The last thing Hector Mata wanted was trouble, with his name up for the next promotion board. But one thing that would get him past sergeant—he hoped—was his meticulous and prompt handling of his administrative duties. Fast, accurate, honest: using the wrong form for a category wasn’t. And yet it was never good to put yourself in the middle of a struggle between bosses. His own colonel was out on leave, the major had left on a TDY the day before and wouldn’t be back for a week, and the lieutenant in the office was green and not likely to stand up to a colonel’s request.
“He’s good for it?” Mata asked.
“Of course.”
“All right. At least give me some names. It’ll take me a few minutes. Don’t hang over my shoulder; I hate that.”
Irwin handed over a list of names, minus units. Then, when Mata waved a hand at him, Irwin shrugged and went out. Mata went to work. One of the names sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t make a connection. Not his problem. He filled in the form as best he could, using the main database to find unit designations. Irwin would probably think he made them up. He did make one of them up, not finding it fast enough. There were a lot of Gossins in the database, several with the same initial. As it was not the correct form for classified transport, he felt smugly certain it was fine to make copies—several—to cover his butt in case something went screwy. He put the copies under his blotter, and when Irwin came back—just long enough away for a visit to the head and the coffee machine—he had the single form with its own triplicate copies attached—blue, pink, yellow—and handed it over.
“There you go. I did kind of get creative with the other boxes; hope your colonel won’t mind.”
“He won’t. Thanks, Hector. Owe you one.”
When Irwin was gone, Mata thought about it, and then dug into the database again. What was tickling his memory? It was later that day, when—after working on a half dozen other things—he remembered. Several of those names had been mentioned in the media coverage of the shuttle crash that killed the Commandant of the Academy.
It did not take long to find out that the names he’d been given were listed, just once, as survivors of that situation. Survivors, he realized, who had never been seen on the vid. Never been interviewed. Nothing had been heard of them since their return. Why would someone want the wrong form for the classified transport of those particular individuals? The same instinct that had kept him from investing in his second cousin’s pyramid investment scheme, from buying a vehicle from a salesman later prosecuted for selling stolen ones as legitimate secondhand, from marrying a handsome and charming man who (it turned out) had murdered two previous spouses… told him this stank like week-old dead fish.
Without letting himself think further about it that afternoon, Mata quietly put the copies he’d made into an unmarked folder, went to the head where he slid the papers under his shirt and taped them flat so they wouldn’t rustle, and spent the last twenty minutes of his shift doing his usual end-of-the-day filing and straightening, to leave the desk clean and ready for the next shift. On the way out of the building, he greeted the guard the same as always, indicating his plan for a beer at Shelby’s before an evening watching the Port Major/Grinock Bay match in the semifinals, and then drove off-base to consider what to do next.
Shelby’s was no place to sit and think clearly—the pregame crowd was there and already getting loud, but he drank his beer as usual, then went out looking for ideas. Who should he contact? Not his boss, who was away. By no means the green lieutenant, of whom he had formed no very flattering opinion. This could be serious, something bad going on that someone—someone senior to himself—should know about. He worked his way up the grade levels he knew. He wanted at least a staff sergeant, maybe a master sergeant—but none of those he thought of were exactly right. Then it hit him. Sergeant Major Morrison. Anyone could contact her, ask her advice. Known as a straight arrow, absolutely honest and as picky about doing things right as he was himself. Maybe more so. He’d been to some programs she did for junior enlisted.
And scuttlebutt had it she wasn’t staying on base right now, but at her city quarters, because some idiot had broken in and messed with her quarters and her office, and her dog had been hurt. What he was worried about couldn’t be the same thing—but she might be more willing to listen since she’d had trouble herself. And his skullphone had her number in it, since it had been available to anyone and he was, as well as meticulous about his work, careful to put possibly useful phone numbers in his implant.
It wasn’t too late to call.
Sergeant Major Morrison packed everything in her closet in a case for delivery to her alternative housing—the apartment first rented for the Rector. When she arrived, she showed the key to the doorman, who gave her directions to the correct elevator.
She felt a certain grim amusement at the change: this building was only a few blocks away from her own, but decidedly more upscale, from the plantings out front to the stylish lobby, the carpeting in the halls, and the size of the rooms. The view from the windows here looked east and north—a corner suite—and she could see between other buildings the beginning of Government Place, where the Rector’s office, the House of Laws, Government House, and the Presidential Palace sat in their wide lawns around the vast public plaza and gardens.
She had been in hotel suites of this size, years back when she’d splurged on a vacation in Makkavo with several friends. The kitchen—much larger than the kitchenette in her own apartment—would hold at least three people busily at work—staff, of course. She looked over the supplies and decided that since she couldn’t put her clothes away until the case arrived, she would find a grocery and purchase a few of her favorites.
When she came back, her case had been delivered to the suite, just as it might have in a hotel. She put her clothes away in the bedroom next to the larger bath, set out the necessary toiletries on the counter in the bathroom in the same order as in her own quarters. She put the water on for tea, and anticipated a quiet evening in which no one but Kris at the vet clinic knew where she was. And the Rector, but she had looked tired and was probably headed for an early bed.
It was after duty hours now; she might as well change into civvies and relax. But even as she headed to the bedroom to change, her skullphone pinged. It was always something, she thought, as she answered.
“Sergeant Major, this is Corporal Mata, transport division. I have a—a kind of a problem and I don’t quite know where to go…”
A young voice, so the problem was likely to be related to sex, money, or needing leave for family reasons.
“I know it’s after hours, Sergeant Major, and I’m sorry, but my colonel’s on leave, the major’s on TDY, and the lieutenant…”
His voice trailed off again. Morrison recognized every tone. A competent corporal, who would have trusted his commander, but didn’t trust the lieutenant, so the problem likely involved another command chain, where the lieutenant didn’t have the rank to stand up to someone. It would be one of those tedious situations, where the two officers at the top of their respective commands had had a difference, and the corporal felt trapped.
“Go ahead, Corporal Mata. What’s the problem?”
“It’s kind of hard to explain, Sergeant Major, like this. I’m, uh, in a bar.”
That didn’t sound good.
“Because it’s noisy and no one can hear if I murmur, but if it’s at all possible, I need to see you. Tonight, if—”
Whatever it was had to be urgent. And if he really did have a problem that required a personal visit with the sergeant major, then she’d have to stay in uniform. Well. Duty called in many ways; she gave him the address.