Devil to the Belt

CHAPTER 17

DEKKER kept his jaw clamped on questions Meg clearly wasn’t going to answer—”I don’t knowwhat the situation is right now,” was the last information thing she’d yet said, when she’d insisted on stopping on 4-deck and walking breakneck to a lift that only took cards like the one she was using—which wasn’t hers. Gold. The only card like that he’d ever seen was Shepherd Access.

He’d never seen this end of helldeck, either—where the lift let out. She led the way across the ‘deck immediately to a door next to a fancy restaurant. A card-sized gold plaque was the only sign of business: the Shepherd emblem, Jupiter and the recovery track, right above the card-lock.

“What is this?” he asked.

Meg put the card in, shoved the door as the electronic lock clicked.

He ducked inside after her, into a carpeted reception room where he knew they didn’t belong—by no right ought they to be here, except that card.

A blond man looked up from the reception desk.

Meg said, “This is Dek; Dek, Mitch.—Have we heard anything from the rest of us?”

“Neg,” Mitch said, before Dekker could say anything, and pointed to the first door down the hall. “Wait in there. Both of you.”

“I’ve got friends out there,” Meg objected, “looking for him.”

“We’re doingsomething about it, Kady. We’ll do it faster if you take care of him.”

“Maybe you’d better tell me what’s going on,” Dekker said, but Meg grabbed him by the arm, said, “Dek, come on,” and steered him down the hall.

“Dammit, Meg,—”

“Shit, I don’t know, I don’t know, come on, just awhile—sonuvabitch! I’m up to here with sons of bitches…” Meg took him back into an elegant deserted bar, left him standing while she turned on the lights and set up on her own, poured two fast, shaky drinks, one whiskey, one rum.

He came and leaned his elbows on the bar, said carefully: “We’re not getting out of here tomorrow, are we?”

She took a sip of the whiskey and shoved the rum at him. “Drink up.”

“Meg. What’s happened? What are we doing here?”

She leaned on the bar, nudged his hand with her glass. “You seriously better have a little of that, jeune rab.—They found your partner.”

Thatwas it.—But the Shepherd Access, Meg’s breathless rush—coming here… He stood bewildered. Meg came around the end of the bar and snagged him by the sleeve, pulled him to a table and set him down opposite her.

She said, “Dek, they found her at the Well. That sonuvabitch put her in a bucket and sent her a long tour of Jupiter. A Shepherd picked her up on the recovery path.”

Meg sneaked up all gentle. Then she shot for the gut. His mind went blank and black—

That huge dark machine…

“Why in hell—” Breath dammed up in his throat. He couldn’t get it out. He reached for the glass, slopped it left and right getting a drink.

Meg reached across the table, reached for his free hand as he set the glass down, squeezed his fingers til they hurt.

“Cher. Death is. Pain’s life. And there’s, above all, sons of bitches. Get your breath. You’re not the only one who knows now. You’re not alone out there. It’s the independents… the freerunners… the Shepherds they were aiming at. The old, old business.”

“But what in hell do they think they’re doing?” His voice came out higher than he intended, hardly recognizable. “What kind of a game is this? How could they ever think they could get away with it?”

“There’s crazy people. They shot us down at the company doors. News cameras everywhere. Everybody in the world saw it. How’d they get away with that, can you tell me, jeune rab? —Have your rum. The word’s out on the Shepherds’ com. They’ll be hearing it at Sol about now. The company won’t want you to talk, you understand—seriously won’t want you to talk to anybody. That’s what’s going on. But if MamBitch pushes now, the Shepherds are going to shut MamBitch down. Let the corp-rats fly the ships with their cut-rate crews. Let the company execs fly the Well.”

“I want that guy, Meg.”

“Close as we can come. You got the guys that launched him. Somebody’sjob’s gone. Best you can do with these sumbitches.”

He’s reported in the core, the last report from Salvatore’s office had said. They were still searching; and Payne, with Towney’s office requesting the Dekker file, searched screen after screen of records generated by Salvatore’s investigation.

Record score on re-certification. Cleared to retrain, shipping with the two miners who’d picked him up, plus a Kady and Aboujib, both female—

Ships both due to launch on the 18th, the sleepery owner swearing he had no idea in hell where Dekker was—Dekker has missed a supper appointment: his partners had been phoning around trying to find him. Dekker could have come and gone, the owner had no idea, he’d been watching the vid. Everybody in the bar had been watching the vid…

Aboujib and Pollard both had Shepherd parentage. Kady was a cashiered shuttle pilot. Bird had been a suspect in the Nouri affair, close friend of Pratt and Marks—

The file had gone to Towney’s desk.

