loyalty. Loyalty above all else. Don’t forget that.”

            Fields looked back at him, his body tense. “I understand, sir,” he said, and then left.

            When he was gone, Captain Swisher spent some time hunched in his desk chair, staring at his prosthetic hand. His lips moved occasionally as if he were talking to it, although he said nothing out loud. The fingers of the hand flexed languorously.

            I know men like Fields well, Swisher said to himself, it’s how I became Captain.

            He recalled almost with fondness how he had persuaded the previous Captain to make an ill-advised space walk — one from which he never returned. His mechanical hand had severed the man’s air supply. Now, with the discovery of an important, strategic, planet, he would be able to go even farther. It gave him leverage, power — regardless of whether it was even real.

            People, he said silently to his hand, believe what they want to believe. If I have to manufacture the planet, so much the better.

            The hand, as if in answer, reached up and touched the silver case hanging on the wall, then curled into a tight, abnormally large, fist.

& & &

            Back in his own tiny cabin — little more than a closet — Barry dropped the report he had given the Captain on the floor, folded his bed down from the wall, and sat down, the muscles of his face twitching. After a few minutes, he got up and took a couple of steps over to his desk. He opened one of the drawers and took out a small, round object resembling a paperweight. It was pale yellow and glowed with a faint inner light. He kissed it, then sat back down on the bed, turning the object over and over in his hands. His face was thoughtful, his mouth tight. He knew he had to calculate his next actions with extreme care. Survival in the cutthroat world of the Hegemony depended on such calculations.

            After an hour or so, he moved from the bed over to his computer terminal. His console was far smaller and less elaborate than the Captain’s, but it had a view screen and a keyboard. He took a last look at the paperweight, kissed it again, and put it in his pocket. “My lucky charm,” he thought. He fidgeted with his fingers for a moment, limbering them up. Then, typing in a few commands, he confirmed that he had a secure communication channel. He blew out his breath, steeled himself, and contacted one of his fellow biologists, Cybil Weston. She was far more experienced than he and had helped him write the original report.

            Cybil’s face, old and wrinkled, but with a sharp glint in her eyes, appeared on his screen. She was thin and haggard with a nervous tic about her mouth that made her cheek jump. She looked angry, as if Barry had interrupted something.

            “Barry,” she said bluntly, “what is it?”

            “Are you alone?,” Barry asked.

            Her eyes contracted. “Yeah, I’m alone,” she said warily.

            “Is your link secure — no one is listening?”

            “How should I know, Barry? I don’t think so.”

            “I need you to be sure!”

            “Okay, okay, give me a second.” She looked away, her face intent on something Barry could not see. Her could hear her fingers tapping on what he presumed was a keyboard like his. After a minute, she turned back to him.

            “All right, it’s as secure a I can make it. What do you want?”

            “I need your help with something. Something very confidential, okay?”

            Her cheek twitched violently and her eyes hardened into a glare. “What?,” she said.

            “I just had a meeting with the Captain,” Barry said, “about the report we did. It was very, um . . . .” Barry hesitated. “Interesting. Weird.”

            She looked exasperated. “So what, Barry? We’ve all had meetings like that with him. Get to the point.”

            “No, this was — different, okay? I think he’s going to make a move. A move for the Chairmanship.”

            She made a dismissive gesture with one of her pale, thin hands. “That’s not exactly news, Barry. He’s an ambitious bastard and a megalomaniac. Like all the other Captains. Of course he wants to be Chairman. He doesn’t have a chance, though. He’s too far down the ladder.. Kevlin, Bonaccy, Hortell, and some of the others — who are even meaner and weirder than he is — are way above him. He’s a member of the Council, but he’ll never be Chair.”

            “But what if he controlled a planet that could make people live forever — a literal fountain of youth?”

            “Don’t be ridiculous. No such planet exists.”

            “But what if it did? And what if it’s the very same planet we’re orbiting right now?”

            Cybil looked him as if he were crazy, her cheek twitching.

            “I’m not following you, Barry. What are you saying?”

            “The Captain told me that this planet — Ceres III — has organic molecules on it that inhibit the aging process. That once the molecules are synthesized, they could enable people to live hundreds or even thousands of years.”

            She blew out her breath in a skeptical whoosh. “That’s a load of crap. No such molecules exist. Besides, we tested everything down there and it was all pretty much the same as organics everywhere else. Just a lot of slime.”

            “He wants me to redo the tests. And he made it very clear, painfully clear, that he wants the tests to confirm what he is saying.”

            Cybil blinked several times. She looked away from her terminal at something Barry could not see, frowned, then ran a hand through her scraggly hair. Her face kind of curled up like a dried prune. “He asked you to falsify the test results,” she said finally, still looking away.

