“Some places are more centralized, yeah,” Huber said, thinking of the cradle to grave oversight that the Frisian government kept on its citizens. Those who stayed on the planet, at least; which was maybe a reason to join a mercenary company, though the Colonel kept a pretty close eye on his troopers as well.
Through the White Mice . . .
“No matter,” he continued. “Would you download a list of all the Regiment’s local employees and their home addresses to me before you get onto your own work, Hera? It may be in this console I inherited from the good captain, but I sure haven’t been able to locate it.”
“Yes, of course . . .” she said, bringing her console live. She seemed grateful for an excuse to look away from Huber. Last night had been a real embarrassment to her.
One more thing to thank her brother for. It was pretty minor compared to the rest of what Huber suspected Patroklos was involved in, though.
Other clerks were coming in to the office; perhaps merely to make a good impression on the new director, but maybe they’d heard about the business last night and hoped to get more gossip. Huber grinned blandly and set to work with the file that appeared in his transfer box.
The business of the day proceeded. Log Section had been running perfectly well without Huber for the past three weeks, but as more starships landed—three in one mad hour at the relatively large field here in Benjamin, and four more during the day at other members of the United Cities—there were frequent calls to the Officer in Command of Log Section. None of the Slammers calling wanted to talk to a wog: they wanted a real officer wearing the lion rampant of the Regiment. They were fresh out of stardrive, with headaches and tempers to match.
Huber fielded the calls. He almost never knew the answer to the angry questions himself, but he dumped quick summaries to Hera through his console while holding the speaker on the line. As a general rule she had the answer for him—a vehicle dispatched, a storage warehouse located, or a staff member on the way to the scene—in a minute or less. When it was going to take longer, that warning appeared on Huber’s console and he calmed the caller down as best he could.
Not everybody wanted to calm down. An artillery lieutenant shouted, “Look, are you going to stop being a dickheaded pissant and get my bloody hog out of the marsh you had us land in?”
Huber shouted back, “Look, redleg, when my platoon drove out of the ship there was a kill-team from Harris’s Commando waiting for us. We managed. If you fools can’t avoid a hole in the ground, then don’t expect a lot of sympathy here! Now, I say again—there’s a maintenance and recovery platoon due in Youngblood’s Vale tomorrow and I’ll vector the recovery vehicle to you people in Henessey ASAP. If you’d prefer to keep saying you want me to drag heavy equipment out of my ass because your driver’s blind, you can talk to an open line!”
There was a pause, then, “Roger, we’ll wait. Two-Ay-Six out.”
One thing a soldier learns by surviving any length of time in a war zone is that you use whatever you’ve got available. Huber smiled grimly.
In between the work of the Log Section, he played with the data he was gathering on his other job. Huber didn’t have the sort of mind that leaped instantly to the right answer to complex questions. He worked things over mentally, turning the bits and fitting them first this way, then another. It was a lot like doing jigsaw puzzles. At the end of the process there was an answer, and he guessed he’d be working on it till he found what the answer was.
Hera left for lunch. She invited Huber but didn’t argue when he turned her down, and she didn’t argue either when he insisted she go on as she’d planned instead of staying in the office because he was staying. Huber knew as well as the next guy how important it was to get some time away from the place you were working; otherwise you could lock yourself down tighter than happened to most prisoners.