And the monkey was climbing up PI’s back.

Nobody had told hisoffice that Dekker was anything but, at absolute worst, a skimmer who’d gotten caught and bumped. Nobody had told him that a ‘driver captain was going to make a gesture like this at the Shepherds.

He keyed up Industry’srecord. Windowed in the second chart.

No record of asteroid 98879 prior to the incident. Industry’stransmission logged the discovery to the company. March 7th.

God.

Dekker had flat spooked out about the launch—that was Ben’s opinion on the matter. Thtey’d tried restaurants, game parlors, tried the bars again in the idea he could be skipping from one to the other, but the cops and the military were getting more and more visible on the’deck.

To hellwith that guy! Ben thought, trying to look inconspicuous while a group of military police came past the frontage. Inside, the vid was saying something about shifts held over due to “military exercises” and “a test of security procedures…”

A hand landed on his shoulder. His heart nearly stopped. He spun around nose to nose with Bird.

“Don’t dothat!”

“Now wegot a problem. We got wall to wall cops at The Hole.”

He felt of his pocket, cold of a sudden. “Card’s with me. We’re all right.”

“All right,’” Bird echoed him. “You got a hell of an idea of ‘all right.’ Have you seen Sal or Meg?”

“Not since an hour ago.”

The PA blared out: “ Shifts will be held another hour. There is a Civil Defense Command exercise in progress. If you have an assigned CDC post on 3-shift, go to it immediately. If you have no assigned duty, clear the ‘decks, repeat, all off-shift personnel get off the ‘decks and return to quarters.”

“The hell,” Bird muttered. “I’ve seen thisbefore.”

“What are they doing?”

“Cops,” Bird said. “Martial law. Shit with finding the kid. They’re going to shut him up, shut it down—it’s Nouri all over again.” Bird’s hand closed on his arm. “And we’rein it up to our ears, understand me?”

He did understand. He saw company cops moving through the crowds—saw blue-uniformed MP’s too, with heavy sidearms.

Bird said, “This time we put the word out, just find some friends, spill the beans, tell them pass it on.”

“Why risk ournecks? We got enough troubles.”

“That’s what we said the last time.”

“Bird,—those are guns out there!”

“Do you know the word ‘railroad,’ Ben-me-lad? Pratt and Marks were innocent. No way those boys were with Nouri’s lot. Good, dumb kids. But now nobody’s sure.—You do what you like.”

“Where are you going?”

“Doing a little discreet talking around in various ears. The company’s not hushing this one up. This time we know numbers. And dates.”

His mind went scattering in panic—the launch tomorrow… but that wasn’t going to happen. The urge to kill Dekker for involving them in this… but Dekker was probably the first one under arrest.

He took a fistful of Bird’s coat, hauled him back. “Bird,—”

“I knew Pratt and Marks were being screwed,” Bird said. “ Ihad the evidence, you understand me. It could have tied meto Nouri—in certain eyes. Everybody was scared. Everybody was saving his own ass. And everybody lost.—Not this time.”

“Bird, for God’s sake—”

“This time it’s us in the fire-path, you understand me? And we’re not dumb kids. You’ve got that datacard. Give it to me.”

Ben felt after the flat shape in his inside pocket, desperately trying to think what old classmates he knew that could fix thisone—but there wasn’t anyone. Not a damn soul who wouldn’t be, the way Bird said, saving his own ass.

“ Giveit to me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Put it on the bulletin board. And pass the word.”

“Shit!”

Bird leaned close and put a hand on his shoulder. “Find yourself a hole, hear me? Get down to the club. Don’t know if Sal’s friends’ll let you in, but, hell, you’ve got ties there. Use ‘em. It’s the only hole might cover you.”

Bird trying anything under the table—Bird didn’t know shit about the safeguards on the computer systems, Bird didn’t know shit what he was doing, dammit, those charts were their living—

They also were the only evidence that existed about where they’d been and what they’d done, and if the company arrested them and erased it—

“Hell,” he said, “you’ve got that Shepherd card. Thing’s got 1-deck Access.”

