A Fighting Chance (23 page)

“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?”

“I’ll leave it to you,” Vanderveen replied as she climbed into the passenger seat. There weren’t any other cars on the road, and it was arrow-straight. So the trip from the spaceport to the dome took less than ten minutes. In order to enter, it was necessary to pass through a spacious lock. That was followed by a mandatory stop at the city’s access-control station. Like most of the structures inside the habitat, the facility didn’t have a roof nor was there a need for one.

Interestingly enough, a Ramanthian was in charge of the registration process. That was reminiscent of the days prior to the war, when bugs could be found throughout the Confederacy performing a variety of tasks. And the alien’s presence was consistent with what Vanderveen had been told on Algeron. There were quite a few Ramanthian expats on Trevia. The original colony had been founded when a religious cult was forced to leave Hive. Now, more than seventy years later, the settlement included people from many races and backgrounds.

Having been entered into the city’s database and welcomed in what could only be described as a perfunctory manner by the registrar, Vanderveen followed Ralph out to the vehicle. Like all of the vehicles permitted inside the dome, it was powered by an electric motor.

The streets were laid out like spokes on a wheel and tied together by circular boulevards, each identified by a letter. Space was at a premium, so most of the structures shared walls with each other and were backed up to other buildings.

Because most of the dwellings were modular, they would have been boring to look at had it not been for the way they were painted. Pastel colors were most popular. And a plentitude of well-maintained plants and trees brought a much-needed touch of green to the community while throwing off additional oxygen as well.

The Confederacy’s consulate was located at the very center of the dome’s circular footprint along with the city hall, a medical facility, and some major stores, most of which were set up to serve the needs of the contract workers who were paid to service the greenhouse-gas factories. Dangerous jobs given the harsh working conditions—but ones they could depend on for a long time.

As Ralph guided the car into one of four parking spots in front of the two-story consulate building, Vanderveen saw that the windows were equipped with adjustable shutters. For privacy probably—since there wasn’t any weather to worry about. “So tell me what I’m looking at,” Vanderveen said. “What’s on the first floor?”

“Offices,” Ralph replied. “Living quarters are located above.”

“That will make for a short commute,” Vanderveen observed, as she followed the android through a pair of security doors. The lobby didn’t have a ceiling, and the furnishings were a bit shabby, but the floor was spotlessly clean. And there, positioned directly below the Confederacy seal, was a massive desk. The woman seated behind it appeared to be in her sixties. She had fluffy pink hair and was dressed in the sort of two-piece outfit that had been popular on Earth three years earlier. She smiled and stood. “Good morning, ma’am . . . And welcome to Trevia. I’m Nina Crosby.”

Vanderveen smiled and went forward to shake the receptionist’s hand. That was when the pistol caught her eye. It was sitting in Crosby’s in-box. “Are we expecting trouble?” she inquired mildly.

Crosby followed Vanderveen’s gaze. “Oh,
that
,” she said dismissively. “There used to be a sergeant and a squad of marines stationed here. But they were taken off Trevia three months ago to help with the war. So we’re on our own now. Dome City is a peaceful place for the most part. But we do get the occasional nutcase. I shot one three weeks ago. Just in the leg, mind you . . . There was no reason to kill the poor bastard.”

Having read Crosby’s P-1 file, Vanderveen knew the receptionist was a retired master chief. “We’re lucky to have you,” Vanderveen observed. “I will feel quite secure knowing you’re on the job.”

Crosby nodded. “Don’t worry, ma’am. There ain’t nobody that’s going to see you without an appointment.”

Vanderveen wondered if Crosby might do too good a job of keeping people at bay and resolved to keep an eye on that possibility. “Ralph tells me that the vice consul is indisposed?”

Crosby gave a snort of derision. “I guess you could call it that. But I’d say that flat-assed drunk is more like it.”

“Is that a common occurrence?”

“Yup,” Crosby answered cheerfully. “Fortunately, the place pretty much takes care of itself. No offense, ma’am.”

“And none taken,” Vanderveen assured her. Then she turned to give her helmet to Ralph. “Would you show me to Mr. Price’s office? And take my belongings up to my quarters?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ralph replied obediently. He led her past the desk and into a hallway. The vice consul’s office was the second one back and on the left. “This is it,” Ralph announced. “Your office is next door.”

Vanderveen looked inside. She saw the predictable wall seal, a desk, and two guest chairs, one of which was clearly intended for use by Ramanthians. As for the man himself, he was laid out on the couch with a half-empty bottle of booze on the coffee table beside him.

Vanderveen placed her carry-on on the cluttered desk before making her way over to the couch. Then, having pinched Price’s nostrils together, she waited for the natural reaction. He awoke with a splutter. “What the hell? Who are
you
?”

“I’m your new boss,” Vanderveen answered sweetly. “Now get up off that couch. This may be the ass end of nowhere—but you’re getting paid. And that means you’re going to work. Understand me?”

Price swung his feet over onto the floor, winced, and stood. He looked embarrassed. “Sorry about that . . . It isn’t the way it looks.”

“Oh, but I think it is,” Vanderveen countered, as she sat in a guest chair. “I read your P-1 file. And the previous consul rated you as ineffective—and ordered you to seek help for what he called ‘a serious drinking problem.’”

Price was seated behind his desk by then. He was in need of a haircut, had a bulbous nose, and there was at least two days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks. Resentment could be seen in his bloodshot eyes. “Consul Zachariah had it in for me. And, if you’re such a hotshot, how come
you’re
here?”

Vanderveen smiled grimly. “I’m in the official shithouse just like you are. The difference is that I’m sober.
And
planning to work for a living. Go to your quarters, get cleaned up, and come back. Or, if you prefer, submit your resignation. It’s all the same to me.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then Price stood and stalked out of the room. Vanderveen got up, went over to the desk, and pressed a button. “Nina?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Please contact all of our people and inform them that there will be a staff meeting at 1500 hours. Do we have a conference room?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We’ll meet in the conference room then. And Nina . . .”

