Chapter Five
“Sims, you’re up.” Sergeant Ford poked his head into the shuttle through the air-lock. “Who’s missing?”
“No one,” Matthieu heard Lieutenant Beeson reply. “No one else is allowed on this planet.”
Sergeant Ford nodded, got out of Matthieu’s way, and sealed the ship-side air-lock. Beeson sat in the back as usual; Matthieu tossed his overnight backpack into the overhead storage above the courier, dogged and sealed the shuttle’s hatch, and squeezed into the pilot’s seat.
While running his checks, he asked the courier, “Would you like to take the co-pilot’s seat, Lieutenant?” He always preferred to ask the senior occupant of a run to be his co-pilot, for every man in the Service needed opportunities to review the procedures, since so few had chances to do so after their second training cycle.
“Yes, very much so. Thank you.” Beeson climbed into the cockpit, fastened his safety gear, and ran his own pre-flight check.
Once Matthieu received his berth assignment from Sylvania’s Delaware Shuttle Port, he transferred that code to first pilot officer Lieutenant Meyerholz on duty on SDC-19 and received permission to sail. Disengaging the shuttle’s clamps from the courier ship, he displayed his flight path on the monitor, reviewed all other ships in orbit, and turned toward the planet’s surface before sitting back to let the computer take over.
“We only have an hour,” the lieutenant said the instant Matthieu relaxed, “so listen carefully. First, there are only six more planets before we get back to the Demesnes. You will not step foot on any of them, as per your... ultimate C.O.’s orders to obey any private instructions from me as courier.”
Matthieu’s eyebrows rose in surprise; Beeson had to be speaking about Grandfather.
“You’ll make excuses for why you won’t take the two shore leaves you’re allowed, since I don’t want the others to think you’re taking my commands as Service orders. Don’t worry; I’m sure you’ll land on those planets again someday.”
“Again?” Matthieu asked. “This is my first tour.” How very odd. All cockpit conversations were routinely recorded, which must be why Beeson had spoken obliquely about Grandfather, yet he was being given secret instructions.
Beeson was undoubtedly a spy; perhaps he felt he could get away with it because those conversations were usually only accessed once the ship returned home after a tour, and those people listening to it would only need to know the actions, not that ‘Ensign Sims’ was the Heir Second.
Beeson grinned. “Good. Keep it up. Also, I like the fact that you cuss, though you’re still more polite than people expect of a commoner.” He suddenly frowned. “Do you still have the butterfly box?”
It was ridiculous to assume Lieutenant Beeson didn’t know who he was at this point. “Yes.”
“Before we get to the next planet, you will remove a book-disk from the box and lend it to me when we return, saying, ‘Here’s that book I told you about.’ When I take it, I’ll palm a book-disk back while thanking you, and you will stash it in your box without looking at it. I’ll forewarn you when we’re back home that I’ll be returning the book to you; when I do, have the other in your hand and palm it back to me.”
“Got it. May I ask, why the secrecy?”
“Someone’s recently been in my cabin. I didn’t think I would ever need to pull an eye from my spy-kit for my own cabin,” Beeson growled.
“It’s there now, though, and no one else has made a move. I’ve not heard about your butterfly box from anyone else, but I can only assume the perpetrator has been through everyone’s belongings, given the staggered shifts of the crew. Since Rutherford is such a loudmouth and otherwise thinks you’re a commoner, if he had seen it he would have yakked about it, no?”
“Yes.”
“So, we can assume the perp has seen your collection of book-disks, thinks you keep them hidden because of that box, and will probably not think to check it again.”
“If you really want it hidden, I cut a slit into the stiffened but padded side under the purple and green butterflies, on the inside, and cut a section of the padding you can remove from the polymer fabric. The padding is four millimeters of foam, more than enough to hide a three millimeter-thick book-disk in its case.
“Whatever you give me will be there, and there’ll be an empty spot to correspond with the book-disk I give you,” Matthieu explained. “Just remove the disks corresponding to that side, pull the inner ribbed edging back a bit, and you’ll find the slot.”
“Quantum!” Beeson exclaimed. Matthieu laughed, wondering how the word Anne had come up with had been passed so quickly. Beeson then gave him very specific instructions on how to behave on the planet’s surface.
By the time they landed, he had thought of one more thing. “How does this sound? How about I ‘accidentally’ get the initial book-disk out with Rutherford in the cabin, let him taunt me, show him I have no porn, be all embarrassed about the carry-case I had to borrow from my ‘kid sister’, let everyone look it over and tease me about it as we hand each other the disks, and hope that distracts them enough not to notice us? Then I stash your disk after the novelty has worn off?”
