Michael MacPherson was a successful, well paid, stable professional at the top of the mechanical engineering field. Where others in his diminishing circle of friends had made relationships, he had built a career. They had hobbies; he designed and built weaponry on contract to the newly formed world government. They had children, he had schematics.
He was a proud man, and justifiably so, but at this very moment, MacPherson was seriously questioning how nearly one-hundred years of meticulous decision making had left him so far from the stable, comfortable existence he had intended to build. As he saw it, the new government, high-handedly titling itself, “The Great Alliance of Terra” had constructed an entire space fleet for its newly formed “protectorate” military, then immediately used it to start a war with their own colony world, which had long been hinting at rebellion. As a byproduct of this massive undertaking and the resulting boom in his chosen industry, he had been elevated from relative obscurity in outsourced medical engineering for the aerospace industry into having his own small business empire. Some risk had been unavoidable in signing up for the project, (after all, what if he had committed his business to the effort, only to have it cancelled by some bleeding-heart politician?) but in the end had decided that the government looked out for its own, if nobody else, and his life plan had been wonderfully accelerated by winning the contracts. Incidentally, the fleet won it's rather one-sided war, which was of no surprise to anyone save perhaps the would-be rebels, considering it was the only space fleet Humanity had ever seen, but anyone with smartnet knew they were not to be pitied. This was their own doing, after all, having been an ungrateful nuissance ever since arriving at their new home, showing little-to-no appreciation for the benevolence of the Earth that had sent them. Once victory over the rag-tag dissenters was confirmed, there was much celebration and parading on the media channels of Earth, but for whatever reason the fleet had remained there for something the G.A.T was calling “ongoing peacekeeping operations”. Why the entire fleet was still required was anyone's guess; bureaucracies were something he made no attempt to understand and if it didn't involve Michael MacPherson or his carefully maintained life, he would normally dismiss from his busy mind without hesitation. Unfortunately, it turned out that his commitment to the G.A.T. wasn't quite spent.
Not long after the fleet's inaugural victory and the accompanying excitement, he had found himself being asked to supervise further design adjustments for the fleet. Given his recent windfall of government contracts he had initially been more than happy to receive futher offers, even if his habitual caution prevented him from accepting immediately. It was no secret that MacPherson maintained a rigidly organized life and did all in his power to avoid any form of uncertainty or change. As a direct result, it was with no small inward terror that he allowed a team of darkly suited individuals into his office the following morning. They had informed him that as the head engineer for several of the medical systems in the fleet, his direct supervision would be required for something he would only refer to as, “further development”. At several points, MacPherson had meekly suggested that he could work better in a familiar environment, citing various assistants or resources that he typically relied on. Eventually, the dour faced master of the group had silenced him with a look somewhere between boredom and malice, bluntly stated that remote work was not an option, then continued as thought there had been no interruption. Little more than an hour had felt like eternity, but finally they had gone, leaving him alone with an empty office and a sense of how it might feel to be a hollowed-out log, dragged by a cold river to an unknown and almost certainly unpleasant fate. The general nature of the assignment was that he would be relocated to Horizon and oversee some kind of enhancement or redesign of the equipment being used by military personell. The dour man had been vague, but his use of phrases like, “unanticipated circumstances” and “increased importance of medical systems” made it clear that something was very, very wrong.
Evidently the government felt the turn-around on communication was either not fast enough or not secure enough to risk. When he had He himself had been sworn to secrecy amidst a crowd of imposing, dark-suited men before learning even this much. Likely, the humiliating disaster with the fleet was something the people, “didn't need to know”.
After agreeing, more or less under duress, to leave Earth early tomorrow, he had spent the entire morning tying up affairs for the company to operate in his absence, then rushed home to pack, negotiating the swarm of private hovercraft traffic which represented the wealthy and inodolent every lunch-time. Now, without any outside pressure to occupy his mind, the reality of the move was sinking in. He had never liked change. He had never enjoyed travel. Yet somehow, the stable, secure life he had spent decades building now had his home, normally tended to immaculate order, looking like the scene of a violent burglary. The worst of it was, he had absolutely no idea what to expect. He sank into the clearest patch of sofa he could see, wrestled some previously unseen lump from beneath himself, (which turned out to be an old camping knife his father had given him) and put his head in his hands.
to be continued.
