Authors: Anne McCaffrey
Yeoman Nicola Nizukami stepped forward from the other end of the room.
“Colonel Watari is on the schedule, General.”
Peter was surprised at her tone; maybe she didn’t like the colonel either. Of course, he had come to realize that she adored the admiral and guarded his privacy, and reputation, with the tenacity of a pit bull. Barney came forward and offered them their beverages.
“Aha, Hiroga’s struck again, has he?” Johnny said, teasing her. He took a quick sip of his coffee as she flushed, needlessly straightening the hard copy at the first two places. He liked to have hard copy for important meetings. He could doodle on it.
Peter regarded her intently and then realized with dismay that he had come close to scanning her.
“You’re his superior in rank, General,” she remarked in what might be a total non sequitur.
“That I am,” Johnny said cheerfully.
“Your seat’s there, Mr. Reidinger is on the admiral’s left.” Again she colored unaccountably. “Secretary Abubakar on the right.”
Johnny leaned around to see who bracketed him at the table. “I certainly don’t mind Commander Chatham but do I have to have the CFO on the other side?”
“You’ve met Ms. Taddesse?”
“I’ve heard about her.” Johnny grimaced.
“Come now, General, a woman you can’t get on the good side of?” Nicola said, teasing in her own turn.
“There are some it isn’t worth trying.”
“Even for the good of the Station?” Nicola tilted her head inquiringly.
They heard voices in the corridor and Nicola stepped back to the chair by the workstation.
A yeoman opened the door and then stood back to allow the guests to enter. The first woman who entered, her hair skinned back from her strong-featured face, was Alicia Taddesse, according to the large print of her Station visitor’s badge. She glanced at Nicola, who politely indicated her nametag on the table. Ms. Taddesse shot the general a sharp look,
swinging her hard-sided briefcase onto the table. The second woman, with a slightly Asian cast to her features, very dark eyes, and well-cut short black hair, entered nervously. She was so loudly broadcasting her dislike of the mode of transportation she had just had to endure that mentally, Peter reared back. The yeoman indicated her position at the table and she immediately sat down, as if a chair provided security. Then came Secretary of Space Abubakar, a scrawny-looking man with heavy jowls, a small but noticeable paunch under the loose black tunic he wore, and a luxuriant head of white hair, brushed back from a high forehead. He smiled, his eyes moving from Johnny Greene to Peter, Nicola, and Barney, attentively standing in the serving alcove. Behind him, as physically opposite to the Secretary as possible, slouched a tall man who unconsciously ducked his head to enter the room though the portal was certainly high enough to allow clearance to the tallest man on the Station. Georg Fraga nodded pleasantly to Johnny Greene, gave Peter a searching look, and then stood by his chair. Lieutenant Commander Pota Chatham preceded Admiral Dirk Coetzer.
“Pota, when will First Base be on-line?” he asked as he entered.
“They should be on,” said Commander Chatham, looking at her comunit, “on my mark in five minutes, sir. Mark!”
“Thank you. Secretary Abubakar, ladies, General, Peter, if you’ll all take your seats?” the admiral said. “If you’ll be good enough to give Barney here your choice of beverage, we can get that detail attended to before we start the hard work.”
The newcomers, with the exception of Mai Leitao who asked for water, preferred coffee. Peter used that brief diversion to seat himself next to Mai Leitao, who made herself very busy, precisely setting out her notepad and lightpen, fussing with the hard copy in front of her.
“Good navy coffee,” the Secretary said with a pleasant smile at Barney. His glance fell briefly on Peter.
“Might as well leave a carafe on the table for us before you leave, Barney,” the admiral said. “Secretary, have you been officially introduced to Peter Reidinger, the general’s colleague in Supply and Transport?”
Peter heard Mai Leitao’s surprised intake of breath. He didn’t need to look around to know that she immediately leaned as far away from him as her armchair permitted.
Bitch!
Johnny Greene said.
Ignore her, Pete. She’s along for the prestige
.
And didn’t like the ride
, Peter said.
Don’t take that to heart. She feels agoraphobic to me
.
“Ms. Leitao,” Georg Fraga said, rising to his feet. “You’re going to need more space. Why don’t you change with me? If the admiral doesn’t mind?” He looked inquiringly to Coetzer in the center of the table.
