Torres.
Yeah, and so what if they do? he asked himself. If I can’t take advantage of the family name in such a small way, then I might as well drop out of the Corps.
This wasn’t the first time the thought had occurred to him. And he knew that it wouldn’t be the last.
He followed Inez the rest of the way to the base, but once they entered camp he quickened his pace to catch up with her. “Go on ahead to your tent,” he said. “I’ll check us in.”
“Thank you, sir.” Inez glided away, heading toward the women’s quarters. Jorge skied toward the headquarters lodge on the other side of the compound. He unfastened his skis and parked them upright in a rack beside the tent, then opened the plastic door leading to the vestibule. A moment to unzip his parka and remove his balaclava and gloves, then he opened the inner door and entered the dome.
The lodge was vacant save for a couple of duty officers seated at folding tables. The tent was warm enough that, despite the chill temperatures outside, they were stripped down to the brown waistcoats and blue unitards that were the standard Corps uniform. Jorge noted that they’d removed their boots and were wearing cat-skin moccasins instead; perhaps not the wisest thing to do, in case there was an emergency that would force them to run outside in a hurry, but he wasn’t about to make an issue of it. After all, this expedition was largely a research-and-training mission; he could afford to let his people relax a little, and they seemed to appreciate the fact that their commander wasn’t a martinet.
Greg Dillon looked up as Jorge came in. “That was fast,” he murmured. “Didn’t take your time getting back, did you, sir?”
“You made it sound important. When is the Monroe due in?”
“They’re still an hour or so out. And don’t ask who they’re coming to get . . . you’ll have to read the message to find out.” Greg picked up a datapad. “I’ve already downloaded it. Just enter your code.”
Taking the pad from him, Jorge sauntered over to a vacant chair and sat down. His thighs ached, so he stretched out his legs, absently massaging them with one hand to keep the muscles from cramping. The message had the familiar-yet-seldom-seen security header of a Priority One dispatch; everything below it was an encrypted mess of random numbers and letters. He typed in his six-digit security prefix, then his name. The message immediately unscrambled, allowing him to read it.
COEX PRIORITY ONE 1/11/23 10:47:34 CMT
To: Montero, J. Lt. (CO, 4 th Co.)
Fm: Lee, S. Gen. (Cencom)
Grade: TS
Re: Withdrawal of Personnel
Request immediate removal from current Algonquin expedition of junior officer under your command: Corp. Inez Torres. Situation urgent & classified.
Further request that you accompany Corp. Torres. Relinquish expedition command to Sgt. Greg Dillon.
CES Monroe sent to Algonquin Base to retrieve both of you. Expect arrival soon. Briefing will be held en route.
Personal: Sorry about this, Jorge. I’ll let you know what is going on when I see you.—Sawyer.
Jorge read the dispatch twice, not quite believing what he was seeing. He knew that it couldn’t be a gag—he’d known the Corps’ commanding officer since childhood, and General Lee wasn’t inclined to make practical jokes—but nonetheless, there was a certain surrealism to this message that made him wonder, if only for a moment or two, whether he was suffering the effects of hypothermia and just didn’t know it.
But, no, the message was real. Sawyer Lee had sent the Monroe all the way up here to fetch a couple of Corps officers who, by odd coincidence, had been out in the snow together less than a couple of hours ago. Watching polar cows, of all things . . .
“Lieutenant?” Greg’s quiet voice broke into his train of thought. “Sir? Is something wrong?”
Jorge didn’t respond at once. He encrypted the message again, then relayed it to his own pad before deleting it
Yeah, and so what if they do? he asked himself. If I can’t take advantage of the family name in such a small way, then I might as well drop out of the Corps.
This wasn’t the first time the thought had occurred to him. And he knew that it wouldn’t be the last.
He followed Inez the rest of the way to the base, but once they entered camp he quickened his pace to catch up with her. “Go on ahead to your tent,” he said. “I’ll check us in.”
“Thank you, sir.” Inez glided away, heading toward the women’s quarters. Jorge skied toward the headquarters lodge on the other side of the compound. He unfastened his skis and parked them upright in a rack beside the tent, then opened the plastic door leading to the vestibule. A moment to unzip his parka and remove his balaclava and gloves, then he opened the inner door and entered the dome.
The lodge was vacant save for a couple of duty officers seated at folding tables. The tent was warm enough that, despite the chill temperatures outside, they were stripped down to the brown waistcoats and blue unitards that were the standard Corps uniform. Jorge noted that they’d removed their boots and were wearing cat-skin moccasins instead; perhaps not the wisest thing to do, in case there was an emergency that would force them to run outside in a hurry, but he wasn’t about to make an issue of it. After all, this expedition was largely a research-and-training mission; he could afford to let his people relax a little, and they seemed to appreciate the fact that their commander wasn’t a martinet.
Greg Dillon looked up as Jorge came in. “That was fast,” he murmured. “Didn’t take your time getting back, did you, sir?”
“You made it sound important. When is the Monroe due in?”
“They’re still an hour or so out. And don’t ask who they’re coming to get . . . you’ll have to read the message to find out.” Greg picked up a datapad. “I’ve already downloaded it. Just enter your code.”
Taking the pad from him, Jorge sauntered over to a vacant chair and sat down. His thighs ached, so he stretched out his legs, absently massaging them with one hand to keep the muscles from cramping. The message had the familiar-yet-seldom-seen security header of a Priority One dispatch; everything below it was an encrypted mess of random numbers and letters. He typed in his six-digit security prefix, then his name. The message immediately unscrambled, allowing him to read it.
COEX PRIORITY ONE 1/11/23 10:47:34 CMT
To: Montero, J. Lt. (CO, 4 th Co.)
Fm: Lee, S. Gen. (Cencom)
Grade: TS
Re: Withdrawal of Personnel
Request immediate removal from current Algonquin expedition of junior officer under your command: Corp. Inez Torres. Situation urgent & classified.
Further request that you accompany Corp. Torres. Relinquish expedition command to Sgt. Greg Dillon.
CES Monroe sent to Algonquin Base to retrieve both of you. Expect arrival soon. Briefing will be held en route.
Personal: Sorry about this, Jorge. I’ll let you know what is going on when I see you.—Sawyer.
Jorge read the dispatch twice, not quite believing what he was seeing. He knew that it couldn’t be a gag—he’d known the Corps’ commanding officer since childhood, and General Lee wasn’t inclined to make practical jokes—but nonetheless, there was a certain surrealism to this message that made him wonder, if only for a moment or two, whether he was suffering the effects of hypothermia and just didn’t know it.
But, no, the message was real. Sawyer Lee had sent the Monroe all the way up here to fetch a couple of Corps officers who, by odd coincidence, had been out in the snow together less than a couple of hours ago. Watching polar cows, of all things . . .
“Lieutenant?” Greg’s quiet voice broke into his train of thought. “Sir? Is something wrong?”
Jorge didn’t respond at once. He encrypted the message again, then relayed it to his own pad before deleting it
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