“Do what with it? Hell, Ben, that thing’s probably more dangerous—”

“Just leave the computer stuff to me and stay out of it, Bird, you don’t know shit how to get past the lockouts. I can get into all the boards, hell, I can get it into general systems, Bird, I know the modem codes…”

“Where in helldid you get those?”

He said, “Just give me the fuckin’ card, Bird, and tell ‘em the filename’s Dekker.”

“ Mr. Crayton is in conference,” the secretary said, and Payne shot the memo through in desperation. “Give thatto him. We’ve got to have a policy decision. Thirty minutes ago!”

“ I believe that’s the subject of the con—”

Payne hung up in frustration, and stared at the stalled press release on his screen. Then he shot it unapproved to News & Entertainment, for release.

The nature of a coded Shepherd transmission has been revealed as a query to Shepherd senior administration regarding the discovery of human remains in a Shepherd recovery zone. Company records have tentatively identified the body as likely that of Corazon Salazar, lost earlier this year in an accident near the R2/R1 boundary. Ms. Salazar, daughter of Alyce Salazar, a MarsCorp board member and prominent member of the Defense Advisory Council, was two years resident on Rl. She was apparently struck and killed while EVA when a tank explosion sent her ship out of control. The ship then traveled helplessly at high velocity into R2 zone. Dr. Ronald Michaels, of the Institute, has offered the theory that the body, traveling in the firepath of the ‘driver shipIndustry, was struck by one of the loads and carried along with it at a velocity sufficient to delivery it to the recovery site.

The Shepherd discovery adds another chapter to the already tragic story of the ill-fated miner craftWay Out. The surviving partner, Mr. Paul Dekker, was rescued earlier this year by an R2 ship dispatched to his rescue. Mr. Dekker, surviving isolation, cold and failing lifesupport after an amazing 71 days adrift, was released from James R. Reynolds Hospital after extensive treatment for physiological and psychological trauma. A spokesman for the hospital this shift expressed concern that Mr. Dekker has not responded to urgent attempts to notify him in advance of public release of this news. Mr. Dekker currently remains unlocatable on R2. Dr. Emit Visconti, Mr. Dekker’s physician, authorized release of the news in the fear that Mr. Dekker has heard the report via other sources and appealed for Mr. Dekker or anyone knowing his whereabouts to call Security or the information desk at Reynolds Hospital immediately. Mr. Dekkeris on medication and may have suffered disorientation or mental confusion due to the stress of this tragic report, and may be despondent. A spokesman for ASTEX Administration assures Mr. Dekker that he has been cleared of all fault in the accident, which occurred as the result of a catastrophic equipment failure, and urges Mr. Dekker to contact the hospital immediately…

Damn him. Damn Crayton—dumping a case like this on him with no indication at all that it had hidden problems.

Now Crayton couldn’t even clear a press release. He had to put his neck on the line, tryto keep the lid on—knowing that win or lose, this was something the company would want black-holed. Lost. Forgotten. Along with anybody in any way tainted with it.

The comp took the message. Another one windowed up, for Salvatore:

A Shepherd came and went at the core between 2041 and 2108h. Customs didn’t see him. They were in the office listening to the outlaw transmission. The card belonged to a tech named Nate Chaney, who isn’t answering to calls at his listed numbers…

No way to get to the rental comp at The Hole—but any phone would do, that had a keypad, and Io’s fancy establishment had that amenity. Neon flashed, dyed the beer green and red while it shook in the glass. Couldn’t hear a core blowout in this place, Ben thought, and it was crawling with low-level corporates—but he was wearing his best ‘deck casuals and the corner of the bar afforded a dark area. Shepherd card first: then his:

Boot file: PROCESS. Invoke: CALL13; README5; ADD2; ADD1; ADD3

Boot memory resident file: PROCESS2. Enter.

Student pranks. The datawindow showed dots, the Egg assembling its parts and pieces.

The datawindow said: CALLME: INS TXT

INPUT: $/CHART.CUR; CHART. 14; CHART. 15

OUTPUT: DEKKER

The datawindow said: ENTER SYSACC

His hands trembled over the keys. He didn’t think about cops. Or the corporate behind him, waiting to use the phone. He thought about data. He typed, rapid-fire: *2;20;W489\209:INSTAL:C\$/$y;*BOOT3;*3. l/$;{rs/#} /P*280:#[TAG/*1]

He switched datacards—inserted the Shepherd’s before the pause ran out.

Phone charge went to the Shepherd card. The Run trigger waited the first phone user after him. Nasty trick on the guy fidgeting behind him. He’dbe out of the bar.

