Hellburner (29 page)

Exactly why those guards were standing there. Damned right. Tell it to Porey that the guys weren’t going to go for the knives. Tell it to Lynch. A sight too much real combat readiness and overreaction in the ambient, thank you. A sight too much readiness in these troopers for any feeling that things were safe or under control.

“J-G.”

Demas. Behind him. He took a breath and a drink, and disconnected expression from his face before he turned around. “We’re on standby,” he said, disapproving Demas’ leaving the ship unofficered, before he so much as realized they weren’t the primary ship at station any longer; Demas said, “LongJohn’s on. We’ve got a while.”

He nodded, tried to think of somewhere pressing to go, or something he had else to do, rather than discuss the situation with Nav One.

“You all right, Helm?”

As if he were a child. Or a friend.

“I’m tired,” he said, which might cover his mood; but it sounded too much like a whimper. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like Demas conning him. He said, point-blank: “How much of this did you know?”

Demas’ face went very sober, very quickly. It took a moment before he said, “Not who.”

He hadn’t expected honesty. He hadn’t expected that answer. So Demas wasn’t happy with the new CO either. And Demas was indisputably the captain’s man. That came clear of a sudden.

He asked, under the noise of the heat pumps, “When did this get arranged?” and watched Demas avoid his eyes. Or look anxiously toward the marines—who might have Security audio, he realized that of a sudden. Damn, he wasn’t thinking in terms of hostile action, it was their own damned side, for God’s sake. But Demas was clearly thinking about it.

And Demas was the captain’s man.

said, in a low, low voice, “The Company pulled every string it had, in every congress on the planet. You want to go out to the ship, J-G?”

Of a sudden he had a totally paranoid notion, that Demas and Saito might be reeling him in for good, getting him where he couldn’t get into trouble—where he couldn’t cause trouble. Arrest? he asked himself. —Have I done that badly—or been that completely a fool?

“Hear this,” the com said suddenly. “This station and all station facilities, civilian and military, have passed under Fleet Tactical Operations, by action of the Joint Legislative

Committee. Military command has been transferred as of 1400H this date to the ranking Fleet Officer.

“Let me introduce myself. I am Comdr. Edmund Porey. I am not pursuing the interservice incident that marred the station’s record this afternoon. I am releasing all personnel from detention with a reprimand for conduct unbecoming...”

The glove first.

“... but let me serve notice that that is the only amnesty I will ever issue in this command. There are no excuses for failure and there is no award for half-right. If you want to kill yourselves, use a gun, not a multibillion-dollar machine. If you want to fight hand to hand, we can ship you where you can do that. And if you want to meet hell, gentlemen, break one of my rules and you will find it in my office.

“Senior officers of both services meet at 2100 hours in Briefing Room A. This facility is back on full schedules as of 0100 hours in the upcoming watch. Your officers will brief you at that time. Expect to do catch-up. If there are problems with this, report them through chain of command. This concludes the announcement.”

He looked at Demas, saw misgiving. Saw worry.

He thought about that request to go up to the ship, and said, “Nav, I understand these people. I’ve worked with them. You understand? I don’t want any mistake here.”

Demas looked at him a long moment—frowned, maybe reading him, maybe thinking over his options, under whatever orders he had, from the captain, from—God only knew.

“J-G, —“ Demas started to say. But there were the guards, who might well be miked. Demas put a hand on his arm, urged him toward the door, toward the corridor, and there wasn’t an office to go back to, unless he could get one through Porey’s staff. Demas’ hand stayed on his arm. He had a half-drunk cup in his other hand. He finished it, shoved it in the nearest receptacle as they passed.

Demas said, in a low voice, “Helm, be careful.” Squeezed his arm til fingers bit to the bone. “Too much to lose here.”

“The Shepherds’11 blow. One of them’s going to end up his example. If you want to lose the program, Nav—“

“Too much to lose,” Demas repeated; and a man would be a fool to ignore that cryptic a warning. He let go a breath, walked with less resistance, but no more cheerfully; and after a moment Demas dropped his hand and trusted his arrestee to walk beside him.

