“Go right ahead, Mr. Payne.”
He doubted his safety to do that. He hesitated at picking up the phone, hesitated at pushing the button. “This is Administration I’m calling. Do you want to be sure of that?”
“Check it out wherever you like, Mr. Payne. Your computer will give you an explanation. Go ahead. Access Administration.”
He took a breath, touched keys, windowed up Executive Access.
It said, Earth Company Executive Order…
It said Charter Provision 28, and Defense Act, Section 18, Article 2.
“We have a press release for you, Mr. Payne.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. No questions. No hesitations. He reached for the datacard the officer put on his desk and put it into the comp.
It said: The UDC has assumed control of ASTEX operations. All workers, independent operators and contractors, and all ASTEX employees below management levels will be retained. President Towney is under arrest by civil warrant, charged with misappropriation of funds and tax evasion. Various members of the board are likewise under investigation by the EC. Residents who have information on such cases are directed to deliver that information to the military police, Access 14, on the system.
All residents who report to the UDC office on their decks will have their cards revalidated and will be passed without question or exception under a general amnesty for all non-executive personnel of R2.
The UDC will meet with delegations from the independents, the contractors, and civilian employees to discuss grievances…
“Hell of a mess,” Meg said, propped on pillows in the peculiar kind of g you got in small installations—still lightheaded, but the fingers could move in the cast, she’d tested that.
“Couldn’t tell you from the sheets when they brought you in.” Sal sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, reached out a dark hand and squeezed her good one. Skins brut sure didn’t match right now, Meg thought, seeing that combination, and then thought about Bird, left adrift in that lift-car. Hell of a thing to do. Bird had deserved better than that. But he’d always been a practical sumbitch, where it counted.
Water trickled from the corner of her left eye. Sal wiped it with her thumb.
“Hell,” she said, and tried to put her arm over her eyes, but every joint she owned was sprained. She blinked and drew a couple of breaths. “They get us out of the dive yet?”
Sal didn’t answer right off. Hadn’t, she thought. Welcome back, Kady. We’re still going to die.
Sal said, “We still got a little vector problem. Where’d you hear it?”
“Meds said. Thought I was out. Are we going in?”
Another hesitation. “Say we’re going in a lot slower. They’re having a discussion with the EC right now. Idea is, deploy the sail to half, see if we can get a line-up with the R2-23, just get a little different tack going.”
“That’d be nice.”
“Listen, ice-for-nerves, we got word the military’s taken over—got Towney under arrest—yeah. And the board. They’ll bring the beams up, they damn well have to. They’re talking deal with helldeck right now—they’re asking for Mitch and Persky and some of the guys to come and talk grievances—“
“It’s a trick.”
“They going to put so’jer-boys to picking rocks? Beaucou’ d’ luck, Kady. First tag they try they’ll be finding bits of some ship clear to Saturn.”
“They’ll deal. Maybe even get us our beam. Wouldn’t be surprised. But it won’t change, Aboujib. Won’t change.”
Sal didn’t say anything for a moment. And she was on a dive of her own. Wasn’t fair to Sal. Sal had real vivid nightmares about gravity wells.
She said to Sal, only bit of optimism she could come up with, “Won’t be Towney in charge, anyhow.”
“They’re sending out this EC manager. Meanwhile it’s the so’jers.”
Not good news for the guys on R2. Long time til the new manager got here. Meanwhile they were trying their best not to fall into the Well. She wondered how good their options were. Beams going up again, yeah, if the soldiers hadn’t some damn administrative mess-up that was going to wait on authorizations, or if it wasn’t just convenient to the EC to have them gone. Beside which, if they were talking about a bad line, and they were having to use R2-23, they evidently were in one of those vectors where getting a beam was a sincere bitch. R2-23 was a geosync. Geosyncs at the Well were a neverending problem, always screwed, Shepherds futzed them into line and refueled them with robot tugs, and hauled them out of the radiation intense area and fixed them when they’d gotten screwed beyond the usual—useful position, that particular beam, what odd times its computer wasn’t fried—
“Got two nice-looking guys want to see you,” Sal said, looking seriously fragile right now. Doing her best to be cheerful.
“Shit. I got any makeup on?”
“Forgot to pack,” Sal said, squeezed her shoulder and staggered off to the door—hadn’t got her ship-legs yet.
Neither had the boys. They looked like hell. Scrubbed up, at least. But limping and not walking real well, especially Ben. Good time to be horizontal, she decided, sore as she was—Hamilton was fair-sized, but her g differential still wanted to drop you on your ass, besides which your feet swelled til your body adapted. Went through it all again when you went stationside.
If they ever saw stationside again.
She patted the bedside. “Sit,” she said. They sat down very carefully, one on a side of the footboard.
“Hurt much?” Ben asked. Stupid question.
“I’ve had nicer times in bed. You all right?”
“Fine,” Dekker said. “We’re fine.”
“Yeah,” she said, surveying the bruises. “We’re a set, all right.”
Course correction put them in reach of R2-23, the message from Ops said. That’s their last serious option. Calculations extremely marginal even at this point. Situation with beam goes zero chance at 0828h. We checked out that cap and their fill, and the miner-crafts’ registered mass. Unless they got something from the remaining miner’s tanks, they have nothing left. Cap on Athens indicates zero chance intercept. Dumping the tugs didn’t do it. Athens would put itself in danger. We estimate their continuing on course is only for the negotiators. Our data appended.
Porey tapped the stylus on the desk, called up the figures, considered it, considered a communication from the meeting in the corporate HQ, typed a brief message. Tell their negotiators we’ve calc’ed Athens and the chances on the beam go neg at 0828. Tell them we’d be glad to provide them the figures and we’re standing by our offer.
No time for another cause with the miners. Or the Shepherds.
Good PR. Magnanimity. General amnesty, revalidate the cards, put Towney’s arrest on vid, get the beams up again and get the Hamilton out of its situation.
The minute the Shepherds came to terms.
Breakfast.
Marmalade. Dekker hadn’t tasted it since he was a kid—Ben and Sal never had. Meg said it brought back memories of her smuggling days.
“I used to run this stuff,” Meg said. “Course we’d lose a jar or two now and again.”
Sal made the sign for eavesdroppers, and Dekker felt it in his gut. But Meg said, “Hell, if they got time to worry about us—”
“Kind of sour,” Ben said. “Bitter. Not bad, though.”
“Ben, cher,” Sal said. “Learn to appreciate. Life’s ever-so prettier that way.”
“I appreciate it. It’s bitter. And sour. Isn’t it? What’s the matter with that?”