            “Not in so many words, no. He claimed to have another report from a securities biologist backing up his claims.”

            “Typical,” Cybil said, facing the camera again.

            “He claimed the report was top secret.”

            “He’s a liar.”

            “Cybil — here’s the thing — I did falsify the test results.” Barry said it bluntly, matter-of-factly, as if he were reporting a scientific finding, but Cybil’s mouth fell open in astonishment when she heard it. Her eyes widened in fear.

            “Oh my god, Barry,” she said faintly. “What are you saying?”

            “I couldn’t let that bastard know the truth!,” Barry said vehemently.

            “The truth? What truth? You mean the planet really is a fountain of youth?”

            Barry shook his head. “No, it’s not that.” He lowered his voice and tried to look as earnest as he could. “But some of the samples did have some interesting properties. One of them had some chemicals in it that looked like they might have anti-viral properties. They could be a treatment for the XT56 virus.”

            His words dropped on Cybil like a bombshell. She stared at him in silence. To discover a cure for the XT56 virus was the goal of nearly every biologist in the Hegemony. She opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and closed it again. Then her face changed and she suddenly became exasperated again.

            “Wait a second, Barry,” she said. “What are you talking about? I helped with those tests. There was no such finding.” She glared at him angrily.

            Barry looked sheepish, his bug eyes downcast. “I know Cybil, I’m sorry — that’s the part I falsified. I deleted some of the test results before you saw them.”

            “You did what?!”

            “I had to, Cybil! I couldn’t let Swisher know! I was afraid he would misuse them. That he would turn them into his little power play, just like he’s doing now — force people to support him while he controls the supply and angles for the Chairmanship. I was going to wait until we got back to base and then tell the whole Council at once, so no one would have an unfair advantage.”

            Cybil continued to glare at him, her cheek jumping. Barry knew she was processing what he had said — trying to decide if he was telling the truth, and if so, how that might affect her. It was a calculus everyone in the Hegemony went through every day.

            “I get it,” she said finally, letting her breath out in another whoosh. She looked tired and unhappy, but she didn’t hang up. Good, Barry thought. He had been right to assume that, in a pinch, she would help him. Scientists tend to stick together, he thought, and they don’t lie to each other. He wished he didn’t have to involve her, but he needed her expertise.

            “What do you want me to do?,” she asked.

            “I have a plan, but we’re going to have to make another trip down to the planet.”

            “Oh, great,” she said with a look of disgust. The planet’s atmosphere was thin and some of the organics they had tested were highly toxic. A trip to the surface meant full protective gear and an armed guard.

            “I’ll tell the Captain we need more samples in order to redo the tests. Since he asked for that, I assume he’ll approve.”

            “Okay, but what then?”

            Barry told her what he was thinking. She looked alternately impatient, then angry, then terrified, and finally resigned. At one point, she started shaking her head and waving her hands as if to brush him away, but he managed to talk her through it. He emphasized the viral cure and the need to keep that knowledge away from Swisher. He also didn’t tell her everything he was planning. When he was done, he reassured her that no one could trace anything back to her. She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t object either.

            “If this ever comes out, Barry,” she said, “I swear I’ll kill you. You know that, right?”

            “It won’t, I promise.” Barry gave her what he hoped was a confident look, then he terminated the link.

& & &

            Two days later, Captain Swisher was in his cabin, punching commands into his console with his human hand, the prosthetic lying flat on his desk. He saw with satisfaction a report from his security officer that Fields and a colleague had made a trip to the surface, gathered additional samples, and returned safely to the ship the day before. The officer — Meeks was his name — reported no unusual incidents or behavior during the trip. “Good,” Swisher, said to himself. “Excellent.” He thought it was a brilliant idea on the part of Fields to return to the surface — it gave legitimacy to his revised report, if anyone ever asked questions about it. “He’s smarter than he looks,” Swisher thought.

            Just then, the door of his cabin opened and Major Anselm entered, carrying a tray. “The food you ordered, sir,” he said, setting the tray down on the desk. It contained a bowl of thin soup, an energy bar, and a black mass that might have been pudding. Immediately, a tangy, unpleasant smell pervaded the room, part garlic and part something unidentifiable.

            “Thank you, Anselm,” Swisher said, eyeing the tray. He made a mental note to remind the galley staff that they were expendable — the food had been terrible lately. I could transfer them to the surface for a while, he thought.

            “Anything else, sir?”

            Swisher looked up, his large head tilting back. “Yes, Anselm, actually, there is — when is the next full meeting of the Ruling Council?”

