So that’ll have to do until things settle down. Every chance we can, we’ll get together. Every leave, every day off, every chance. Okay?”
Michael nodded miserably. “Suppose so,” he muttered.
“Bloody hell!” Anna frowned. “Suppose so. Suppose so! Is that all you can say?”
Michael shook his head. “No, it’s not.” He looked at her for a long time, a small smile ghosting across his face. “There’s lots more. So come for a swim, Anna Cheung, and I might give you the benefit of my wisdom if you play your. . Ow!” he howled. Anna’s leather sandalled foot had smacked hard into his shin.
“Pig!” she said, standing up and kicking back her chair. “I might listen. . if you can catch me!”
She turned and was gone, a fast-fading blur of white muslin disappearing into the night.
Monday, July 3, 2400, UD
Michael looked around the massive Fleet canteen as he waited for Matti Bienefelt to arrive. Under normal circumstances, the place would have been packed with spacers from the hundreds of ships in Comdur orbit, the noise in proportion to the arrogant confidence habitually displayed by Fleet spacers.
These were not normal circumstances. It was still packed, but the place was horribly quiet.
“Hullo, stranger.”
“Hullo, stranger, sir, you insubordinate lowlife spacer, Petty Officer Bienefelt.”
“Well, up yours. . sir.” Bienefelt banged down a mug of coffee the size of a small bucket before taking his hand in her massive paw. Michael managed to drag his hand away before she crushed it. “And for your information, sir, it’s you insubordinate lowlife spacer Chief Petty Officer Bienefelt,” she added smugly.
“Well, bugger me.” Michael looked in astonishment at Bienefelt. He noticed the chief’s shoulder straps only when she dropped her huge frame into a chair. Then again, he would have to be twice as tall to get a decent look at her shoulders in the first place. “Chief? How?”
“Well, the old saying; your misfortune, my good luck.” Bienefelt shook her head, her voice suddenly somber. “Lot of people hurt when those Hammers did us wrong. A lot.”
Michael nodded sadly. It was true. The Hammers had not killed as many Fed spacers as they had planned to, he was sure of that, but they had badly damaged plenty. “Trust me, Matti. Their day will come.”
“Oh, yes. It will. It sure as hell will.”
There was a moment’s silence. “So,” Michael continued. “Chief, eh? What does that mean?”
“One more week in the good ship
“Coxswain?”
“Yup.”
“Anjaxx, eh?” Michael looked thoughtful. “Now, let me think. Anjaxx? Why Anjaxx? You’re a Jascarian.” He pondered the problem; then he got it. “Ah ha!” he said triumphantly, wagging his finger in Bienefelt’s face. “You are one sly dog, Chief Petty Officer Matti Bienefelt. Now I remember. Isn’t there a certain Yuri somewhere on Anjaxx? And isn’t he even bigger and uglier than you are? Am I right? Hmmm?”
Bienefelt did her best to look deeply offended. “Good thing you’re not just an officer but a runty little officer. Otherwise. .”
Michael’s hands went up in surrender. “Okay, okay, I take it back. Yuri isn’t bigger and uglier. Let’s just say he’s as big and as ugly.”
“You are a very rude man,” Bienefelt said amicably. There was a long pause. “Sir.”
Michael’s laugh was cut short by his neuronics. He had an appointment to keep. “Oh, shit, Matti. I’ve got to go.” He got to his feet and put out his hand. “Now listen to me, you big lump. Be careful and stay in touch, okay?”
Bienefelt stood up, towering over Michael as she took his hand. “You’re the one who should be careful. So be careful,” she said sternly.
“Yes, Chief,” Michael said meekly. “See you.”
Thanks to his neuronics’ timely reminder, Michael made it to the transit officers’ quarters with his dignity intact a scant thirty seconds ahead of Commander Baker.
“Helfort.” Baker shoved out his hand briskly. “Welcome to Comdur.”
“Good to be here, sir,” Michael said, taking Baker’s hand. The man was just as he remembered him: small, chunky, and radiating nervous energy, though considerably less stressed than the last time around.
“Liar! Comdur’s a dump, and we all know it. Now, we have to process you in, and then I’ve got something I want you to see.”
“Sir, what exactly am I posted here to do?”
“Patience, my son. Patience. All will be revealed. Let’s go.” With that, Baker was off.
Michael, duly processed onto the strength of the Advanced Projects Unit and now the owner of the highest security clearance he had ever seen after a briefing of eye-watering ferocity, had followed Baker at a half trot as the man had led him through a maze of laser-cut rock passageways, his neuronics unable to say where they were going. He was beginning to realize that Baker knew only two speeds: flat out and full stop. To Michael’s relief, Baker finally skidded to a halt in front of a marine-manned security barrier. Overkill surely, Michael thought, considering they were a good two kilometers below Comdur’s surface and in the heart of the most secure Fleet base in the Federation.
The marines would not have cared what Michael thought. With meticulous care, they cleared first Baker and then Michael through the barrier and into a brilliantly lit lobby backed by steel doors. There was another delay and another identity check with the security AI before the doors agreed to open to reveal a bare plasteel box fitted with simple folddown seats and red emergency lockers.
No sooner were they in than the doors snapped shut. “Strap in securely. We will depart shortly,” announced a disembodied voice. Baker waved Michael into a seat, and they strapped in. The box, vibrating gently, began to move sideways. After thirty seconds or so, it stopped. A recessed red warning light began to flash. “Stand by to drop in five seconds,” announced the voice.
Baker looked across at Michael. “Bit of negative g coming up, so I suggest you hang on,” he offered offhandedly.
“Oh, right, sir, but-”
The bottom fell away from underneath them as the artgrav cut out completely. Michael struggled to control a heaving stomach suddenly intent on misbehaving. For a moment, he and Baker floated in their straps before a fierce downward acceleration began to build, the negative g pulling the two men out of their seats and tight against their restraining straps.
The complete lack of air noise and the massive acceleration gave Michael all the clues he needed. They were in a drop car in a hard vacuum tunnel heading for the center of Comdur, which lay the best part of 300 kilometers below them. If he remembered correctly, that meant that the drop car, its speed topping out at close to 2,000 kph, would have them wherever the hell it was they were going in less than ten minutes. He flicked a glance at Baker. The man seemed to be asleep, so Michael left him alone.
Baker would give him answers when he was good and ready; there was no point pestering him.
The minutes dragged slowly past. Michael tried hard not to think about the 300 kilometers of solid rock that lay at the end of the tunnel, now rushing toward them at more than 500 meters per second. The disembodied voice returned.
“Stand by for deceleration in ten seconds.”
Baker woke up. “Ah, good,” was all he said.
Deceleration was an understatement. When it came, Michael winced as the g force in the drop car reversed with sudden brutality, slamming him back into his seat. Jesus, he thought. More like a bloody fairground ride than a passenger conveyance.
