Devil to the Belt

CHAPTER 16

YOU knew it was bad, Mitch put it, and trez correctly so, Meg thought—when they gave the whole barracks a beer pass, and brought cans and chips into the sacred barracks to boot. Pod sims were severely crashed, mags could be down a week, if sabotage wasn’t the cause, as was the running speculation in the barracks: in which case, plan on longer.

Beer helped the mood, though: the ping-pong game got highly rowdy, a couple of armscompers not quite in their best form, but at least everybody was laughing. Word from hospital was guardedly optimistic—the meds weren’t talking about life and death with Jamil and the guys now, but how long they’d be in hospital, about the percentage they could expect to come back and how soon. Jamil was conscious, Trace was. In the ruckus around the table, nobody questioned Ben and Sal slipping late into barracks. Ben just settled down soberly on Dek’s other side with: “Heard the news. Bad stuff,” while Sal went for beers. “Meg pulled them out,” Dek said, “Got to them fast as anybody alive could. And the sim chief was on fuckin’ duty this time, didn’t have to stop to get fuckin’ Tanzer’s fuckin’ authorization, he just braked the other mags and cut the power, was all. The worst part’s the stop. I can tell you that. —They go on and switch you guys, or is somebody going to tell me what they did, or what?”

Dek had had considerably more than one beer, not a happy drunk, but direct.

“Yeah, they switched us. Damned right they did.”

At which Dek looked at Ben and Meg recognized it was a good thing Sal came back with the beers.

Dek asked: “Why in hell didn’t you tell me?”

Ben took his beer and Meg held her bream. Ben said: “Because they could’ve said no deal. And you already knew.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Yes, you did. Give me armscomp, hell, I don’t want the guns ... why’d they give me the guns? I’m a numbers man. So Sal said, ‘Want to trade?’ and I said, ‘You friggin’ got it, give me the comp and I’ll get you the fire-tracks ...’ “

“Bully, Ben.” Dek’s voice wobbled of a sudden. “What are they going to do about it, then?”

Like he didn’t know. Like he hadn’t told her, in a couple of minutes during which Cpl. Bloomfield had been calling the hospital, checking on Jamil.

“Come on, cher.” Sal squatted down with her beer and patted Dek on the knee. “Screw the regs. Ben’s the numbers, Ben’s always been the numbers—”

Ben said, “Armscomp and longscan’s integrated boards, what’s the difference, who’s punching up, who’s punching in? They ran us switched, as a pair, didn’t have an iota of trouble with the sim—Sal’s got to get the feel for the ordnance, but she’s on it...”

“It’s not a free lunch, Ben.”

“Close as. I got my hands on that system, Dek-boy, I got a system runs like it’s friggin’ elegant—”

Ben was in serious lust. Dek looked at him. Dek was going to hit him, Meg thought, poised to grab. But Dek didn’t.

Sudden quiet from the ping-pong match. Rapid fall-off of noise from the door inward, and she looked, where, God, it was VDC uniforms incoming, senior guys; and the lieutenant was with them. Guys were coming to their feet. They did.

“Villanueva...” Dek murmured. The redoubted Captain Villy, then.

“At your ease,” Graff said—official voice, that. Something sure as hell was up. Nobody moved. “Personal message first,” Graff said. “Jamil says he’s coming back. Says he and Dekker are in a race.”

Fly-by was a show-out, but, God, that was good news: he was no cheap write-off and neither was his crew. Cheers at that. A faint laugh out of Dek.

“As you know,” Graff continued, “the mag interfaces took damage in shut-down, repair crews can handle that... but the larger question is what caused the pod to hang, and we are not putting crews back into the moving sims until we can pinpoint a cause and ensure operational safety. This does not, however, mean the program is at stand-down.”

Whole room must be breathing in unison, Meg thought. Good on everything they’d heard so far. But there were the UDC uniforms.

Just hope to God they aren’t putting us back under Tanzer.

“—Lab-sims will continue as scheduled. We have also made selection of Fleet crews for a carrier operations exercise—”

“Test run,” Dekker muttered, at her side. Translation from a lot of sources, to the same effect.

