Myles Hazeldine hated the wait in the anteroom. No matter how urgent the summons, and how irate Ebrey Zhang was, he always had to endure this ritual. He refused to show his temper, conceding the bitter irony. This was his study's anteroom, and he had always made his visitors wait, be they allies or opponents.
How obvious and petty it was, establishing the true authority figure. Did they once laugh at me for such crudity? he wondered.
The doors opened, and Ebrey Zhang's aide beckoned him in. As usual, the Z-B governor was sitting behind the big desk. And as usual, it galled Myles. The sharpest reminder of Thallspring's miserable capitulation.
"Ah, Mr. Mayor, thank you for coming." Ebrey's cheerful smile was as insincere as it was malicious. "Do sit down."
Keeping his face blank, Myles took the chair in front of the desk. An aide stood on either side of him. "Yes?"
"There was a nasty traffic accident today."
"I heard."
Ebrey cocked his head expectantly. "And?"
"One of your people was hurt."
"And in a civilized society, someone would say something along the lines of: Sorry to hear that. Or: I hope he's all right. Standard conversational procedure, even here, I believe."
"The hospital says he'll live."
"Try not to sound so disappointed. Yes, he'll live. However, he won't be returning to frontline duty. Not ever."
Myles smiled thinly. "Sorry to hear that."
"Don't push it," Ebrey snapped. "I'm going to have that accident thoroughly investigated. My people will oversee your transport forensic team. If they find anything suspicious, I'm going to use up some of my collateral. Still smirking, Mr. Mayor?"
"You can't be serious. A truck hit a wall."
"That's what it looks like. But maybe that's how it was meant to look. How often do your automated vehicles have traffic accidents, Mr. Deputy?"
Myles couldn't help frowning; he'd never actually heard of one before. "I'm not sure."
"The last one involving any sort of injury was fifteen years ago. For a fatality you have to go a lot further back. Even your antiquated electronics can manage to keep vehicles running smoothly. I find the timing highly suspicious."
"The odds pile up. Don't tell me your systems can do much better."
"We'll see." Ebrey activated a desktop pearl and waited for its pane to unfurl. He glanced at the script that began scrolling down. "Now then, I see the Orton and Vaxme plants still haven't got up to their proper capacity. Why is that, Mr. Mayor?"
"The Orton plant was undergoing refurbishment when you landed. You ordered it back into production status before the new components were properly integrated. It'll probably get worse before it gets better."
"I see." A finger tapped on the card's screen, changing the script pattern. "And Vaxme?"
"I don't know."
"But no doubt you'll find some engineering-based reason. After all, it could never be a human fault."
"Why should it be?" Myles asked pleasantly. He knew he was goading Ebrey too hard and didn't really care.
"Get its production back up," Ebrey said levelly. "You've got ten hours. Make it plain to them. I am not going to be dicked around on this."
"I'll see what I can do."
"Fine." He waved at the door. "That's all."
"Actually it isn't." Myles enjoyed the annoyance that washed over Ebrey's face. "I've made this request to your aides twice already today, but never even got a reply. It isn't as if I shout wolf every time we have a medical problem."
"What request?"
"I need some resources reallocated from the university biomedical department. You took our most qualified people away to help with those new vaccines you wanted formulated over at the Madison facility."
"I can't spare anyone to lecture some bunch of backward students with falling grades."
"It's nothing to do with that. There have been a couple of new pulmonary ward admissions at the hospital."
"So?"
"The doctors aren't sure, but it seems to be some kind of tuberculosis variant. It's not something we've seen before."
"Tuberculosis?" Ebrey asked; he made it sound as if Myles had told a sick joke at a funeral. "That's history. It doesn't suddenly resurrect on a planet light-years from Earth."
"We don't know what it is, exactly. That's why we need an expert diagnosis."
"Oh, for Christ's sake." He flicked the desktop pearl off. "You can have them for a day. But I'll hold you responsible if Madison falls behind."
"Thank you."
