6.
Murder is a tool, which, like all tools, can be used to build something up or to tear it down.
Ramanthian Book of Guidance
ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY VESSEL
IN HYPERSPACE
The combined effects of the worst headache the offi?cer had ever experienced, plus an urgent need to pee, brought Santana back to consciousness. The legionnaire’s eyes felt as if they’d been glued shut, and once he managed to paw them open, the offi?cer found himself looking up into an unfamiliar face. A med tech, judging from the insignia on her uniform, and the injector in her right hand. The name tag over her right breast pocket read “Hiller.”
The rating had big brown eyes, mocha-colored skin, and a pretty smile. “Welcome aboard, Captain Santana. You’re on the Combat Supply (CS) vessel Epsilon Indi, presently en route to Algeron, with a full load of supplies. Roll to your right so I can get at your arm.”
Santana winced as the injector made a popping sound, and some sort of liquid was forced in through the pores of his skin. “There,” Hiller said as she took a step backwards.
“That should help with the pain.”
“Algeron?” Santana croaked. “Why Algeron? My outfi?t’s on Adobe.”
“Beats me, sir,” the technician answered blandly. “But maybe Major Lassiter can fi?ll you in. . . . He wants to see you at 0930, so we’d better get cracking.”
“I gotta pee,” Santana said thickly.
“And brush your teeth, and shave, and take a shower,”
Hiller added pragmatically. “In fact, you might even want to get dressed. Can you sit up for me?”
So Santana sat up, but the process was painful, as was the act of standing. Not only because of the many contusions suffered during the battle in the Blue Moon Bar and Fight Club—but as a result of whatever drugs had been administered to him thereafter. A subject the legionnaire planned to raise with Major Lassiter. “There was a noncom,” Santana said, as Hiller escorted him toward the head.
“A corporal named Gomez . . . What happened to her?”
“Gomez has been up and around for quite a while now,”
the med tech replied. “She comes to check on you every couple of hours. The corporal says that while you have a lousy left hook, you’ve got some major cojones, and that’s rare where offi?cers are concerned. Her opinion—not mine.”
One hour later, Santana was shaved, showered, and dressed in one of his own uniforms. Which had clearly been removed from the hotel room in the MEZ and brought aboard the Indi. The pain still lingered but was under control by the time Hiller provided the legionnaire a hand wand and sent him out into the ship’s labyrinth of corridors. The Epsilon Indi was more than three miles long, could transport fi?ve million tons of cargo, and carried a crew of more than two thousand bio bods and robots. The corridor that ran the length of the ship wasn’t all that crowded as Santana followed the directional wand toward the stern, but that would change quickly once the watch changed. The overhead glow panels marked off six-foot intervals, the durasteel bulkheads were gray, and brightly colored decals marked maintenance bays, emergency lockers, and escape pods. A steady stream of infl?ection-free announcements continued to drone through the overhead speakers as the directional wand tugged Santana to the right. What seemed like a seldom-used passageway led to a hatch and a programmable panel that read, “Legion Procurement Offi?cer.” The title didn’t bode well since Santana had a bias against REMFs (rear echelon motherfuckers). But orders were orders, so Santana rapped his knuckles against the wooden knock-block mounted next to the hatch and waited for a response. It came in the form of a basso “Come!” pitched to carry over the PA system, the chatter of a nearby power wrench, and the eternal rumble generated by the Indi herself.
Santana took three paces forward, executed a sharp left face, and came to rigid attention. “Captain Antonio Santana, reporting as ordered, sir!”
In spite of the fact that the legionnaire’s eyes were focused on a point over the major’s head, he could still see quite a bit. The offi?cer on the opposite side of the folddown desk had short gray hair, a weather-beaten face, and a lantern-shaped jaw. And, unlike so many of the staff offi?cers that Santana had encountered in the past, this one wore ribbons representing some rather impressive decorations. A good sign indeed. “At ease,” Major Lassiter said.
“Grab a chair. . . . I got blindsided once, and it still hurts. How do you feel?”
“Better, sir,” Santana answered truthfully, as he sat down. “How did you know I was blindsided? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Corporal Gomez was kind enough to fi?ll me in,” Lassiter replied dryly. “She likes you—but I get the feeling that her affection for offi?cers ends there.”
“No offense, sir,” Santana ventured cautiously. “But why were Gomez and I put aboard the Indi? Are we in some sort of trouble?”
“No,” the major said, as he leaned back into his chair.
“You aren’t. Not that I’m aware of anyway. . . . General Booly sent orders to fi?nd you, and my team was busy touring all the dives in the MEZ when we came across the Blue Moon. You were already laying on the mat by then, so we had you removed and put aboard a shuttle. About halfway through liftoff you returned to consciousness, attempted to escape your stretcher, and were put back to sleep.”
“General Booly?” Santana said incredulously. “The Military Chief of Staff? Why would General Booly send for me?”