As Coetzer spread his hands to indicate permission, he pointedly did not look at either the woman or Peter.
Peter, with as much nonchalance as he could muster, took a sip of his herbal tea and glanced down the table while the exchange was made. Commander Chatham’s rigid attention stance relaxed as her comunit chimed.
“Contact, Admiral Coetzer,” she said in her cool alto voice.
The monitor that had been positioned to face the crescent of viewers now flickered as the contact was established. Three men stood, two at attention, in front of a table in the conference room at First Base.
“Admiral Coetzer,” said the swarthy-complexioned man in the middle with a bow of his head that Peter decided might have accompanied an unseen click of his heels. “Hiroga Watari here.”
Lance Baden grinned and said an Australian “g’day,” nodding to all.
“Sirs,” and the third man did salute, “ladies.” He was as tall as the lanky Baden, but broader in the shoulders. He had curly blond hair and eyes that were vividly blue in a wide face. “Major Cyberal at your command.”
“Thank you, gentlemen. Please be seated,” said the admiral, and when they were, he banged his fist on the table. “This meeting is called to order. Yeoman, prepare to record.”
“Aye, sir,” said Nicola’s voice from Peter’s left.
“Get it off your chest, Secretary,” the admiral advised.
“My office is adamant that we achieve a flow of matériel to First Base with no further delays,” Abubakar said with no preamble, rising to the challenge.
“Without, of course, increasing costs,” said Johnny Greene.
“General, you’re out of order,” Alicia Taddesse said, giving him a stern look.
“Well, that’s the size of it, isn’t it?” Johnny said blandly, and took a sip of his coffee.
“The budget will not allow it,” Mai Leitao said, shaking her head as she passed her lightpen over the pad and brought up figures. “There is no room for additional expenditure.”
“Our operation is daily dropping behind schedule due to lack of essential supplies,” Colonel Watari said, scowling, an expression that intensified his Japanese features. “We have immediate needs that have not been met despite frequent urgent requests.”
“The price of fuel is rising,” Leitao said.
Peter winced. Her voice had a whining edge to it, like a mosquito.
“We must reduce, not increase, the number of flights, Colonel,” she added.
“Then how, might I inquire,” and the colonel’s scowl deepened, “are we to keep our schedule?”
“Cut back on the development, of course,” Alicia Taddesse said sharply.
Instantly the Secretary raised his hand in denial of that remark.
“Use the Discretionary Fund to meet fuel costs,” Johnny suggested, looking up from the doodles he was making on the hard copy. Mai Leitao stared at him, her mouth dropping. Georg Fraga had a funny expression on his face. “Or, better still, use the kitty from Weapons Research and Development, which is obsolete anyway, except for appearing on the International Budget.”
“Now, now, General,” the Secretary said soothingly, his eyes on Johnny.
“Well, if you’re using that for something else, Secretary, why not the …”
Abubakar cut into his sentence with a set smile. “And you think we haven’t culled those sources already, General?”
Alicia Taddesse glared at Greene.
“I was trying to be helpful. How’s that ‘alternative fuel source’ research going? Haven’t heard a peep from that bunch in months. They sounded as if they were onto something with the recombinant.”
Admiral Coetzer cleared his throat.
“Oh, yeah. I’m not supposed to know about that, am I?” Johnny asked rhetorically.
“I would ask how you do, General,” Georg Fraga remarked mildly, his hands clasped idly on the table in front of him, “except I know your security clearance permits you to keep abreast of all new developments.”
“A recombinant?” Colonel Watari asked, his eyes widening with interest.
“Need to know, Colonel,” Johnny said with a wave of his hand and a slight emphasis on the rank.
“Yes, sir.” Watari’s scowl returned.
“Whereas,” and now the Secretary turned back to Johnny Greene, “you are supposed to be sitting on the answer to our prayers?” He looked pointedly at Peter.
“The kid?” Watari said dismissively, glaring at him. “I don’t understand, Admiral, why a civilian,” and the sneer was thinly veiled, “is in on a high-level, high-security conference.”
“Are you referring to Mr. Reidinger?” the admiral asked in a very gentle voice. “General Greene’s colleague?”
“My instructor,” Lance put in, his tone unusually harsh. “Same sort of ‘civilian’ I am, Colonel.”
The colonel leaned back in his chair, looking away from the screen, attempting to modify his thoughts appropriately to the clues given by his superior officers.
