Elizabeth Moon - Once a Hero

“They always think it’s glamorous,” Losa grumbled, audibly enough. “If they had to be on the road all the time, hear the complaints at home—”

“You didn’t have to marry that loser,” Pratt said. This was an old script, one they could improvise around for an hour.

“He’s not a loser, he’s just . . . sensitive.”

“Artists,” Gori said. “I don’t know why intelligent women always fall for losers who claim they’re creative—”

Losa huffed, something she did well. “He’s not a loser! He’s sold three works—”

“In how long?” asked Gori.

“Stop it,” Arhos said, as any manager would. “It’s not important—Gori, let her alone. She’s right; people think our job is glamorous, and if they knew what it’s really like, on the road all the time, working long hours for people who are already angry they had to hire us, they’d know better. But no more personal problems on this trip, all right? We’re going to be stuck out here long enough without making it seem longer.”

“All right,” Gori said, with a sidelong look at Losa.

“I need to stop in here,” Losa said, ducking into a ladies’ without looking at Gori at all. Arhos glared at Gori, who shrugged. Pratt shook his head. The two junior women, technicians newly hired from a large firm which hadn’t offered them enough challenge, glanced at each other, and made a tentative move toward the ladies’.

“Go on,” Arhos said. “We’ve got enough time.”

“She’s the sensitive one,” Pratt said, continuing the argument even without Losa.

“Stop it. It doesn’t help, and we can’t run her life.” The rest of the team caught up with them, and formed a clot in the passage until Losa and the other women reappeared. Then, not speaking, they moved on to the gate that divided Fleet space from civilian space. Here, instead of a bored civilian customs inspector, they faced a cluster of alert, edgy, military guards.

“Arhos Asperson, Special Materials Analysis Consulting,” Arhos said, handing over his ID case. “And this is the contract—” A data cube, embossed with Fleet’s own insignia on one side, and an elaborate marbled etching on the others. It had taken them two years to develop a duplicate of Fleet’s equipment, so that they could fabricate their own cubes rather than having to steal and reprogram them. Then they’d gotten this perfectly legitimate contract, and hadn’t needed to use their fake.

“Yes, sir,” the first guard said. “And how many in your group?”

“Seven,” Arhos said. He stood aside, while the second guard collected everyone’s ID cases. He would have worried, on Sierra Station, even with a real Fleet cube. . . . though they had used the faked Fleet cubes before, and faked ID before, Fleet was unusually alert, thanks to the repercussions from Xavier. Here, he expected no trouble—and in fact the cube reader had already accepted, then spat out, the fake cube.

“All clear, sir,” the guard said. “We’ll have to check all the luggage, of course.”

“Of course.” He handed over his own duffel and briefcase. Standard civilian electronics: datapads, cube reader, cubes, portable computers in all sizes from pocket to briefing, communications access sets, data probe wands . . .

“You can’t use this shipboard, sir,” the guard said, holding up the comm access set and the data wand.

“No, I understand. Last time out, your people provided a shielded locker.”

“We can do that, sir,” the guard said, with obvious relief. Inexperienced consultants sometimes insisted that they would not give up any of their equipment . . . they got no more contracts. The other guard, Arhos noticed, was calling someone in Fleet territory, and soon a lowly pivot appeared with a luggage truck and a lockable container for the restricted electronics.

“You don’t have to lock it up now,” the guard said. “If you want to place calls from the Fleet areas, that’s permissible from any blue-coded booth. But before boarding—”

“We understand,” Arhos said. He knew there would be another search before they boarded.

The Fleet area of Comus Station had its own eating places, its own bars, its own entertainment and shopping outlets and even public-rental sleeping. They had plenty of time before their ship left.

“What exactly is your area of expertise, Dr. Asperson?”

Arhos allowed his mouth to quirk up at one corner, restrained amusement at the naivete of the question. “My degrees are in logical systems and substrate analysis.”

The young officer blinked. “ . . . Substrate?”

“Classified, I’m afraid,” Arhos said, with a little dip of the head to take the edge off.

“Lieutenant, I believe you have duties forward,” said the lieutenant commander at the head of the table.

“Oh . . . of course, sir.” He scurried out.

“I’m sorry,” the lieutenant commander said. He wore no name tag; none of the officers aboard such a small ship wore them. “Please forgive us—we’re not usually carrying civilians—”

“Of course,” Arhos said. “But you understand our situation—?”

“Certainly. Only—I didn’t recognize your firm’s name.”

“Subcontractors,” Gori said, grinning. “You know how it is—we used to work for the big firms, one and another of us, and then we struck out on our own. Got our first jobs as sub-subs, and now we’re all the way up to subcontractors.”

“It must be hard, going out on your own after working for a big company,” the officer said. Arhos thought he was buying the whole story.

“It has been,” Arhos said. “But we’re past wondering how we’re going to pay the rent.”

“I imagine you are,” the officer said, with a knowing smile for the quality of the clothes they wore, the expensive cases they carried.

“Not that it’s easy profit,” Arhos said, putting in the earnest emphasis that impressed the military so well. “We’re working harder than we used to—but it’s for ourselves. And you, of course.”

“Of course.”

At Sierra Station, they had no customs to pass, nothing but a long walk down one arm of the station and out another. An escort, ostensibly to ensure that they didn’t get lost; civilians did not wander the Fleet sections of stations—especially stations this near the borders—without an escort. In the comfortable ease of someone who had not intended mischief anyway, the team ambled along, chatting aimlessly about the food they’d had, and the food they hoped to have.

Koskiusko ’s docking bay was actually a shuttle bay. Here, Arhos handed the contract cube to the ranking guard, who fed it into a cube reader.

“I’ll call over, sir, but it’ll be at least two hours before a shuttle comes in. The little pod’s halfway over with an arriving officer, and the shuttle’s already loaded with cargo—no room for you, and it’s down at Orange 17 anyway.”

“No problem. Is there someplace to get a drink, meanwhile?”

“Not really—there’s a food machine just down the corridor there, between the toilets, but nothing really good.”

“Nothing edible” grumbled another guard. “Station food service’s supposed to replace those snacks before they turn green but—”

“We could call in for something,” the first guard said. “They deliver from civ-side, but there’s a fee—”

“That would be great,” Arhos said. “The ship we came in on was skewed five hours off Station time by the last jump, and I for one would enjoy something. And if it’s near a break for you—”

“No, thank you, sir. Here’s the order list . . .”

“Ever been aboard a DSR before?” asked the bright-eyed young man who escorted them from the docking bay.

“No . . . main station yards, a couple of cruisers, but no DSR.”