The new commander of the Fergus followed him.
As Van neared the small quarterdeck, Forgael stepped forward. Her smile was sad. “We’ll miss you, ser.”
Ser—no longer commander. Despite the vague assurances of Commodore Wadding, he wondered if he would ever command another ship.
“I’ll miss all of you.” And he would, Forgael especially.
Then, with a salute, he stepped from the quarterdeck out into Gotland orbit station.
He had not taken three steps away from the lock when the station system intercepted him.
Inquiry? Name, destination? The stationnet “sounded” officious and obnoxious.
Van supposed that was necessary to get attention, but he politely replied with his identity, and immediate destination—shuttleport two to Valborg. He kept walking along the main corridor.
Purpose of trip to Valborg?
Take up duties at Taran embassy.
The feel of the net changed. Commander Van…would you please explain?
The previous military attaché died in a boating accident several weeks ago. I’m being transferred to take his place.
For several minutes, as Van walked by two empty lock ports, the stationnet was silent.
Please report to the out-system personnel office opposite shuttleport lock one before embarking on the Valborg shuttle. It should only take a moment, Commander.
Stet, station.
There was no response from the stationnet, not that Van had expected one.
The corridor—or thoroughfare—that linked all the lock ports was a good ten meters wide and five high. The corridor bulkheads provided planetside vistas that changed in real time, presumably scenes from Gotland, although Van did not know that. He walked down a projected street that ran between gray stone buildings, with rust-colored tile roofs. The lighting suggested early morning, with long shadows.
He passed a replica of a café of some sort, but only two women in uniforms he did not recognize were seated at a table under a holo umbrella. By the time Van had walked another two hundred meters along the gently curving corridor, less than a twentieth the circumference of the station, the scene had changed. Ahead, on the bulkhead to his right, was a vista that looked seaward across a small fishing harbor. To his left were warehouses set back from piers.
When he left the locking areas, the scenes vanished, replaced by arches containing various establishments—a cantina whose flashing holo sign advertised every legal beverage in the Galaxy, a bookseller whose far more discreet sign claimed the ability to load any published work into any reader used in the tech worlds, a clothing shop that suggested the traveler stop and obtain the proper wear for the culture ahead.
Van smiled. Military shipsuits and uniforms were standard enough anywhere, and accepted as such.
Another three hundred meters finally brought him to the section of the station devoted to the planetary shuttles—just three locks, as opposed to the number available at an orbit station for a larger system such as Tara, where there were eight locks, half busy at once.
His destination was clearly marked by the flashing red banner above the inboard archway opposite shuttle lock one: EMPLOYMENT CLEARANCE—OUT-SYSTEM ORIGIN. With a smile in place, Van stepped through the archway. His implants easily picked up the scan from the concealed detectors. To his right, a burly man was gesturing at the gray-clad Scandyan entry control officer. “I tell you, I do have an exim permit!”
“Just come this way, ser. If you please. We’ll straighten this out in no time.” The Scandyan entry control officer smiled pleasantly.
“You’re not putting me away in some back room to rot! I know your kind.” The man started to turn, then, abruptly, sagged where he stood.
The control officer smiled sadly. Within moments, another gray-uniformed woman appeared from somewhere inboard with a pallet-sled, and the two Scandyans loaded the inert form on the pallet. The woman eased the pallet toward the back of the entry control office.
Even without complete access to the station’s protocol’s and systems, Van could sense the nanite barrier that held in the sleep gas. He wanted to shake his head. Some people never understood that invisible controls were no less effective than obvious armed guards and weapons. In fact, for most people they were more effective, because when they operated people got the impression that such controls were everywhere—and that was a physical impossibility.
Van stepped to the empty console from where a tall blonde beckoned. He set down the duffels.
“Yes, ser?”
“Commander Van Albert. You requested I stop by here before taking the shuttle to Valborg.” Van extended the thin datacard that doubled as his RSF ID, and also held all his public clearances and qualifications. “It’s in GalStan format.”
The woman took it. “Thank you, ser.” She inserted the datacard in the reader, then handed it back to Van. “It should only be a moment, Commander.”
Less than a minute later, she looked up, then extended a thin green card. “You’re cleared. Give this to the control officer at the shuttle. You might not need it, but we never know if they always remember to update their systems when they lock in. You shouldn’t need to check with us after this. I hope you enjoy your tour in Valborg.” She smiled warmly. “Most officers do.”
“Thank you.” Van picked up his gear, turned, and left the entry control office, turning left and walking another hundred meters to shuttleport two. There, a handful of men and women sat in the synthwood straight-backed chairs in the bay outside the lock.
Van walked up to the slender man standing behind a chest-high console. “Is this where I check in for the Valborg shuttle?”
“Yes, ser. You’ve been through personnel?”
Van showed both datacard and the thin green card.
“I’ll need those for a moment, and also an authorization of some sort for the shuttle charge.”
“I can code that in,” Van said, handing over the two cards.
“Right there.” The shuttle clerk nodded toward the miniature console to Van’s left.
Van touched the pad, then used his implant to input the authorization codes from his orders.
“You’re cleared
