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Mike looked a shade friendlier at that. And interested. “Claim on the ship, is it?”
He tapped his key on the bar. “More of a long, long story. But that part’s blackholed. You, we trust. Let me go check this out.”
He went back through and down the hall where the sleeping rooms were, opened the room he had (at least on the books) with Bird.
“Shit!” was his first reaction.
Not as if they had much to disarrange, but thieves could have hit and been neater. Four days to get their Personals out of police hands and here was everything they owned strewn over the sink, the lockers open, their laundry scattered on the bed—and a big bright red sticker on the mirror that said: This area was accessed in search of contraband by ASTEX Security acting with a warrant. Please check to be sure all your personal items are present and report any broken or missing articles or unsecured doors immediately by calling your ASTEX Security Public Relations Department at…
He pulled the sticker off the mirror. Paper thicker than tissue was worth its weight in gold. Literally. You could fold the thing and write important secret notes on the edges if you could find a pencil, which was equally frigging scarce.
Shit, shit, shit!
He opened the side door that led into Meg and Sal’s room—it was technically a quad. Same mess, only more so. Meg and Sal had more clothes.
Meg and Sal were going to kill them. That was one thought going through his head. The other was outrage—a sense of violation that left him short of breath and wanting to break something.
What in hell were they looking for?
Something off that ship?
Datacard?
He had a sudden cold thought about the charts. But he had that datacard in his pocket, where he always carried it. He felt of his pocket to be sure.
Damn!
He headed out, locked the door, walked down the hall and tried to collect himself for Mike, who asked, “Anything wrong?”
“Not that I know. Be back in a bit.” He kept going, to the nearest Trans to get him up to 3-deck.
He had this terrible cold feeling, all the ride up, all the walk down to the gym and the lockers. His hands were shaking when he used his personal card to open the locker. He suddenly thought: Everywhere I use this card they can trace it. Same as in the Institute. There’s nothing they can’t get at…
He got the door open, he felt of his suit pocket—
The card with the charts was there. He’d been so excited about the Assay report he’d forgotten to switch it back.
But, God, where’s it safe now?
In the room they’ve already searched?
Maybe they’d expect him to do that. And they might be looking for one kind of trouble—but if they found something illegal—
Damn!
Dekker opened his eyes tentatively, hearing someone in the room—realized it was his doctor leaning over him. The drugs had retreated to a distant haze.
“About damn time,” he said.
The doctor moved his eyelid, used a light, frowning over him. “Mmm,” the doctor said. Pranh was his name. Dekker read it on the ID card he wore.
“Dr. Pranh. I don’t want any more sedation. I want out of here.—What did the police find out?”
Pranh stood back, put his penlight in his pocket. “I don’t know. I suppose they’re still investigating.”
“How long?”
“How long what?”
“How long have they been investigating?”
“Time. Does that still bother you?”
It still touched nerves. But he was able to shake his head and say—disloyal as it felt to say—”I know Cory’s probably dead. Right now I want to know why.”
Pranh’s face went strangely blank. Pranh looked at the floor, never quite at him, and started entering something on his slate.
“You haven’t heard from the police,” Dekker said. It was hard to talk. There was still enough of the drug in him he could very easily shut his eyes and go under again, but he kept pushing to stay awake. Pranh didn’t answer him, and he persisted: “How long has it been?”
“Your partner is dead. There’s no probably. Denial is a normal phase of grieving. But the sooner you get beyond that—”
“I don’t know she’s dead. You don’t know. For all I know that ship picked her up. I want to talk to the police. I want a phone—”
“Calm down.”
“ I want a phone, dammit!”
“It’s on the record. A rock hit you, a tank blew.”
“There wasn’t any rock—”
“You said there was. Are you changing your story?”
“I’m not changing anything! There was a ‘driver out there. It didn’t answer our hails, it ran right over us—”
“Denial,” Pranh said quietly. “Anger. Transference. I’ve talked to the investigators. There’s no ‘driver. There never was a ‘driver near you. One was working. It’s possible there was a high- vrock. A pebble.”
“Pebble, hell! I want to talk to the police. I want to know what that ‘driver captain says! I want a phone!”
The doctor went to the door, leaned out and spoke to someone outside. And left.
“I want to talk to somebody from Management!” he yelled at the empty doorway. “Dammit, I want to talk to somebody who knows what’s going on out there!”
But all that came through the doorway was a pair of orderlies with a hypo to give him.
He swore when they laid hands on him and when they gave him the shot; and he swore all the while he was sliding back down again. He felt tears ru
Can’t do it, Dek.
And he said to himself and to Cory, Hell if not.
Two pieces of news Ben had for Bird when he walked into the Hole, and good as one was, the bad won. Hands down.
“We got an LOS on a big one,” Bird muttered as he sat down on his bed. He threw that out flat, because it was completely swallowed up in this. “Sure it was cops?”
“They left a note. A sticker.” Ben showed it to him, folded, from his pocket. “It was worse than this. I straightened up some—folded Sal and Meg’s stuff.”
“Got them too.”
“Got them too.”
“Damn.” He shook his head. It was all he could think to say.
“Maybe,” Ben said, “maybe they’re just checking us out. I mean, legally, they can search anything they want—and we have this claim in—”
“Legally I’m not sure they can,” he said, tight-jawed. “But the complaints desk is hell and away from R2.” Then he thought about bugs, signed Ben to hush, got up and took him out and down the hall to a table in the bar. By that time he figured Ben knew why. Ben looked worried as he sat down.
“Two beers,” he said to Mike Arezzo. And brought them back and sat down. He said to Ben: “They could have bugged the place. But if we ask to move, they’ll be asking why and they’ll get interested.”
“I don’t know why they’re on us in the first place,” Ben said. “It’s that damn Dekker, I know it is. No telling what story he’s telling them.”
“We don’t know that.”
“Well, it would be damn useful to know. I can talk to somebody in—”
He laid a hand on Ben’s arm. “Don’t try to fix this one. I don’t care who you know. It’s too dangerous.”
“Dangerous, hell! We haven’t doneanything but save that guy’s neck!”
Ben really believed in some things. Like The System and The Rules he regularly flouted. “You remember you asked me about Nouri and his lot. And I said that wasn’t that long ago. Police can do any damn thing they want to. They did then. They still can. Your company education tell you that?”
“There are regulations they have to follow—”
“That’s fine. There’s regulations they sometimes don’t follow. Remember Nouri? Wasn’t anything they didn’t search on these docks; and you didn’t say, I got my rights. The company has its easy times and it has its crackdowns, and both of us can remember when toilet paper didn’t have stuff in it to break it down so you can’t make press-paper anymore, you got to use those damn cards you stick into these damn readers that we don’t know where the hell they co