“Ens. Dekker,” the man said, letting him into Graff’s office. But it wasn’t Graff at the desk. It was Porey, for God’s sake—with a commander’s insignia. Didn’t know how Porey was here, didn’t know why it wasn’t Graff standing there, but it was Fleet, it was brass and he saluted it, lacking other cues. He’d dealt with Porey before, had had a two-minute interview with the man on the carrier coming out from the Belt and he didn’t forget the feeling Porey had given him men; didn’t find it different now. Like he was somehow interesting to a man whose attention you just didn’t want.

“Ens. Dekker,” Porey said, with his flat, dark stare. “How are you?”

“Fine, sir.”

“That’s good.” Somehow nothing could register good in mat deep, bone-reaching voice. “Hear you had a run-in with the sims.”

“Yes, sir.”

Long silence then, while Porey looked him up and down, with a skin-crawling slowness a man couldn’t be comfortable with. Then: “Bother you?”

“I’m not anybody’s target, sir.”

“And you lost your crew.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hear they were good. Hear Wilhelmsen was.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So what are you?”

Nerves recently shaken, shook. He didn’t know what the answer was, now. He said, “I want to fly. Sir.”

“What are you, Dekker?”

“Good. Sir.”

“You’re going back in that chair. Hear me? You’re going to go back in and you’re going to forget what happened here. You want to fly?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you do that. You take that crew we’ve put together for you and you get back in that sim and you do it, do you hear me?”

He wasn’t thinking clearly. Nobody he’d ever been in a room with gave him the claustrophobic feeling Porey did. He wanted this interview over. He wanted out of this office... he wasn’t up to this.

“Do you hear me, Dekker?”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Then you go do that. I want results. You say you’re the best. Then do it. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“You’re dismissed.”

“Yes, sir,” he said again, and then remembered Meg; and Ben; and Sal. “But with another crew, sir, than the one I’ve been given...”

“The Fleet’s assembled the crew you have at cost and expense, Ens. Dekker. We’re told they’re good. We’ll see it proved or we’ll see it disproved—in the field.”

“They’re not ready, sir.” He shoved himself forward, leaned on the desk and stared Porey in the face. “They haven’t had the year I’ve had, they’re not up to this, they haven’t flown in a year at least....”

Porey said, “That’s what the sims are for.”

“What are you after, a body count?”

People didn’t talk to Porey that way. He saw the slight surprise in Porey’s eyes, and something else, something that chilled him before Porey said,

“I’m after whatever you’ve got. As much as you’ve got.

Or you the. And your crew dies. That’s understood, isn’t it? We’re Test Systems here. And you test the systems. Do you want them to live? Then you don’t question me, you do it, mister. Do you have that?”

“It’s not reasonable!”

“I’m not a reasonable man.” Porey’s eyes kept their hold. “I never have been. I never take second best. Have you got it, Ens. Dekker? Or are you talk, and no show?”

He trembled. No human being had ever made him do that, but he shook and he knew Porey could tell it.

‘ ‘We give you everything you ask for, Dekker. Now you do what you say you can do, you pull the Hellburner out. You do it. Don’t give me excuses. I don’t hear them. Am I ever going to hear your excuses?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re meat, til you prove otherwise. Prove it. Or the. I don’t personally care, Dekker.”

He couldn’t get his breath. He couldn’t think, he wanted to strangle Porey so bad. He choked on it. Finally: “Yes, sir. I copy that clear. Am I dismissed, —sir? Because you fucking need me, don’t you, .sir?”

Porey kept staring at him. Looked him up and down. Said, “Aren’t you the bitch, Dekker?” and finally made a backhanded move that meant Get out. Dismissed.

He took it, saluted, turned and walked out, oxygen-short, still on an adrenaline burn, and snaking, while he was still remembering Porey from the ship, remembering that Graff had said even then: Don’t get close to him.