“—starting within the hour.” Quiet settled. Quickly. “In the meanwhile we are taking steps to integrate Fleet and UDC instructional and operational personnel. You will see UDC personnel in Fleet areas, eventually in barracks: on which matter I want to say something specific Rising murmur of dismay. The lieutenant waited, frowning.

“There was an incident reported to me, out of rec-hall, an attempt from a UDC crew to meet this company halfway, which was reciprocated with good grace. As a pilot myself, I appreciate the cnticality of operational confidence in fellow personnel—let’s be blunt: confidence of that kind was a casualty of the Wilhelmsen run.

“But what went wrong with this program does not serve this program; and when you’re heads-up and hands-on, what doesn’t serve this program doesn’t serve you or the carrier you’re defending. I don’t have to spell out to you the reality for the future: that you will be working with UDC crews, whose lives will be equally at risk, including the lives of personnel aboard your carrier. Competition is well and good where it brings out extreme effort. But the relationship between the four core crewmembers of this ship will be extended eventually to the complete thirty-member support team aboard, who will rely on core crew: in the same way, a carrier’s four Hellburner crews will have to rely on each other, and on that carrier and its internal support crew, for survival. There is no more serious business. Those of us from merchanter background have never quarreled with your style or your customs—and we refuse to quarrel with the personal customs of our sister service out of the inner system. Whatever makes a crew work, is that unit’s business and only their business: that’s the position we’ve always taken. That’s the position we expect you to take now, because when you’re out there in the wide dark, friends, your personal style, and whether you’re from Sol’s inner or outer system, doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. The reliance you have on the crews making up your defensive envelope-—that’s all you’ve got. Those are your brothers and your sisters. And me uniform will not matter.”

Murmur from the barracks, worried murmur.

Graff cut it off with: “The names of the pilots...” and got instant quiet. “.. .of the three crews selected, given alphabetically: Almarshad,... Dekker,... Mitchell. Those crews: pack immediately and board ECS4 within the hour; your quarters in this barracks will remain in your name, sacrosanct. You have no mass limit for this particular run: the carrier’s engines will not notice your handweights or your case of soft drinks, for that matter; but remember that all electronics aboard must be listed with the duty officer, and alcohol and medications of any sort must be dispensed by carrier staff only.

“Other crews will keep listed schedules. That’s all, guys, have a good evening. We’ll have a further briefing after breakfast call.”

“Lieutenant!” Mitch called out. “Is that as in—test flight?”

“It’s as in keeping this program going, Mr. Mitchell. You’ll get more specific briefings after you’re aboard. That’s all I can tell you. I won’t be making this trip. You’ll be under the orders of Comdr. Edmund Porey, specifically. Goodbye, good luck, good outcome.”

“Porey!” Sal beamed.

“What in hell are they doing?” Ben muttered, which was what she was thinking. “They’re crazed,” Dek said, and called out, “Lieutenant!” started across the room.

And stopped, still, arms at his sides, just stopped, for no reason she could see. The lieutenant was still standing there, looking straight at him with a worried expression, but Dek didn’t ask his question and the lieutenant didn’t give his answer.

“Shit!” Sal said, and went for Dek before she had the brains to, as Graff walked out with Villanueva, and guys were coming up and accosting her and Sal and Ben with congratulations—noisy and excited gatherings around Almarshad and Mitch and their guys, speculation flying... upbeat: the whole program had crashed on them, and now everything was moving faster than anyone thought.

“Dek.” She got his attention and he looked sane—sane and a little shaken. Ben overtook and asked: “What are we doing in this sort-out?”

“We have to pack,” Dek said for an answer, which meant, to an old Company hand, We can’t discuss it here.

Another time-glitch, the station’s smooth pale surfaces to the carrier’s spartan corridors, foam steel and color codes, lights that worked only when there was presence, hand-lines rigged every which way, and deja-vu on every surface. The rigging crew had been kind enough to supply a hand-line with a color cue and Dekker followed it, herding the duffle along, the head of his little column, Mitchell’s group and Almarshad’s. Long, long way from the entry to me rider loft: the lifts wouldn’t take them where they wanted to go so long as the carrier core was crashed, and the rules wouldn’t let you do miner-tricks, not on Porey’s ship, he had that by experience. You slogged it the hard way, and expected sore arms.