He sipped the beer, punched charge, extracted the card and palmed it for his, held that one up, right color for a miner, if it mattered in the blue strobe, indication to the bar he’d paid: “Thanks,” he called out, drowned in the general thunder of the bass line, left his beer on the bar and went out the door.

He had the general shakes by then—but, damn, he’d really doneit, he’d actually runthe thing—his own tinkered-up finesse on an old Institute prank—with Assay Office bank and com direct line access numbers and a Shepherd’s 1-deck phone system authorizations. The question was now whether he was ahead of the current game with the trap programs—

—and whether he could get Bird off the ‘deck—whether he could findBird, before the cops did.

The cops were out in force, clearing the ‘deck. It was the old game, the cops said Move along, you said, Yes, sir, and you went somewhere else you didn’t live—helldeck played that game, the cops knew it was a game—didn’t push it too hard, helldeck crowd being what they were. They were going to have to make the sleeperies close their bars to everybody but residents, if they were serious and not just Making the Presence Felt: and thatmove would lock legitimate residents out on the ‘deck and have angry confrontations left and right—not what they were after, Ben told himself; but if it was your face they might be looking for, it seemed a good idea to hang to the back of crowds, keep behind taller people and drift on when they did.

God, he thought, no knowing what Bird’s puttering around into. I got to get him to cover somewhere—and if they pick us up, we just go along with it, take it easy, wait for the upper echelons to sort it out.

No way they’re going to screw us for this one—too many people know the truth, too many people on corp-deck are going to be covering their asses, and to do that, they have to cover ours, axe that sumbitch captain out there—and any clerk they can pin it on: those are the ones who need to worry.

Maybe we can even parlay this into a company buyoff, get us that helldeck office—

Justice, hell, Bird,—it’s the names you know that matter. It’s where they are and what you can do to them in court.

Wipe down this card is all—

Slip it right into the trashbin.

“Screwed the kid good,” Bird said, leaning close to Abe Persky, whispering over the music in the Europa. “But what they did to the girl, that wasn’t any company order. That was a ‘driver/Shepherd piece of business—damn sight more than letting a rock drift from a sling, this time. Shepherds are broadcasting it, outside code now—they’ll hear it clear to Earth, plain as plain. That’swhat the alert is about.”

“Damn,” Persky said with a shake of his head.

“Listen. I dumped my charts to the helldeck board—might check it before they catch it. Filename’s Dekker. D-e-k-k-e-r.” He nudged Persky’s arm. “Pass it on, everyone you know.”

“Got you,” Persky said, and reached for his datacard. Nudged him back as he was leaving. “ Careful, Bird.”

Collins’ table next. Collins was a company pilot now, but he didn’t like being that. He came to helldeck to keep up old acquaintances. He was sitting with Robley—Robley was doing factory work now: the kidneys had gone.

He sat down with Collins and Robley, and saw Persky pay out and leave.

Just one and two at a time. But the ‘deck telegraph moved like lightning.

Another call from Payne’s office. Salvatore said, “Yes, sir,” and, “We’re trying, sir, we’ve thought of that, sir, we’re trying that too…”

Payne said: “Don’t tell me ‘trying.’ I want all the records, I want the whole file on this guy. On allof them. Don’t give me another dead kid with relatives in MarsCorp, dammit, Administration’s had enough surprises in this case! I want to know who this Dekker is, I want to know if he’s got a record, I don’t care if it’s a misdemeanor, I want a total profile on him! You hear me? All the files, no ten-year cutoff, I want them as far back as they go, and I want them yesterday!”

Payne hung up. The comp flashed up a new message: Workers in Textiles 2B are demanding to be let go. There’s been some breakage, some pushing and shoving, manager’s scared and wants some help.

And another from Crayton’s office: Fleet Operations is recalling its personnel from liberty, stationing armed guards at two shuttle docks and at essential lifesupport and manufacturing accesses. We need immediate operations coordination…

God, Salvatore thought, and a report from Wills came in:

Morris Bird had dinner reservations at the Europa, for five. It was a no-show.

He wantedthe inhaler. He didn’t dare. “Call my wife at home,” he told his secretary. “Tell her to check on my daughter. Make sure she’s in the dorm.” He sipped cold coffee, trying to think who he could spare to liaison with the MP’s.

