Social? Yeah, he’d be with Cory, but he’d be doing vid games or something —he used to win bar tabs that way. Real easy-going. Sometimes you’d get a little rise out of him, you know, showing off, that sort of thing, but he always struck me as downright shy. The games were his outlet. He’d be off in the corner in the middle of a crowd, Cory’d be at the table talking physics and rocks, yeah, they were a real odd pair, different, but it was like Cory did the headwork and Dek was all realtime—
Yeah, Dek had a temper. But so did Cory. You never pushed her .
Yeah, they slept together —but they weren’t exclusive. Minded their own business—didn’t get real close to anybody. People tried to take advantage of them, them being kids, they’d stand their ground… Cory more than Dek, actually. She’d draw the line and he’d back her up… not a big guy, older guys used to try to hit on him—he’d stand for about so much, that was all, they’d find it out.
Honest? I don’t know, they weren’t in anything crooked I ever heard…
There was a ‘driver out there. He had the up to date charts. Company records had it arriving March 24 and the accident as March 12. But the ships’ logs were tied up in BM regulations and the mag storage had been dumped. A panel by panel search of the two ships hadn’t turned up any illicit storage, and Wills hadn’t found any datacards in the miners’ rooms.
Which didn’t mean no datacards had gotten off the ship. Hell of a case for customs to wave past. Administration could come blazing in demanding answers on that.
But no one had told him early on there was any question about the charts; and he consequently hadn’t told Wills. And now the evidence was God knew where. Or if it still existed. You tried to do some justice in this job. There was a kid in hospital in more trouble than he was able to understand, up against a woman with enough money to see him hauled back to Sol—and into courts where Money, the military, dissatisfied contractors, and various labor and antiwar organizations were going to blow it up into an issue with a capital I.
Salvatore understood what they were asking him to do. Found himself thinking how they didn’t demote you down, just sideways, into some limbo like an advisory board no one listened to, out of the corporate track altogether.
He had a wife. A daughter in school, in Administrative Science—a daughter who looked to her father for the contacts that would make all the difference. Jilly was bright. She was so damned bright. And how did he tell her—or Mariko—this nowhere kid in hospital was worth Jilly’s chances?
He took another deep breath from the inhaler, thought: Hell, Dekker’s been no angel. He’s got a police record on Sol, juvenile stuff. Mother bailed him out. Nothing he’s done that we can prove…
But kids don’t know what they’re doing. If the kid can’t use good sense, use it for him.
He felt the slight giddiness the inhaler caused: don’t overdo it, his doctor said, and rationed the inhalers: his doctor didn’t have William Payne on his back. Or a wife and daughter whose lives a recalcitrant kid could ruin.
If Dekker had used his head he wouldn’t be where he was. Salvatore knew kids: kids never made mistakes, kids were too smart to make mistakes—but this kid had made a mistake, he was in far over his head. His partner was dead, a lot of survivor-guilt was wound around that—give the kid an out, that was the answer. No kid was going to understand politics and labor unions and defense budgets. Dekker had nothing to win that way and nothing but grief if he tried. Give him an excuse, offer him a way not to be accountable for his mistakes.
Before his mouth put him in real trouble.
The Department of Statistics says that the rise in birth rates this year reflects the rising number of females in the population, which will only continue to rise. Commenting on this, a spokesman for James R. Reynolds Hospital said today that the company should place contraceptives on the general benefits list. The average number of hours worked has fallen 10% during the last five years while the standard of living has continued to rise…
“Screw that,” Meg said.
“That’s what they don’t want you to do,” Sal said… population increase of 15% during the last decade…
“Then why in hell are they doing overtime?”… President Towney declares that R2 is facing a population crisis, and urges all women to consider carefully their personal economic situation. Statistics prove that women who postpone childbearing until after age 30 will on average enjoy a 25% higher standard of living. President Towney reminds all workers whether male or female that those who desire to advance in the company should Be Careful…
“Think they’ll advance us if we’re careful?” Meg snorted.