Beeson laughed, agreed, and headed for the hatch as Matthieu powered down the five-seat shuttle.
Sylvania had the most bizarre trees Matthieu had ever seen. It had been one of the first planets his father had visited on his diplomatic tour twenty years ago, so Matthieu had no infantile recollection of it.
Most trees consisted of at least two colors of foliage, with some of three or even four colors, as what passed for ‘leaves’ on them had one color for the veins, another color for foliage closer to the trunk, segueing into a third and fourth color for the outer leaves, like a multi-toned rose. The trunks were good for many things except durability. The main distinction the planet had was being the first deemed habitable and subsequently colonized by people desperate to escape overpopulated Terra.
They went to the chancery first thing, as per procedure. Matthieu did the touristy things in the capital, staring at the trees, buying small trinkets for the girls, making sure to pass a small Sentinel-improved but otherwise brand-name ‘food allergy’ scanner over his food at the restaurants, going to the local art gallery, taking in a concert that night, and heading back to the chancery for a real long shower with actual water droplets instead of sonic-powered sprays before going to bed.
On the way back to SDC-19 the next morning, Beeson changed his mind. “I was going to scan this before giving it to you, but I’d rather not at this point. Let me hand this off to you now, but go ahead and lend me a book-disk when we get back.”
He fished out a book-disk and spoke distantly, as if he had a lot on his mind. “Lots of distraction with the butterfly box. The bigger lies you can tell about it, the better.”
“Sounds good.” Matthieu slipped the book-disk into his pants pocket. “Is there anything in particular you’re interested in? I may as well give you a book-disk you’re likely to read, after all.”
Beeson laughed. “Sure. What do you have?”
“All kinds of stuff. Would you rather I surprise you? I’ve got one that’ll really make you laugh.” Matthieu smiled.
Beeson grinned. “I could use a good laugh about now. I’ll be so glad to get home.”
Since he had just returned from leave with several hours of sleep behind him, Matthieu had the next shift, so he headed to the wormhole to Brashire for six hours, had the computer make the jump, filed a flight path for the planet, which would take another eight hours, turned his shift over to the first pilot, and headed to the small mess.
He entered to see Beeson drinking coffee with Captain Salzman and the first engineer, Lieutenant Commander James. As they looked up at him, he pretended he had just remembered. “Oh, Lieutenant, I forgot to get you that book I told you about. Be right back.” He hurried to his quarters.
Lieutenant Lord Anthony Rutherford, the laziest engineer Matthieu had ever heard of, was asleep with his curtains pulled shut. As Matthieu fussed in the cabinet under his bunk for the butterfly carry-case, Rutherford bitched, “Sims, you have got to be the loudest bunkmate ever.”
“Like your snoring like a fucking hammerhog is any better?” Matthieu muttered, finding the box. He moved his stuff around some more until he heard Rutherford pull back his curtain.
Standing up with the carry-case, Matthieu zipped two compartments open and shut before Rutherford, in the topmost bunk, peered over to see what he was doing. He not only laughed outrageously as Matthieu started to zip open another compartment, he popped off his bunk and grabbed the butterfly carry-case out of Matthieu’s hands in one swift move, running out the door as Matthieu put on a good show of yelling and cursing.
By the time Rutherford had made it to the mess, Matthieu was behind him, shouting, “Goddammit, I don’t care if you’re a fucking lord!” He grabbed Rutherford’s shirt for a throw as Rutherford held the box high.
The captain calmly said, “Hands off, Sims. You don’t need a written reprimand on your first tour, now, do you?”
Matthieu growled and held his hands up in surrender, backing away as Rutherford showed the other officers the carry-case. “Sweet gods above, look at this pretty thing,” he taunted, turning it in his hands as the other three laughed at the box.
“If that belongs to Sims, you’re off the list for the rest of the tour,” the captain said, despite his laughter. “No hands on another’s belongings. And I don’t care if you’re a lord, either. Hand it back.” Rutherford did so with a snarl; he had bragged about swapping shore leave with the second engineer so he could visit a Corona Segundus pleasure-den.
As Matthieu finally pulled out the book-disk, he looked sheepishly at the officers. “My sister gave it to me,” he muttered, handing the book-disk to the courier.
