2
"You still here, bub?" the computer said. The lazy voice had some kind of accent Gain couldn't identify, a fat drawl that stretched the words and made them seem like hot taffy in the sunshine.
"What do you want?" Gain snapped out the question.
"The Old Man—that's Station Commander Zougag to you, bub—would like the pleasure of your company on Level Four, Station One—if you can spare the time."
"What?"
"Hospital unit, and you'll need it if you don't hurry. You were supposed to be there ten minutes ago."
"What?!"
"I forgot to tell you. Got busy and all."
"What? You what?"
"Well, well. You ain't all starch and elbows after all. Better hop to it. The Old Man hates to be kept waiting."
Gain left, moving at triple time, trying to look calm and unhurried as he ran toward the chute. He practically leaped into the tube. "Level Four, hurry!"
"Ain't got but one speed, bub."
Great. The same computer ran the chutes. What was going on here?
A line trooper with a zap carbine held at port arms stood guard at the chute's exit. Gain passed his wrist under the wall's admit scanner and was identified by the implant in his pisiform bone. The guard snapped to attention as Gain passed. Well, at least there was some discipline here. "As you were," Gain said. It was the first time he had given that command as a real officer, and it gave him a kind of power-filled tingle.
A second guard admitted Gain into the unit, directed him down a corridor, where a pair of guards with holstered sidearms stood at ease on either side of a third door. Must be important, given all the security.
Inside the room, a man lay inside a Hertz full-medical attend unit. Such boxes were usually called creep coffins by military and civilians alike. Next to the unit stood the Station Commander. SC Zougag was a boot-plastic-tough old man of sixty-five or seventy T.S. years, white-haired and still fit under his station work blues; a man reputed to eat slow nails and pee high-speed needles when in a bad mood.
"Sir, Light Unit Commander Gain reporting as ordered." Gain made it as crisp as he could.
The Old Man waved one hand. "At ease, Luck." He shook his head. "Old men, jailrats, pregnant women and shavehead children," he muttered. "Thank you so very much, Marshal Twill."
"Sir?"
"Nothing, Luck. Just the usual snafu. Over here."
Gain moved toward the creep coffin. Through the clear densecris cover he saw a man of maybe fifty, somewhat the worse for recent wear, plugged into the sensory and medicant gear. Getting a full replete ride, looked like.
"Gain, this is Commander Dino Farr, formerly a decent officer of the Fighting Foxes, now stealing his pay as a do-nothing Aide to Marshal-in-Chief Twill. You may have seen his somewhat inexpert landing earlier in the day, in which he destroyed a Tanto-class ship without even trying."
"It was sabotage, Pil, I told you," the man in the coffin said. He sounded sleepy. He smiled, and it was a doped-to-the-eyebrows expression. Must be doped to be calling the SC, who was Line Ranked, by his first name.
"We'll see what the mechs say," the SC replied. He looked away from the injured man and back at Gain. "Farr has come to make my life difficult, as is his usual wont." The Old Man smiled. "And since I run things here, I get to pass such grief down the line. Commander Farr being pumped full of dorph to ease his much-deserved pain for smashing into the shield, it falls to me to try to explain."
"Sir?"
"You just got here, Luck, and I'm sorry to have to dump this on you, but most of my able bodies are on maneuvers teaching the Grands from Big Star One how to suck vac. You may not be aware that the Petits have won the deep-space combat games six times running."
"Sir, I knew that."
"Um. Farr here came to deliver a message from the MiC Himself, and as usual, the news isn't good. My at-homes are at skeleton strength now. I have to have a commissioned officer look into his problem and you, son, are who I can spare."
Gain swallowed. Well, he wanted to be in the thick of things. Having a mission direct from the Marshal-in-Chief of the Petit Harriers first time in the barrel was certainly thick enough. If he did well, it couldn't hurt. If he screwed up, well . . . he didn't want to think about that.
"You know anything about Feddalsi Oasis?"
"Sir, normal briefing material."
"Son, this isn't the Academy, you don't have to 'sir' me every time you open your mouth."
"Sir. I mean, ah . . ."
The Old Man grinned. "Forget it. You may be aware that there is some . . . rivalry between the Grands and the Petits."
"Si— Ah, yes, I was aware of that."
"You may also be aware that out in the real galaxy things aren't always as neat and clean as the Magnicate Alliance would have them be. You ever hear of the Texas Rangers?"
"Some sort of mythical pre-space law force, weren't they?"
"That's right. Since they were there when things happened, they had to interpret the laws somewhat loosely as they went, if you take my meaning."
Gain understood that, though he didn't see where the Old Man was going with it.
"In any event, there are sometimes things that go on in the realm of politics and power that might not be strictly legal, but into which you don't want to run like some ignorant tumwah waving a law dictum. There are some, ah, delicate balances where the Grands, the Petits and the Twelve all sit around the same table."
Gain knew that, at least in a theoretical way. Somebody was always stabbing somebody else in the back where Uplevels were concerned. Real Machiavellian stuff. Nobody trusted anybody in those rarefied chambers, and that was considered the height of wisdom.
"The bottom line here, Luck, is that a situation has arisen that is very delicate and dangerous. It has to be handled carefully, because the politics might be as important as the military end, if you get my drift."
Gain swallowed again. Politics. This did not sound good at all.
"If what Farr says is true, the continued future of the Petit Harriers themselves might well rest entirely on a successful completion of this mission.
"You, son, are going to be very careful, or it won't be just you who suffers, it will be all of us."
Gain stood there, frozen, growing more and more incredulous as Station Commander Zougag told him exactly what the problem was, and what shavehead LUC Gain was going to have to do to fix it. He had never dreamed just how thick the intrigue got Uplevels. How could they do such things and get away with them? Holy Juddah Bright!
It was beginning to look as if Light Unit Commander Stelo Gain's first mission as an officer might also be his last.
Oh, boy.