The major laughed. “Yes, ser. It happens. Just a moment.”
Within several minutes, the officer returned with a folder, moderately thick. “Every office in headquarters has been down here this morning.”
“One of those days,” Van replied. “Thank you.”
“No problem, ser.”
Van took the folder and made his way out, heading down the ramp to the main level, still wondering exactly what happened to be in the folders. That could wait until later. He had a few more “errands” to run, including walking close enough to several other RSF buildings to check out their security systems.
Then, he would have a long afternoon taking apart what he’d discovered. With all that effort, inspiration, and luck, he hoped he could develop what he needed for sevenday.
Chapter 65
On sevenday morning, at eight-forty, before leaving his room in the Old Dubhlyner, Van took a last look in the mirror. The greens would have to do, although he doubted any of the handful of Marine guards would quibble because his uniform was more formal than usual on a sevenday. He had very little in the way of weapons, merely the transparent knife hidden in his left boot and the length of cord within his belt. He also checked the bodyshield as well, one last time, before slipping out into the empty corridor of the hotel, although he left it on standby. Even in fall, it was far too hot to keep on except when absolutely necessary. He carried a thin datacase, in which there was nothing except a thin black tunic.
Between what he’d learned from the analyzer, Eri’s observations and instructions, and his own insights from his RSF service, Van was hopeful that he could not only reenter the RSF headquarters, but find the information that he knew must exist…somewhere. In most RSF installations, there were always officers who worked the enddays, and a commodore was senior enough not to be questioned and junior enough that his presence wouldn’t be noted as unusual.
The night before, he’d read through the hardcopy press releases he’d gathered for cover, particularly because he’d wondered why so many offices had been interested, but the only one that seemed of interest was the budget for the RSF for the coming fiscal year. The proposed increases in the number of capital ships had confirmed Van’s feelings about the new government’s less-than-peaceful inclinations, although some increase was certainly warranted in light of Revenant activities. The second number that had puzzled Van was the increase in fuel mass expenditures and torps, although the rationale had stated that, given the lack of surplus capacity within the Republic, those items had to be acquired over several years before and during the construction of additional vessels so that adequate supplies would be available. The third number was one that just plain disturbed him, and that was the increased funding for “domestic peacekeeping.” The rationale there was given as the growing need to maintain control over systems or areas within the Republic where outside subversion threatened domestic stability and economic growth.
Van pushed those thoughts aside as he stepped out of the Old Dubhlyner to get in the groundcar for hire that would take him to the headquarters building. Once more, several groundcars passed him by, even though they were empty, and he was in full uniform, before one finally stopped to pick him up.
Once he reached Tarahill, he walked through the morning sunlight of the late fall day toward the Marine guards outside the building. Both guards looked him over carefully, although they had barely given the officers before him a nod, as he proffered the ID. After a look between the two, they passed him through. Van had to wonder. He’d never gotten that kind of scrutiny before, especially since the outside guards had to know that the RSF internal screening systems would catch anything they missed. The real reasons for the outside guards were to maintain appearances and to use their weapons against clearly identified outside attackers.
Still…he listened as he passed.
“…quiet today…even for endday…”
“…say the marshals are all off-planet…something happening…”
“…commodore there’s pretty senior…first black Taran officer in a long while…”
“…wouldn’t include him…not black Taran…probably got some paper job…”
Van frowned. What could be happening that would take the marshals off-planet? A Revenant threat? Some military operation? Whatever it was, it might make it easier for him, even if he bridled at the suggestion that black Taran officers weren’t included.
The ramps and corridors were not quite deserted, except for the public affairs office, where all doors were open, and the whole staff seemed to be working. Beyond those offices, Van passed only a major and a commander. Both nodded to him, stiffly, and Van returned the gesture. He reached the intelligence offices without incident, and, as he had hoped, the door to Sub-marshal Vickry’s office was closed. From what Van could tell, no one was inside—at least not in the outer office. The door held a standard receptacle for an ID databloc.
Van inserted the databloc, then pressed his hand against the counterplate, using his implant to override the ID protocol. He hoped what he was doing would override it. After a long moment, the door clicked, and Van pulled it open. He could not sense any alarms, and there was no one inside the outer office.
He closed the door behind him and immediately used his implant to override the lights, leaving the outer office dim. He stood in the gloom, just beside the green leather couch set against the wall, using his implant to search through the controls. Then, bit by bit, he began to make changes to the system, essentially freezing an image in each of the scanners, ensuring that they revealed an office empty of people.
He eased toward the archway to Vickry’s inner office.
Even from two meters away, he could sense the detectors and the independent power systems. Vickry didn’t want anyone inside his office—that was clear, and also a good indication that what Van wanted might well be there. People—even senior