“Tell me, Mr. Secretary, is the Space Authority in any way obligated to the fuel suppliers?” Johnny asked.
“What do you mean by that?” asked Georg Fraga, washing his hands in what looked like an idle gesture.
Peter wondered, and discovered that Georg Fraga had a tight mental shield. Alicia Taddesse did not and her tension was visible to him despite her controlled expression of polite surprise. Her public mind was swirling with frank replies and how she was to phrase them more discreetly. Mai Leitao’s eyes were getting wider and she was broadcasting a tight swirl of anxiety.
“No, we are not,” the Secretary said. “We advertise publicly for tenders to supply liquid hydrogen and oxygen from suppliers.”
“Who use recycled tanks?” Johnny asked.
“Yes, of course,” Abubakar said in a doesn’t-everyone-know tone.
“What agency checks those tanks to be sure they haven’t sprung leaks?”
“Leaks?” Georg Fraga gave a laugh. “Is your point that SA might be paying for more fuel than the freighters get to use?”
“Got it in one,” Johnny said with a curt nod of his head.
“Have you any proof?”
“Indeed I have. Yeoman, be good enough to screen the file marked
CeeCeeD
Number One—fuel consumption. It’s the one I just put on your desk.”
Admiral Coetzer nodded for Nicola to do so. Peter sensed that this was no surprise to Dirk. Colonel Watari was clearing his throat and beetling his eyebrows. Peter got the distinct impression that this was not how the Base commander had thought this meeting would proceed. As the file was being beamed to First Base at the same time, all saw the report simultaneously. Colonel Watari’s frown deepened, Major Cyberal looked shocked, and Lance gave a long sigh, shifting position so he could rest his chin on his raised hand.
“According to all specifications for a freighter of the
CeeCeeD’s
size and bulk cargo capability,” Johnny said, “she should have had enough fuel left on her return to Padrugoi to navigate without problem to her assigned mooring.” Figures scrolled down the screen. “Because she was lighter on fuel than the captain realized when he made his first burn, he couldn’t make a long enough one to put her on her assigned trajectory. She was off course coming into Padrugoi. What little fuel was left in the thrusters was not enough for her to correct her entry. That was not the first time this has happened to a freighter. Yet the tanks were supposed to be full when the
CeeCeeD
left Padrugoi outward bound. Captain Maggert knew and did not report the discrepancy. His first mate did. Is that correct, Commander Chatham?”
“It is, sir,” Pota Chatham said, standing up and angling her wristcom so she could read from her notes. “The Station has noted similar late arrivals over the past few months. In fact, it’s becoming the norm instead of unusual. We have had complaints from the portmaster, too.” She turned to the admiral. “You may remember Commander Bernabe’s report three months ago on leakage traces discovered during fuel loading. Of course, those tanks were returned as faulty. We’ve had no report from the suppliers about how such leakages occurred. Nor what is being done to ensure that Padrugoi receives certified full tanks.”
“You may recall, Admiral,” Johnny said, “that I have mentioned the mass differentiation.”
“Mass differentiation?” Georg Fraga asked, surprised.
“Yes, didn’t you know? A telekinetic is very much aware of how much mass he or she shifts.”
“How?” Fraga asked.
On the First Base screen, Lance sat up again, grinning.
“We keep records of how much thrust is needed for each item logged in for transport,” Johnny said with a casual wave of his hand. “And how many calories the telekinetic burns in each lift. That’s how we figure cost, you know.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Alicia Taddesse, her expression grim.
Johnny gave a negligent shrug of his shoulder. “I’d be happy to show you our costing equation.”
Taddesse looked from Johnny to Fraga and her eyes slid over Peter.
Are they cheating the Station, Johnny?
Peter asked.
Someone is. Or at least trying to charge Padrugoi full dollar for sixty cents’ worth of fuel. We don’t know who. Sometimes only fifty cents gets to us. Welcome to big business and politics, Pete. Easy, lad, don’t let them know how this upsets you
, and Johnny sent soothing thoughts.
This has to be sorted out, now. Especially since we can prove our allegations. Ignore the negative vibes
.
“I’d be very interested in how you arrive at your figures, General.”
Johnny extracted a pencil file from his breast pocket and kinetically wafted it to the table in front of Taddesse. “No charge for special delivery.”