Ship’s officer was ahead, check-in point. “Welcome aboard,” they got; and a copy apiece of the ship’s internal regs; and the standard information on alcohol, volatiles, explosives, electronics, and live animals or plants.

“Inner perimeter take-hold for power up...” rang out on the speakers—inner perimeter didn’t mean them; which he knew, but not everyone seemed sure of on the instant; and the petty officer said, “Core’s going to engage for you. You can take the lift, captain’s compliments.”

Captain’s compliments. He took a breath, exchanged glances with his crew, thinking, Bloody hell... because extravagant gestures from Porey were highly suspect. The man liked causing pain: he’d met what he’d taken for examples of the type, but cheap talent, compared with Porey’s position and intelligence and potential. He didn’t want to be on this ship, he didn’t want to be under Porey’s command, even feeling as he did now that Porey was a competent commander—he knew in his mind that they were aboard for security reasons, not because of the test; and they weren’t mission candidates, he’d said as much to his crew in the privacy of their quarters, but the way this was starting out, this move on Percy’s part—was Porey in games mode. You bet your life on your nerves and your skill, and they had Porey jinking like this to start with, yanking them out, putting UDC into the barracks when he damned well knew they were worried about UDC security? A dozen guys with combat nerves, trained to deal with this kind of thing, and what in hell was Porey up to, making maneuvers on the ones trying to make his program work?

Snake, he thought as he punched the lift call. It’s politics, it’s damned, stinking politics, that’s what it smells like— he’s afraid I’ll talk, he wants me where he can control com, where I can have another accident if it comes to that— man’ll do anything, nothing in him you can get hold of, nothing gets to his eyes except when people squirm—he enjoyed it this morning, when he knew he’d got a hit in, and I hadn’t done anything, he’s that kind...

The siren blasted the thirty-second warning. Surreal sound, one he’d heard a handful of times in his life, when he’d ridden out from the Belt.

“Helluva surprise,” Almarshad muttered. “Nobody sets foot on this carrier but the commander’s own staff, what any of us have heard, not even the lieutenant. Don’t they trust each other or what?”

Almarshad wasn’t thinking about surveillance. Wilson wasn’t, either, who said, “Wish the lieutenant was going,” as if Porey wouldn’t eavesdrop. Dekker felt a cold fear, of a sudden, that not all of them might come back down this particular lift again. Mitch’s crew and Almarshad’s: the mission team and the backup, that was the order of things he could see, and he had a sudden claustrophobic sense he couldn’t go through with this, couldn’t watch this, couldn’t stand another watch in mission control while something went wrong...

The deck vibrated with the engagement of the core. The lift door opened to let them in.

Motion instead of thinking—a moment of dumping thoughts and negotiating the door, null-g. He got himself and his crew and their baggage in with two other teams, grabbed the take-hold in the corner next to the lift controls and stared at the panel, read the instruction and warning stickers on monofocus and didn’t blink, because he could lose himself right now, lose where he was, and when this was, and what he had to do...

G increasing. “Hold on,” he said, as the indicator approached the loft exit. The car hit the interface, jolted into lock with the personnel cylinder. The door opened...

Wood and sleek plastic. Carpeted bum-deck...

Looked like the Shepherd club on R2. Like exec offices.

“My Gawd,” Meg breathed at his back. “Is this us or Porey’s cabin?”

“It’s us,” he said in shock, “it’s evidently us.”

Wasn’t real wood, it was synth, but it was good synth. There was a tended bar, an orderly with trays of food and null-capped liquor—there were more orderlies to take their duffles and carry them away...

“Shee-it,” came from Sal. And Ben:

“Class stuff, here.”

Reality was completely slipping on him. He gave up his baggage to the orderly who caught a look at his nametag and took the duffle away—no wide spaces, the whole huge loft was diced up into safer, smaller spaces, by what he could see from his vantage; it hadn’t been like this the last time he’d been aboard. Bare girders on the ECS5—no paneling, no carpet, no interior walls and no orderly with’] cheese and crackers and margaritas and martinis. The Shep- J herds were right in their element: Mitch said, “All right,” and moved right in on the bar; and Ben didn’t blink, Ben had been living the soft life on Sol One; Meg and Sal had been with the Shepherds—

But he hadn’t. This wasn’t real. Not for him. It wasn’t ever supposed to be for him. . . there were people who had luxuries and people who didn’t have, by some rule of the universe, and he couldn’t see himself in a place like this...