The Junk Buoy was modeled on a thousand waterfront resort bars that Lawrence had enjoyed in his twenties, and those had all been centuries out of date long before he even reached Earth. It catered for all sorts, although the sudden influx of Z-B platoons these last two nights had managed to repel most of the locals. When the first platoon came in and slapped on the bar demanding beers, the manager tried to refuse. They were ready for that; the sergeant had a communication card with a link already open to City Hall. A few words were said about licenses and there was no more trouble, only resentment. But the platoons were used to that, it hardly spoiled their evening.
Lawrence and Amersy sat under a thatched parasol out on the patio as the last crescent of gold-red sun sank behind Vanga peak. Both of them were sipping Bluesaucer beer from chilled bottles while the rest of the platoon spread themselves around the bar.
"Did you hear about Tureg's platoon?" Lawrence asked quietly. None of his own men were close, four of them were round the pool table. Edmond was in a corner booth, talking to a well-dressed local man—which made Lawrence frown briefly. Hal, of course, was sitting up at the bar, wearing a white T-shirt that was tight enough to outline every muscle and smiling at all the girls who came in.
"I heard," Amersy said. "The hatch nearly cut old Duson in half when they tried to open the lander pod. They reckon the thing was pressurized to ten atmospheres. Goddamn company using cheap suppliers again."
"That's bullshit, and you know it. No way a drop pod could pressurize like that."
"One of the RCS nitrogen tanks vented. The valve jammed. It happens."
"A valve jammed! Those things are supposed to be failsafe. And nitrogen doesn't vent inside the pod, you know that."
"It can, if enough things go wrong."
"Ha!"
"What then?"
"Foran got caught by a runaway truck, didn't he?"
"Come on!" The patch of white skin on Amersy's cheek flushed darker. He leaned in closer. "You can't be serious," he hissed. "How could they sabotage a lander pod?"
"It was out beyond the boundary."
"So what: you're saying this KillBoy resistance group managed to change its descent trajectory?"
"No, of course not. It drifted off track, enough of them do. This one was sitting out there in the middle of the jungle for a week before we got around to dispatching a recovery sortie. Plenty of time for them to find it and rig the nitrogen."
"You've got to be wrong, man. The only way they could do that was if they could get around our software security."
"Yes."
"No way. We're talking e-alpha here. Nothing can break that encryption."
Lawrence tried not to dwell on the Prime program he still carried in his bracelet pearl. He'd never actually tested it against e-alpha, although it could certainly break Z-B's second-level software. "I hope not."
"It can't, Lawrence." He was almost pleading. "If they could break e-alpha we'd be wide open to them. Hell, we'd never even have made it down from orbit."
"Yeah." Lawrence took another sip from his bottle: it was his fourth, or fifth. Not a bad brew, based on some Nordic ideal of three hundred years ago with an alcohol percentage higher than he was used to. "I guess you're right" The sun had vanished now, pulling a veil of deep tropical darkness over Memu Bay. Streetlights and neon signs threw a rosy haze into the air above the marina. Farther down the beach, someone had started a bonfire. He took a slow glance around the bar, watching hi
s men fooling about. "Will you look at that? We're commanding the biggest bunch of losers in the galaxy."
"They're damn good, and you know it. We just got all shook-up by Nic, is all."
"Maybe. But this whole outfit isn't what it used to be. There used to be enough of us to damn well make sure there were no screwups like truck crashes and pressurized lander pods. And nobody would ever have taken a shot at us like they did poor old Nic."
"Lawrence..."
"I mean it. I used to go along with it when I was younger. Now I'm old enough to know better. A lot better."
"Jesus, Lawrence, are you having a midlife crisis on me? Is that what this is?"
"No, that's very definitely not what this is."
"You got doubts about the job, Lawrence? If you have, then I'm telling you, you've got to sideline yourself. It ain't right someone with doubts leading us. You might—"
"Hesitate to shoot? I won't hesitate to shoot. I came to terms with that a long time ago. Our Skin is the one thing that stops our conscience being put on the line every day. We don't kill anyone; technology takes care of that. We knock them out and give them the mother of all headaches, but no scruples get trashed on the way."