“Maybe we should go tell them we’re waiting,” Sal said.
You got the vid blasting away in the gym. You couldn’t escape it. They were sitting there sweating, waiting the breath to do the next round with the machines, and Towney was blithering again.
On the other hand…
Meg looked at her nails. It was a hobby, growing nails in heavy time. They all got clipped when you went to serious work. Or they broke off, eventually, in the dry cold.
Mostly she didn’t want to look up, because there was this chelovek just come in that she sincerely didn’t want the notice of. This gym, Sal wanted. And she’d said to Sal she’d as soon do something a little less exclusive.
“Sal.”
“Yeah, I see ‘im.”
Meg looked from under her brows, tried to look like furniture, heart thumping.
Tall guy, hair shaved up, Nordic or something: his name was Mitch, he was a Shepherd tech chief, and he was a friend of Sal’s. Not of hers—most definitely not of hers. Mitch had seen them and done this little take, just a half a heartbeat, and gone on over to the weights.
“I think I’d better evaporate,” she said to Sal.
“No. Sit.”
It was fairly well Shepherd territory they were in, this little gym near the end of helldeck. It was a gym Sal had always had rights in. She didn’t. And this Mitch—Mitch never had approved of their partnership… mildly put.
Sal got up and went and talked with him. Meg tried not to be so forward as to read lips, but she could read Sal, and it wasn’t thoroughly happy.
Then Sal put her arm around Mitch and steered back toward her.
“Meg,” Mitch said.
It was her cussed nature that she wouldn’t stand up. She strangled a towel, tilted her head to get a look at him against the lights and gave him a cool smile. “B’jour, Mitch, que pasa?”
He did rab the way Shepherds did, fash. He meant the same in his way. He didn’t speak the speech, damned sure. Didn’t do the deeds. He said, “Kady. How are you doing?”
“Oh, fair.”
“That’s good. That’s good, Kady. No noise, no fusses. You’re friend of a friend of a friend, you understand. That’s gotten you this far. I must say I’ve been impressed.”
“You’re a sonuvabitch, Mitchell. Nice not seeing you lately.”
Mitch smiled. Good-looking sonuvabitch. And having the authority to toss her out of here, and out of Sal’s life.
“Don’t screw up, Kady. You’re on tolerance. You’ve run the line damned well so far. I’ve told Sal, there’s a real chance on you.”
“Take it and screw with it. I’m not on your tolerance.”
Mitch’s brows went up. Then he got this down-his-nose look, shrugged and walked away.
Meg rubbed the bridge of her nose, not wanting to look at Sal. She didn’t know why she’d done that. Honestly didn’t know why. It wasn’t outstanding good sense.
“Sorry, Aboujib.”
“Yeah, well.” Sal dropped down to her heels, arms on knees. “He asked, he got, he knew he was pushing. He’s all right.”
“Yeah. I know how all right he is. Sumbitch. Little-g god. Shit-all he’s done for you.”
Silence from Sal a moment. She’d gone too far with that one. Finally Sal said, “They’ve heard about the upset in our room. Mitch wants us out. Says lease and go
, get out. They’re worried.”
“Hell if!” Meg said. “We’re close, dammit. What’s he bloody care?”
Sal’s dark face was all frown. “We do got a warning.”
“Yeah, well, Aboujib.”
“Severe warning.”
“Wants me out of here, too, let’s be honest. You get a lease, I’ll stay here and hold us a spot on the ship.”
“Didn’t say that.”
“I’m not saying split, dammit, I’m saying I stay here and hold us a spot and you keep your friends happy.”
“He’s advising both of us.”
She took a tag end of the towel, mopped her forehead, an excuse to gather her composure. “We’re that close. Dammit, Sal, you don’t get that many breaks. There won’t be another.”
