Steuben giggled. Huber felt his face freeze in a rictus of horror.
“Aren’t you going to tell me it isn’t fair, Lieutenant?” the major said. “Or perhaps you’d like to tell me that you’re an innocent victim whom I’m making the scapegoat for political reasons?”
For the first time since the the ambush at Rhodesville, Huber felt angry instead of being frightened or sick to his stomach. “Sir, you know it’s not fair,” he said, much louder than he’d allowed his voice to range before in this room. “Why should I waste my breath or your time? And why should you waste my time?”
“I take your point, Lieutenant,” the major said. He rose to his feet; gracefully as everything he did was graceful. He was a small man, almost childlike; he was smiling now with the same curved lips as a serpent’s. “You’re dismissed to your duties—unless perhaps there’s something you’d like to ask me?”
Huber started to turn to the door, then paused with a frown. “Sir?” he said. “How many people could have given Harris’s Commando—given Solace—accurate information as to when a single platoon was landing at Rhodesville?”
“Besides members of the Regiment itself?” Steuben said, his reptilian smile a trifle wider. Huber nodded tersely. He wasn’t sure if the question was serious, so he treated it as though it was.
“A handful of people within the UC government certainly knew,” the major said. “A larger number, also people within the government or with connections to it, could probably have gotten the information unattributably. But it wasn’t something that was being discussed on the streets of Rhodesville, if that’s what you meant.”
“Yes sir,” said Huber. “That’s what I meant.”
He went out the door, closing it behind him as he’d been told to do the first time he’d left Major Steuben’s presence. It was good to have the heavy panel between him and the man in that room.
He walked quickly. There was a lot of work waiting in Log Section; and there was another job as well, a task for the officer who’d been commanding platoon F-3 when it landed at Rhodesville.
Huber hadn’t forgotten Kolbe or the crew of Foghorn; and he hadn’t forgotten what he owed their memory.
* * *
Hera Graciano arrived at Log Section half an hour after Huber and the sergeant got back from Base Alpha, well before the staff was expected to show up for work. She stepped in, looking surprised to find the Slammers at their consoles.
“I rearranged things a bit.” Huber said with a grin. “I moved my desk into the main office here; I figure we can use Captain Cassutt’s office for a break room or something, hey?”
“Well, if you like . . .” Hera said. “But I don’t think . . .”
“If they see me . . .” Huber explained quietly. Sergeant Tranter watched with the care of an enlisted man who knows that the whims of his superiors may mean his job or his life. “Then it’s easier for them to believe we’re all part of the same team. Given the number of factions in the UC right at the moment, I’d like there to be a core of locals who figure I’m on whatever their side is.”
“I’m very sorry about last night!” Hera said, bowing her head in the first real confusion Huber had noticed in her demeanor. She crossed the room quickly without glancing at Tranter by the door. “That isn’t normal, even for my brother. I think something’s gone wrong with him, badly wrong.”
“Any one you walk away from,” Huber said brightly. He was immensely relieved to learn that Hera was all right, but he really didn’t want to discuss either last night or the wider situation with her. “I’m paid to take risks, after all. Let’s let it drop, shall we?”
“Yes,” she said, settling herself behind her desk. Her expression was a mixture of relief and puzzlement. “Yes, of course.”
Hera hadn’t powered up the privacy shield as yet, so Huber could add smilingly, “By the way—does the UC have a central population registry? An office that tracks everybody?”
“What?” Hera said in amazement. “No, of course not! I mean, do other planets have that sort of thing? We have a voter’s list, is that what you mean?”