"Then what the hell is this about?"
"My life. I shouldn't be here, you know. I made the wrong choice a long time ago."
"Ho fuck." Amersy took a big swig of beer. "Is this about that girl again?"
Lawrence's hand moved automatically to the small pendant under his T-shirt. "Fate, I was stupid. I should never have left. Never."
"I knew it! God damn! Who the hell keeps killing themselves over a girl for twenty years? Lawrence, man, I can't even remember the first time I got laid, never mind what her name was."
Lawrence grinned over the top of his bottle. "Yes, you can."
"Yeah, okay. Maybe. But Jesus ... twenty years. I mean, your chick, she's got to be grossing out at a hundred kilos now, a housemom out in the burbs dosing up on antis to get through the day, with at least a couple of ex-husbands, not to mention some grandchildren knocking around."
"Not Roselyn. She would have made something of her life; she was never as dumb as me. And in any case, she was only a part of Amethi."
"You always go on about that planet like it's some kind of paradise. Why did you leave?"
"I told you, I'm a dumb fuck. The dumbest there is. I made a mistake. I had it all, you know, I just didn't realize it at the time."
"Everyone's like that when they're teenagers. I mean, Christ, you've met my kids."
"Don't complain, they're good kids. You're lucky to have a family like that."
"Yeah, man. Guess so."
Lawrence couldn't help smiling. Hell, two guys getting loaded in a bar, talking about their families and how they'd screwed up their lives. How deeper in could you get? "Would you leave?" he asked slowly, trying to make it come over casual.
"Leave what?"
"The platoon. Strategic security. Z-B. Everything. Would you quit if you could?"
"Come on, man, you know I've got a family. My stake's not big enough to take care of them if I stop work. I can't quit."
"But if you could? If you didn't have to worry about your stake."
Amersy grinned wide. "Sure. If I could dump this shit, I would. Who wouldn't?"
"Good," Lawrence said in satisfaction. If he ever hoped to pull off his private mission into the hinterlands, he would have to have Amersy on his side. "Let's go get some more beers."
Edmond Orlov lurched into them as they made their way back to the bar. He clutched at Amersy, barely stopping himself from falling. His smile was beatific. "Hey, Corp, Sarge, how you doing? Ain't this the coolest place? Apart from the heat, that is."
He started giggling wildly. Lawrence hadn't really been paying attention, but he thought Orlov had just come out of the toilets.
"You know, it's still pretty early," Amersy said. "You've got to learn to pace yourself, man."
"Sure thing." Edmond threw a salute, almost missing his head. "You got it, Corp. But don't you worry. I'm on it." He tottered over to the jukebox, and after squinting, managed to slide his credit coin in the slot. A spiral video grid twisted up inside the juke's cylindrical pane. Edmond started muttering: "Oh yeah" and "you, baby, you" to the AS as his finger waved at various grids. "Gimme some of that. Oh brother, I want me a piece of that, too." Ska calypso music started to pound out of the overhead speakers. Edmond backed away from the juke, eyes closed, arms waving in a rhythm that didn't quite correspond to anything being played.
All of the locals were nudging each other and smirking at the solitary, swaying figure. His own platoon mates and several of the other platoons laughed and clapped as he began to speed up.
"I gotta have that beer," Amersy said, and broke for the bar.
Lawrence took a last backward glance at Edmond. Something was going to have to be done about him. But not tonight. "Pain level's too high," he whispered as he went after Amersy.
Hal was still on his prominent stool at the middle of the counter. His smile flicked on at every girl who walked in. It never lasted long. The girls who arrived in groups checked him out immediately, then giggled among themselves as they found an empty section of the bar away from him. He earned himself some hard warning stares from boyfriends. Single girls had seemingly all perfected the same dismissive sneer.
"I've been ripped off," Hal whined to Amersy as the corporal leaned on the counter and tried to attract one of the barmen. "Can we employ lawyers to sue people here?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" Amersy asked.
"This," Hal grunted. He flicked his glance downward.
