“I don’t recall his exact words, but they were to the effect that both avoided doing business with darker-skinned peoples, such as the Coalition, the Hyndjis, and the Argentis.”
“Most interesting. Did he offer any examples?”
“He said that he knew of some businesses that had had trouble obtaining leases for the use of property, and that the consulate had tried to help.” Before Vickry could ask another question, Van asked one that had been bothering him. “You know I was the commander of the Fergus, and I’d heard that—”
“That was a terrible thing, Commodore. Very regrettable. It’s always a great loss whenever the RSF loses a ship, especially when we can’t determine how.”
“You never found out what happened?”
“The Fergus entered jumpspace, but never emerged. The Scandyans were kind enough to let us check their records, and they show a clean drop.”
“And there’s nothing else?”
“The best judgment is that the Fergus had strained something in the jump generator. It could have been building for some time, just below the detection threshold. Or it could have been your…encounter with that unknown cruiser.” Vickry smiled sympathetically, almost as if to suggest that he wasn’t holding Van responsible. “We don’t know. It’s even possible that the Fergus encountered a…an unfriendly battle cruiser when she emerged…wherever that might have been. There aren’t any records of an energy disturbance in the system where the ship was scheduled to arrive.”
Van kept his face in an expression of polite concern as he realized that Vickry either was lying about the jump generator or didn’t know that it had been replaced. “Where?”
“I really can’t say, Commodore. I’m sure you understand that. Now…about the Keltyr commander…how thorough do you think her personnel screening was?”
The questioning, gentle yet unyielding, continued, touching on every event affecting Van, then turning back again and again to subjects Van thought had been covered already.
“…how many times did you actually visit with the Keltyr attaché?”
“Why did you visit the Coalition in the first place?”
“What was your impression of Kelt military preparedness from your talks with the commander?”
“Did Major Murikami provide any other insights…”
When Van left the office, well after noon, for the first time he almost felt ready to retire from the RSF. He also felt, once more, for the first time since he had returned to Tara, that he was being watched.
Chapter 30
In the end, there was no ceremony for Van’s retirement, nor one for the awarding of his medal, the Star of the Republic. Nor did he meet with anyone of higher rank except the sub-marshal, or indeed, any other officers except the doctors for his retirement physical and other officers in passing and at meals in senior officers’ mess.
Sub-marshal Vickry met once more with Van and presented him with his retirement papers—including a hard copy sheet that indicated Van’s personal account had been credited seventy-eight hundred credits for unused leave and another two thousand for back pay as a commodore—and the medal in a case. The sub-marshal didn’t even offer to pin the medal on Van.
Now that Van was officially retired, his priority on transport had dropped, and he couldn’t get a space on an RSF ship headed for Sulyn for more than two weeks. While that wasn’t exactly unexpected, since transport of a retired officer to his home of record was of far lower priority than the needs of the RSF for transporting active duty officers, and since the RSF was still quartering him, it was nonetheless unsettling to go from having couriers immediately transporting him to going space available.
Also unsettling was the deactivation of the RSF access to his implant. There was no sense in removing the implant itself, on the off chance that a retired officer might be recalled, not when access could simply be blocked by a simpler procedure during a retirement physical. Although Van could still send and receive standard comm signals, the comparative narrowness of what he sensed was as if he’d lost part of his hearing—and in a way, he had.
In the time remaining on Tara, Van stepped up his exercise program and began to investigate the possibilities for employment and positions open to young retired RSF commodores. He started with the Taran flag line—Quasar—and asked for and received an appointment with one Eron Harvey, senior director for personnel—if four days later. None of the other spacegoing concerns had even returned his calls.
Harvey’s office was a third again larger than that of Sub-marshal Vickry and filled with handcrafted walnut and mahogany furnishings. It also was on the third level of the sprawling Quasar complex just to the west of the New Oisin shuttle terminal and overlooked a replica Taran country garden, complete with shamrocks. Van didn’t see any small statues of leprechauns when he glanced out the window before sitting down before the replica Gregory desk from behind which Director Harvey studied him.
“Commendations, promotions, citations…I must say that you have an impressive record…Commodore, is it?” Harvey frowned.
“Not anymore,” Van replied with a smile.
“I suppose not.” Harvey cleared his throat. “I have to ask why you’re interested in a junior pilot’s position with Quasar.”
“I’m a pilot,” Van replied. “That’s what I do best. I’d like to keep doing it. In the RSF, once you get to be a commodore, you don’t stay as a pilot.” Especially if they retire you.
“With all that service and rank, I would imagine you have a considerable retirement…”
“It’s comfortable,” Van replied. “That leaves me free not to worry about compensation.”
“I’m sure of that. It’s a good position to be in. Still…why would someone who’s commanded the largest vessels of the RSF want to start all over under someone who doesn’t know as much as you do?”
“As I said, I’m a pilot. I know that part of the job well. I can’t say I know the commercial side.”
Harvey nodded, then squared his shoulders. He did not look directly at Van. “Well…I can understand your feelings about wanting to keep doing what you do well, and there’s no
