Markov sat in his quarters, watching a dozen live visual logs on his console. From his chair he could see all the corridors on the accommodation levels. Penning had just left Drefnig's quarters at 11.45 p.m. It was always useful to know who was close to whom, especially when rooting out traitors. They had not been the only Commanders in the corridors this evening. The meeting in the Orange Room had ruffled quite a few feathers. Their agitation would soon filter down to the lower officers. Word would spread that a new general had arrived. It was time for the security forces to realise that things were going to have to change. Sometimes you had to shake the wasps' nest to see what flew out. Wasn't that one of the oldest techniques of war? Markov had always liked it. Its effectiveness was in its simplicity.
Central Command had always been at war, even though, at times, it didn't seem to notice. Some wars were fought in open fields, while others took place in diplomatic circles or in the corridors of power. Some involved weapons while others involved deception and lies. Which kind of war was worse? Markov couldn't decide, but he knew that when he had a weapon in his hand, the options were far less complicated. Routing out traitors was going to require a lot of patience. It would require cunning and discipline too. The Commanders would soon learn that there were many sides to General Alexander Markov.
It was getting late. Midnight had been and gone. Markov had given up watching the visual logs, and retired to his bunk. He pulled out a mini-console from under his pillow and held it sideways in his large hands. It looked like most of the crew had finally given up complaining to each other. They had all and returned to their quarters for the night. The console showed multiple overlapping squares, each offering a view of a different corridor. Some of the views were concentrated around the officer accommodation on level 138. Others covered the main intersections near the operations room and the recreation areas. Most of the corridors were empty. There would be a skeleton crew in the operations room, and the night patrols would continue until morning, but the White Spear was as close to peace as it ever would be. Pale green lights illuminated the walls. Cleaning droids crawled across the floors, picking up dirt and erasing any stains that had accumulated during the day. Markov balanced his console on the side of his bunk and selected standby mode. If anyone moved across any of the views, the console would switch back on automatically. For now, the images faded and the display greyed out.
Markov let his eyes slide shut. He would allow himself to sleep, for a time.