Then he hadn’t been able to figure whether Graff had meant that literally or figuratively, but he had a sinking feeling he’d just made a move that amused Porey—in the sense of defying Porey’s expectations. That was an intelligent man—maybe the most intelligent man he’d ever met; maybe too intelligent to mind who lived and who died. He believed what Porey had said—he believed lives didn’t matter in there, lives didn’t matter in this station at the moment, law didn’t matter...

Guards fell in with him, the same that had brought him there. He hadn’t even any notion where they were taking him, but they escorted him to the main corridor and told him go to barracks, everybody was confined to barracks.

Deserted corridor. Deserted conference rooms. Guards posted line of sight along the curvature. The vacancy of the corridors was surreal. The echoes of his own steps racketed crazily in his ears. The downside of the adrenaline surge left him dizzy and chilled.

several turns, more empty corridors. Guards at the barracks section door asked for his ID. “Dekker,” he said, and pulled his card from his pocket, turned it over numbly, all the rush chilled out of him. “Off duty. Just out of detention.”

The soldier guards said go through. He went, through the corridor into a barracks main-room crowded with people he knew, people he liked, guys who grabbed his arm and wished him well. He thought,

If you only knew what I’ve done to you ... ...

And almost lost everything when Meg got through the crowd and flung her arms around him. Cheers and catcalls from the company, egging her on for a kiss he didn’t shy away from, but all at once he was leaning on Meg, not certain which way was up. Dark was around him, that hazed back to light and the faces—

You all right? someone asked him, and he tried to say he was. Guy belongs in bed, somebody else said, but he said no, and they shoved him at a chair and told him the galley was sending food to barracks and in the meanwhile things had to be better, they were under Fleet control, they were trying to straighten out the duty roster and figure who was on what tomorrow...

Meg hauled a chair up facing his, grabbed his hands and made him look at her.

“Dek. You tracking, cher?”

“Yeah,” he said. He wanted a phone, he wanted—he didn’t know now whether he could cope with the news station or his mother. He kept hearing echoes, like the sim room. Someone saying, Enjoy the ride, Dekker. But the voice never had any tone. It drowned in the echoes.

He kept seeing the accident sequence on the tape. Not threatening, just a problem. He kept thinking about his mother, the apartment, the dock at R2. He kept seeing mission control, and a silent fireball. And the dizzy prospect down the core, all lines gone to a vanishing point. Fire pattern in the sims. Intersecting colors. Green lines. Track, and firepoints. He shook his head and took account of the room again, guys he ought to love, if he had it left. But maybe he was like Porey. Maybe he didn’t have it, or never had had. More comfortable not to have it. More comfortable to love the patterns more than people. Patterns didn’t the. They just evaporated. People went with so much more violence...

“God, he’s spaced. Get him on his feet.”

“We’re going to fly with this moonbeam?” Arm came around him, hauled him to his feet, and he didn’t resist it. “I tell you, I should’ve been in Stockholm, should’ve got my transfer—I hate this shit.” Friends here. People he trusted. People he’d betrayed in there with Porey, because he’d been a damned fool.

“Man’s got to eat.”

“Somebody ought to call me meds.”

“No meds.” He’d had enough. He walked. He got to his room. He hit the bed.

“Didn’t search the room,” he thought he heard Meg say. “Didn’t mess up the drawers, I mean, these MPs are politer than Company cops.”

“Peut-et’ they’re just neater,” Sal said; and Ben:

“There wasn’t a search.”

“How do you?” Sal started to ask. And said: “Silly question. Trez dim of me.”

Electronics and flash-scan assured privacy, even against fiber and remotes. Security swore so. Graff could feel secure in this cubbyhole next the carrier’s bridge, if he could trust present company.

Ask Demas and Saito who they belonged to? They’d say—Captain Keu. Of course. Saito would say it without a flicker. One preferred to hope and reason that was the case, rather than ask a pointless question.