“Ma’am?”

“Please keep your pistol in a drawer.”

Vanderveen’s airtight trunks were in her residence when she arrived. The two-bedroom, two-bath suite was larger than she had expected or needed. And while a latticework of crisscrossing laths had been installed over the bedrooms and both baths in place of a ceiling, Vanderveen felt somewhat exposed as she struggled to peel the skinsuit off and took a shower. After toweling herself dry and donning a fresh set of clothes, it was time to go down and confront her staff.

The conference room was large enough to accommodate three times as many people. Ralph had been stationed at the front desk, so Crosby could attend. Price was present as well. He looked better. But Vanderveen could see the brooding hostility in his eyes.

There were only two other staff members. They included a technician named Hiram Wexel, who was responsible for keeping the consulate’s electromechanical systems running, and a very junior FSO-5 who had clearly been doing most of the vice consul’s work. Her name was Missy Sayers. She had dark shoulder-length hair, a pinched face, and all the hallmarks of a workaholic. A trait Vanderveen planned to take full advantage of.

The staff members were given an opportunity to introduce themselves, with Vanderveen going last. She made no mention of being in the State Department’s penalty box and knew she didn’t have to. That was obvious. The trick was to convince the men and women on her staff that they could accomplish something in spite of the circumstances they found themselves in.

So once the introductions were complete, Vanderveen asked each staff member to comment on their needs and activities. Price said Vanderveen should request more staff. Crosby said things were fine. Wexel was in dire need of spare parts. And Sayers wanted to know how her reports had been received at the State Department. Vanderveen replied by saying, “What reports?” and looked at Price.

The vice consul frowned. “The people on Algeron have enough to do without reading the drivel submitted by an FSO-5 on Trevia.”

Sayers, who had clearly been told that her reports were going in, looked crestfallen. Vanderveen made eye contact with her. “Do you have copies?”

Sayers nodded miserably.

“Please resubmit them to me by 0900 in the morning. I will read every one of them from beginning to end. And, if I think they have value, you can rest assured they will be sent to Algeron. Okay?”

Sayers avoided looking at Price. She forced a smile. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

“Okay,” Vanderveen said. “I can’t say that I have much hope for additional personnel. Not given the exigencies of the war. But if Mr. Price will provide me with some supporting documentation, I’ll see what I can do. Mr. Wexel . . . I hear you regarding the spares. If you would be so kind as to prepare a high-priority request, I will shoot it to the supply people via hypercom. Ms. Sayers . . . We’ll have a talk after I read those reports. I think that’s enough for today. Thank you.”

Vanderveen returned to her apartment after that and spent the next couple of hours putting things away. Then, having made herself a meal from items that Consul Zachariah and his wife had left behind, she took it out onto a small balcony. It was evening by then, stars glittered beyond the gentle curve of the dome, and she was very much alone. Could she see O-Chi 4? No, Vanderveen decided. She couldn’t.

Vanderveen spent her first two days on Trevia dealing with a variety of administrative issues and reading the Sayers reports. They were
very
dense. Too dense to pass up the chain of command without some serious editing. But they were also quite valuable. Because Sayers had not only been out meeting with people in the various subcommunities, she had gone to the effort of documenting everything they had to say and collected copies of news stories sent to them from their home planets. More than that, she had organized the material, cross-indexed it, and written hundreds of annotations. All of which might have seemed boring to Price but was like gold to Vanderveen.

But Sayers didn’t know that. And being used to the way Price did things, she looked scared as she entered the consul’s office and took a seat at the conference table. “Good morning,” Vanderveen said cheerfully, as they settled in. “I want you to know that I read your reports, and you’re doing an outstanding job. Such a good job that I’m going to put you up for an early jump to FSO-4.”

Sayers, who hadn’t heard any positive feedback in a long time, looked surprised, then pleased. “
Really?
That would be wonderful! So the reports are okay?”

“The quality of the data and the analysis in the reports is outstanding. However, they need to be summarized and submitted with the detail as backup. Once you do that, the reports will be better than okay. I’ll use them as justification for a promotion.”

Sayers nodded eagerly. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll get right to work.”

“Good . . . In the meantime, I’m going to need your help setting up a round of courtesy calls.”

“Yes, ma’am. I would be happy to set them up. Do you have any priorities I should be aware of?”

“Yes. For obvious reasons, the Ramanthian community is of particular interest to our superiors. And, as I read your reports, the name Hamantha Croth crops up more than once. What do you recommend? Should I begin with him?”

Sayers was thrilled to be asked for her opinion, and it showed as the light in her eyes grew brighter. “Yes, I think you should. There are a number of interesting things about Croth, starting with the fact that, even though he’s a relative newcomer, the expat community treats him like a well-established leader.”

Vanderveen’s eyebrows rose slightly. “As measured by what?”

“He’s a much-sought-after speaker,” Sayers replied. “But as you know, Ramanthians have a tendency to defer to people of superior rank. And when he’s around, the rest of them clam up. So I wondered why.”

“And?”

“And I did some research,” Sayers replied. “Some of the locals get news summaries from Hive, which they keep at their community center for others to read.”

Vanderveen smiled broadly. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You went there and read a bunch of back issues. Or did you? There aren’t many people who can read Ramanthian script.”

“That’s true,” Sayers replied, “but Ralph can. The news summaries were full of government propaganda. But Ralph found a fractal image of Croth, and we asked Wexel to convert it. And guess what?”

There was something infectious about Sayers and her girlish enthusiasm. Vanderveen smiled. “What?”