The footlocker and duffel bag floated out of the cramped cab and arranged themselves in neat formation behind her on their individual counter-grav units. She’d already paid the fare, and the cab’s AI called a cheerful “Have a nice day!” after her before it zipped its door shut, pivoted, and went whining back towards Nike Field.

Maneka squared her shoulders and advanced along the seemingly endless ceramacrete walkway towards Admin’s imposing front entrance with her baggage tagging obediently along behind.

Mirrored armorplast towered above her, reflecting the deep-toned blue sky and brilliant white clouds of Santa Cruz. The day was only moderately warm for early summer on Santa Cruz, but Maneka had been born and raised among craggy peaks of the planet of Everest. She much preferred a cooler, drier climate, not to mention a considerably lower atmospheric pressure, and although her Brigade uniform’s smart fabric maintained her body temperature in the range she’d selected, she felt sweat beading her forehead and gathering under her short, dark hair. At least Everest wasn’t so far out of the human-occupied norm that its citizens couldn’t adjust even to sweltering, humid sweat boxes like Santa Cruz if they had to… eventually. And at least her genetic heritage meant she tanned quickly and deeply.

Of course, she admitted to herself, the climate isn’t the only reason you’re sweating today, now is it, Maneka?

She chuckled quietly at the thought, then donned her “official” face as she approached the sidearm-equipped sentry. The impeccably uniformed Brigade corporal stood at a comfortable parade rest, impassively watching her approach. His presence, Maneka knew, was a complete anachronism. Far more effective security systems guarded the perimeter and buildings of Fort Merrit, and a standard computer interface would have been more efficient at greeting visitors and directing them to their appropriate destinations.

Yet the corporal’s assignment here carried a message which was not lost on the shiny new lieutenant. However good the technology, however lethal and dedicated the units of the Dinochrome Brigade might be, human command authority was engineered into it at every level. Ultimately, the Brigade’s Bolos were humanity’s servants. Protectors as well, yes, and trusted battle companions. But in the end, human authority must be preserved at all levels.

The corporal came to attention and saluted as Maneka stopped in front of him. She returned the salute smartly and read his nameplate as she did so.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” the noncom said briskly. “How may I assist the lieutenant?”

“Good afternoon, Corporal Morales,” she replied. “I’m reporting for assignment to the Thirty-Ninth Battalion. My orders are to report in to the Battalion CO’s office in the Admin Building.”

“I see. May I see the Lieutenant’s orders?”

“Of course.” Maneka handed across the chip folio containing not only her duty assignment orders but also all of the movement orders and transportation vouchers it had taken to get her here from the Sandhurst System. Corporal Morales flipped quickly to her assignment orders and slipped the relevant chip into his wristband minicomp, then twiddled his fingers briefly on the virtual keyboard.

From her perspective, Maneka couldn’t make out the details of the holo display the minicomp projected in front of Morales’ eyes, but the corporal obviously found what he was looking for quickly.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, snapping the chip back out of the minicomp and restoring it to its proper storage slot before he handed the entire folio back to Maneka. “The Lieutenant will find Colonel Tchaikovsky’s office on the fifteenth floor. Number 1532. Take the center grav lift, turn right at the fifteenth floor landing, and continue to the end of the corridor.”

“Thank you, Corporal Morales. Could you tell me if there’s some place I could check my baggage while I report in?”

“Yes, ma’am. Press the ‘Housekeeping’ button on the building console. It’s located to your right, just inside the entrance.”

“Thank you,” Maneka repeated, and the corporal nodded, came back to attention, and saluted her once more. She returned the courtesy and stepped past him into the Admin Building.

The building console was where Morales had indicated, and Maneka punched up Housekeeping.

“How may I assist you, Lieutenant Trevor?” a pleasant voice asked, speaking through the Brigade transceiver surgically implanted in Maneka’s left mastoid.

“I need to put my baggage in temporary storage while I report in,” she replied to the empty air.

“Of course. One moment, please.”

Maneka watched as her floating baggage twitched slightly. The building’s artificial intelligence had automatically and instantly identified her from the IFF code programmed into her implanted Brigade communications system. It took the computer a few more seconds to derive the proper command channel frequencies and codes from her baggage hand unit, which had been a civilian purchase. But it was more than equal to the challenge, and Maneka stood back as the foot locker and duffel went gliding smoothly away down a side passage.

“Your baggage will be stored pending your return, Lieutenant Trevor,” the AI assured her. “Just press the recall button on your hand unit when you wish to reclaim it.”

“Do I have to return here for that?”

“No, Lieutenant Trevor. It may take somewhat longer to route it to you, but you may recall it from any point inside the Admin Building.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“You are most welcome,” the AI replied, and Maneka walked across the lobby towards the grav lifts.

She rather doubted that the building computer had a fully developed personality. One thing any Brigade officer, even one as shiny and new-minted as she was, understood was the combined expense and complexity of the advanced psychotronics which gave Bolos complete, autonomous, functional personalities as complex as any human being’s. But even AIs which lacked full personalities carried programming which recognized and responded to courtesy… and automatic consideration for the emotions of electronic individuals was an excellent habit for a Brigade officer to develop.

The grav lift delivered her to the fifteenth floor with its customary disorienting speed and efficiency. Mindful of Morales’ instructions, she turned to the right and quickly picked up the wall signage directing her towards “Office of the Commanding Officer, 39th Batt, Dinochrome Bgde.”

The sight of those words sent a sudden bright shiver through her. It was close now, so close!

She drew a deep breath, ordered herself to project an aura of calm, and walked briskly down the corridor.

Colonel Everard Tchaikovsky had discovered years ago that if he kept his computer’s holo display adjusted to exactly the right height and angle, it not only eased the strain long hours spent in front of it imposed on his neck, but also permitted him to look directly through it at the door of his office while obviously keeping his attention focused on his routine paperwork.

Now he let his eyes appear to linger on an absolutely fascinating breakdown of the most recent squabble between Central Depot Maintenance and the Battalion’s chief armorer while he actually studied the young woman Staff Sergeant Schumer had ushered into his office.

The young woman in question stood at parade rest, waiting with every outward sign of patience for him to notice her arrival. She was small, he thought. No more than a hundred and fifty-five or a hundred sixty centimeters tall, and so slender he was tempted to think of her as delicate. Her cobalt blue eyes, set in an oval face with high cheekbones, a determined-looking, high-arched nose, and slightly pouty lips made an intriguing contrast with her very dark black hair and sandalwood complexion. They had a pronounced epicanthic fold, as well, those eyes, he noticed, and wondered exactly which strains of humankind’s zestfully bubbling genetic stew had produced her.