            Anselm checked a device he wore on his wrist. “It’s in three months, sir, Earth time. To be held on Gamelon.”

            “Am I correct, Anselm, that the Chair of the Council can be challenged at such a meeting and replaced by a two-thirds vote of the Council members present?”

            Anselm balked at the question. His eyes blinked rapidly and his hands started shaking. The Ruling Council was a powerful, secretive, body it was dangerous even to discuss, let alone challenge. “I don’t really know, sir,” he said nervously, “I’m not familiar with the rules of the Council.”

            The Captain looked at him slyly. He enjoyed seeing Anselm discomfited. He also wanted to plant in his mind certain possibilities, in case he needed Anselm’s help. “All right, very well,” he said after a moment, “thank you Anselm.” He waved his prosthetic at him in dismissal.

            “Sir, are you . . .,” Anselm started to say, but then his tongue froze in his mouth. His eyes were locked on the prosthetic.

            “Don’t worry, Anselm,” the Captain said softly. “I won’t forget you. You’ve been very loyal.”

            Anselm bowed slightly and left.

            When he had gone, Swisher pulled the tray closer and began to sip the soup, using his human hand and grimacing as he did so. At the same time, he punched some commands into his terminal and pulled up the rules of the Council. The rules were really just a fig leaf — a veneer of respectability the Council maintained to bolster its legitimacy. All that really mattered to them was power. But if Swisher wanted to be Chair, he had to respect the veneer.

            With dismay, he read that the vote to replace the Chair had to be unanimous. That meant he had a lot of work to do over the next three months He leaned back, staring at his prosthetic hand, wiggling its fingers. Some of the members were already beholden to him, but the others would take some persuading. Kevlin, in particular, was antagonistic. And dangerous. He typed some additional commands into his terminal, checking the base of support each member had among the planets subject to Hegemony rule. “If I can get to their base,” Swisher thought, “I can turn them my way, even Kevlin. Who doesn’t want to live forever?”

            He finished his soup, choked down the energy bar, and decided to pass on the pudding, if that’s what it was. He pushed the tray back and typed some more commands, then looked again at his prosthetic. “That fool Fields better be done by now,” he said softly. “I need that report asap.”

& & &

            A short while later, Fields knocked on the Captain’s door with his revised report. When he went in, the Captain was sitting behind his desk, looking too big for the chair he was in. HIs body overflowed the armrests and his legs looked too bulky to fit under the desk. His jet black uniform stretched tightly across his broad chest. He appeared to have been writing something, — a small tablet sat in front of him. The air was heavy in the little room and still smelled faintly of garlic. The tray with its empty bowl sat on the desk, pushed to one side.

            The Captain eyed Fields narrowly as Fields handed him the report. “Its about time,” he said.

            Swisher quickly paged through the report, his eyes darting back and forth as he read the contents. After several minutes, he dropped the report on his desk and looked up. His brow was furrowed and his face dark with anger. His prosthetic hand was clenched in a menacing fist.

            “What is the meaning of this Fields?,” he asked belligerently.

            Fields tried to look as meek as possible. “I think I told you sir, that the results were not likely to change, even if we redid the tests.”

            “Do you actually want to go back to Earth?”

            Fields shook his head.

            “Didn’t I tell you that there is a compound on this planet that slows the aging process?”

            “You did say that sir,”

            “So why isn’t that in your report? What game are you playing, Fields?” Swisher stood up and came around the desk, his large body nearly bumping into Fields. His face was red, the veins in his neck bulging. His prosthetic fist banged against his side, as if impatient. He swayed slightly, unsteady on his feet.

            “I don’t think you’ll be sending me back to Earth, sir,” Fields said, eyeing the fist warily. He tensed his body, ready to jump if necessary.

            “We’ll see about that, Fields,” Swisher said grimly. He turned and tried to go back around his desk, but bumped into it instead. He looked momentarily befuddled, made a grab for the tablet on his desk with his human hand, missed, and knocked it on the floor. He staggered, leaning on the desk for support. His head lolled on his shoulders. “I’ll send you back right now, you pinhead,” he muttered.

            Fields took a step closer. “Are you all right, sir,” he asked politely, “you look unwell.”

            Swisher said nothing. His face was flushed and sweaty. He held up his prosthetic hand and looked at it as if he had never seen it before. The fingers clenched and unclenched rapidly.

            “What’s happening to me?” he said through numb lips.

            “I poisoned your soup, sir,” Fields said matter of factly.

            Swisher stared at him, his throat swallowing convulsively.

            “You were right about one thing,” Fields continued. “The organic matter on this planet does have some interesting properties. Some of the growths— they look like mosses — contain a potent nerve agent, nearly tasteless. You’ll likely be dead within a few minutes.”

