The master sergeant shrugged in response to Dawd's quizzical look.
"Rarely does he see his brothers either – and they are a braw lot, breathing fire every one of them – not a bit like him, d'you see? I have, to balance the scales, seen his father. The Emperor is a proper gentleman, if a bit pinch-faced, an' you can see he cares for the boy." Colmuir sealed up his shirt and rummaged for a pressed jacket. "But respects him? Tha' I do not know."
Dawd's next question was interrupted by a chiming sound. Colmuir threw on the jacket, checked his comm-band, grimaced, and scrambled back through the hatch. The younger man turned his attention back to peering out the window at passing clouds. The edges of a city were now visible through breaks in the thunderstorms, covering the valley floor with a rumpled quilt of flat roofs and isolated skyscrapers.
Rain drummed against a cracked window beside Anderssen's head. Outside, the afternoon downpour was so fierce she could barely make out the shapes of trucks rushing past on an eight-lane raised highway. Inside the bus, she, Parker and Maggie were crammed into a long bench at the very rear of the vehicle. The leather upholstery under her thighs was cracked, discolored and burning hot to the touch. Some kind of multicylinder hydrocarbon engine rattled and wheezed beneath her feet.
"How long until we get into Parus?" Gretchen peered over the pile of duffels between her and Magdalena. The Hesht was folded up, chin resting on her knees, eyes narrowed to angry slits.
"Rrrrr…" Maggie's nose wrinkled up in disgust. The bus smelled old to Gretchen – dry papery sweat, rotting onions, newly washed linoleum – and she was afraid to ask the Hesht what she thought of the odor. "Too long!"
"How big is this bonus again?" Parker was jammed in on the other side of the Hesht, his legs sticking out into the central aisle. An enormous Jaganite filled the rest of the bench. The creature seemed to be asleep, eye-shields lidded down over milky lenses, clawed hands clasped over an ornamented leather vest covered with hundreds of enameled disks. Supple skin around the long nostrils fluttered with regular breaths, though the pattern sounded dissonant to Anderssen's ear. "Can we leave here really soon?"
"Not as soon as we'd like. All the Company note said," she said, leaning closer to the other two and lowering her voice, "was to get here and apply for a survey permit. After we get to the hotel, and get something to eat, and get some sleep – then we'll worry about getting papers."
"And transport," the Hesht rumbled deep in her throat. "I'm not walking in this heat."
"My job, I guess." Parker started tapping his tabac case against one knee, then realized the pack was empty. "Not much to fly down here. I'll bet the Fleet grounds all air traffic as a 'precaution,' even if we had the money for an aerocar. The brief didn't say anything about a military exercise? Maybe an invasion?"
Gretchen shook her head. As was usually the case with the Company, there was little or no briefing material. Costs money to make a proper survey! Can't have that kind of waste…
"No, but all of this happened so suddenly I wouldn't be surprised if some genius at the home office heard something from someone and decided to take advantage."
"Of what?" Maggie's eyes slid sideways to glare suspiciously at Anderssen.
"Of us being done with the project on Shimanjin." Gretchen leaned back against the hot, trembling seat. She was very tired. There was a med-band around her wrist – no Imperial citizen traveled without one – but it was winking amber and red with warnings about local microfauna trying to assault her system with each breath. No wakemeup for me today! "And nearby – as things go, in stellar distances – and the Fleet arriving for whatever reason. I mean, I'd guess if we have to get a survey permit then they need us to examine some Mother-forsaken wilderness, looking for 'anomalous readings' or something equally helpful."
Parker frowned, peering over Maggie's furry, night-black shoulder. "Wait, you mean – for you to just wander around we need a permit? Do we really need that? I mean, Mags here is pretty sly with her surveillance equipment. We could just get an aerocar or ultralight and see the sights…"
Anderssen did not reply, giving the pilot a stony look.
"Oh, okay." Parker slumped back down behind the Hesht. Maggie snorted, flaring her nostrils in amusement. "Be all legal then…"
"We will follow the Company directive and get a permit." Gretchen let out a long, slow hiss. Outside the rain-streaked window, traffic was slowing and she could just make out lights – long strings of glowing neon – rising in the murk. Buildings. We're finally in the city. Oh, I hope there aren't a hundred k of suburbs or something… I suppose it is rush hour, too.
Horns started to blare outside, traffic slowing, and the bus shuddered to a near-halt. Delightful, Anderssen thought, five hundred light-years from home…and stuck in traffic.
Fat drops of rain spattered on the landing platform tucked into the northeastern corner of the Imperial Legation as Sergeant Dawd set foot on Jehanan soil, head up, attention on the ornamental trees surrounding the aerocar pad, one hand on his Nambu and the other extended to guide prince Tezozуmoc down from the aerobus. The transport was steaming in the humid air, fans whining dully. This was apparently the last stop of the day – the other officers had been dropped off at the Imperial Army cantonment south of the city.
"Where are my men? Where are my brave warriors?" the prince declared, striking a commanding pose, long nose in the air. He was wearing his second-best field dress uniform, which featured a dashing cape and an enormous amount of gold and jade trim. Rain hissed away from a built-in repeller field, surrounding Tezozуmoc with a corona of mist. "I cannot rest until I've seen to their needs! Food, a hot meal, every soldier a bed for the night. I will lie down on the cold earth with them if need be, drinking day-old kaffe from a canteen, sharing their struggle hour for hour, day for day – even the sound of the guns will not dissuade me from my purpose! Even -"
Master Sergeant Colmuir coughed politely, motioning for Tezozуmoc to step away. The prince scowled, but moved aside for the taller man to step down to the tarmac as well. Two Fleet ratings were pulling bag after bag from the cargo compartment, steadily piling up a huge collection of armored, dent-resistant grav-lifted luggage.
"Mi'lord," the older Skawtsman said patiently, "you're attached to the Tarascan Rifles as a diplomatic aide – the voice of the Emperor, as it were – not as an actual commander with actual, ah, troops."
Tezozуmoc's lips curled bitterly and for an instant, Dawd thought the prince was going to strike the master sergeant. Then the boy's face congealed into a tight mask. "Oh. Well, then, where do I sleep?"
"The Legation itself, mi'lord," announced a Marine corporal in a dress duty uniform who had hurried up while they were talking. He was carrying a large black umbrella. "Yaotequihuah Clark at your service, sir. Legate Petrel has provided rooms for you in the Guest House. Our finest accommodations, you may be assured."
The corporal nodded to Colmuir. "You've rooms directly adjoining, Master Sergeant. If you'll follow me?"
Dawd held back, keeping an eye on the baggage. The rain was starting to pelt down hard, cutting visibility to a dozen meters or less. He could taste half-burned methanol and oil in the air. The prince was whisked away, Colmuir and Clark on either side. The sergeant followed, both automatic pistols out and in his hands. The Fleet ratings guiding the cavalcade of floating luggage didn't notice – they were concentrating on keeping the prince's baggage from wandering off into the rose bushes or getting hung up in the trees.