Sal didn’t say anything for a moment. Meg sat there thinking, Sal’s break’s with them: her real break is with them, if she toes the line. Damn sons of bitches. Couldn’t help her. Couldn’t take her in. Toss a kid out like that… make her turn spirals til she’s proved herself—hell if, Mitchell.
Sal said, finally, “Come on. Out of here.”
On the walk, out in the noise and the traffic of the’deck: “I don’t think there’s a bug there—Mitch wouldn’t talk, else. But there’s a word out, Meg: I got to confess, I maybe said too much.”
“About what?”
“Ben got data off that they got when they were after that ship. He’s been working with it and he doesn’t give a damn what it is to anybody else, it’s his charts and he’s not going to see it dumped. He said that.”
Meg took a long, long breath. “Merde. That’s what you told Mitch?”
“Mitch came to me. They wanted a copy.”
“Ben’d kill you.”
Sal kept her voice low, beneath the noise and the echoes. “Yeah. I know it. But they won’t make the same use of it—just the information, just those chart numbers. You got to fund me, Kady. Mitch’s got my card right now. Access to our locker for the next while.”
“Shit, Aboujib!”
“On the other hand—”
“This thing’s got too many hands as is!”
“On the other hand, Shepherds have got their eyes on us after this. Dunno what they can do with those charts—but they’re thinking there’s something just damn ni-kulturny about Bird’s ship being tied up, about this kid getting killed out there, about the cops looking through the stuff—”
“You told him this. You went to him.”
Sal ducked her head. “I was worried. Worried about whether we shouldn’t cast off and get clear of this, if you want the truth. You ask yourself why the cops would turn our rooms upside down, ask yourself if there’s any damn thing we’ve been involved in out of the ordinary except we got two friends trying to file on a ship.”
“Aboujib,—”
“Yeah, I know. I was just asking a question. I said I thought it could be data they’re looking for—”
“Aboujib, do you seriously mind telling me in the hereafter when you’re going to pull a lift like this?”
“Yeah, well, I figured you’d worry.”
“I’d have killed you.—Ben know?”
“No.”
“So how long before he finds out? God, Aboujib, that jeune fils is no fool. He could’ve bugged the damn card.”
Sal pursed her lips. “Did.”
“Then he does know?”
“Neg. Of course not. He and I both came through the Institute.”
.
CHAPTER 8
IT was tests: put the washer on the stick, fit the pegs in the stupid holes. Add chains of figures. Dekker knew what they were up to when they gave him the kid toys.
“Screw that,” he said, and shoved the whole box onto the floor—wishing it was lighter g. But it made a satisfying racket. He looked up at the disconcerted psychologist and said, “Screw all of you. I’m not taking your tests until I see a lawyer.”
He stood up and the orderlies looked ready to jump, the petite psychologist frozen, slate held like a shield.
He coin-flipped the washer he had in his hand. Caught it before it fell, then tossed it toward the corner, looking at the orderlies.
“You want to come along?” Tommy said. He was the one who talked.
“Yeah,” he said, shrugged, and walked over to the door where Tommy and Alvie could take hold of him. They had worked it out: he walked and they didn’t break his arms.
If he was quiet they kept the restraints light and he could keep his hands free. It was hell when you couldn’t scratch.
“Vid,” he said when they were putting him to bed. There was vid in this room. Tommy turned it on for him. He didn’t even want to ponder where he’d been, what they were doing, it was just one more try, no different than the rest.
But it scared him.
Another doctor walked in, turned off the vid. He’d never seen this man before. But it was a doctor. He had the inevitable slate, the pocketful of pens and lights and probes. And a name-badge that said Driscoll.
Driscoll walked over, sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Don’t get friendly,” Dekker said. “I’m not in the mood.”
He enjoyed seeing the bastard sit back and take on an offended surliness. He was down to small pleasures lately. Driscoll consulted his slate mysteriously. Or Driscoll was the one who had the memory problems.
“I understand your impatience,” Driscoll said.
“I’ll talk to a lawyer.”
“We have your test results.”
“You didn’t run any test.”
