John Ringo - Cally's War

A line of reproduction analog clocks across the wall gave the local time and the time in various time zones on Earth. She noted with a start that local time and the local “day” was set to be synchronized with Chicago, as ship’s time on the courier had been. Wow, she didn’t even have to change her watch.

Small, potted evergreen trees were tucked along the walls. The lieutenant must have noticed her puzzled expression as he turned and led her through double doors into a room that was obviously the shuttle port bar.

“It’s not just to look nice. That’s part of it, but they’re also a cheap way of scrubbing some of the hydrocarbon volatiles out of the air. The small-scale oxygen release is just a bonus,” he said.

The bar was warm enough to take off their gloves, and she began looking around for someplace to set her laptop case down for a minute. He pulled out one of the tall, backed barstools for her, folding his thin but warm gloves and tucking them into the pocket in the lining of his beret.

It was about three in the afternoon Greenwich, and the bar was empty but for the Asian bartender who was busying himself washing glassware and watching a vid. As the lieutenant put her coat aside and she climbed onto the stool, he hung the glass he’d just rinsed on the rack and walked on over.

“What can I get for you Pryce, Captain?” He took a towel and absentmindedly rubbed at a small water-spot on his bar.

“Two Irish coffees, Sam, short on the Irish.” He turned to her. “Would it surprise you, ma’am, to find out hot drinks are popular here?” he asked.

“Oh, terribly.” She laughed. “Why is it chilly on the base itself?”

“I’ve heard two theories. The first is the conventional one of controlling heat pollution. The second is that someone in the design team saw that the average temperature on Earth was fifty-nine degrees Fahrenheit and decided that was the optimum setting.” He quirked an eyebrow at her and waited.

“The second makes a nice story.” She laughed and took a sip of the coffee when it arrived, then set it down.

“You know, when I went through officer basic, I don’t think they recommended reporting to your new CO with alcohol on your breath,” she said.

“Ma’am, Beed’s a real vintage sort, but he’s from before that late twentieth century PC craze. As long as we don’t show up drunk and unfit for duty, and we won’t, he won’t care.”

“Well, that’s one good thing about this assignment.” She cupped her hands around the mug and took a long, appreciative sip. Sam made one hell of a cup of coffee.

After picking up their luggage from baggage claim, they had boarded one of the transit cars that ran on horizontal and vertical tracks, in singles or chains, throughout the base. Stewart carried the captain’s bag in addition to his own as he guided them to a departing car with empty seats. The car was one of a line that appeared grouped together, though not physically connected. The light bar across the top of the front car spelled out the destination: Fleet Strike Quadrant. Judging from the volume of traffic, the shuttle from Earth had not been the only one coming in at roughly the same time. The light blue berets of the infantry surrounded their own gray ones, and Sinda looked around curiously. He supposed she hadn’t seen many troops who were actually on deployment, having been immured in Personnel for most of her short career.

“The base is divided into four roughly equal sections, ma’am,” he explained. “Fleet and Transient quadrants are on either side of us, Engineering and Fleet Strike on the other side.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to have the shuttle port next to engineering for incoming supplies?” she asked.

“There is one. This is the passenger port.”

“So,” she gestured with her PDA, “is there a map of this place that I can download, or something?”

“Sure. Hang on and I’ll beam it to you, ma’am.” He tapped a few keys and pointed his PDA at hers so she could download. “The BOQ is highlighted. Your quarters are marked in red, mine in blue, the office in green.”

“You have my quarters marked on your map?” she teased. “What, is the red for stop?”

“For danger, at least, ma’am.”

“And work is safe? You’re an interesting person, Lieutenant,” she said. “So, it looks like the BOQ is on the way. It’s probably best to drop off our bags before reporting in.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant. I’ll carry my own bag in. No need for you to enter the danger zone.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He turned his head and looked out the transit car window so she wouldn’t see his eyes narrow. Minx. That does it. Just you wait, Sinda Makepeace.

The general’s office, and her office, were on an upper, outer level of the dome, so that instead of looking up to more ceilings, the hallways on that level extended upward to an imperceptibly curving stretch of dome. For all the good it did. Right now it was near high noon on Titan, and the sky outside the dome was a uniformly muddy, dark, orange-brown. The glow paint, of course, had to be along the top two feet of the walls, but to compensate for the reduced lighting surface area caused by the lack of space on the ceiling it was set brighter than was normal in the rest of the base.

The walls of institutional green Galplas with battleship gray doors gave the impression that if anyone on the design or maintenance teams had had an ounce of interior decorating talent, he had been taking great care to conceal it. There was a sign next to the door as they approached, identifying the door as leading to Headquarters, Third MP Brigade. The lieutenant was reporting in to the general, too, and got to the door slightly ahead of her, presenting his ID to the door which automatically checked his IR profile against the records on the ID and in the database, and, finding a match, admitted them.

Inside, there was a reception desk and signs that pointed to CID leading away to the right, and Office of the Commanding General, to the left. Behind the desk, the corporal’s nametag identified her as Anders. Behind the corporal, on the back wall, was a large holoscreen of a waterfall — on Earth, judging by the vegetation on the banks.

“Captain Makepeace and Lieutenant Pryce, Corporal… Anders, is it? We’re here to report in and pay our respects to the CO. I believe he’s expecting us.” Cally returned the corporal’s salute smoothly and waited.

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll let him know you’re here.” The corporal picked up her PDA and told it to get her the general.

“General Beed, sir?”

Cally’s enhanced hearing picked up both ends of the conversation easily, and she listened in with a polite, still, waiting expression on her face.

“They here, Corporal? Thank God. About to drown in paperwork back here without a decent secretary. Send them on back.”

“Yes, sir. End call.” She set the PDA back down.

“You can go on back ma’am, sir.” She inclined her head in the direction of the general’s office.

Cally passed the corporal and made her way past several closed gray doors and down the corridor to the general’s office, Pryce trailing in her wake. The light on the panel under his nameplate indicated an unlocked door, so a wave of her hand in front of it and the door slid aside. She stepped in, and walked to the front of the desk, coming to attention and saluting. With her eyes focused six inches above the general’s head, she had to study him and the room with only her peripheral vision. Child’s play.

Beed was certainly handsome for an officer his age. The dark blond hair and deep blue eyes were focused a bit below her face. But after the voyage out, she was becoming used to it. His handlebar mustache was perhaps a bit affected, but he was trim, and muscular. For all their warmth and durability, silks weren’t the type of fabric to conceal much. Without rejuv she would have taken him for maybe thirty-four. With it, he had to be well into his second century. Still young by Galactic standards. Not as hot as Pryce, but no hardship on the eyes, either. If he decided to chase her around the desk, at least she wouldn’t be fighting not to puke or anything. Bit of a weak chin, but it could have been worse.