When the lift reached Deck 25, Farrell heard angry voices. He nodded to Daye and the pair of them stepped out of the cage just before the door closed. Insulation covered the floor as well as bulkheads and ceiling. It was as soft as a deep-pile carpet. Foot traffic had already dented it.
A young woman stood at the door of an austerely furnished office/conference room. She nodded as they approached and called, "Major Farrell and Sergeant Daye have arrived, sir."
Farrell had no idea who she was.
A man in his sixties sat behind an electronic desk which was welded to the floor. Like the woman he wore loose, many-pocketed clothing that would have been battledress if there'd been any badge or patch on it.
The cloth was brown rather than chameleon-dyed, but it was still the same synthetic that went into the strikers' uniforms. The fabric was tough and breathed even better than natural fibers, but it was harsh enough to take your skin off when pressed against you by armor and equipment. Maybe these civilians wore underwear.
The three other civilians—a man of thirty, a woman in her fifties, and another man who was probably as old as the fellow at the desk—turned when the strikers entered. All of them wore ordinary business clothes of excellent quality, though the older man's socks were mismatched.
The younger man had been shouting in a resonant tenor voice. The three were standing, though the bulkheads had fold-down seats. Two short benches could also have been pulled up from the floor to face the desk.
"Gentlemen," the young woman said, "this is Project Manager Jafar al-Ibrahimi. I'm his assistant, Tamara Lundie—"
Farrell saw a thought flick behind Lundie's eyes, though she didn't blink physically.
"I'm a Manager 3, that's the equivalent of a senior lieutenant," Lundie continued. "Manager al-Ibrahimi is the equivalent of a full colonel and is in sole charge of the project."
Farrell felt his mouth smile. Did she think strikers were so rank-conscious that they needed to have civilian pecking orders explained to them? Oh, God, his poor strikers, being dropped into another ratfuck . . .
"Major," al-Ibrahimi said, "is the remainder of your unit on schedule?"
The project manager was a slight man who appeared brittle, an appearance Farrell decided was false as soon as he heard the man speak. Al-Ibrahimi wasn't going to break, and Farrell didn't think he'd be easy to grind down either. What surprised Farrell was the degree to which something had already ground al-Ibrahimi down.
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—"