“Yeah, I see ‘im.”
Meg looked from under her brows, tried to look like furniture, heart thumping.
Tall guy, hair shaved up, Nordic or something: his name was Mitch, he was a Shepherd tech chief, and he was a friend of Sal’s. Not of hers—most definitely not of hers. Mitch had seen them and done this little take, just a half a heartbeat, and gone on over to the weights.
“I think I’d better evaporate,” she said to Sal.
“No. Sit.”
It was fairly well Shepherd territory they were in, this little gym near the end of helldeck. It was a gym Sal had always had rights in. She didn’t. And this Mitch—Mitch never had approved of their partnership… mildly put.
Sal got up and went and talked with him. Meg tried not to be so forward as to read lips, but she could read Sal, and it wasn’t thoroughly happy.
Then Sal put her arm around Mitch and steered back toward her.
“Meg,” Mitch said.
It was her cussed nature that she wouldn’t stand up. She strangled a towel, tilted her head to get a look at him against the lights and gave him a cool smile. “B’jour, Mitch, que pasa?”
He did rab the way Shepherds did, fash. He meant the same in his way. He didn’t speak the speech, damned sure. Didn’t do the deeds. He said, “Kady. How are you doing?”
“Oh, fair.”
“That’s good. That’s good, Kady. No noise, no fusses. You’re friend of a friend of a friend, you understand. That’s gotten you this far. I must say I’ve been impressed.”
“You’re a sonuvabitch, Mitchell. Nice not seeing you lately.”
Mitch smiled. Good-looking sonuvabitch. And having the authority to toss her out of here, and out of Sal’s life.
“Don’t screw up, Kady. You’re on tolerance. You’ve run the line damned well so far. I’ve told Sal, there’s a real chance on you.”
“Take it and screw with it. I’m noton your tolerance.”
Mitch’s brows went up. Then he got this down-his-nose look, shrugged and walked away.
Meg rubbed the bridge of her nose, not wanting to look at Sal. She didn’t know why she’d done that. Honestly didn’t know why. It wasn’t outstanding good sense.
“Sorry, Aboujib.”
“Yeah, well.” Sal dropped down to her heels, arms on knees. “He asked, he got, he knew he was pushing. He’s all right.”
“Yeah. I know how all right he is. Sumbitch. Little- ggod. Shit-all he’s done for you.”
Silence from Sal a moment. She’d gone too far with that one. Finally Sal said, “They’ve heard about the upset in our room. Mitch wants us out. Says lease and go, get out. They’re worried.”
“Hell if!” Meg said. “We’re close, dammit. What’s he bloody care?”
Sal’s dark face was all frown. “We do got a warning.”
“Yeah, well, Aboujib.”
“Severe warning.”
“Wants me out of here, too, let’s be honest. You get a lease, I’llstay here and hold us a spot on the ship.”
“Didn’t say that.”
“I’m not saying split, dammit, I’m saying I stay here and hold us a spot and you keep your friends happy.”
“He’s advising both of us.”
She took a tag end of the towel, mopped her forehead, an excuse to gather her composure. “We’re that close. Dammit, Sal, you don’t get that many breaks. There won’t be another.”
Sal didn’t say anything for a moment. Meg sat there thinking, Sal’s break’s with them: her real break is with them, if she toes the line. Damn sons of bitches. Couldn’t help her. Couldn’t take her in. Toss a kid out like that… make her turn spirals til she’s proved herself—hell if, Mitchell.
Sal said, finally, “Come on. Out of here.”
On the walk, out in the noise and the traffic of the’deck: “I don’t think there’s a bug there—Mitch wouldn’t talk, else. But there’s a word out, Meg: I got to confess, I maybe said too much.”
“About what?”
“Ben got data off that they got when they were after that ship. He’s been working with it and he doesn’t give a damn what it is to anybody else, it’s his charts and he’s not going to see it dumped. He said that.”
Meg took a long, long breath. “Merde. That’s what you told Mitch?”
“Mitch came to me. They wanted a copy.”
“Ben’d kill you.”
Sal kept her voice low, beneath the noise and the echoes. “Yeah. I know it. But they won’t make the same use of it—just the information, just those chart numbers. You got to fund me, Kady. Mitch’s got my card right now. Access to our locker for the next while.”
“Shit, Aboujib!”
“On the other hand—”
“This thing’s got too many hands as is!”
“On the other hand, Shepherds have got their eyes on us after this. Dunno what they can do with those charts—but they’re thinking there’s something just damn ni-kulturny about Bird’s ship being tied up, about this kid getting killed out there, about the cops looking through the stuff—”
“You told him this. You went to him.”
Sal ducked her head. “I was worried. Worried about whether we shouldn’t cast off and get clear of this, if you want the truth. You ask yourself why the cops would turn our rooms upside down, ask yourself if there’s any damn thing we’ve been involved in out of the ordinary except we got two friends trying to file on a ship.”
“Aboujib,—”
“Yeah, I know. I was just asking a question. I said I thought it could be data they’re looking for—”
“Aboujib, do you seriously mind telling me in the hereafter when you’re going to pull a lift like this?”
“Yeah, well, I figured you’d worry.”
“I’d have killed you.—Ben know?”
“No.”
“So how long before he finds out? God, Aboujib, that jeune fils is no fool. He could’ve bugged the damn card.”
Sal pursed her lips. “Did.”
“Then he does know?”
“Neg. Of course not. He and I bothcame through the Institute.”
.
CHAPTER 8
IT was tests: put the washer on the stick, fit the pegs in the stupid holes. Add chains of figures. Dekker knew what they were up to when they gave him the kid toys.
“Screw that,” he said, and shoved the whole box onto the floor—wishing it was lighter g. But it made a satisfying racket. He looked up at the disconcerted psychologist and said, “Screw all of you. I’m not taking your tests until I see a lawyer.”
He stood up and the orderlies looked ready to jump, the petite psychologist frozen, slate held like a shield.
He coin-flipped the washer he had in his hand. Caught it before it fell, then tossed it toward the corner, looking at the orderlies.
“You want to come along?” Tommy said. He was the one who talked.
“Yeah,” he said, shrugged, and walked over to the door where Tommy and Alvie could take hold of him. They had worked it out: he walked and they didn’t break his arms.
If he was quiet they kept the restraints light and he could keep his hands free. It was hell when you couldn’t scratch.
“Vid,” he said when they were putting him to bed. There was vid in this room. Tommy turned it on for him. He didn’t even want to ponder where he’d been, what they were doing, it was just one more try, no different than the rest.
But it scared him.
Another doctor walked in, turned off the vid. He’d never seen this man before. But it was a doctor. He had the inevitable slate, the pocketful of pens and lights and probes. And a name-badge that said Driscoll.
Driscoll walked over, sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Don’t get friendly,” Dekker said. “I’m not in the mood.”
He enjoyed seeing the bastard sit back and take on an offended surliness. He was down to small pleasures lately. Driscoll consulted his slate mysteriously. Or Driscoll was the one who had the memory problems.
“I understand your impatience,” Driscoll said.
“I’ll talk to a lawyer.”
“We have your test results.”