“I suggest you read it,” I said.
“You think so?”
At that point I realized this guy was an idiot and saw no reason to keep talking. “Take me back to the base,” I said in a voice that did not hide my boredom. I took a seat in the back of the car and we drove out to the street.
“What makes you think I haven’t read his file?” the driver asked.
A pewter sky hung over the city. The air outside was humid and cool, but the clouds did not break.
I looked out my window, speaking almost as if talking to myself. “If you’d read the file, you wouldn’t go after him. He’s a freelance contractor, but he works exclusively for the Unified Authority. He’s not going to the Mogats. He doesn’t like them. The only thing you are going to accomplish by sending agents after Freeman is losing men.”
“Yeah? You think he’s a pretty tough guy?”
“You have the files,” I said.
“Okay, hotshot, fifty bucks says that we’ll have Freeman back in his room by supper.”
“Fifty dollars?” I thought about the bets that Yamashiro made with his son-in-law. “That’s a scared man’s bet.”
“You want to bet a hundred? Let’s bet a hundred,” the driver said.
I did not actually have any money, and I said so.
“Now who sounds nervous,” the driver said. “Tell you what…I think you’re good for it. I’ll spot you the money. If I win, you can owe me the fifty.”
“So spot me a hundred,” I said.
“Fine. We’ll make it a hundred. You can owe me the hundred on credit. I may not have checked your friend’s file, but I’ve checked yours, pal. You got a lot of back pay coming.”
“Done,” I said.
We did not talk after that. He drove me to the base without saying another word. I felt no compulsion to break the silence.
As we pulled up to the barracks, the driver finally spoke. “Call me if you need to go somewhere. Go out on your own, and you’ll be in just as deep shit as your friend.” Then he pursed his lips into a sneer, and said, “On second thought, go out on your own, if you like. Believe me, rounding you boys up is not much of a problem.”
As I entered the barracks, it occurred to me that I was just about back in uniform. Maybe I should have run with Freeman. That said, there was something strangely comfortable about returning to the service. Maybe I was still euphoric about escaping farming, Neo-Baptists, and Little Man; but maybe it was because the Unified Authority Marine Corps was the only place where I fit in.
Entering my room, I spotted a package that someone had left on my bed. The note on the outside of the package said it was from Admiral Alden Brocius. Inside the package I found general-issue essentials—a leather toiletry kit with the emblem of the Unified Authority Marines embossed on it, and a pair of shades—glasses designed for viewing the mediaLink.
Before the Mogats iced the Broadcast Network, the mediaLink had been the communications system that kept the galaxy connected. You used it to send messages, talk with people, hold conferences, etc. The mediaLink also carried news and programming. Each of the six arms of the galaxy had its own news networks and shows, but you could access them all through the mediaLink. You could use shades to access libraries of books, listen to music, and watch movies. The best part was that almost anywhere man traveled in the galaxy, mediaLink service was available for instantaneous access—all through the miracle of the Broadcast Network.
When the Separatists destroyed the Mars broadcast discs, I assumed the mediaLink system went with it. Trapped on Little Man, I never stopped to realize that most planets had their own media and their own local-area mediaLink networks. They might not be able to access the galaxywide network, but that did not mean they would abandon communications and programming on a local basis.
I did not miss the movies or the music. You could keep the mail, I didn’t have anyone to write to. What I missed was keeping up with current events. I missed the news.
I sat on the edge of my bed staring at those shades, amazed at my excitement over such a simple thing. Finally, I slipped on the glasses. Little lasers projected interactive images onto the retinal tissue in my eyes. Using ocular commands, I sorted through menus until I found an all-news channel, then I lay back against my headboard and watched.
The events of the day could not have been more mundane. With galactic communications shut down, I would only find local news. From what I could tell, life on Earth had not changed much since the Broadcast Network went down. The news analysts I saw never mentioned the war. They talked the economy to death. There was a lot of talk about sports and weather. No one so much as hinted that a top secret alliance between the Unified Authority and its former enemies might be in the making. No one mentioned Shin Nippon or even the Confederate Arms.
I watched the news for three hours, then went to the mess for dinner. When I returned to my room, I sat on my bed and slipped on the shades. Sometime after midnight, I fell asleep.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A warning tone sounded from the communications console beside my bed, waking me out of a restless sleep. For a moment I did not remember where I was as I fumbled around in the dark. My mouth felt dry. Finally I found the switch.
“Colonel Harris?” The voice had a familiar stodgy quality.
With my windows tinted against the sunlight and cool air pouring in through the vents, it felt like midnight in my room. The blood rushed to my head as I sat up, and I felt slightly dizzy but mostly alert.
“This is Harris,” I said.
“Colonel, please hold for Admiral Brocius,” the woman said in an officious manner.
“Colonel Harris, how are you this morning?” Brocius sounded unusually chipper for an admiral. “I believe you served briefly under my command some years back.”
Vice Admiral Alden Brocius commanded the Central Cygnus Fleet. I almost saluted when he identified himself, just out of reflex, even though he wouldn’t have seen me since our connection was only audio. That latent salute might have been programming in my Liberator nervous system, but it probably had more to do with my upbringing in the orphanage. As lowly clones in a military clone farm, we learned to salute by the age of three.
“Colonel, I was wondering if you would join me for breakfast this morning,” Brocius said.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. I had not been recalled to active duty, so I did not technically need to call him sir. My recall was just a formality, however. Considering who had extended the breakfast invitation, I expected to be recalled to active duty by the time I finished my eggs.
“Do you want to meet in the officers’ mess?” I asked.
“That won’t be necessary,” Brocius said. “I know a little place near Annapolis that might be just right.”
It took me two minutes to run a razor over my stubble and sterile-light my teeth. I did not worry about brushing my hair. As a veteran of the military orphanage system, I considered a crew cut the height of fashion— and I was always in fashion. The only fresh clothes I had was a colonel’s uniform. I dressed and left.
A limousine idled outside the door of the barracks. As I approached, a driver in a petty officer’s uniform climbed out of the car, opened a door at the back of the car, then saluted. I returned the salute and climbed into the car.
“Glad you could make it,” Admiral Brocius said, as I slid onto the seat.
“I’m not familiar with the protocol. Am I supposed to salute the chauffeur before entering the limousine?” I asked.
“You should if you are on active duty,” Brocius said. “But you are not on active duty yet.”
“I get the feeling I may be recalled,” I said.
“Would you like to return to active duty?” Brocius asked.
