At least his office was clean. It was a small chamber carved by plasma torches out of the metallic rock and then sprayed with thick layers of plastic to hold down the dust. With the air blowers working, Harbin could take off his goggled mask and breathe normally once the door to the tunnel outside was shut.
The office was little more than a bare cubicle containing a desk and a few chairs. No decorations on the walls. Nothing to remind Harbin of his past. Even the desk drawers were mostly empty, except for the locked one that contained his medications. He slumped tiredly onto his desk chair and commanded his computer to display the day’s incoming messages. I shouldn’t be sitting behind a desk, he told himself. I should be in a ship, tracking down Fuchs. It’s a mistake to let him live.
Then he smiled bitterly at himself. Not that I’ve been so successful at getting him. Fuchs is a wily old badger, Harbin admitted to himself. Almost, he admired the man.
The list of incoming messages took form in the air above Harbin’s desk. Most of them were routine, but there was one from Grigor, Harbin’s direct superior in the HSS chain of command, the only man between him and Martin Humphries himself.
Harbin told the computer to display Grigor’s message.
Grigor’s gloomy image appeared immediately. He was seated at his own desk. It was as if Harbin were looking into the man’s office. To his surprise, the dour, cold-eyed chief of HSS security was actually smiling; it looked as if it pained him to stretch his thin lips that way.
“I have good news for you, Dorik,” said Grigor, almost jovially. “A dozen attack ships are on their way to you, plus supply and logistics vessels. They are not sailing together, of course. That would attract unwelcome attention from Astro and even from the International Astronautical Authority. But they will start arriving at your base within the week. A detailed schedule of their courses, cargoes and arrival times are attached to this message.”
Harbin stopped Grigor’s message and checked the attachment. Impressive. Within two weeks he would have a small armada of warships, ready to ravage the Belt.
He turned Grigor back on. “From the reports you’ve been sending, I can see that the base will be fully operational within three weeks or less. Mr. Humphries wants to make absolutely certain that the base is protected properly. He wants to take no chances that Fuchs or anyone else will attack it before it is completed. Therefore, you are to use the attack vessels as a defensive screen around Vesta. Keep them in orbit around the asteroid and keep them on high alert, prepared to intercept any unauthorized vessel. Is that clear?”
The question was rhetorical, of course. Harbin wouldn’t be able to get a reply to Grigor at Selene for a half-hour or more.
“One final order,” Grigor went on, without waiting for a reply. “Once the entire battle fleet has been assembled, you will hold it in readiness until an attack plan is sent to you through me. Mr. Humphries wants no moves made until he has approved a complete campaign plan.”
Then Grigor smiled again, obviously forced. “Of course, we will expect your inputs for the plan. We won’t finalize it until you have made your contribution.”
The image winked off and Harbin was staring at the empty chairs in front of his desk once again.
“A plan of campaign,” he muttered to himself. Humphries thinks he’s a field marshal now, planning battle strategy. Harbin groaned inwardly. He’s amassing all these weapons, all these people, and he’s sitting back in the safety of that underground mansion of his, playing armchair general. I’ll have to follow his orders, no matter how stupid they might be.
Harbin scrupulously avoided sexual liaisons with any of the people under his command. A commander doesn’t take advantage of his troops, he told himself sternly. Besides, he had medications and virtual reality simulations that satisfied his needs, in part. In some ways they were better than sex; he didn’t have to deal with a real, living person. Better to be alone, he told himself. Better to avoid entanglements.