Seemed like forever that light stayed red.
They had guys over in hospital that couldn’t walk straight, that never would fly again...
Had guys in the mental ward...
Sim chief was probably checking with Porey’s office.
Calm the breathing down.
Light went from red to green.
Punch it in.
GO!
“Dek,” it was, “how’d the run go?” and “Dek, you all right?”
He winced, shrugged, said, Fine, working on it.
And stopped the lift on three-deck, made it as far as the nearest restroom and threw up non-stop.
From Meg, back in barracks, a shake at his shoulder: “Dek, cher. Wake up. Mess call. You coming? You’d better come.”
He hauled himself out of half-sleep and off the bunk, wobbled into the bathroom to pop an antacid—the meds didn’t restrict those, thank God—-and to scrub normal color into his face. He walked out again to go with Meg, navigated ordinary space, trying not to see the glowing lines and dark, not to hear the mags or feel the destabilizing jolts of thrust.
Familiar walls, posters, game tables, drift of guys out to the hall. Ben and Sal gave them a: Come on, you’re late, and he wondered suddenly where this hall was, or why he should stay in it, when there were so many other like places he could be—spaced, he told himself, sane people didn’t ask themselves questions like that, sane people didn’t see the dark in the light...
“Hey, Dek, you all right?”
Mason. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Hand on his shoulder. Guys passed them in the hall.
“He all right?” Sal asked.
“Yeah,” he said. Somehow he kept walking as far as the messhall, couldn’t face the line. “I’m just after coffee, all right? I’m not hungry.”
They objected, Meg said she was getting him a hamburger and fries, and the sumbitch meds and dieticians would log it to her, the way they did every sneeze in this place, maybe screw up her medical records. He waved the offer off, went over to the coffee machine and carded in.
Nothing made sense to him. Everything was fractured. He was making mistakes. He’d glitched the target calls right and left this morning.
It had been this morning. It had to have been this morning... but he’d run it so many times...
He walked back toward the tables, stood out of the traffic and muttered answers to people who talked to him, not registering it, not caring. People came and went. He remembered the coffee in his hand and drank it. Eventually Meg and Sal came out of the line, so did Ben, and gathered him up.
Meg had the extra hamburger. “You’re eating,” she said. “You want the meds coming after you?”
He didn’t. He took it, unwrapped it, and Ben hit him in the ribs. “Pay attention, Dek-boy.”
“Huh?”
“Huh,” Ben echoed. “Salt. Pass the salt. God. You are a case today.”
“Thinking,” he said.
Ben gave him a look, a shrug in his direction. “He’s thinking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before.”
“Ben,” Meg said.
“Dekker. Pass the damn salt.”
“Shit!” Wasn’t approved com, the sojer-lads got upset, but she was upset, so what?
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” the examiner said. “You’re doing fine, Kady.”
“Tell me fine, I screwed my dock...”
You couldn’t flap the voice. “It gets harder, Kady. That’s the object. Let’s not get overconfident, shall we?”
“Overconfident, my—“ She was shaking like a leaf.
Different voice. Deep as bone. “You shoved a screen in over your pilot’s priority. Did your pilot authorize that?”
Hell, she wasn’t in a mood for games. She thought she knew that voice. It wasn’t the examiner.
“Kady?”
“Had to know,” she muttered. Hell, she was right, she’d done the right thing.
“Not regulation, Kady.”
Screw the regs, she’d say. But she did know the voice. There weren’t two like it.
“Yessir,” she said meekly, to no-face and no-voice. Dark, that was all. Just the few yellow lights on the V-HUD and the boards, system stand-down.
“You think you can make a call like that, Kady?”
Shit. “Yessir.”
Silence then. A long silence. She waited to be told she was an ass and an incompetent. She flexed her hands, expecting God only—they sometimes started sim on you without warning.
Then the examiner’s quiet voice said—she wasn’t even sure now it was alive—
“Let’s go on that again, Kady.”
She couldn’t stand it. “Was I right?”
“Your judgment was correct, Kady.”
“Ms. Dekker, do you have proof of your allegations?”
“Talk to my lawyer.”
‘ ‘Is it true your son is in a top secret Fleet project?”
“I don’t know where he is. He doesn’t write and I don’t give a damn.”
“How do you feel about Ms. Salazar’s allegations—“
More and more of it. A Paris news service ran a clip on Paul Dekker that went back into juvenile court records and fee other services pounced on it with enigmatic references to ‘an outstanding warrant for his arrest’ and his ‘work inside a top-secret Fleet installation.’
Graff punched the button to stop the tape, stared at the blank screen while Demas hovered. FSO had sent their answer Regarding your 198-92, Negative. Meaning they’d turned up nothing they cared to say on the case—at least nothing they trusted to FleetCom—or him.
“Influence-trading,” Demas said. “Scandals of the rich. Young lovers. Salazar and her money against the peacers. The public’s fascinated.”
The Fleet didn’t need this. He didn’t. Dekker certainly didn’t. A bomb threat involving Salazar’s plane, the peacers denying responsibility, the European Police Agency finding a confidential report in the hands of the news services. Rode the news reports outside Sol Two almost as hot and heavy as the Amsterdam Tunnel collapse.
While Demas and Saito only said, Hold on, Helm. Hold on. Don’t make a problem, the captain doesn’t need a problem.
“I honestly,” Demas said, “don’t think Dekker needs to see this particular broadcast, regardless of any promises.”
“She’s never called him. Never returned the call.”
“Lawyers may have advised against. I’d advise against. Personally, J-G.”
“I knew you would.”
“So you didn’t ask.”
“I don’t know Earth. Now I wonder if I even know Dekker. He’s never asked me, either—whether there was word.”
Light and dark. The AI substituted its interlink for crew, he was fine till the randoms popped up, till he saw the wicket he had to make and the pod reacted—bobble and reposition, reposition, reposition—
Fuckin’ hell\
Screwed it, screwed it—screwed mat one—redlight—
You’re hit. Keep going. Don’t think about it.
Chest hurt, knees hurt, right arm was numb. Damn hour and five sim and he was falling apart—
Made Five. Lost one.
Randoms again, five minutes down. God, a chaff round....
Blinked sweat. Tasted it. Hate the damn randoms, hate the bastards, hate the Company, dammit—
Overcorrection. Muscles were tired, starting to spasm, God, where was the end of this run?
Couldn’t hold it. HUD was out, the place was black and blacker—
“Dek, Dek, wake up,” from the other side of the door and Ben, with the territory behind his eyes all full of red and gold and green lines and red and yellow dots, hoped Meg would just put a pillow over the sumbitch’s face. Beside him. Sal moved faintly.
“Dek!”
“Shit,” Sal moaned, and elbowed him in a muzzy catch after balance.
“Dek? Come out of it.”
“Son of a bitch,” Ben muttered, felt a knee drop into the cold air outside the covers and set a foot on the floor, hauled himself to his feet and banged into the chair by the bed.