Beeson howled with laughter. “Oh dear God, you said I’d get a kick out of it, but this is too good. I think I’ll actually read it.” He snorted. “The Science of Beekeeping. Does your sister keep bees?”
“No,” Matthieu said sullenly. “I meant my sister gave me the box.” As the men chuckled, he tried to look surly and proud at the same time.
“One of my rellies works at the old Palace. I can’t say who, of course, but she said one of the princesses has a box like this, so she bought one for my sister. I didn’t have one for the trip, so she’s letting me use it.”
“But why are you interested in beekeeping?” Beeson asked.
Matthieu shrugged. “My relative wants me to be more well-rounded. She put out the word that any spare book-disks would be appreciated.”
Opening one of the compartments, he looked at the titles. “I think a lot of these might have been rescued when they were cleaning up the Palace after the attack all those years ago. Either that, or maybe there’s a box people just dump them in when they’re done with them, and my m—relative picked up a couple of handfuls.”
“How do you know?” Beeson asked.
“They’re all about really different subjects, but some of the books have notes. I was reading one and saw something like, ‘tell Felice’ in a margin.”
“Which book was it?” the captain asked.
“Hell if I can remember.” Matthieu gave another shrug. “I skim ‘em more than anything.”
With that, he was encouraged to let the officers look over the titles while he got himself something to eat. Bored by now, Rutherford went back to his bunk.
“Did you train with Prince Matthieu?” the captain asked.
“Yes, sir,” Matthieu said warily. Although his eyes were now brown instead of green, his cheeks fuller, his skin much darker, his hair combed forward instead of back, and his teeth slightly yellowish, all due to one pigment pill and two Sentinel products he used daily, he decided to explain his wariness. “My relative says never talk about the Imperial Family.”
“Why is that?” Lieutenant Commander James wondered. “It seems like everyone gossips about them.”
“You can get – disappeared,” Matthieu said frankly. “The people who gossip about them don’t know them. Or work for them.”
“You look remarkably like the Prince.” Beeson had a glimmer in his eye. Matthieu realized Beeson had to be a Sentinel; only Sentinels tested each other so rigorously.
He ducked his head. “Yeah. I reckon a number of generations ago, the Imperial Family might not have been so particular as to… who raised their kids.”
“Ah,” Beeson uttered with some pity. “I can see you’re sensitive about the issue. My apologies, Ensign.”
Matthieu simply nodded, head down, and finished his meal. Since the officers seemed to have finished looking over the book-disks, he politely asked for the carry-case back and left.
◊ ◊ ◊
Matthieu’s excuse for not visiting the next two planets he was scheduled for was that he didn’t want anything to happen to his possessions while he was gone. Since word had spread about Rutherford’s antics and being blacklisted, the others sympathized with Matthieu and snubbed the only Royal they knew of on the ship. Matthieu heard a number of stories about ‘missing items’ some of the men had suffered on other tours; he decided to tell his uncle Christian about them when he got home.
He also decided he wasn’t happy putting the book-disk even in that secret slot he had made in the case, so he kept it on his person at all times. He knew he would have the clout to keep Rutherford from being assigned to the ship for the next tour, but he wondered how much Rutherford knew of the secret design of the ship, so he decided to ask Christian to find out.
He now blatantly kept the carry-case on his bunk as he read, since so many men had asked him about it and stopped by to tease him. Rutherford seemed put-out about ‘Sims’ getting all the attention he felt he should be getting. Matthieu wondered if he would ever meet up with Rutherford at a ball, and decided he would use his most supercilious voice if he did.
So here they were, in a parking orbit around Corona Segundus, one jump from home. Matthieu was looking forward to getting home, getting rid of his disguise, and soaking for a couple of hours in hot water with the waterjets going full-blast.
Since it would take two days for his skin and eye color to turn back to normal, Christian had arranged for him to take a cab from the shuttle port to the Sentinel command post by the Galactic Assembly compound, take the tunnel to Aunt Elizabeth’s Galactic Assembly Representative house, and visit with her for the duration, then comb his hair back in its usual style, remove the cheek prostheses that also helped him slur his words like a commoner, and use regular toothpaste before flying to the bat cave as if he had just stepped off the shuttle.
After pulling his third extremely dull 13.5-hour shift in parking orbit, Matthieu turned the station over to the first pilot, Lieutenant Meyerholz, and went to his bunk to read. Rutherford was on his 13.5-hour shift, so Matthieu decided to get some extra sleep first. He checked the medical tape over the secret book-disk on his lower abdomen by his hipbone, stripped down to his underwear for sleep, and burrowed in.