“As you were.” Porey’s voice, deep and live. He looked around at the outer-corridor entry, as the commander walked in. Porey strolled past Mitch to the bar and picked up a cheese and cracker, popped it in his mouth. Nobody moved. Nobody thought to salute. It was too bizarre, watching Porey walk a tour of the very quiet area.

“We had a problem. We still have a problem, gentlemen. Ladies. We have sims down—again. We have one of our best teams down—again. This wasn’t your fault. Fixing it, unfortunately, is your responsibility. Seeing you have time and opportunity to focus on the job at hand—is mine. I’ve pulled you out here, and I am pulling this carrier out of station. Our final Hellburner prototype is mated to the frame, we’re proceeding with deliberate speed, we’ve advised the necessary powers that there will be a test, and we are, frankly, using the time to make our final selection. Three units will be using traditional lab sims, which we can manage aboard this ship, and using sims in the actual prototype, daily, shift after shift. Mr. Dekker’s unit will be using something different in addition, which we are watching and evaluating. Selection will be solely on the basis of scores and medical evaluations.

“Alcohol is not a prohibition during this watch. It will be available from time to time as schedules permit; but I suggest you not have a hangover in the morning: schedule will start with orientation to the library, tile loft, the prototype—

“About which, remember you people are the best of the best—a carrier’s survival and the accomplishment of its objectives is in large part your mission. You will live very well here, as you can see: core crews and technicians will occupy these quarters, with adequate staff to assure your undivided attention to your duty, which is solely the operation of your craft, the protection of your carrier and the achieving of strategic and tactical objectives. Additionally, privilege is extended in special facilities to your maintenance personnel, your library research technicians, and your communications and analysis personnel—you will sit at the top of a pyramid of some seven hundred staff and crew, with information gathering and processing facilities interfaced and cross-checked with the nerve center of the carrier itself. Everything you need. Anything you reasonably request. And, yes, tactical and targeting decisions will be part of your responsibility, in consultation with the captain of this ship. You will learn to make those decisions in close cooperation with carrier staff, decisions which were not, until now, your responsibility. Command believes your expertise in gravity-bound interactions and object location is an invaluable resource; and you will no longer receive cut-arid-dried mission profiles. You will construct them yourselves. This is a policy change reflecting a change in the source of policy: how long we can maintain that control of policy rests directly on your successful completion of this mission.

“In the meanwhile, enjoy yourselves, ask the staff for anything within reason, and consult your individual datacards for further briefings.” The second half of the cracker and cheese. Porey walked slowly toward the exit. And stopped. “Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen. Ladies.”

Scared hell out of a guy—Porey, as Meg would put it, doing courtesy.

“Shit,” Ben said, closing ranks with him and Meg; and Sal said, close after, “So that’s Porey up close.”

“That’s Porey,” Dekker said.

“Po-lite chelovek,” Meg said. “Nice place, and all.... You wouldn’t ever mink it, would you? Son of a bitch.”

A massacre, a slaughter of the innocent. Graff braced his finger against his lips, watched the vid in dismay, the crowd, the peacers shouting, the blond woman with the stringing hair looking distractedly left and right over the crowd like something trapped. Reporters asked, “Is your son the model they’re basing this tape on? Are you in communication with him?” Ingrid Dekker shook her head in bewilderment, saying, “I don’t know. I don’t have anything to do with him, nothing he did has anything to do with me... it’s aever had anything to do with me...”

God.

He sat there, watching the alien scene, steps of some ornate building, a cathedral, they said, in London, the placards and banners, the sheer mass of human beings...

A bas la Compagnie, they were yelling. Down with the EC.

And elsewhere on Earth’s life-rich surface, a UDC spokesman was claiming that the attitudes of the rab movement were infiltrating the Beet, that the real aim was to disarm Earth’s local forces, that the Earth Company was attempting to use the Fleet and the whole construction push in the Belt to take political control of the UDC and establish a world dictatorship...