Driscoll looked at his slate again: “Impaired motor function, memory lapses…”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Mild concussion, prolonged isolation, oxygen deprivation, exposure to toxic materials—a possibility of some permanent dysfunction—”
“Bullshit!”
“Inappropriate behavior. Hostility.”
“Get the hell out of my room. Where’s Pranh?”
“Dr. Pranh is on leave. I’m taking his cases.” Driscoll made a note on the slate. “I take it you’d like to get out of here.”
“Damn right.”
“I’ll order the forms.”
“I’m not signing any forms.”
Driscoll got up, reached the door and hesitated. “Try to control those outbursts, Mr. Dekker. Staff understands your problem. But it would be all around easier if you’d make an effort. For your own sake.—Are the hallucinations continuing?”
Dekker stared at him. “Of course not,” he said. He thought, That’s a damn lie.
But it scared him. It pushed his pulse rate up. They’d turned off the beep, but that didn’t mean they weren’t listening, or that it wasn’t going into storage somewhere.
Eventually a younger man came in, with another slate—walked up to the bed and said, “How are you feeling?”
The badge on this one said Hewett. He hardly looked twenty. He had a pasty, nervous look. Maybe they’d told him he was crazy.
Dekker didn’t answer him; he stared, and the young man said, “I’ve got your release forms.” He offered the slate. “You sign at the bottom—”
“I’m not signing this thing.”
“You have to sign it.”
“I’ve asked for a lawyer. I’m not signing that thing.”
Hewett looked upset. “You have to sign it, Mr. Dekker.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You want out of here, don’t you?”
“They want me out of here.” He was cold. The air-conditioning seemed excessive. He thought if there was a pulse monitor going it must be going off the scale. “I’m not going to sign that thing. Tell them they can do it. They’ve lied about everything else.”
Hewett hesitated this way and the other, said, in hushed tones, “Just sign it. That’s all you have to do.”
“No.” He shut his eyes. Opened them again as Hewett left.
He wanted out of here. He no longer thought he was safe from
anything here. But he didn’t see a way.
Rush for the door? If he got to the outside, especially if he hit anybody, the cops would have him on charges, God knew what. Sign the form and then go for a lawyer? A signed form was all that mattered to these people. It was all they listened to. And what kind of legal help was he going to get here? A company lawyer? Company witnesses?
He’d had a brush with the law on Sol Station—kid stuff. He’d learned about lawyers. He’d learned about hearings. Judges went in with their minds made up.
Another white coat came in. With a slate. This one walked up, held it out, and said, “This is for your medical insurance. Sign it.”
He eyed the slate, eyed the woman suspiciously.
“It just authorizes payment of your bills. You’re damned lucky you have it. You’re a hundred percent covered.”
He took it, looked at it. It looked legitimate. It listed him and it listed Cory. He signed the thing, and he remembered fighting with Cory, an outright screaming argument about that policy, saying, We don’t need insurance, Cory, God, if you have an accident out here, that’s it, that’s all—it’s a damn waste of money…
And Cory had said, the college girl, from just a different way of life than his: I’ve never been without insurance. We’re at least having medical. I don’t care what it costs. If we need it, it’ll always be there…
In the crazy way Cory did things—argue about a damn jacket and spend a thousand dollars a year on a company policy that wasn’t going to do them a damn bit of good. He started crying. He didn’t even know why. The medic stood there staring at him a moment, and he put his arm over his face and turned as far over as he could. She left. But he couldn’t stop.
Tommy came in and said, “Do you want a shot, Mr. Dekker?”
He grabbed his pillow and buried his face in it. So Tommy went away.
“Got something for you,” Marcie Hager said, in her office in Records, with that peculiar smugness that Ben remembered. He came away from the doorframe—he had come to the Records office on a cryptic Drop by—from Marcie. This after a nice bottle of wine that showed up with a buzz at Marcie’s door some days past. You never paid Marcie’s kind in funds. But you did want to be remembered.