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“Kady?”
“Had to know,” she muttered. Hell, she was right, she’d done the right thing.
“Not regulation, Kady.”
Screw the regs, she’d say. But she did know the voice. There weren’t two like it.
“Yessir,” she said meekly, to no-face and no-voice. Dark, that was all. Just the few yellow lights on the V-HUD and the boards, system stand-down.
“You think you can make a call like that, Kady?”
Shit. “Yessir.”
Silence then. A long silence. She waited to be told she was an ass and an incompetent. She flexed her hands, expecting God only—they sometimes started sim on you without warning.
Then the examiner’s quiet voice said—she wasn’t even sure now it was alive—
“Let’s go on that again, Kady.”
She couldn’t stand it. “Was I right?”
“Your judgment was correct, Kady.”
“Ms. Dekker, do you have proof of your allegations?”
“Talk to my lawyer.”
“Is it true your son is in a top secret Fleet project?”
“I don’t know where he is. He doesn’t write and I don’t give a damn.”
“How do you feel about Ms. Salazar’s allegations—”
More and more of it. A Paris news service ran a clip on Paul Dekker that went back into juvenile court records and fee other services pounced on it with enigmatic references to ‘an outstanding warrant for his arrest’ and his ‘work inside a top-secret Fleet installation.’
Graff punched the button to stop the tape, stared at the blank screen while Demas hovered. FSO had sent their answer Regarding your 198-92, Negative. Meaning they’d turned up nothing they cared to say on the case—at least nothing they trusted to FleetCom—or him.
“Influence-trading,” Demas said. “Scandals of the rich. Young lovers. Salazar and her money against the peacers. The public’s fascinated.”
The Fleet didn’t need this. He didn’t. Dekker certainly didn’t. A bomb threat involving Salazar’s plane, the peacers denying responsibility, the European Police Agency finding a confidential report in the hands of the news services. Rode the news reports outside Sol Two almost as hot and heavy as the Amsterdam Tu
While Demas and Saito only said, Hold on, Helm. Hold on. Don’t make a problem, the captain doesn’t need a problem.
“I honestly,” Demas said, “don’t think Dekker needs to see this particular broadcast, regardless of any promises.”
“She’s never called him. Never returned the call.”
“Lawyers may have advised against. I’d advise against. Personally, J-G.”
“I knew you would.”
“So you didn’t ask.”
“I don’t know Earth. Now I wonder if I even know Dekker. He’s never asked me, either—whether there was word.”
Light and dark. The AI substituted its interlink for crew, he was fine till the randoms popped up, till he saw the wicket he had to make and the pod reacted—bobble and reposition, reposition, reposition—
Fuckin’ hell
Screwed it, screwed it—screwed that one—redlight—
You’re hit. Keep going. Don’t think about it.
Chest hurt, knees hurt, right arm was numb. Damn hour and five sim and he was falling apart—
Made Five. Lost one.
Randoms again, five minutes down. God, a chaff round....
Blinked sweat. Tasted it. Hate the damn randoms, hate the bastards, hate the Company, dammit—
Overcorrection. Muscles were tired, starting to spasm, God, where was the end of this run?
Couldn’t hold it. HUD was out, the place was black and blacker—
“Dek, Dek, wake up,” from the other side of the door and Ben, with the territory behind his eyes all full of red and gold and green lines and red and yellow dots, hoped Meg would just put a pillow over the sumbitch’s face. Beside him. Sal moved faintly.
“Dek!”
“Shit,” Sal moaned, and elbowed him in a muzzy catch after balance.
“Dek? Come out of it.”
“Son of a bitch,” Ben muttered, felt a knee drop into the cold air outside the covers and set a foot on the floor, hauled himself to his feet and banged into the chair by the bed.
“Ben?” Sal murmured, but the blow to the hip did it. He shoved the door open into the dark next door and snarled, “Dekker!”
Dekker made a sound, Meg gave a sharp grunt above a crack of flesh and bone meeting. The son of a bitch had got her.
“Dekker!” He shoved past a smooth female body to get a shove of his own in, got a grip and held it. “Dekker, dammit, you want to take a cold walk?”
Same as he’d yelled at Dekker on the ship, when Dekker got crazy. He had one hand planted against a heaving, sweating chest, right about the throat, and Meg had cleared back, gotten to the light switch. He couldn’t see anything but a blur, and he didn’t let up the pressure—if Dekker moved to hit him Dekker was going to be counting stars, he had his mind made up to that. Dekker was gasping for breath—eyes open now.
“Spooks again,” Meg panted.
“I’ll say it’s spooks, this is the damn spook! I du
The inside door opened and Sal came in at the periphery of his vision. He heard Meg saying, “It’s all right, it’s just surface,” and kept his own hold on the lunatic, who still looked spaced and shocky. Dekker’s heart was going hard, felt like detonations under his hand. Dekker’s eyes had lost their glaze, started tracking around him.
Drifted back again, looked halfway cognizant.
“Let up,” Dekker said.
He thought about that. He thought about Meg saying for the last damn week Dekker was just confused, and Sal saying back off and give him some space. While Dekker kept a sim schedule the other crews were talking about. He gave Dekker a shove in the chest. Hard.
“Let up, hell. I’ll solve your problem, I’ll break your neck for you. You hit Meg, you skuz, you know that?” Dekker didn’t say anything, so he asked, for Dekker’s benefit, “You all right, Meg?”
“Yeah.”
“Hell of a bruise coming,” Sal muttered.
Dekker set his jaw again, didn’t exactly say go to hell, but that was the look he gave, along with the impression he might not be in control of his voice right now. When Dekker shut up, you either kept a grip on him or you got out of his way. So he kept his hand where it was, asked, civilly, “You still talking to him, Meg?” ,
“Wasn’t his fault, Ben.” Mistake. Meg sounded shaky herself, Meg had evidently gotten clipped worse than he thought, and that wobbly tone upset Dekker, he saw that. Dekker quit looking like a fight, just stared at the ceiling, gone moist-eyed and lock-jawed.
Great.
He gave Dekker another shove, risking explosion. “You want to, maybe, get a grip on it, Dek-boy? Or you want to schitz some more?”
Dekker made a move for his wrist, not fast, just brushing him off. He let Dekker have his way, stood back and let Dekker sit up with his head down against his knees a moment, to wipe the embarrassment off his face.
“You know,” he said, pressing that advantage, “you do got a serious problem, Dek. You busted Meg who’s trying to help you, the meds are bitching you’re pushing it too damned hard—you seriously got to get your head working Dek-boy, and we got to have a talk. Meg, Sal, you want to leave him with me a minute?”
Dekker looked away, at the wall. Sal shoved Meg out of the room and Dekker didn’t look happy with the arrangement, didn’t look at him when the door shut, just sat in bed and stared elsewhere.
Towel on a chair. Ben got it and wrapped it around himself—wasn’t freezing his ass off, wasn’t matching physique with pretty-boy, either—wouldn’t effin’ be here arguing with him, except he was supposed to go back into pod-sims with a guy who couldn’t figure out what time it was.
“Just drop it,” Dekker said.
“Drop it, huh? Drop it? Wake me up in the Middle Of, and I should drop it? We’re getting back in that pod at 0900, I’m not seriously inclined to drop it!”
Dekker leapt up off the bed and shoved him. “Just fuck off! Fuck off, Ben, all right? —I’m resigning.”