            “You . . . you . . . bastard,” Swisher croaked. “I’ll . . . .” He lunged at Fields with his prosthetic hand but Fields easily evaded him and Swisher stumbled and fell heavily on the floor.

            “Help me,” he said softly, apparently speaking to his hand. While Fields watched in amazement, the hand unscrewed itself from Swisher’s wrist and crawled slowly toward him. It did not, however, get very far. With his boot, Fields stomped on it several times, smashing it into the floor. The hand glowed redly, its fingers splayed, but it soon stopped moving. The red glow faded and finally disappeared.

            Swisher lay prone on the floor, his face contorted so that he looked almost comical. Fields bent over him, checking his pulse. There was none. Fields moved around the body and sat down at the console. He picked up the keyboard and began typing commands. In a matter of seconds, he established a comm link. A face appeared on the view screen — a face with small, beady eyes and a massive forehead that looked like it had been carved from a piece of granite. Fields could hear the man’s heavy breathing.

            “Is it done?,” the face asked.

            Fields nodded. “The plan worked,” he said. “There’s a few loose ends, but I’ll get those buttoned up right away.”

            “Like what?,” the face said suspiciously.

            Fields waved his hand nonchalantly. He seemed much more at ease now. There was a brisk efficiency in his movements and his prominent eyes radiated a cold, calculating, confidence. There was no trace of his earlier nervousness. He looked like the assassin he was.

            “There’s a coworker I’ll have to take care of,” Fields said, “and some personnel files I think Swisher was keeping. The man had a disturbing lack of trust.”

            “Very funny, Fields. Who’s the coworker?”

            “Oh, someone I needed to help me synthesize the nerve compound. Not really my field of expertise, you know.”

            The face moved slightly, its forehead wrinkling. The heavy breathing Fields could hear increased into a steady wheeze, as if the man were laughing.

            “Lucky for you, Fields,” the face said, “Swisher made his move too soon. He might have gotten suspicious if he found out how incompetent an exobiologist you are.”

            “Maybe,” Fields said, “But I doubt it — he didn’t seem very bright to me. By the way, how did you know what he was planning?”

            The face on the screen hardened into a scowl, but said nothing.

            Fields bit his lip. “Right, sorry — forget I asked. None of my business.”

            “Is the cover story in place?”

            “Yes. It will look like he died of a heart attack. Not unusual for someone so large and under stress. His doctors will never find the poison, since it’s a new one we just synthesized. There’s no test for it. Of course, everyone knows he was making a play for the Council Chair, so . . . .” Fields didn’t finish the sentence.

            The face made the wheezing sound again. “Yes, that’s right. Good. A useful reminder to the other captains. But what about the planet, Fields — anything there?”

            “No, not really, I made up some story about a virus treatment for the coworker’s benefit, but really the planet is basically useless, unless you like nerve poison. A lot of slime.”

            “How much does the co-worker know?”

            “Nothing, really. I told her the nerve agent would knock the Captain out for a while, so that we could transmit the virus treatment to the Council.” Fields gave a slight chuckle. “Scientists are such fools.”

            The face nodded. “Okay Fields, your mission there is done. Wrap it up and get out of there as quickly as possible. Steal a shuttle if you have to. Report back to the station. There are some other things I need you to do.”

            “Planning to make a move of your own, Kevlin?”

            Kevlin said nothing, his granite face impassive. His mouth hung slightly open and Fields saw with disgust that the man’s teeth were brown and rotten. His breath must be awful, he thought irrelevantly.

            “The credits, I assume, are forthcoming?,” he asked aloud.

            Kevlin nodded curtly and broke the connection. His face disappeared.

            Fields punched some commands into the computer terminal, erasing a number of files. No need for anyone to know about his past performance issues. He also erased some files that looked like they were recordings made by the prosthetic hand. Then he stood up and looked around the office, checking for any potential problems. He spied Swisher’s hand lying on the floor and realized he couldn’t leave it there. Gingerly, he picked it up and reattached it to Swisher’s wrist. He positioned the body so it looked like Swisher fell from his desk and landed on the hand. Then he turned to leave.

            As he headed out the door, he gave Swisher a little wave. “Guess you, at least, won’t be living any longer,” he said softly. He reached in his pocket, took out the paperweight-like object he had gotten from his desk, kissed it, then put it back in his pocket. Still lucky, he thought. The person he had stolen it from swore it had magical properties. Fields was doubtful, but he carried it around anyway because who knew? Maybe the guy was right.

            Then he put on his most stricken face, went through the door, and raised the alarm.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright T. J. Young 2025