officials. Small antigrav multi-cam-eye recorders, somewhat larger than remotes, hovered above the argument. They spun and whirred, jostling one another for the best views of the altercation.
“The Feeds have released their hounds.” Stephanos looked over his shoulder. “I’ve had a lifetime of their complaints already on this trip. They’re not happy about having to travel personally to cover their news.”
“Our security plan allows them one recording device each, which can’t go remote. Fortunately for us, the Pilgrimage doesn’t have the nodes to provide a continuous mesh network.” Edones gestured toward the main corridor. “If you’ll follow me, Senator, I’ll brief you on the security plans.”
Oleander ended up at the tail of the procession, behind the security posse and beside the muttering Myron. Between Myron’s complaints about the lack of facilities, she heard scraps of conversation floating between Edones and Stephanos.
“Our security plans will stand scrutiny by the Terrans,” Edones said.
Stephanos mentioned Terran State Prince Duval. She craned to hear the colonel’s answer, but Myron poked her in the shoulder.
“If the Feed correspondents are allowed remotes, then why can’t I operate one?” Myron asked.
After she finished explaining that cam-eye platforms had to be kept near enough to be controlled by the correspondent’s equipment, which didn’t really qualify as remote operation, the conversation between Edones and Stephanos had moved on.
“They won’t like being barred from the classified sessions, but we’ve got no alternative.” Edones jerked his thumb toward the mayhem they left behind at the docks.
“As long as net-think believes these men are getting fair trials. If I hear even a whiff of a rumor of railroading, I’m making it the Directorate’s business to stamp it out.”
“We can’t affect net-think.”
“Perception is everything.” The senator paused, and their procession bunched up and stuttered to a halt. Stephanos looked sharply at Edones. “Those correspondents are the only senses net-think has in G-145. They must show a cooperative Terran-Autonomist-Pilgrimage Tribunal giving this isolationist scum their due process of interstellar law. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Edones said.
Myron poked Oleander in the shoulder again and she tried not to grit her teeth. It was going to be a very long morning.
At the infirmary desk, the medical technician on shift glanced at Warrior Commander before firmly averting her eyes. The Minoan hung back, staying a couple of meters behind Ariane, who had almost forgotten its presence.
“The sergeant’s monitor says he’s awake.” The technician looked at her console. “Yesterday, he was only conscious for an hour or so. He made a supreme effort to speak with his family, using head shot only, of course. His wife might suspect the extent of his injuries, but his kids don’t.”
“I’m sure that was his purpose.” Ariane smiled. She’d never met Joyce’s children and only met his wife once.
“He collapsed afterward. But early this morning he looked good enough to move him out of critical care.” The technician frowned. “Comm to the room is down. That node has to be replaced—just like everything else.”
“It worked this morning.” Ariane shrugged in sympathy. This was why generational ships had a year or two of downtime after hauling a buoy to an unexplored solar system. They spent ten to seventy years at sub-light speeds, and when they arrived to set up the buoy, allowing faster-than-light (FTL) travel to that system, their technology was dated. The Pilgrimage III was being retrofitted with new ComNet nodes, as well as other enhancements.
“Go ahead, while I call maintenance. His room’s around that corner and at the far end.”
She walked in the direction the woman pointed and found a long corridor with an exit beside Joyce’s room at the end. The technician wasn’t correct in
“The Feeds have released their hounds.” Stephanos looked over his shoulder. “I’ve had a lifetime of their complaints already on this trip. They’re not happy about having to travel personally to cover their news.”
“Our security plan allows them one recording device each, which can’t go remote. Fortunately for us, the Pilgrimage doesn’t have the nodes to provide a continuous mesh network.” Edones gestured toward the main corridor. “If you’ll follow me, Senator, I’ll brief you on the security plans.”
Oleander ended up at the tail of the procession, behind the security posse and beside the muttering Myron. Between Myron’s complaints about the lack of facilities, she heard scraps of conversation floating between Edones and Stephanos.
“Our security plans will stand scrutiny by the Terrans,” Edones said.
Stephanos mentioned Terran State Prince Duval. She craned to hear the colonel’s answer, but Myron poked her in the shoulder.
“If the Feed correspondents are allowed remotes, then why can’t I operate one?” Myron asked.
After she finished explaining that cam-eye platforms had to be kept near enough to be controlled by the correspondent’s equipment, which didn’t really qualify as remote operation, the conversation between Edones and Stephanos had moved on.
“They won’t like being barred from the classified sessions, but we’ve got no alternative.” Edones jerked his thumb toward the mayhem they left behind at the docks.
“As long as net-think believes these men are getting fair trials. If I hear even a whiff of a rumor of railroading, I’m making it the Directorate’s business to stamp it out.”
“We can’t affect net-think.”
“Perception is everything.” The senator paused, and their procession bunched up and stuttered to a halt. Stephanos looked sharply at Edones. “Those correspondents are the only senses net-think has in G-145. They must show a cooperative Terran-Autonomist-Pilgrimage Tribunal giving this isolationist scum their due process of interstellar law. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Edones said.
Myron poked Oleander in the shoulder again and she tried not to grit her teeth. It was going to be a very long morning.
At the infirmary desk, the medical technician on shift glanced at Warrior Commander before firmly averting her eyes. The Minoan hung back, staying a couple of meters behind Ariane, who had almost forgotten its presence.
“The sergeant’s monitor says he’s awake.” The technician looked at her console. “Yesterday, he was only conscious for an hour or so. He made a supreme effort to speak with his family, using head shot only, of course. His wife might suspect the extent of his injuries, but his kids don’t.”
“I’m sure that was his purpose.” Ariane smiled. She’d never met Joyce’s children and only met his wife once.
“He collapsed afterward. But early this morning he looked good enough to move him out of critical care.” The technician frowned. “Comm to the room is down. That node has to be replaced—just like everything else.”
“It worked this morning.” Ariane shrugged in sympathy. This was why generational ships had a year or two of downtime after hauling a buoy to an unexplored solar system. They spent ten to seventy years at sub-light speeds, and when they arrived to set up the buoy, allowing faster-than-light (FTL) travel to that system, their technology was dated. The Pilgrimage III was being retrofitted with new ComNet nodes, as well as other enhancements.
“Go ahead, while I call maintenance. His room’s around that corner and at the far end.”
She walked in the direction the woman pointed and found a long corridor with an exit beside Joyce’s room at the end. The technician wasn’t correct in
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