“You’re not supposed to critique it, Pollard. Just stick to the manuals.”
“Screw the—begging your pardon. But I worked on something like this. Staatentek program or independent?”
“Classified.”
He bit his lip. Didn’t raise the question of his clearance.
“Just a minute, Pollard.”
Just a minute was all right. He sat and stared at the screen that offered such interesting prospects: infodrop for the human decision and infocompression for the computer. Reality sampling against a chaos screen in a system Morrie Bird’s prize numbers man found achingly familiar, after a stint in TI’s securitized halls....
Screw supply systems modeling, this thing talked to him with a familiar voice.
This isn’t sim software, he thought. Main program’s elegant. This is real, isn’t it? Ignore the cheesy recorded randoms, son of a bitch—the system under this is a piece of work—
He said, to the air, “Staatentek didn’t do this, did they?”
No answer for a minute. Then a different voice; “Pollard. Leave the programs alone.”
“You can feel the randoms. I didn’t have to look for them.”
A pause. “That’s very good, Pollard. What would you suggest we do about it?”
Obvious answer. To the obvious question. The Belt. The numbers. The charts. The feeling you got for the system— the way the rocks moved. Real rocks, with the Well perturbing what the Sun ruled....
... Shakespeare; and Bird...
Ben, leave the damn charts—
“Pollard? What would you do?”
“I’m sure you have,” he said. “Use Sol.”
“Or Pell. Or Viking. You haven’t met Tripoint, Pollard. Would you like to see Tripoint? That one’s an excellent example....”
Balls hit and rebounded on the table. Ben walked around the other end, considering his next shot, gave a twitch of his shoulders, estimated an angle, and took careful aim with the cue.
“Mmmn,” Sal said. Ben was sure it was Sal’s voice behind him. Muscles were absolutely limp this evening. He was a little off his game—give or take a year’s hiatus. Dekker, the skuz, had had practice. Keep the run going. He didn’t want the cue in Dekker’s hands, not from what he’d seen.
Two in succession. It was rec hall, bar in the middle—a lot of UDC guys on Permission down there, drowning their sorrows. Fleet at this end, some of them too. And a scatter of marine guards—more khaki around the corridors than Ben personally found comfortable, thank you.
Real wringer of a sim this afternoon, he’d earned a beer, dammit, but they had him up again tomorrow, same with all of them.
Opened his big mouth and they’d reset the sim, all right.
Dots and more dots, in a space where the effin’ familiar sun didn’t exist...
Spooky situation. Wanted to feel it out and you were busy tracking damn dots.
Gentle shot. Balls rebounded. “Come on, come on—“
“Ouch,” Sal said.
Shit.
Dekker drew a breath. Armscomper wasn’t the opponent you’d choose in this game. Pilot versus armscomper got bets down, never mind he’d had practice Ben swore you didn’t have time to take at TI.
Hell if. Ben had learned it somewhere, he 1 Meek, maybe. And a Belter, didn’t show you any mercy. You damn sure didn’t want to let him get the cue back.
He saw his shot. Lined it up. Bets were down. Favor points. Military didn’t let you play with money. And nobody had any.
Click and drop. Sighs from half the spectators. Muted cheers from the rest.
Second shot. Ball dropped, balls rearranged the pattern. He was sore when he bent to survey the situation, but it was a good kind of soreness, kind you got from a hard run. Never had realized there was good pain and bad. He’d felt the other kind. Too damn much.
Click.
“Right on, Dek!”
Meg and Sal had bets on opposite sides.
He grinned, took aim.
Click. Perfect bank.
Sudden disturbance, then, in the ambient. Dekker felt it, looked up as everybody else was looking, at a handful of
UDC guys who’d showed up at the table. Marines were in motion, starting to move between.
Rob Childers. Kesslan and Deke. Chad’s crew. A marine said, “Let’s not have any trouble. Get on back there.”
Rob said, “Dek.”
He felt a sudden queasiness in the approach. A sense of confrontation. The marines weren’t pushing. They weren’t letting the UDC crew closer, either, and there was starting to be noise, other UDC guys moving in.
“Wait a minute,” Almarshad protested, thank God somebody on their side had the sense to say something, offer a hand to object to force; and he had to move, himself, had to do something in the split second.
He dropped the cue to his left hand, took a nonbelligerent stance.
“Dek,” Rob said and held out his hand.
Put him entirely on the spot. Marines didn’t move, didn’t know who was who or what was happening here, he scoped that—scoped the moment and the move and the necessity to do something before they all ended up in the brig.
“Rob,” he said, and went quietly past a confused marine and took the offered hand, looked Rob in the face and wondered if Rob was the one who’d tried to kill him, or if Rob knew who had. He took Kesslan’s hand, and Deke’s. The music system was grinding out a muted, bass-heavy beat, that had the silence all to itself.
“Too much gone on,” Rob said. “Both sides.”
He had to say something. He took that inspiration, said, “Yeah. Has,” and couldn’t find anything else to say.
“Let you get back to your game,” Rob said.
“Yeah. All right.” He stood there while the room sorted itself out again, Rob and the rest of them going back to their side. He never managed to say the right thing. He didn’t know what he could have said. He felt a hand on his arm—Meg, pulling him back to the table, while Franklin muttered, “Shit all.”
“They do it?” Mason asked him under his breath.
He gave it a desperate thought, trying to believe they were innocent. But he remembered getting hit, remembered the pod access, and couldn’t be analytical about the dark, and the pain of broken bones, and the toneless voice that said, in the back of his memory, Enjoy the ride, Dekker.
Tape going into the slot. The voice said, Let me—
Let me, what?
Wasn’t anybody but the pilot handled the mission tape.
Didn’t make sense.
He didn’t answer Mason. He got down and lined up his shot again, determined. Made it. There was a sigh of relief. He was relieved too. Was all he asked, for his pride’s sake. Didn’t want to show how rattled he was. He focused down and made a run of three, before a ball trembled on the verge of a drop. And didn’t.
“All right,” Ben said, out of a sigh and a stillness. Ben sounded less man satisfied. Everything seemed paler, colder, he didn’t know why. He stood by Meg and Sal, arms folded, and watched Ben make a straight run.
UDC MPs looked in on the situation. You could hear the music over the voices. When things were normal, you couldn’t.
He wanted a drink, but regs didn’t let him have one. He thought of desperate means to get one, but if they caught you at it, you were screwed. He didn’t want a session with Porey. Didn’t.
Bets got finalized. He’d bet himself, as happened, so had Ben; and Sal could collect. But something passed between Meg and Sal, and Meg took his arm and said Sal was taking a wait-ticket—
“You better get to bed,” Meg said, and he’d have paid off, he wouldn’t have minded, he was halfway numb at the moment—her change in arrangements made him think maybe he was better with Sal, who wouldn’t pry—Sal and he never had gotten into each other’s reasons for anything.
But Meg had set up what she evidently thought was a rescue, and he gave himself up and went off with her.