More messages crawled across the screen. A man is having chest pains in Textiles 2B. Paramedics have been called…

Wills again: Brown’s turned up a witness in customs who thinks Meg Kady was in the core at about 2040h. He’s not sure on that, says he saw all of them come and go the last few days taking parts back and forth— they had a permit for that, a ship in refit. We do have a confirmation on a card access for Dekker up there at 1723h. No exit. No card use at all from Kady since a phone call at 1846, from The Black Hole to The Pacific. The owner at The Black Hole claims they all left about 1900. He thinks.

Two people slipping a security gate on a borrowed card. Happened once or twice a week, usually for assignations.

The mast was a hell of a job to search, even under optimum conditions.

Textiles 2B reports a riot in progress. Manager requests additional security and paramedics…

Priority came through, bumped that: Virus Alert: Technical level shutdown.

Priority override: A virus is copying an unauthorized file through the Belt Management System. Contents are illicit sector charts. Virus variation onCOPYIT. Request computer crimes division to trace and erase proliferation through BM system.

“… cleared of all fault in the accident, which occurred as the result of a catastrophic equipment failure, and urges Mr. Dekker to contact the hospital immediately…”

Bird gave the vid a look over his shoulder, shook his head and looked at Tim Egel. “You’re a good numbers man. You believe that line?”

“No,” Egel said. “Not the tooth fairy either. Shoved to the Well by a load. I’d like to see the math on that one.”

“They don’t teach physics in Business Ad.”

“Don’t teach math either, do they?” That was a tender-jock, in on it, beer in hand. “What kind of stuff is that they’re giving out?”

“They want Dekker back in hospital. They worked him over with drugs. But he remembered the numbers anyway. That’s what they can’t cover up. 79, 709, 12. There was a bloody great rock there. That’s what it was about. That ‘driver came down on them while they were tagging it. Now the ‘driver’s sitting out there stripping that rock to loads. I’d like to match those loads with the sample Dekker had in his sling.”

“Can anybody do that?”

“I got the sample. It’s on record in Assay.”

“This here’s Morrie Bird,” Egel said.”The guy that brought Dekker in.”

“No shit! I heard of you! You’re the oldguy!”

Being famous got you drinks. Being famous could also get you arrested. He took a couple of swigs from the beer the guy insisted to buy him, and set it down, said, “If you’re curious, check the boards for a file named Dekker. With two k’s.”

“Dekker,” the jock said.

Egel said, in Bird’s diminishing hearing, “ I’lltell you what they’re up to, friend. They weren’t going to pay that rock out to any freerunner. Pretty soon they won’t pay it to a company miner either. Or the tenders. When the freerunners go, there go the perks anybodygets on the company ticket. When they don’t have to compete with independents like us…”

“They can’t do that,” somebody else said.

Time to leave, Bird thought. Getting a little warm in here. He set his drink down and slid backward in the crowd, faced about for an escape and saw cops coming into the place.

The cops waded in through the middle of the crowd yelling something about a closing order and residents only; and he stuck to the shadows until there was a clear doorway.

Outside, then. In the clear. But that was it—cops were getting just a little active.

“Where arethey?” Meg asked the only live human being she could find in the place—no Mitch, now, just this pasty-faced guy at the desk with the phone, with no calls coming in that she’d heard. Nothing was coming in, that she could tell, not even the vid, for what good it might be.

“No word yet,” the Shepherd said—guy in his thirties, serious longnose, busy with the com-plug in his ear— notliking real rab on his clean club carpet. He focused for a moment, lifted a manicured hand to delay her. “Ms. Kady—go a little easy on the whiskey.”

She’d started away. She came back, leaned her hands on the desk. “I’m all right on the whiskey, mister. Where’s Mitch? Where’s my partner?”

“We have other problems.”

“What?”

A wave-off. A frown on the Shepherd’s face. He was listening to something. Then not.

“Look. I hate like hell to inconvenience you guys, but I have a seriously upset guy in there who’s damned tired of runarounds. So am I. Suppose you tell me what’s going on.”

“A great many police is what’s going on. They’re still holding 2-shift.”

“Shit.”

“Don’t be an ass, Kady.—That door’s locked.”

“Then open it!”

“Kady, get the hell back to the bar—get that kid back in there.”

“Meg?”

She turned around, saw Dekker in the foyer. “Dek, just be patient, I’m trying to get some answers.”

“There aren’t any answers, Kady, just keep the kid entertained.”

She saw a flash of total red. Bang, with her hand on the counter. “Listen, you son of a bitch—where the fuck is my partner?”

