The comp chimed. He opened his eyes and stared at the screen dully.
READY TO DISPLAY ANALYSIS
read the display.
Wonderful. But was he ready?
Because of the way he had instructed it to extract and analyze certain data in the “silver lining” file, he knew there would be a graph. It would show a rising line that documented his fall from illusory grace. It would show him what he should have seen for himself long ago.
Smoldering anger and disgust with himself—with everything—made him clench his hand tighter. Inside his fist the silver emblem began to bend.
He came within a heartbeat of crushing it into an unrecognizable lump before he let his hand fall to his lap. He stared down at the pin. It was bent, but still recognizable. In spite of the way he and the others who wore it had been exploited, it still represented an ideal, and the ideal still lived. He couldn’t let go of it. Not yet.
Marchey made himself sit up straight, stare reality right in the eye, and see his diagnosis confirmed. The touch of a pad put it before him.
He was still a doctor. He knew that you never pronounced something as terminal until you had explored every option.
And if you wanted to excise a malignancy, you had to first find out precisely what kind it was, and how far it had spread.
Fist’s crepey eyelids fluttered as the sleepfield’s effects wore off. His breathing quickened.
Marchey waited for him to come around, his hands gripping the unibed’s high sides to keep him from grabbing the old man’s frail shoulders and shaking him awake.
Those pus-yellow crocodile eyes opened slowly, fixed on him. Fist opened his mouth to speak, but Marchey didn’t give him a chance to say a single word.
“Just keep your damned mouth shut and listen,” he said tightly. “I’m not here to play games with you.”
Fist closed his mouth, his eyes hooded and watchful. Something that might have been faint amusement crept out onto his fleshless face.
“I’ve read your ‘silver lining’ file. I know what the Bergmann Surgeons, myself included, have become.” Saying what he had learned out loud was going to be hard, but now that he had faced the facts there was no going back.
“A certain faction inside Med Arm has taken control of our disposition. They’ve made it so that our services are no longer available to the general public.”
Dr. Khan back in the Litman commissary. She’d hinted at this. It had gone right over his head.
His mouth twisted, every word tasting bitter as gall. “We’ve only been used to treat a select coterie of the rich and powerful, or those useful to them. When you had me kidnapped at Litman, I had been brought in to treat the manager of a banking syndicate. One that just happened to hold the notes on mining equipment owned by a wilders’ settlement. I figure those notes are now in the hands of whoever was behind all this.”
His voice dropped lower, thick with fury and menace. “MedArm has been corrupted. They’re sending this Helping Hands Foundation to Ananke. You thought that was pretty funny. You know what they’re up to. Tell me.”
Fist said nothing, still looking mildly amused.
Marchey stared down at him. Wanting to wipe that smirk off clear down to the bone. He felt his lips peel back from his teeth, felt the steel top rail under his hands begin to flatten.
“We’re not quite two days out from Botha Station. I don’t think you’re particularly happy about going there. I had a hard time figuring out why. Imprisoning you is no threat, you’re totally bedridden as it is, and you know as well as I do that you’ll be dead meat inside a week—that’s if you last even that long.”
Now he had to venture into a thicket of conjecture, but he made himself smile, as if his guesses were a straight true path through the thorny tangle.
“It seems to me that you have very few things left to lose. One is whatever spoils you took from Ananke. Another is all the nasty secrets you’ve hoarded over the years. Lastly, and I think most precious, is your pride. Which is considerable.”
Fist gave a slight shrug, as if modestly accepting a compliment.
“Botha Station is owned by OmniMat,” Marchey went on, the more he spoke the more certain he was that he’d pieced together at least this one small corner of the puzzle. “UNSRA might be the law in space and on Botha, but OmniMat’s pockets are deep enough to let them buy just about anything they want. The minute they ID you red flags are going to go up all over the place. Odds are that not long after I turn you over to UNSRA, you simply disappear.”
He nodded, watching Fist’s face carefully. “You’d be quite a prize. Not only is every credit you ever stole up for grabs, you probably have all sorts of interesting information about their competitors, about the people they buy from and sell to, and even dirt on OmniMat itself locked away in that rotten old brain of yours. They’d take you off someplace private, shoot you full of drugs, and peel your every secret out of you. You would lose the final round of the game. You would die broken and helpless, humiliated and despoiled.” Fist hadn’t flinched, hadn’t shown the slightest sign of fear or even dismay. That maddening half smile remained, looking like it had been put there by an undertaker.
After a moment it widened, sharp white teeth gleaming between liverish lips. “Yes,” he said in a low voice. “That is what… I don’t want.” His tone made it clear that there were still things he did want.
Marchey leaned over him. “You have two choices, old man. Either tell me about the Helping Hands Foundation, the full and absolute truth with the files to back it up, or I turn the sleepfield back on, and the next time you wake up you will be in the hands of people who want everything you know.”
He waited for a reaction, his hands gripping the now flat guardrail, forcing himself to meet Fist’s cold, unblinking stare. The taut silence made his ears ring, and the rising tension was a tightening steel band wrapped around his chest.
Fist gazed back at him, still looking as if he’d found all Marchey had said little more than mildly amusing.
Marchey felt the sweat trickling down his sides and threatening to pop out on his forehead. Fist was going to push it to the limit, to make him back down if he was bluffing.
He clenched his jaw to keep his resolve inside and reached for the sleepfield’s controls, his gaze still locked with Fist’s in a battle of wills where he was fighting as hard as he could and his opponent was scarcely exerting himself.
His hand settled on the touchpad. “Say good night.”
The old man grinned, letting out a bubbling chuckle. “As I have… said before… you are an apt pupil.” His thin hand twitched dismissively. “I concede. You are not bluffing… are you?”
Marchey shook his head, wanting to pant for air but making himself act as if nothing had happened. “No. I’ll still do it if I think you’re lying to me.”
“Yes,” Fist replied agreeably, “I believe… you would. There will be… no need. When I strike a bargain… I stick to it.”
“Like the devil sticks to his deals?” Marchey asked with heavy sarcasm. “Should I change my name to Dr. Faustus?”
The old man let out a hacking chuckle. “Ah, now there… is a name… to conjure with! You flatter me. I am not so… very different… from you. Just a man… who excels… at his art. That is how… I see myself… you know. As an… artist.”
Marchey stared at him. “Is that so?” he asked at last. Fist might just be stalling, but he doubted it. This was probably the overture to the next level of whatever infernal game he was playing.
Although he’d said he was done playing games with the old man, he knew he had only just begun. As the stakes grew higher the chances of walking away from the table diminished. He couldn’t pass up the chance that he might learn something useful. Like it or not, Fist had drawn him into the game, and made sure he’d won just enough to keep on playing. Even this apparent victory was like as not part of the hustle.