Amersy peered at the trooper's feet. "Your shoes don't fit?"
"No! Not that!"
"What's happening?" Lawrence asked. "Hal, you still here? I thought you'd have scored by now."
"I've been sold a dud," Hal told them through clenched teeth. He held his left arm up. There was a slim black band round his wrist. "I haven't got a bleep out of it all evening. Eighty goddamn credits that son of a bitch took off me."
Lawrence had to forcibly hold back his laughter. "Is that what I think it is, Hal?"
"It's not illegal, Sarge," Hal protested. "The guy in the shop swore everyone here uses PSAs."
"Okay. Maybe there's just no one here with your... preference."
"There has to be." Hal lowered his voice to a desperate plaint. "I keyed in an open acceptance. That's like anything these girls are into, I'll go with it. The fucking thing still doesn't work."
Amersy finally managed to get in an order for some more bottles of Bluesaucer.
"Give it time," Lawrence advised.
"I've been here over an hour already. And Edmond told me about this place."
"What about it?"
"They like—" Hal swiveled his head from side to side, making sure no one was listening, then lowered his voice. "They're into threesomes here."
Lawrence groaned. He might have guessed his men would grab the wrong end of that local legend. "That's trimarriage, Hal. It's different."
"Yeah, but they've got to get used to it first, try it out."
Lawrence put a friendly arm round Hal's shoulder. "Listen, take my advice, kid, forget the bracelet and the threesomes for tonight, okay? Just be yourself. There must be a dozen girls in here. Go over and ask one of them if she wants a dance." He gestured at the dance floor, which probably wasn't the best illustration. Two squaddies were prancing around an oblivious Edmond, imitating his crazed movements with grotesque exaggeration. They were both holding on to their beer bottles, with the foaming liquid sloshing out. Their audience was cheering them on. "Or a quiet drink," Lawrence added quickly. "It doesn't matter what you say to them, as long as you say something. Trust me on this one."
"I suppose," Hal grunted sullenly. He glared at the PSA bracelet, willing its electronics to flicker into Technicolor life. The little display panel remained stubbornly dark.
"Good man." Lawrence and Amersy collecte
d their beer and fled back out onto the patio.
After an hour, Jones Johnson had just about got the pool table figured out One of the middle pockets had a worn cushion that you had to watch when you were shooting from the top, and there was a definite slope away from the bottom left corner. Now that he knew all that, he could maybe start hustling a little credit. Certainly from their fellow platoons, and if he got lucky from a local who thought he was king of the skewed table.
Most of his own platoon hung around as the evening wore on, cheering him, or groaning in sympathy as the balls refused to drop. The Junk Buoy began to fill up after sunset. Platoons who'd been here last night reported that the locals had stayed away. Not tonight. The pool games went on. Three wins. Two losses (one strategic). Karl and Odel and Dennis ordered them all some surf 'n turf. They dug into the big platters, chugging down the too-sweet horse piss that passed for beer in Memu Bay, keeping their cue on the table.
After a couple of hours, Edmond's fix was depressurizing. He packed up the dance floor and slumped in a chair, arms hugging his chest and shivering as if the night had brought a front of arctic air in off the water. Jones was kind of pleased about that. Edmond's dancing was always embarrassing, but stoked up, someone had to watch him. And they'd all seen Lawrence give him the eye—before the sarge and Amersy settled down to get seriously hammered together. Not that it mattered; they all looked out for each other in here as much as out on patrol. That's what platoon membership was about.
Even the kid, who was now drunk enough to venture around the girls. Nobody could quite hear what his lines were, but he kept pointing at a black bracelet on his wrist as he staggered from one to the next. All the girls he talked to waved him on or turned their backs to him. The dance floor was heaving with people. And now that his cue aim was wavering from the drink, Jones quite fancied his chances out there among the sweaty strutting bodies. The Junk Buoy's DJ had taken over from the jukebox, and the mood of the crowd was already up and going higher. There were some seriously good-looking pieces of skirt out there, too. And the can-time had stretched on for way too long since they'd left Cairns.