Farber’s face was bright red. “How dare you? I’m a colonel! And you are a noncom. You will do as you’re told or pay the price.”
Then, as if thinking better of his words, the tone became more conciliatory. “But, if you free me now, we’ll pretend that this conversation never took place.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Dietrich replied. “That STS cannon needs to be destroyed-and Major Santana is the man who can get the job done. We wouldn’t be in this fix if the brass had left him in command.”
“Santana is nothing,” Farber said contemptuously. “He has some medals, but so what? So do dozens of others. I’m slated to be a general. Do you hear that? A general. I could take care of a man such as yourself. Think about it. Would you like a commission? I can make you a lieutenant today. Right now.”
“I was a corporal when I met Santana,” Dietrich said reflectively. “He was a second lieutenant back then-having been busted from first. That was because a superior officer ordered him to fire on a group of civilians, and he refused. So I stuck with him, saved his ass a couple of times, and he saved mine. Hell, he saved me from myself. From becoming the kind of person you are. So I owe him. And that’s going to be real hard on you.”
“They’ll hang you,” Farber said, as the full import of Dietrich’s words sank in. “You’ll die with your feet kicking in the air.”
“Maybe,” Dietrich conceded as he stood. “And maybe not. But one thing’s for sure. You won’t be around to see it.”
“No!” Farber screamed, and wet his pants. “Help me!” A single gunshot rang out. The battle was over.
10
Though not very pretty to look at, diplomacy is superior to war, which is the only alternative.
PLANET TREVIA, THE POONARA PROTECTORATE
Some parts of the Regulus were more than a hundred years old. But, thanks to the fact that her drives were relatively new, the tramp freighter continued to eke out a profit by hauling cargoes to places where the regular lines weren’t willing to go. And that included planets like Trevia, which was located in a remote sector of the Confederacy known as the Poonara Protectorate.
As Vanderveen stood at the center of the crew lounge and stared up through a viewport, she could see the pale, slightly orange orb floating above her. The sight of the planet, and the knowledge that she would likely be stuck there for a couple of years, filled her with a sense of gloom. If the president and the secretary of state intended to punish her, then Trevia was the perfect choice. Because it was not only remote but inhospitable. Though roughly the same size as Earth, the planet’s atmosphere was much colder, and there was half as much oxygen in the air. Plus, there was just one population center of any size on Trevia, and that was the aptly named Dome City. A sealed habitat that was home to roughly six thousand residents, many of whom were political exiles, eccentrics, and outcasts. And that made sense because who else would want to live there?
Vanderveen’s thoughts were interrupted by a low whistle as Captain Eric Canther entered the lounge. He was about ten years older than she, handsome in a largely unkempt sort of way, and had been coming onto her since the beginning of the trip. “You make that suit look good,” Canther said. The leer was intentional.
Vanderveen was attired in a so-called skinsuit. Meaning a mechanical counterpressure suit rather than traditional space armor. It was tight and left very little to the imagination. Something Canther clearly enjoyed. “It’s not too late, you know,” he added suggestively. “I could put a thirty-minute hold on the shuttle.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Vanderveen responded. “It took longer than that to put my pressure suit on. Plus, I’m looking for something more than recreational sex. Or do you plan to propose, give up your job, and live on Trevia?”
Canther laughed and held up his hands. “No, anything but that! Get the rest of your stuff and board the shuttle. We’ll be back in a month or two. And I’ll look better to you by then.”
Vanderveen stuck her tongue out at him and went aft to collect her helmet, carry-on bag, and the hypercom set she had been issued. The trip to the surface was largely unremarkable. There weren’t any other passengers. Just cargo modules filled with food, spares, and all manner of personal items that had been ordered by the city’s diverse population.
After descending through the relatively thin atmosphere and braking for what seemed like a prolonged period of time, the shuttle leveled out over a rocky plain. As an ugly complex of buildings and smokestacks flashed by below, Vanderveen knew she was getting a look at one of the solar-powered greenhouse-gas-producing factories scattered across Trevia’s surface. The plan was to raise the planet’s temperature by pumping chlorofluorocarbons, carbon dioxide, and methane into the atmosphere. Then, having melted some of the ice at the poles, it would be possible to separate oxygen and hydrogen from the resulting water and begin the lengthy process of creating a breathable atmosphere.
In the meantime, the locals were forced to live under a huge duraplast dome. Light glinted off the surface of the half bubble as the shuttle banked, circled, and came in for a vertical landing. The Class III spaceport was necessarily outside of the dome and located a mile away for safety reasons.
As Vanderveen placed the helmet over her head, she felt it self-seal to her skinsuit’s neck ring and eyed the HUD that appeared in front of her. All of the indicator lights were green. She felt a solid thump as the shuttle put down next to the blister building that served as combination passenger terminal and maintenance facility. A wreck and a couple of beat-up air cars were visible off to one side.
Having received a go-ahead from the pilot, it was time for Vanderveen to pass through the ship’s tiny personnel lock and make her way down a set of roll-up stairs. She could feel the additional pressure as the skinsuit began to hug every square inch of her body.
A small crowd was waiting as the shuttle’s cargo hatch cycled open. But as a pair of space-suited humans and half a dozen worn robo loaders came forward to unload the ship, a solitary figure remained. Vanderveen recognized the machine as a standard Class II Admin droid. At least one or two such robots were standard equipment at every consulate. It was about five and a half feet tall, vaguely humanoid in appearance, and clad only in its dull alloy skin. “Consul Vanderveen? My name is Ralph. Welcome to Trevia.”
Vanderveen heard the voice via the speakers in her helmet and knew that the robot could communicate on various frequencies using a dozen different languages if required to do so. Androids didn’t have feelings. Not really. But it was hard not to treat them like people because their accumulated experiences produced what came across as individual personalities. She responded accordingly. “Thank you, Ralph. Just out of curiosity, where is FSO-3 Price? He’s the acting consul I believe.”
Like all of his kind, Ralph had a very limited inventory of facial expressions, none of which was on display. So there was no body language to analyze as the android made its reply. “The consul pro tem is indisposed. May I take your bag?”
“No, thank you,” Vanderveen replied. “But I would appreciate it if you could collect my luggage.”
“It has already been loaded onto our ground car,” Ralph said matter-of-factly. “Please follow me.”
“What about customs?” she wanted to know.
“There are no customs inspections,” Ralph replied. “But you will be required to register as you enter the dome.”
So Vanderveen followed the android around the shimmery blister to a large lot with only three vehicles parked in it. All were skeletal affairs, clearly intended for use by people wearing pressure suits. True to Ralph’s claim, Vanderveen’s trunks had already been loaded into the cargo bed and strapped down. “Would you like to drive?” he inquired politely. “Or should I?”