Everyone had been polite, deferential, even awed, but that hadn’t led to any more information. Nor had his searches of events on Scandya revealed anything—and he’d been using the public nets for that line of inquiry ever since he’d entered rehab. The fact that there was so little information and so little time before he was being sent back to Tara was troubling. But then, everything from the time the Fergus had entered the Scandyan system had been troubling. And neither the Scandyan databases nor the embassy records revealed anything new about either the Fergus or the Collyns. Nor had he discovered anything more about the mysterious death of Commander Cruachan.
He’d also learned little about IIS, except that what he had found seemed to confirm what Desoll had said. Yet he still couldn’t understand why the man was so interested in him, and that bothered Van. For all the lip service given to retiring officers, once the flowery language ended, no one paid that much for broken-down commanders—commodores.
When the embassy groundcar pulled up to the terminal, the driver smiled. “We all wish you well, Commodore.”
“Thank you.” Van returned the smile, then reclaimed his two duffels and his carry bag, walking through the portals toward embarkation control.
“Ser? Over here.” A gray-haired control officer in the gray uniform worn by all Scandyan transport controllers beckoned from a console to Van’s right.
Van tendered his datacard.
The official took the card. Then his eyes widened. “Ser? You’re the man who saved the premier?”
“I don’t know that I saved him. I tried, and it worked out.”
“I knew you looked familiar. I’m so glad to see you up and around, ser. For a while they were saying you might not make it.”
“It took a while,” Van admitted. “Longer than I would have liked.”
“You’re cleared, Commodore. Out-gate three. Have a good trip. And thank you.”
“I did what I could, but thank you.”
The port controller must have coded something, because, as Van left the screening portals, two more controllers stepped forward, tipping their hats.
“Have a good flight, Commodore,” said the woman.
Van found that he had the front left row in the magshuttle to himself, the seat beside him empty—the only empty seat in the shuttle.
As he waited, his implant and enhanced hearing picked up fragments of conversations.
“Who is he…?”
“…Taran officer…senior type…commodore or sub-marshal…”
“…don’t know, but overheard one of them saying something about owing him…”
“…owing a Taran officer?”
“…what they said…”
“Wish they owed me like that.”
Van smiled. He doubted any of them would have knowingly paid the price that had gained him his small bit of comfort and privacy on the shuttle.
Less than two hours later, he was gathering his gear and stepping out of the shuttle and through orbit control screening. He’d let the other passengers disembark first, then followed them out into the grayness of orbit control, where the air smelled faintly of oil and metal, as did all orbit control stations, in spite of all the air purification equipment and systems.
“Commodore Albert!” Standing beyond the debarkation area was a young Scandyan port controller—with a groundcart. “Ser.”
Van carried his gear toward the controller.
“Ser. We checked, and your courier is all the way on the other side of the station. Thought you wouldn’t mind if we…”
Van grinned. “I wouldn’t mind at all. I’ve been out of rehab less than a week, and the muscles aren’t back to what I’d like.”
“We thought something like that.”
Van set the duffels in the bin then sat down beside the driver. “I do appreciate this.”
“It’s the least we can do, ser.”
Van caught the absolute conviction in the young man’s voice, the same sort of conviction that had been in the ground personnel’s words as well. Why had his actions been that important to them? Because they knew that Premier Gustofsen was so vital to the future of Scandya? Because everyone knew? That was definitely a frightening prospect.
“We all do what we can,” Van replied, as the groundcart lifted off the deck and eased along the center of the corridor. He admitted to himself that he was very happy not to have to lug all his gear halfway around the orbit station.
Even so, he felt uneasy, as if someone were following him. Yet, even with his implant, he couldn’t pick up any signals. Still, he was certain that someone was watching him, but the corridors of the orbit station were just crowded enough that he couldn’t pick anyone out, especially with the speed of the groundcart. Was that another reason why he’d been met? Did Scandyan intelligence think he’d been targeted and want to make sure he left Scandyan territory safely?
How could he tell? After all, he reminded himself, he’d never been trained for intelligence or espionage. He was just a ship driver, and one about to be retired.
“We’re about there, ser. It’s EM-three.” The cart slowed and came to a stop.
Van stepped down to the deck and turned to the controller. “Thank you.” He hoisted his gear.
“Our pleasure, ser. Have a good jump.”
“I certainly hope to.” The lock was closed, not that Van expected less from a courier, which basically carried a pilot and a tech. He triggered his implant.
Morraha, this is Commodore Van Albert, for transport to Tara.
We’ve been waiting for you, ser. The lock door swung open, and almost immediately a slender RSF captain stood there.
“Captain Nialla, Commodore.” She reached forward to take one of the duffels. “Let me give you a hand here.”
“A pleasure to see you, Captain.
