“The reason General Mattson took over Private Dirac is because he didn’t want him to die in combat,” Robbins said. “Dropping him into Omagh space seems rather counter to that desire, General.”
“Yes, well, the general’s desire to keep Dirac out of harm’s way has to be tempered by the fact that as of three days ago, four of my ships and more than a thousand of my people have up and disappeared, as if they never even existed,” Szilard said. “And at the end of the day, Dirac is still Special Forces. I could force the issue.”
“Mattson wouldn’t like it,” Robbins said.
“Neither would I,” Szilard said. “I have a good relationship with the general, despite his patronizing attitude toward Special Forces and me.”
“It’s not just you,” Robbins said. “He’s patronizing to everyone.”
“Yes, he’s an equal opportunity asshole,” Szilard said. “And he’s aware of it, which he thinks means it’s okay. Be that as it may, as much as I don’t want to get on his bad side, I will if I have to. But I don’t think I will have to.”
A waiter came over to take Szilard’s plate; Szilard ordered dessert. Robbins waited until the server left. “Why don’t you think you’ll have to?” he asked.
“What would you say if I told you we already had Special Forces at Omagh, making preparations to take back the system?” Szilard asked.
“I’d be skeptical,” Robbins said. “That sort of activity would be noticed sooner or later, and the Obin are ruthless. They wouldn’t tolerate their presence if they found out about it.”
“You’re right about that,” Szilard said. “But you’d be wrong to be skeptical. Special Forces have been at Omagh for over a year now. They’ve even been inside Covell Station. I think we can get Private Dirac in and out without raising too much attention.”
“How?” Robbins asked.
“Very carefully,” Szilard said. “And by using a few new toys.”
The waiter returned with the general’s dessert: Two large Toll House cookies. Robbins stared at the plate. He loved Toll House cookies. “You realize that if you’re wrong, and you can’t sneak Dirac past the Obin, they’ll kill him, your secret Omagh reclamation project will be exposed, and any information Dirac has about Boutin will die with him,” Robbins said.
Szilard took a cookie. “Risk,” he said. “It’s always in the equation. If we do this and we botch it, then we are well and truly fucked. But if we don’t do it, we risk Dirac never recovering Boutin’s memories, and then we’re vulnerable to what the Obin have planned next. And then we’ll be well and truly fucked then. If we’re going to be fucked, Colonel, I prefer to get fucked on my feet instead of on my knees.”
“You have a way with mental imagery, General,” Robbins said.
“Thank you, Colonel,” Szilard said. “I try.” He reached over, took the second cookie, and offered it to Robbins. “Here,” he said. “I saw you coveting it.”
Robbins stared at the cookie, then looked around. “I can’t take that,” he said.
“Sure you can,” Szilard said.
“I’m not supposed to eat anything here,” Robbins said.
“So what?” Szilard said. “Screw ’em. It’s a ridiculous tradition and you know it. So break it. Take the cookie.”
Robbins took the cookie and stared at it glumly.
“Oh, good God,” Szilard said. “Do I have to order you to eat the damn thing?”
“It might help,” Robbins said.
“Fine,” Szilard said. “Colonel, I’m giving you a direct order. Eat the fucking cookie.”
Robbins ate it. The waiter was scandalized.
“Behold,” Harry Wilson said to Jared, as they walked into the cargo hold of the Shikra. “Your chariot.”
The “chariot” in question consisted of a carbon fiber basket seat, two extremely small ion engines of limited power and maneuverability, one on each side of the basket seat, and an office-refrigerator–sized object positioned directly behind the seat.
“This is an ugly chariot,” Jared said.
Wilson chuckled. Jared’s sense of humor had improved over the last few weeks, or at the very least it had become more to Wilson’s liking—it reminded him of the sarcastic Charles Boutin he knew. Wilson felt both pleasure and wariness about this: pleasure that his and Cainen’s work was making a difference; wariness because Boutin was, after all, a traitor to humanity. Wilson liked Jared enough not to wish that fate on him.
“It’s ugly but it’s state-of-the-art,” Wilson said. He walked over and slapped the refrigerator-looking object. “This is the smallest Skip Drive ever created,” he said. “Hot off the assembly line. And not only is it small, but it’s an example of the first real advance we’ve had in Skip Drive technology in decades.”
“Let me guess,” Jared said. “It’s based on that Consu technology we stole from the Rraey.”
“You make it sound like a bad thing,” Wilson said.