“I don’t know where your partner is. If she followed orders she’d be here.”

“She doesn’t know we’ve got him! She’s not on your network!”

“I don’t know where a lot of people are, right now, Kady—we’ve got a lot more problems than your—” The Shepherd pressed his earpiece closer, held up a hand for silence.

“What?”

“They’re bringing that warship’s engines up, over at the ‘yard. They want us out of here.”

“They. Who, ‘they’?”

“The Hamilton. There’s a shuttle on the mast. But we aren’t getting com with it. Hamilton’ssaying it can’t raise it. That’s our contingency sitting up there.”

“Shit! This is going to hell, mister!”

“Shut up, Kady!”

Message from CCrimes: Ordering immediate shutdown of the banking system. The virus has entered 2-deck bulletin boards, spreading on infected cards with each use…

The man in Textiles 2B had died. There was a broken leg in a fall off a catwalk, there was damage to the machinery, a woman had gone into labor—Salvatore had a view from an Optex and it was a mess. They had the phones stopped on 2, but the damn chart had proliferated from the bulletin boards to the card charge system, sent itself into every trade establishment on R2, and they didn’t know if it was into the bank databank itself.

He washed an antacid down with stale coffee, and tried to placate Payne. Payne said he had to go to a meeting. Payne said his aide LeBrun was handling the office.

Damned right there was a meeting. There had better be a meeting real soon now. With some faster policy decisions. Salvatore’s hands were shaking, and he didn’t know who he could trust to handle emergencies long enough for him to get to the restroom and back.

“Sir,” the intercom said, “sir, a Lt. Porey to see you.”

He didn’t have any Lt. Porey on his list. He started to protest he wasn’t seeing anybody, but the door opened without further warning, and a Fleet officer walked in on him, withhis aide. “Mr. Salvatore,” the man said. African features. An accent he couldn’t place. And a deep-spacer prig Attitude, he’d lay money on it, expecting stations to run on hisschedule.

He got up. A second aide showed up, blocked his secretary out of the doorway. And shut the door.

“Mr. Porey.” He offered a grudging hand to a crisp, perfunctory grip, all the while thinking: We’re going to discuss this one with Crayton. Damned if not.

“Mr. Salvatore, we have a developing situation on 2-deck. Rumor is loose, and some ass in your office is referring FleetCom to PI—”

God, a pissed-offFleet prig. “That’s the chain of command.”

“Not in ouroperations. I want the files on this Dekker and I want the files on the entire Shepherd leadership.”

“I’m afraid all that’s under our jurisdiction, Mr. Porey: you’ll have to get an administrative clearance for that access. I can refer you to Mr. Crayton, in General Admin—”

Porey reached inside his coat, pulled a card from his pocket and tossed it down on his desk. “Put thatauthorization in your reader.”

Salvatore picked up the card with the least dawning apprehension they were in deep, EC-level trouble, and put it in the reader slot.

It said, Earth Company Executive Order, Office of the President, Sol Station, Earth Administration Zone.

To all officers and agents of Security and Communications, ASTEX Administrative Territories:

By the authority of the Executive Board and a unanimous vote of the Directors, a state of emergency is deemed to exist in ASTEX operations which place military priority contracts in jeopardy. ASTEX Security and Communications agencies and employees are hereby notified of the transfer of all affected assets and operations to the authority of EcoCorp, under ASTEX Charter provision 28 hereafter appended, and subject to the orders of EcoCorp Directors…I hereby and herewith order ASTEX company police and life services officers to place themselves directly under the order of UDC Security Office in safeguarding records and personnel during this transfer of operational authority.

Salvatore sat down and read it again.

“Effectively,” Porey said, “your paycheck comes directly from the EC now. You’re a civilian law enforcement officer in a strategically sensitive operation, subject to the rules and decisions of the UDG, the UN and the EC officers and board. I’m directing you to turn over those files.”

“You can’t have gotten an order from the EC—you haven’t had the time to get a reply.”

“Good, Mr. Salvatore. You are a critical thinker. There were triggering mechanisms. The transfer document has lain on my commanding officer’s desk for some few days. But I’d think again about destroying files, or advising your former administrators of your change of loyalties. You have a long career with the EC in front of you if you use your head. I can’t say that about all your managers.” A second card hit the desk. “That goes in a Security terminal. It will make its own accesses. Can you trust your secretary?”