The orange-alert siren, an only slightly-unnerving chime, woke him up. He cursed himself to full consciousness, opened his curtain, jumped out, dressed quickly, and tumbled out the door to the tiny bridge.
The six men stood at attention as the captain gravely counted heads. “We have a problem. Sergeant Braxton and Lieutenant Menifee were at the chancery, waiting for JG Hoffman, Lieutenant Beeson, and Lieutenant Commander James to return, when the ambassador received word that Beeson and James were found dead behind a restaurant in one of the more upscale neighborhoods of Mashika. Hoffman is still missing.”
He looked at the first pilot officer. “An official Coronal shuttle will be bringing the bodies here within twenty hours. You will return to the planet with them to fly our shuttle and men back.”
A ball of dread was forming in Matthieu’s belly. Lieutenant Commander James, the first engineer, had probably known all about Uncle Josef’s secret engine design. Only an omniscient deity could know what secrets Beeson had held in his mind. Menifee, the second weapons officer and stuck on the planet right now, surely knew of the Obliterator.
The missing Lieutenant JG Hoffman was the second pilot; he had taken Matthieu’s turn for shore leave with unashamed glee, intending to visit a pleasure-den. An official shuttle would be locking on, possibly with two bodies but undoubtedly with a number of scientists from this planet dedicated to science. And Matthieu had secrets taped to his body.
As Captain Salzman finished reassigning shifts and dismissed the crew, Matthieu made a decision. “Captain, may I see you in private?” he asked quietly.
“One moment.” He gave the men on duty a few more orders before beckoning Matthieu to his small but private cabin.
After Salzman settled himself at his desk, Matthieu said obliquely, “Sir, if I were to stop taking a certain pill, you would eventually be amazed at the physical changes.”
Captain Salzman looked him over a few moments. “I see. Although he wouldn’t divulge specifics, Beeson said he was worried about surveillance as well as about some of the crew members. I take it your colorful story in the mess some three weeks ago had small but significant elements of truth to it.”
“Yes, sir. As a result, I respectfully request that you not allow the official Coronal shuttle, undoubtedly filled with scientists, to attach itself to us.
“Since we’re one jump from home, would you be so kind as to consider sending a message through Stargate 3 for a ship to investigate everything? Especially since one of our weapons officers is still on their planet?”
Captain Salzman nodded. “You’re right to be paranoid. I did already send such a message, but I didn’t think twice about the way they arranged to have the bodies delivered to us here. I shall have the investigators deal with the bodies. Thank you.”
“No, sir. Thank you.” He paused for a length of time. “If I may ask, have you personally searched Beeson’s cabin?”
“No, we just got the news. I’ll do so immediately.” Captain Salzman rose as Matthieu saluted and left.
In his cabin, Matthieu determined he had eleven more hours for sleep, so he gave it his best shot.
◊ ◊ ◊
A loud knock woke Matthieu. “Ensign Sims! Report for duty; you’re needed on the flight deck!” He acknowledged the sergeant automatically.
Matthieu looked at the clock; he had only been asleep five hours. He flung on a fresh uniform, put his old one in the tiny sonic scrubber for its seven-minute cycle, dug out his shaving kit to swallow a pigment pill dry and replace the tape on the book-disk, and headed out, bumping into a returning Rutherford in the narrow passageway. “Sorry,” Matthieu muttered, slipping around him and taking a few minutes in the head.
When he reached the bridge, his uncle, Major Prince Christian Sinclair, was on the main viewscreen, talking to Captain Salzman. Matthieu reported for duty; the captain said, “Transfer stations,” and the first pilot officer transferred his station to Matthieu. “Redline it, Meyerholz.” Meyerholz snapped Salzman a salute and ran to the airlock corridor.
Matthieu took in Christian’s conversation with Captain Salzman; they were communicating by tight-beam instead of quantum transmitter, at close distance since there was no significant delay in transmission. Christian had sent a shuttle immediately to SDC-19 so Lieutenant Meyerholz could be taken to Corona Segundus to fly back the courier vessel’s shuttle with Braxton, Menifee, and Hoffman on board, since he knew them personally.
Christian was mission commander on the Royal Hawk, investigating the deaths of Beeson and James; he had just tracked down the missing Hoffman, in a delirious stupor in a pleasure-den. When the captain casually mentioned, “Two of our junior officers, Rutherford and Sims, must be feeling particularly lucky today; they were originally scheduled for shore leave but traded off due to a conduct incident,” Christian’s eyes seared in intense thought.