Disaster. Utter political disaster.

“The tape is the damning thing. Someone’s given out details. Someone in a position to know what we’re doing—”

Saito said, “Don’t discount Tanzer. The UDC has those records at their disposal, a lot of damaging data. We had to accept the UDC structure in place, and after the takeover, we knew it was a bomb waiting to go off.”

“What side are they on, Com, for God’s sake? Do they think it’s a bloody game we’re playing?”

“Their power is in question. Their sight has unquestionably shortened. The question whether or not they’re in control of the EC or whether the EC is in control of Earth’s policy—it’s a very large, a very sensitive, issue in this system. The EC has enormous power, a constituency spread over the stations and the refineries and worlds outside this system. And we outsiders only know the EC. But there are governments, many governments on Earth, that consider the situation out there solely the EC’s war.”

“But it is the EC’s war. Do any of us doubt it’s the EC’s war? The EC’s cursed emigration restrictions created the mess, they motivated the dissidents to move out, they insisted on micromanaging at lights distance. Every stupid decision they ever compromised their way into created this war, but the fact is something very foreign is coming here, that’s the point. They’re worried about tape-training off a rab model because the rab movement is foreign? The rab isn’t azi. The rab isn’t designed personalities. The rab isn’t an expansion into space so remote we don’t know what may come out of it or what in hell they’re going to provoke... Belters are foreign? They should worry about me, Com. I’m foreign. I’m more alien than anything they’ve ever met!”

“Maybe they do worry. Maybe that’s what that mob in Geneva is really saying. Give us back our control over things. Make it stop. Make it the way we always thought it was.”

“It never was. Not for one moment was the universe the way they imagined.”

“Of course it wasn’t. But they thought they knew. They thought they controlled it all. Now they know they don’t. And that poor woman—is the symbol of their outrage.”

“Alyce Salazar has to be the EC’s greatest internal liability. Why in hell do they go on letting her take the offensive?”

“Principally because Mars wants its independence. Because Mars has gotten quite different, quite alien from Earth. That’s what I’ve turned up on the Salazars.”

“Cyteenization?”

“Something like. Something like the Belt—with nostalgic conservatism as the engine, instead of the radical reform that drove the rab to the Belt. They cling to an Earth that never existed. They’re the pure article, more Earther than Earth is—maintaining the true opinion, the true Earthly tradition. Never mind the outbackers are eccentric as they come. The corporate management runs the government, quite conservative, quite protective of their personal interests and their family influence.”

“I thought that was illegal.”

“It is. But it’s the driving force in Martian society— who’s in whose camp. Understanding what the daughter’s desertion meant to Alyce Salazar—simplistically, face-saving has to be a large part of her motive, by what we’ve turned up. The girl escaped her mother’s authority by literally slipping through customs and eluding her mother’s personal security: that was one blow to the Salazar corporate image; more extravagantly, she embarrassed her mother by dying, quite publicly, quite firmly associated with Belter rab in a fullscale Company disaster. The daughter was clearly a dynastic hope on her part—a bid to extend Salazar’s influence into another generation. A lot of Salazar alliances were built on that assumption.”

“Which had to be revised at the daughter’s death.”

“Which to a Martian corporate, was a major disaster. A threat to her immediate control. It’s radicalized the Salazar influence: she’s—certain people think, calculatedly—offended certain elements that oppose the Company. The consensus I’m getting from intelligence is she’s not mad, she calculatedly created a cause and an opposition to force the EC itself down her path in a move to come out of this more powerful man she was. That’s what we’re dealing with. She’s maneuvering for power equal to the EC president—and the EC so far is paralyzed, because of who’s backing her. They can’t betray the conservatives in Bonn, or it erodes a structure they’ve built up over decades. The conservatives mere are in fear for their lives over the radical resurgence. And that promotes Company hardliners, like Bertrand Muller. Muller is for the war, incidentally. He wants us to ‘recover Cyteen.’”

“My God.”

“He calls it a colony. What do you want? He’s ninety years old, he formed his current opinion on his fortieth birthday, and he says the Company police who fired on the rab were defending civilized values.”

“We’re in the hands of lunatics.”

“Of financiers. Far worse.”