“I—” He saw the guns—automatics. Explosive shells. Not riot control gear. And not ASTEX any longer. “I think I’d better explain it to him,” he said, and thought about his wife, about his daughter. He took the card, slid it into the computer and pressed ENTER.

The screen went to Access, and came up again with a series of dots. Porey folded his arms and watched it a moment, looked his way then with the tilt of a brow.

“The Industryfile. Purge it, among first things.”

“ Purgeit? Eraseit?”

“It’s become irrelevant. Personnel have already been transferred. Certain questions won’t be asked beyond this office. That’s official, Mr. Salvatore. Your career could rise or fall on that simple point. Take great care how you dispose of it.—Mr. Paget.”

“Sir!”

“ FindPaul Dekker and escort him to the dock.”

“So what’s the new plan?” Meg asked, she thought with great restraint, standing between Dekker’s temper and some fill-in Shepherd data-jock with a rulebook up his ass who persisted in trying to get contact with a shuttle that was probably—

The Shepherd said, “They’re still not getting through to Mitch—they’re jamming us.”

“So what do you expect? It’s not just the company anymore, it’s the soldiers, for God’s sake, and you can’t hideon a station—”

“You can’t hide a ship, either, Kady. I’m not sure how long my ship can hold position out there—”

“Then let’s get up to the dock. Play it by ear for God’s sake!”

“This isn’t a game, woman, we don’t know if the lifts are working—”

“Sit on your ass a little longer and we won’t know what elsewon’t be working when we need it.”

“I’m the only contact our people haveon this station—I have my orders—Mitch is—”

“ Mitchisn’t answering, you’re not contacting anybody out there, the phones are down, the soldiers are all up and down the ‘deck, for God’s sake—let’s get the hellup to the dock, if that’s our option!”

“It does us no good to get to the shuttle, our pilot’s out there on the ‘deck!”

“Is thatyour problem? Well, you’re in luck, mister! You’re up to your ass in pilots.”

“C-class, Kady, not a miner craft—”

“Earth to orbit, ship to station, Bl, anything you can dock at this hellhole. Let’s just get the hell up there.”

“Kady, there’s police out there. There’s armed police in front of our door. D’ you have a way we’re going to get past them?”

Goodquestion.

A whole squad of soldiers passed, going somewhere in a hurry. Ben found sudden interest in a bar window, in a crowd of exiting patrons. They wereshutting the bars, dammit. At least closing the doors.

Serious time to get somewhere. Bird might have headed back to The Hole, Bird might have been arrested by now, God only where he was.

A touch brushed his arm. His heart turned over. He looked in that direction and saw a coffee-dark face under a docker’s knit cap.

Dock monkey’s coveralls, too. When women were damn scarce on the docks. “What are youdoing?”

“Getting to the club unobviously as I can, which I think the both of us urgently better. Any word on Dekker?”

“No, damn him, I’m looking for Bird right now.”

“We better get him. They got soldier-boys with rifles now. They pulled those lads off liberty and they’re putting some of them down by the offices.”

“Damn, I don’t like that.”

“No argument, cher. Some of those guys are still flying a little.”

“Bright. Corporate bright, there.”

“Ain’t corp-rat, cher, that’s the so’jers—which we got gathering right down there. Don’t look. Just let’s stroll along and find Bird.”

He hadn’t been entirely scared until now. He started to walk, hearing distant shouting. People were coming out of the bar behind their backs.

A beer mug hit the deck and broke.

“Just keep walking,” Sal said.

“Don’t hold my arm. You’re a guy, dammit!”

“Yeah,” Sal said, and dropped it.

Tryto find a match on a refinery station—

“There’s candles in Scorpio’s,” the Shepherd said, rummaging the repair-kit.

“Not excessively helpful, mister. Never mind the screwdriver. Screw. Have you got a brass screw? Wire?”

Dekker objected, “Meg, what are you doing?”

She pulled the cover off the door-switch. “Wait-see, cher rab. God, the man has wire. What are we coming to?”

“A short’s only going to start the—”

Dekker got this look then.

“Yeah,” she said, winding wire about bare contacts. “Remember the ‘15, cher? Want you to take a few napkins, and the vodka bottles… Won’t take me a minute here.”

“That door’s going to seal,” the Shepherd said, “the second the fire-sensor goes off. We’ll suffocate.”

“Uh-uh. Door’s going to stay open. Make me happy. Say we got fire-masks in here.”