There was plenty of steel left, though.
“Yes sir,” Farrell said. If there’d been a problem, somebody would have reported through the finger-sized communicator he carried in his pocket in lieu of the helmet he was used to. This wasn’t a combat operation where no news might mean—usually meant—that everybody in the silent unit had been killed instantly.
“Good,” said al-Ibrahimi. “Major, Ms. Susannah Reitz is president of the building council and therefore de facto leader of the colony. Dr. Joao Suares—”
He nodded toward the older man. Suares looked surprised.
“—and Mr. Matthew Lock are her co-councillors. Madame, gentlemen, Major Farrell is head of our security element, and Sergeant Daye is his ranking enlisted man. We’ll be working closely together after landfall.”
“Mr. al-Ibrahimi,” Lock said, “I demand that you halt this process until my request for an injunction can be heard. The very idea of assigning the residents of an urban apartment building as the initial colony on a totally unsettled planet is insane!”
Farrell didn’t let his face show surprise, but that was at least one thing he and the councillor could agree on.
Lock was in good shape. He must keep fit with sports and exercise equipment. It was a civilian sort of “good condition” though, and it looked soft to eyes like Farrell’s. He was used to strikers whose flesh had been pared off by discomfort, stress, and the lack of appetite caused by exhaustion.
Farrell found it odd to look at civilians close up. Real civilians, not Unity bureaucrats providing support to the armed forces. Farrell hadn’t been on leave in a real rear area during the past five years, and civilians sure as hell didn’t show up in the places he did go.
“Tamara,” al-Ibrahimi said, “brief Major Farrell on his unit’s billets, supplies, and duties during the voyage. The remainder of C41 can be expected in thirty-nine minutes.”
The project manager hadn’t checked either a clock or a schedule, so far as Farrell could see.
Lundie turned on her heel. She was pretty enough but not Farrell’s type. Farrell’s type was a woman who didn’t look at him as if he were a pallet of rations—and an equally unlikely love object.
“As for you, Councillor Lock,” al-Ibrahimi continued as the strikers followed Lundie out of the office, “I will carry out Unity policy as it devolves on me, and you will do the same. Failure to comply with a Colonization Order means loss of citizenship—”
“I know that!” Lock said. “But—”
“—and a life sentence to a labor camp,” the manager continued. Lundie had led the strikers back to the rotunda, but her chief’s crisp voice was still perfectly clear. “Now, during the voyage each two decks of colonists will be separated by a deck of supplies and . . .”
A lift cage arrived. The strikers stepped aboard in unison with Lundie. Daye looked as worried as Farrell had ever seen him.
The only thing that kept Daye going was the hope that his CO had the situation in hand. Farrell knew that was a vain hope if ever there’d been one.
Lundie led them off on the next deck down. “Your quarters are here on Twenty-four,” she said, the first words she’d spoken directly to the strikers since introducing them. “Your rations and equipment will be stored with you. The remaining volume on this deck will store colony supplies that won’t be needed until after landing on Bezant 459.”
She led Farrell and Daye down a corridor. The doors to either side were ajar. The rooms had eight pull-down bunks, a shower stall, a double washstand, and a latrine. The space and amenities were better than those of a troopship and enormously better than an assault vessel’s, but Farrell didn’t imagine the civilian colonists were going to be happy.
“Ma’am,” said Sergeant Daye. “Ah, can I ask a question?”
“Yes, of course,” Lundie said. “And please refer to me as you would refer to one of your own officers.”
“Yes ma’am,” Daye said. Farrell wondered if he was having as much trouble as Farrell himself was imagining the young woman in C41. “What that fellow said about a whole building being turned into a colony—is that true?”