“As soon as you have your men and shuttle back, return home immediately and report to Admiral Fowler,” Christian commanded. “Everyone on your ship is to be debriefed by his specialists. Have you sealed the courier’s cabin yet?”
“Yes, sir,” Captain Salzman replied.
“I will shuttle over to inspect it personally.” At Captain Salzman’s raised eyebrows, Christian growled, “I have long had direct orders not to step foot on Corona Segundus due to a previous incident that involved me personally. If I don’t get my hands involved in something right now, I fear my diplomatic training will be for naught.”
“Ah. I feel your pain. Since we’re understaffed and in emergency mode, I trust you don’t expect the crew to turn out to greet you personally, Your Highness.”
“No indeed, but I believe I should have a few words with each man. Your shuttle should be returning in some ninety minutes, so I’ll be right over,” Christian decided. “Signing off.” The main screen displayed Matthieu’s current graphic of the disposition of ships in the immediate vicinity.
Ten minutes later, Matthieu accepted the request for the Royal Hawk’s shuttle to dock. The captain turned the bridge over to the weapons officer and left to greet Christian.
Not ten minutes after that, Captain Salzman and Christian’s aide-de-camp towed a terrified Rutherford onto the bridge by his upper arms. “Ensign Sims, did you grant Lieutenant Rutherford permission to touch your belongings?” Salzman thundered.
“No, sir!” Matthieu stared at the men in alarm.
From behind the three men, Christian said to the captain, “I’ll detach a small patrol craft and have him sent home immediately.” Salzman’s posture subsequently relaxed; he pulled out his palm pad and logged the detention of the now-cringing Lieutenant Rutherford.
Matthieu looked at the two, wondering why they were suddenly so calm. “Sir? May I ask?”
Christian answered. “After inspecting the courier’s cabin, I decided to speak to the men off-duty first. Captain Salzman took me to your cabin, where your bunkmate was inspecting your book-disks. Since the captain had logged a previous incident of invasion of privacy, the lieutenant will be dealt with harshly.”
He glimmered a bit. “Though I wonder why he would be so… fascinated by your butterfly box.” Rutherford grimaced at this subtle sexual slur made by his Prince as the captain, ADC, and weapons officer tried to hold in their laughter.
Matthieu bit his lip. He needed to talk to Christian, but he was the only pilot officer on board so he couldn’t leave his station, and Christian was leaving before Meyerholz came back with SDC-19’s shuttle. “It was a gift from my sister,” he essayed. “The books were donated by family and friends. All kinds of bizarre topics, but nothing really important.” He gave the last two words a slight emphasis.
“Better never introduce him to your sister, then.” Everyone but Rutherford laughed outright at Christian’s jest.
He turned back to his ADC. “Have him gather his possessions, take him back to the Hawk, and send him on his way. The courier’s shuttle can dock and release its passengers while I finish my talks with the crew, and someone can shuttle me back to the Hawk.”
“Yes, sir.” The ADC, a lieutenant commander, saluted sharply. He hustled Rutherford out, and Christian and the captain left the bridge.
They had returned and were chatting desultorily about the Royal Hawk’s capabilities when Matthieu accepted the request for SDC-19’s shuttle to dock. He granted permission and informed the captain, who left with Christian to greet the men.
Another hour later, they returned with Menifee, whereupon the captain said, “Menifee, transfer stations; Buckman hasn’t had a chance to talk to Major Sinclair yet. Sims, you can have your chat when you fly the major back to the Royal Hawk.”
When he was finally alone with Uncle Christian in the shuttle, Matthieu ran through his flight checks as he poured out everything he could, from Beeson’s first request to slip him a secret book-disk to his plan to retrieve it when they made it home. Although he spoke as quickly as possible, they were almost to the Royal Hawk before he finished.
Christian asked, “Do you want to give me the book-disk now?”
“No. I’ll be home in less than six hours; I’ll give it to Admiral Fowler’s men. You can deal with the political necessities without worrying about its safety.”
“Sounds good. Commander Jeffries will be debriefing you personally.”
Matthieu grinned at that but turned serious. “I don’t think having a secret identity has helped much. The only benefit is for when I want to visit a planet.”
“Perhaps not even then. Why do you think Hoffman was found drugged to the gills?” Christian enquired. “Someone, somewhere, has figured it out, especially if they knew you were originally scheduled to visit Corona Segundus.
