Now he had a charge of piracy to deal with, and it unsettled him to his very core.
“He sent in a complete report,” Tomasselli said, lean and eager, his dark eyes flashing.
Zar interrupted. “Fuchs claims his ship was attacked.”
“He reports,” Tomaselli resumed, laying emphasis on the word, “not only that his own ship was attacked, but another as well, and one of the men seriously injured.”
“By a pirate vessel.”
Zar’s ruddy, fleshy face colored deeper than usual. “That’s what he claims.”
“And the evidence?”
“His ship is damaged,” Tomasselli said before Zar could open his mouth. “He is bringing the injured man to Ceres.”
“Which ships are we talking about?” Wilcox asked, clear distaste showing on his lean, patrician face.
Zar put out a hand to silence his underling. “Fuchs’s ship is named Starpower. The other ship that he claims was attacked is Waltzing Matilda.”
“Is that one on its way to Ceres, too?”
“No,” Tomasselli jumped in. “They had to abandon it. The three of them are coming in on Starpower: Fuchs and the two men from Waltzing Matilda.”
Wilcox gave the Italian a sour look. “And Fuchs has charged Humphries Space Systems with piracy?”
“Yes,” said both men simultaneously.
Wilcox drummed his fingers on his desktop. He looked out his window at the St. Petersburg waterfront. He wished he were in Geneva, or London, or anywhere except here in this office with these two louts and this ridiculous charge of piracy. Piracy! In the twenty-first century! It was ludicrous, impossible. Those rock rats out in the Asteroid Belt have their private feuds and now they’re trying to drag the IAA into it.
“I suppose we’ll have to investigate,” he said gloomily.
“Fuchs has registered a formal charge,” said Tomasselli. “He has requested a hearing.”
Which I will have to preside over, Wilcox said to himself. I’ll be a laughingstock, at the very least.
“He should arrive at Ceres in a few hours,” Zar said.
Wilcox looked at the man’s unhappy face, then turned his gaze to the eager, impetuous Tomasselli.
“You must go to Ceres,” he said, pointing a long, manicured finger at the Italian.
Tomasselli’s eyes brightened. “I will conduct the hearing there?”
“No,” Wilcox snapped. “You will interview this man Fuchs and the others with him, and then bring the three of them back here, under IAA custody. Bring two or three Peacekeeper troopers with you.”
“Peacekeepers?” Zar asked.
Wilcox gave him a wintry smile. “I want to show that the IAA is taking this situation quite seriously. If these men believe they have been attacked by pirates, then they should have some visible protection, don’t you agree?”
“Oh! Yes, of course.”
Tomasselli said, “One of the men is seriously injured, and all three of them have been living in low gravity for so long that they could not return to Earth unless they spend several weeks in reconditioning exercises.”
Wilcox let a small hiss escape his lips, his only visible sign of displeasure so far. Yet he knew that his control was on the fragile brink of crumbling into towering anger.
“Very well, then,” he said icily. “Bring them to Selene.”
“I will conduct the hearing there?” Tomasselli asked eagerly.
“No,” Wilcox replied. “I will conduct the hearing there.”
Zar looked stunned. “You’ll go to Selene?”
Drawing himself up on his dignity, Wilcox replied, “I have not risen this far in the service of the International Astronautical Authority by avoiding the difficult tasks.”
It was a bald-faced he, but Wilcox almost believed it to be true, and Zar was willing to accept whatever his superior told him.
CHAPTER 32
George could tell from the look on Dr. Cardenas’s face that the news was not good.
Fuchs and Nodon had rushed him to Ceres’s minuscule infirmary as soon as they had landed, Nodon carrying the insulated plastic box that held George’s severed arm. Half the population of the asteroid had also tried to crowd into the infirmary, some out of morbid curiosity, most because they heard that Big George had been injured and they knew and liked the red-haired Aussie. Cardenas had firmly shooed all of the bystanders into the tunnel outside, except for Amanda.
Fuchs embraced his wife, and she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him solidly.
“You’re all right, Lars?” she asked.
“Yes. Fine. Not a scratch.”
“I was so worried!”
“It’s George who was hurt. Not me.”
Cardenas put George through the diagnostic scanners, then took the container from Nodon and disappeared into the lab that adjoined the infirmary, leaving George sitting up on one of the three infirmary beds, surrounded by Amanda, Fuchs, and Nodon. “You really were attacked by another ship?” Amanda asked, still not quite believing it could be possible.
George held up the stump of his left arm. “Wasn’t termites did this,” he said.
“I’ve sent in a full report of the attack to IAA headquarters,” said Fuchs.
Amanda replied, “They’ve sent a confirmation back. One of their administrators is coming out here to bring you and George and,” she glanced at Nodon, whom she’d just met, “and you, Mr. Nodon, to Selene for a hearing before the chief of the IAA legal department.”
“A hearing!” Fuchs exulted. “Good!”
“At Selene.”
“Even better. We’ll beard Humphries in his own den.”
“Can George travel?” Amanda asked.
“Why not?” George asked back.
That was when Cardenas came back into the infirmary, her expression dark and grave.
George immediately saw the situation. “Not good news, eh?”
Cardenas shook her head. “The arm’s deteriorated too far, I’m afraid. Too much damage to the nerves. By the time we get you back to Selene, the deterioration will be even worse.”
“Can’t you stitch it back on here?” George asked.
“I’m not that good a surgeon, George. I’m not even a physician, really, I’m just pretending to be one.”
George leaned back on the bed. It was hard to tell what was going on behind his shaggy, matted beard and overgrown head of hair.
“They have regeneration specialists at Selene. With some of your stem cells they’ll be able to regrow your arm in a few months.”
“Can you do it with nanomachines?” Amanda asked.
Cardenas shot her a strangely fierce look: part anger, part guilt, part frustration.
“Regeneration could be done with nanotherapy,” she said tightly, “but I couldn’t do it.”
Fuchs said, “But you are an expert in nanotechnology. A Nobel laureate.”
“That was long ago,” Cardenas said. “Besides, I swore that I wouldn’t engage in any nanotech work again.”
“Swore? To whom?”
“To myself.”
“I don’t understand.”
Cardenas was obviously struggling with herself. After a few heartbeats she said, “This isn’t the time to tell you the sad story of my life, Lars.”
“But—”
“Go to Selene. They have regeneration experts there, George. They’ll grow your arm back for you.”
George shrugged good-naturedly. “Long as they don’t grow it back before our hearing.” He waved his stump. “I want those IAA bludgers t’see what the bastards did to me.”