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Whoever made this mix put just enough of the real thing in to remind you what it wasn't.
"I was thinking we could try having breakfast in that probation camp," Valentine said.
"You think we will do better with the Quislings," Patel said, massaging and rotating his knees. He paused, reached for the cup, and downed half his steaming coffee-his throat must be tough as his leathers, Valentine decided-and held out the mug for a refill.
The Quislings ate in an oversized Quonset hut. Every word, every clunky of cup being set upon table, every scrap of knife and fork in a tray was magnified and bounced around by the curving walls as though the diners were musicians in a concert shell. Valentine tried to turn off his ears.
Valentine looked across the group-mostly men; there were far fewer women and children in this group-with something like hunger. These specimens were straighter, fleshier, longer of limb, and more alert of eye. Some wore tool belts or had hard hats dangling from nearby hooks; others read or did crosswords over the remains of their breakfast. He shifted his feet and cleared his throat.
"Could I have your attention please?" Valentine said.
He'd misjudged the volume required. His words were lost in the breakfast clatter and chatter.
"Oi!" Patel shouted. Patel's voice was like a mortar round exploding beside him. It almost blew him out of his boots. "Who wants to kill a few Kurians?"
The room quieted admirably as better than a hundred faces turned their way in interest.
* * * *
"Sorry, but you can't have 'em," Felshtinsky said from his office wheelchair early the next morning. He pushed the names of the probations back across his desk at Valentine and Patel, seated opposite.
"Why?" Valentine asked.
"Ex-Kurian Forces aren't allowed to just leave Liberty whenever they want. They have to be cleared by Southern Command."
"If you just need a signature, I'll take responsibility," Valentine said.
"Sorry, it's not that simple. I can't release them to you."
"What if General Lehman's HQ signs off for them?"
"It's not just Southern Command. The civilian authority has to sign off on them as well."
"Which civilian authority?" Valentine asked.
"Interstate Security Office."
Valentine knew little about the ISO, save that their field officers were called marshals.
He'd once seen one come in to Rally Base to pick up two river patrol Quislings who'd gotten drunk and decided to fish from the wrong bank of the river. The marshal wore blue pants with a navy stripe down each side and had a badge, but other than that he looked like a typical hand on a horse farm.
"I don't suppose there's someone from the ISO here."
"As a matter of fact, there is. You've got a UFR/ISO district marshal just across the street at the station. He runs a one-man show. He's got an office off our regular police force. His name's Petrie and I wish you luck with him."
* * * *
Ray Petrie had alcohol on his breath at ten thirty in the morning.
The duty sergeant at the small police station had advised them that he showed up anytime between eight and eleven, depending on how late the card games went.
You had to catch him quickly before he left for lunch, a uniformed woman struggling with a rusted padlock on an evidence cage added. So Valentine and Patel drank police-station coffee (and used the station washroom shortly thereafter; Liberty cops liked their smuggled-in beans strong) and waited for Petrie to appear.
There was already a waiting line. A couple, both in the two-tone dungarees, the woman swollen in pregnancy, waited.
"Not long now," Valentine said, looking at the mother-to-be.
"You don't know Petrie," the man said. "I was a librarian in a Youth Vanguard school. I've got a job here, filing, but our application still hasn't been approved. We don't even want to move out of town! And we met here; that's how long the wait's been."