“You did well, though; the captain suspected nothing until the show you made in the mess room, and even then your explanations were so good he dismissed the notion until you requested that private meeting.”
Matthieu had to concentrate on docking then, so when he undogged the hatch’s air lock and Christian moved to leave, he said, “Happy hunting, Major. Get the bastards for us.”
Christian chuckled with a shake of his head. “If they only knew what I’d like to do to them, Ensign.” Matthieu saluted, and Christian left.
Since Meyerholz had orders to head immediately home, and at what would be considered top speed for an average courier ship, Matthieu took extra time to secure the shuttle for the trip through the stargate. He made it to his cabin and checked over all his possessions; none seemed to be missing.
Taking the butterfly carry-case to settle into his bunk, Matthieu looked it over, wondering what Rutherford could have been looking at. He opened each compartment in turn before realizing there were no empty slots.
It took him mere seconds to find the odd book-disk, because it was the standard Officer Service Manual. Digging his palm pad from under his pillow, Matthieu inserted it.
The label said it was the Service manual, and the first five pages of each chapter heading read like the Service manual, but after that, each chapter was filled with data about the ship, the crew, the schedules they had kept, who went to which planet surface, the works. The last five chapters were screen-shots of the energy readings taken before and after each wormhole and stargate jump.
Rutherford had to have compiled this, Matthieu realized. He had come off his shift just as Matthieu had been called to the bridge. He must have finished making his notes from his shift and inserted the book-disk just as the captain and Christian caught him.
Who could Rutherford have been spying for? This could have been his legitimate duty, because everyone on a courier ship had top scores in intelligence, and the energy readings would definitely have been part of his assignment. Since this was a shakedown tour, it was even plausible the engineers might have been instructed to keep the energy notes off their main computers. But why would Rutherford have compiled notes on the crew?
And why did he feel the need to hide the information in Matthieu’s gear? Rutherford had been on duty when they were briefed about the scheduled arrival of a Coronal shuttle in 20 hours. He then went back on duty, returning to their cabin at his end-of-shift without being informed of Christian’s arrival, nor about the change as to how they would get their crew members back.
Rutherford could have assumed exactly what Matthieu had, that there was at least the potential the Coronal shuttle had a scientific team that could overwhelm the diminished crew, giving them time to evaluate the ship’s contents. Rutherford would have been able to say, ‘That’s Sims’ carry-case; ask anyone,’ and possibly avoided interrogation.
Even if he had been informed about Christian’s arrival, when they arrived home, all their belongings would be searched as a matter of course, simply because they were fleeing an emergency situation. To get rid of the data would set ‘Sims’ up as the spy, court-marshaled, possibly executed. How Rutherford would have gloated! Matthieu’s guts trembled.
He decided to peel the tape off his abdomen and insert the secret book-disk in the slot, as he had first mentioned to Beeson. With nervous fingers, he pried back the rubbery-ribbed edging to find the slot, only to discover another book-disk was already there. Pulling it out, he saw it was a copy of a history book he already had in his carry-case, though this label had a bit of a torn edge.
Should he look at it? It seemed probable Beeson had hidden it there, since he had gone over the titles with the captain and first engineer and knew Matthieu would have recognized it as a second copy. As a result, he was certain he didn’t want to know what was on it.
But what if Rutherford had discovered the slot and placed it there? He had certainly had plenty of opportunity to do so. Matthieu was completely uncertain whether to tell the captain about Rutherford’s disk in the first place; what if this disk was even more critical?
Deciding the information on the Officer Service Manual was as comprehensive as Rutherford could have gathered in the first place, he figured this one must have been placed there by Beeson. He closed his carry-case, tucked it into his duffel as he packed for home, and got his uniform from the sonic scrubber with the intent to pack that, too. Another book-disk fell out, this one without a labeled case.
This was the absolute limit, he decided. He plugged the unlabeled, rewriteable book-disk into his palm pad. It was a series of notes, obviously made by Christian’s ADC, of all the information they had on the dead and the missing Beeson, James, and Hoffman. The ADC must have slipped it in here when he had escorted Rutherford to collect his possessions, checking the sonic scrubber for a uniform and discovering it wasn’t Rutherford’s.
Matthieu packed his uniform, taped the original book-disk to his hipbone once again, left the ADC’s disk on top of the regular disks, and lay back on his bunk to scan every single book-disk in his collection for extra notes or other alterations while he waited for the call to finally go home.