assault?”
“No,” said Katya, “but there was no one else in the corridor. It had to have been…”
“That’s supposition. You’re not a witness. It will be dealt with, don’t worry.”
“But I am a witness, aren’t I? After the fact, but I’m still a witness. Don’t you want a statement or anything?”
Another silence. Katya suddenly wondered if the major was consulting with somebody else.
“That won’t be necessary. Base security can take it from here.”
Katya wanted to say, “But they won’t investigate their own people properly,” when she caught herself.
It really didn’t take much to earn a beating these days.
“I understand,” she said. “I’ll leave it with you, major.”
“Thank you for calling it in, Captain Kuriakova. Good night.”
The line closed before she could reply.
Katya looked back along the corridor. The man’s belt was still lying there. She turned and walked away, feeling she’d failed a test.
It wasn’t what you’d call a hotel. Many of the larger settlements contained hotels or hostels or similar establishments, but Mologa Station was too small for that. Originally a mining site, its tunnels cut by fusion torches in strange organic curves and meanders to follow mineral seams, Mologa was now primarily a heavy engineering plant producing boats and mobile facilities for the war effort, hence the tight security and strong Federal presence.
Katya’s security grade was Beta Plus, a full three grades higher than most civilians and the product of being in the FMA’s good books after the events of six months earlier, the very events that had begun the war. In the same waterproof container that held the boat’s papers and her personal documents was a small box made of wood.
Real wood. Real, actual wood, grown as a luxury in one of the larger hydroponics farms. Inside the box was a medal on a little red ribbon, upon which was her name, and the legend, Hero of Russalka . There was also a slip of paper, the citation for the medal, which explained why it had been awarded. It used a lot of words like “heroic” and “selfless” when talking about her, and “villainy” and “traitorous” when talking about the Yagizban. It also gave the date on which the honour had been presented to her. That was a little lie, though; the medal had never been presented to her at all. Instead it had been delivered by courier, who’d just had her submit to a retinal scan, handed over a package, and left. The box had been in the package, and the medal had been in the box.
She’d barely looked at the medal. Had read the citation once and experienced trouble finishing it, racked by embarrassment and a faint sense of disgust. It hadn’t been like that. It just hadn’t. But it was the official version now, and who was she to argue with the Federal Maritime Authority’s telling of events? After all, she had only been there, had only lived through it all.
The wooden box, though… the box she liked. Sometimes she would just hold the box, stroking its cover gently with the pad of her thumb, sensing the fine grain against her skin. What must it be like to see trees just… there? Growing where they liked, randomly dotted about?
Still, this was nature, too. Stone was natural, even if the torches had melted it smooth. She hadn’t needed to follow the signs to the Mologa Hotel – she’d been there often enough – but lost in her reverie, listening to her own tired thoughts and the sound of her boots on the decking grates, it was a surprise when she turned a corner and there it was. Mologa Hotel, a long, dimly lit tunnel with staggered rows of hatches set into each wall. Admittedly, it looked more like a mass morgue, but it was better than nothing.
She walked along, looking for a green vacancy light. Unsurprisingly, the ones nearest the tunnel entrance all showed red “Occupied” flashes with a few amber lights to show freshly vacated units that still had to be cleaned before
“No,” said Katya, “but there was no one else in the corridor. It had to have been…”
“That’s supposition. You’re not a witness. It will be dealt with, don’t worry.”
“But I am a witness, aren’t I? After the fact, but I’m still a witness. Don’t you want a statement or anything?”
Another silence. Katya suddenly wondered if the major was consulting with somebody else.
“That won’t be necessary. Base security can take it from here.”
Katya wanted to say, “But they won’t investigate their own people properly,” when she caught herself.
It really didn’t take much to earn a beating these days.
“I understand,” she said. “I’ll leave it with you, major.”
“Thank you for calling it in, Captain Kuriakova. Good night.”
The line closed before she could reply.
Katya looked back along the corridor. The man’s belt was still lying there. She turned and walked away, feeling she’d failed a test.
It wasn’t what you’d call a hotel. Many of the larger settlements contained hotels or hostels or similar establishments, but Mologa Station was too small for that. Originally a mining site, its tunnels cut by fusion torches in strange organic curves and meanders to follow mineral seams, Mologa was now primarily a heavy engineering plant producing boats and mobile facilities for the war effort, hence the tight security and strong Federal presence.
Katya’s security grade was Beta Plus, a full three grades higher than most civilians and the product of being in the FMA’s good books after the events of six months earlier, the very events that had begun the war. In the same waterproof container that held the boat’s papers and her personal documents was a small box made of wood.
Real wood. Real, actual wood, grown as a luxury in one of the larger hydroponics farms. Inside the box was a medal on a little red ribbon, upon which was her name, and the legend, Hero of Russalka . There was also a slip of paper, the citation for the medal, which explained why it had been awarded. It used a lot of words like “heroic” and “selfless” when talking about her, and “villainy” and “traitorous” when talking about the Yagizban. It also gave the date on which the honour had been presented to her. That was a little lie, though; the medal had never been presented to her at all. Instead it had been delivered by courier, who’d just had her submit to a retinal scan, handed over a package, and left. The box had been in the package, and the medal had been in the box.
She’d barely looked at the medal. Had read the citation once and experienced trouble finishing it, racked by embarrassment and a faint sense of disgust. It hadn’t been like that. It just hadn’t. But it was the official version now, and who was she to argue with the Federal Maritime Authority’s telling of events? After all, she had only been there, had only lived through it all.
The wooden box, though… the box she liked. Sometimes she would just hold the box, stroking its cover gently with the pad of her thumb, sensing the fine grain against her skin. What must it be like to see trees just… there? Growing where they liked, randomly dotted about?
Still, this was nature, too. Stone was natural, even if the torches had melted it smooth. She hadn’t needed to follow the signs to the Mologa Hotel – she’d been there often enough – but lost in her reverie, listening to her own tired thoughts and the sound of her boots on the decking grates, it was a surprise when she turned a corner and there it was. Mologa Hotel, a long, dimly lit tunnel with staggered rows of hatches set into each wall. Admittedly, it looked more like a mass morgue, but it was better than nothing.
She walked along, looking for a green vacancy light. Unsurprisingly, the ones nearest the tunnel entrance all showed red “Occupied” flashes with a few amber lights to show freshly vacated units that still had to be cleaned before
Similar Books
Baby Love
Maureen Carter
Dreams at Silver Spires
Ann Bryant
Communion Town
Sam Thompson
The Husband List -2
Victoria Alexander
Promising Angela
Kim Vogel Sawyer
The Choir Boats
Daniel Rabuzzi
Chaos Theory
M Evonne Dobson
The Afterlife
Gary Soto
The Godless One
J. Clayton Rogers