“…looking for someone, you think?”
“…more like they’re profiling…anyone tall and fair, especially blond…”
“…anyone coming from a Revenant system, you think?”
“…not at war…can’t cut off travel, you know…”
Van wondered about that.
“…Sulynese…might revolt…spoiled people…”
“…bad as the Kelts…”
“…worse…ask me…never trust black Tarans…”
“…some are all right…”
“…name one…”
Van winced at the silence that followed.
Once the shuttle had grounded and glided to the disembarking point, Van moved decisively, but not hastily. When he left the disembarking corridor, he found himself opposite another line of consoles, each manned by another junior functionary. Overhead, there were remote arms emplacements, not visible except through Van’s implant. Both the remote stunners and the consoles had been added since Van’s last trip to New Oisin.
In a strictly logical fashion, neither made sense. But the additions made political and emotional sense, because Marshal Eamon could claim that the Republic was under attack and all steps were being taken to protect its citizens.
Van took the console with the shortest line, where he tendered, once more, the datacard.
“Ser? What is your purpose in visiting New Oisin?”
“It is business.” Van waited. “I am with Vishava Securities.”
“Are you carrying more than ten thousand credits or any convertible bonds in excess of that amount?”
“No. We operate through the standard clearinghouses.”
“Are you carrying any personal weapons? That includes knives, swords, anything with a blade longer than six centimeters…”
“No.”
The functionary scanned the low holo projection before him, then nodded. He handed Van back the card for S. V. Moorty. “Thank you, ser.”
“Thank you.” Van nodded politely and picked up the overnight bag, moving out through the portals to find a groundcar. Outside, the sun was beginning to set, and he waited behind a couple and an RSF major. The next groundcar rolled past him, without stopping, as did the one following.
Van frowned. Were they worried about a single dark-skinned male?
The next car, a deep blue with a diamond symbol and the single word MEERSCHAUM within the diamond, stopped.
“The Old Dubhlyner, if you please.”
“Old Dubhlyner…that it is, ser.”
Van studied the groundcar and, with his implant, the simple comm gear. The groundcar was just that, a groundcar for hire.
“Have you been here before, ser?” asked the groundcar driver.
“I have not.”
“After ten at night, best you take a groundcar, and from a public place, too.”
“There is unrest?” Van asked.
“Been unrest ever since the assassinations. Maybe you didn’t hear about them…Kelt agents cut down most of the government on Founder’s Day. Cruel thing it was, and worst of all was that the one who helped them was from one of our own troubled planets.”
“I had heard there had been trouble.”
“Well…the young hotheads, now they think that anyone who’s tall and fair, with dark hair, is a Kelt, and some of them go after anyone who looks different…know what I mean.”
Van feared he did. He shook his head, both for himself and for the persona of S. V. Moorty. He hadn’t planned any physical exploring. He’d actually designed a careful publicnet search for telltale information, the sort that would be in character for S. V. Moorty—mostly—as well as a search of the reports on the Founder’s Day incident. That might offer a few keys.
Van hoped it did, but he couldn’t rely on hope.
Chapter 64
On sixday, Van was up early, eating in his room, then preparing for the day ahead. His “research” of the night before had been less than conclusive. Not all new members of the government were military, but Marshal Eamon and the RSF controlled the key ministries—External Security, Internal Security, and Finance. They also seemed to have public support. Van could not find even hidden references to unrest—except on Sulyn—and that meant that there wasn’t much or that Internal Security had an iron hand on things, or some of each. The lack of symptoms was disturbing enough.
After dressing, Van looked in the mirror—a replica Neo-Yeatsian mirror, typical of the decor of the Old Dubhlyner, and checked the RSF commodore’s uniform a last time. He’d never thought that he’d wear it again—and certainly not under the present circumstances. He also never thought he’d have to be wearing a nanite bodyshield as well. Fortunately, the long formal uniform blouse neatly covered the waist powerpack.
There were only a handful of senior black Taran officers, but all of them—and Van—bore a certain similarity—golden bronze skins, rather than black or cocoa, straight hair, and fine features. Even before the more recent troubles, black Tarans with truly dark skins, like Dad Almaviva, had had trouble entering the RSF officer corps.
He waited until the corridor outside his room was empty, then made his way to the lift and down to the main lobby. No one even seemed to look his way as he walked outside and took a groundcar for the less than a klick ride to the RSF headquarters complex on Tarahill, the low-rise on the north side of New Oisin.
Like most military headquarters, the RSF building had compartmentalized security. Any officer could enter the “public” areas on the main floor. But above that and in the rear wings, access was much tighter, with projected screens and even weapons emplacements. The first day’s expedition was strictly reconnaissance, and to see if the combination of Eri’s tech work and Van’s implant could handle the security in the way, Van thought they could.
At seven-forty, along with a number of other officers, mainly majors and commanders, Van walked up to the main entryway and offered his RSF datacard, which was but slightly altered, in that it would register as Van on the entry console display, but the memory would show a name picked in rotation through a series of other names of other RSF officers, gleaned from Van’s memory and records, and report them as having passed the security checkpoint, leaving no record of one Van Cassius Albert.
The central database would doubtless report the oddity, but unless the RSF wanted to shut down the entire HQ building, and compare person to datacard, one at a time, in an override mode, dealing with close
