Strong Arm Tactics Read Online Free

and were authorized to do so, or wouldn’t know what to do to launch one if s/he managed to get into the cockpit in the first place. The most the ground-level military police usually did was prevent anyone from hurting him- or herself or damaging valuable systems. As a military base, Treadmill’s administration had the authority to oust any civilian who caused trouble, no matter how much investment that civilian had put into profit-making infrastructure. Just that knowledge kept down the active protests. Grubstakes on T-class planets were hard to come by.
    “This way, sir,” said the eager ensign in the knitted vest. Daivid followed him to a small building to the left of the barracks hall.
    O O O
    No trace remained of Daivid’s predecessor’s belongings in the officer’s personal quarters. Wolfe looked around the drab beige chamber trying to get a sense of the man or woman who had occupied it before he had. He couldn’t find a clue. The rooms, a bedroom, a bath, a walk-in closet and a small office, had all been cleaned—hosed out, he guessed by the streaks on the blue-gray floor. Well, he couldn’t smell anything unsavory. Chances were the former CO hadn’t died there.
    Wolfe unpacked his regulation trunk into the chest of drawers and closet provided. As usual, the closet contained five hangers, as per standard supply orders, sufficient for all his uniforms. Officers were expected to provide their own hangers for any civilian clothing they retained. Water glass, soap, towels, shaver, and hair dryer in the lavatory, water saver-purifier, small storage cabinet behind the sink mirror. Impersonal. That was one of the things he liked about the military. He didn’t have to make choices about what he wore or what his quarters looked like. It didn’t offend anyone when he chose one kind of suit, or put a company out of business when he stopped buying their shoes. Those selections were made for him.
    The briefing clipboard lay on the desk in the small office. He scrolled up the company rolls and had the information sent as an oral reading to his personal communications unit. The receiver screen every trooper in the TWC forces wore rode the back of the left sleeve ten centimeters above the wrist. When a company suited up in battle armor the unit was inserted into a purpose-built protective slot to activate communications between troopers and command. They were all voice-activated, and had to be personally tuned so they couldn’t be captured and used by the enemy to listen in on transmissions. For privacy, one could wear an ear-bud, though some officers had their audio receivers implanted in the mastoid bone behind the ear or in a piercing in the upper pinna. Daivid had decided to have a mastoid receiver. It didn’t bang against the side of his head the way ear-implants did, he’d still be in touch with his command even if his ear got shot off, and the sound quality he got when he was listening to music through the unit was awesome.
    “Aaooorru, Dompeter,” the flat voice intoned directly into his aural nerves. “Corlist. Born Mishagui, Vom, Beta Antares system …”
    He took off the uniform he had traveled in and put it in the cleaning trunk. Working just fine, he observed, listening to the hum that started up as soon as the lid dropped. His dress whites would come out spotless with perfect seams, perfect creases. Efficient. He brought out fatigues and laid them on the bed. Impersonal. Regulation. No hurt feelings involved. He wrapped himself in his white, service-issued bathrobe and turned on the shower. No sonic cleanser here, he was pleased to see. He hated having the outer layer of dead cells shivered off him by vibrations they told him he couldn’t hear. They were wrong: he could hear the high-pitched whine just fine, and he hated it. Sonic cleansers were standard on all interplanetary transports except luxury liners. Space service personnel didn’t travel on those.
    He almost missed the sonic cleanser when