“Lost?” one of them asked.
“I’m fuckin’ assigned here,” he muttered, and got dismay and frowns.
“No such,” one said, Belter accent thick and surly. “UDC shave-head? You got the wrong barracks, loo-tenant.”
Fine. Great. He said, in deep Belter brogue, “Not my pick, mate, they do the numbers.”
Wasn’t what they expected out of a UDC mouth. Postures altered, faces did.
“You wouldn’t be Pollard, would you?”
He’d hoped to get his assigned bunk, nothing more. But mere was no good making enemies here. He said, grudgingly, “Yeah. Benjamin J.,” and saw expressions go on changing for the positive. Not the reaction he generally got from people.
“Pollard.” The head troublemaker came over. “Almarshad.” A gesture to left and right, behind him. “Franklin and Pauli. What’s the word on Dekker?”
Dekker didn’t attract friends either, not among people who really knew him; and when a guy introduced himself the way Almarshad did you should worry about bombs. He shook Almarshad’s offered hand, said, conservatively, “Not the best I’ve ever seen him,” and watched reactions. Looked like they were friends of Dekker’s. And it was true Dekker was a Cause in the Belt. A Name—among people who didn’t know him. Not with Shepherds, much as he knew, and that was what this set looked to be—but it could be Dekker had found a niche in this classified hell.
Franklin asked,
“He say who hit him?”
Or these guys could be the committee that put Dekker in hospital, for all he knew.
He said, again carefully, “Bounced on his head too often. I don’t know. He doesn’t. —Friends of his, are you?”
Almarshad seemed to comprehend his reserve, then, frowned and said, “He’s got no enemies in this barracks. You keeping mat uniform?”
He hadn’t many allegiances in his life. But, hell, the UDC fed you, gave you everything you could dream of, held out the promise of paradise, until Dekker helpfully dropped your name in the wrong classified ears—which landed you up to your ears in an interservice feud; and now some Shepberd-tumed-bluecoat wanted to make an issue of your uniform? Hell, yes, you could take offense at being pushed. “Yeah, I’m keeping it. Far as I know.”
“Shit,” Pauli said with a roll of his eyes, and turned half away and back again with an outheld hand. “Tanzer give you your orders?”
“I don’t know who gave me my orders. Captain over FSO Keu got me out here. The Fleet got me out here. Humanitarian leave. Now it’s a fuckin’ humanitarian transfer, I can’t find my fuckin’ baggage, I can’t find my fuckin’ bunk, I got no damn choice, here, mister! I’m supposed to be in Stockholm! I’d rather be in Stockholm, which I won’t now! —I’m a security Priority 10, and they got me in here for reasons I don’t know, with a damn classified order I’m probably securitied high enough to read. But you don’t question orders here, I’m certainly finding mat out!”
A hand landed on his shoulder. Almarshad. “Easy. Easy. Pauli means to say welcome in. Tanzer’s a problem, we know who you are, we know damn well you’re not his boy.”
“I don’t fuckin’ know Tanzer!”
“Better off,” Franklin said under his breath. “Where’ve they got you? What room?”
“We got rooms.” Thank God. “Said just—here.”
“You’re Dekker’s, then. A-10. Demi-suites. If you count four bunks and a washroom.”
Personally he didn’t. But he’d been prepared for worse in the short term. He said, “Thanks,” and took the pointed finger for his guide.
Hell if, he kept saying to himself. Hell if I’m going to stay here. Hell if this is going to be the rest of my life, —Mr. Graff, sir.
He’d flunked his Aptitudes for anything remotely approaching combat, deliberately and repeatedly: he couldn’t pass basic without a waiver for unarmed combat on account
of a way-high score in technical; he’d worked hard to clean the Belter accent out of his speech and to fit in with blue-skyers and here he was resurrecting it to deal with some sumbitch Shepherd who’d have walked over him without noticing, back in R2. Get into technical, get his security clearance—get connections and numbers, the same as he’d had in R2, that was his priority. His CO back in TI, Weiter—Weiter had connections, Weiter had let him make his rating in very fast order, and George Weiter had had the discriminating good sense to screw the regs, bust him past tire basics and into levels where he could learn from where he was and get at those essential, top-ievel access numbers.
No guns, damned sure, nothing to do with guns. He’d made sure of mat.
And here he was busted to a pilot trainee rating? It was crazed. It was absolutely insane. It was going to get fixed. Get to Weiter—somehow. Get to somebody up in HQ. In Stockholm. Fast.
He located A-10, at the corner of the hall, opened the door—
And found his lost luggage in the middle of the darkened room.
“Shit! Shit, shit, shit!”
The shuttle was in Servicing, the politicians, the engineers, the corporate execs and the general were tanking up in Departures, and now reality came due. Now it was back to dealing with Tanzer on a daily, post-hearing basis, and the Fleet’s independence notwithstanding, when the UDC CO sent a See Me at OSOOh, the Fleet Acting Commander had to show up.
“He’s expecting you,” the aide said. Graff said a terse Thank you, opened the door and walked into the fire zone.
“Lt. Graff,” Tanzer said.
“Colonel,” Graff said and stood there neither at ease nor at attention while Tanzer stared at him.
Tanzer rocked his chair back abruptly and said, “I expect cooperation.”
“Yes, colonel.”
“ ‘Yes, colonel,’ what?”
“Whatever’s good for the program, colonel.”
“And what do you think that is, now, would you say?”
“Colonel, you know my opinion.”
The chair banged level. “Damn your opinion! What are you trying to do to this program?”
“Trying not to lose a carrier, when its riders fail, I’ll be in it. You won’t, colonel.”
“I won’t, will I? I’m on the line here, you sonuvabiteh.”
“Not for the same stakes, colonel, forgive me.”
“You son of a bitch.”
After a sleep-short night mat opening was extremely welcome. Tanzer was angry. Tanzer wasn’t satisfied with what had gone down. That could be good news—if it wasn’t the demise of the program Tanzer was foreseeing.
Tanzer said, with a curl of his lip, “Two more of your recruits are in from the Belt, I’m sure you’ll be delighted with that. And Lendler Corp is recommending the Fleet change its security regulations with the sim tapes. And who in hell transferred Pollard into your command?”
“My command?”
“Your command, your captain’s command, your navigator’s command for all I know, who knows who’s in charge in your office? You have a UDC trainee in your program, Mr. Graff, do you want to tell me just how that happened?”
He wasn’t sure whether Tanzer was in his right mind. Or what in hell was going on. He said, “I don’t know. I’ll look into it.”
“I’m already looking into it, I’m looking into it all the way to TI and Geneva. What do you say to that, Mr. Graff?”
“I don’t know either, colonel. I’ll find out.”
Tanzer gave him a cold, silent stare. Then: “You find out and you come tell me. It’s one of those things I like to keep up with, who’s where on this station. Just a habit of mine. I think you can understand that. Hearing’s over. I’d like to clear the record, just get everything back in appropriate boxes. I think you can understand that too, can’t you, lieutenant?”
The passenger shuttle was going out, that was the maddening thing. But there was absolutely no question of Ben Pollard getting to it: it was ferrying the brass out from the hearing, the hearing was evidently over, Dekker hadn’t remembered a thing he could take to Graff and get out of here, so evidently that wasn’t his ticket out—and, dammit! he wanted to talk to Graff, wanted to ask Graff to his face what kind of a double-cross had caught him in this damned illicit transfer. But Graff had been ‘unavailable’ during the hearing, Graff’s aides had only cared to ask if he had any report yet. Of course he’d had to say no; so Lt. Graff hadn’t seen fit to return his calls yesterday; Lt. Graff wasn’t in his office this morning—