Free McCollum - GIBRALTAR STARS by Michael McCollum

and a paint scheme designed to blend into the surroundings.
    Corporal Dennison pulled to a halt in front of a low building with red brick walls and a roof covered with power collectors. “We’re here, ma’am. Take your identification and orders inside. I’ll deliver your kit bag to your quarters. They’ll show you where to find them when you are through with processing.”
    Climbing out of the car, Susan’s jet-black hair was ruffled by a steady, warm wind. She walked to the double glass door and stepped inside. There she encountered a guard station. In addition to the usual assortment of sensors, this one was actually manned. A Space Marine with a humorless expression sat behind a transparent shield that gave every appearance of being bulletproof.
    She was used to the slow chest-to-foot-and-back-again circuit male eyes automatically make when they encounter an attractive woman. The guard’s scan was therefore familiar, but somehow different. It lacked any of the usual signals that he was interested in her femininity. The look was more in keeping with an ancient slogan she’d once seen in a history book: “Be polite, but have a plan to kill everyone you meet.”
    “May I help you?” he asked.
    “My name is Susan Ahrendt. I have orders to report here.”
    “May I see them?”
    She slipped the necklace from around her neck, detached her identity chip and slipped it into the indicated slot. It disappeared and then reappeared in the Marine’s hand. He slipped it into another slot and a machine somewhere beeped.
    “Please look into the retina scanner, Miss Ahrendt.”
    She did as she was requested and the machine beeped twice.
    “You appear to be you. I will buzz Mr. Pembroke.”
    A few minutes later, a rear door opened and in walked a balding man of about sixty. A noticeable paunch hung over his belt. “Miss Ahrendt?” he asked, extending a hand.
    She rose and shook his hand. “Yes.”
    “I’m Lee Pembroke. I will handle your induction.”
    “Induction into what, Mr. Pembroke? They weren’t very specific at graduation.”
    “No, I doubt they were,” he said, palming the door control. He gestured for her to precede him as the door opened and a gust of wind ruffled their clothes. The air had a fine grittiness to it. “Over the next few hours, I will explain everything. We’re glad you are here. We are habitually short-handed in the creative department. We’ll put you right to work.”
    #
     

Chapter Eight
    Pembroke led the way down a concrete sidewalk decorated by a fine network of cracks from hot desert days and cold desert nights. They were in the central courtyard formed by six pentagonal buildings. The open area was graced by two shelters under which picnic tables had been arrayed, and walkways laid out in a Star of David pattern.
    Strange, stringy plants—stunted trees, really—dotted the courtyard, providing shade to the walkways. They were unfamiliar to Susan. They did not seem be to be the cacti that her Canadian upbringing had taught her to be the hallmark of the North American Southwest.
    In the center of the courtyard stood an oversize statue of a horse with a prominent mane arched above its neck. It was a stylized rendition of a horse rather than a bronze copy of the real thing. The sight caused a stirring deep within Susan’s memory. There was something familiar about it, but she couldn’t quite place where she had seen its like before.
    Their destination was the second building to the right. Pembroke ushered her through a door and into a long hallway. A glance through open doors as they passed showed her that the building was laid out for offices, with their rows of cubicles and workstations. Pembroke led her through one of the larger rooms to a glass-walled office whose window looked outward toward the perimeter fence and the brown panorama beyond.
    “Take a seat,” he instructed, gesturing toward one of the two chairs in front of his desk. He, in turn, moved to lower himself into