“I knew this man a handful of months. I’ve seen him like this before—when he Fust got out of hospital on R2. I can’t make him make sense til he wants to make sense. I couldn’t then. Nobody can.”
“You made a good advance on it. Three days, lieutenant. I want him to talk.”
Bream came short. “Do I get to beat it out of him?”
“Let’s be serious, lieutenant.”
“What am I supposed to be asking? Have I got a clearance to hear it? Or what happens when he does talk? What am I looking for?”
“As much as you can know—and it’s not been released yet—there was an accident. Dekker wasn’t in it. Friends of his were. Dekker’s crew was lost.”
“Oh shit.”
“Top command subbed in another pilot with Dekker’s crew on a test run. The test didn’t go right. Total loss. Dekker was hospitalized, treated for shock. The day he got out—he either climbed into a simulator under the influence of drugs or something else happened. It’s a matter of some interest which.”
Ben chewed his Up. Missile test, they’d said on Sol One.
Tech committee meetings. Place crawling with brass and VIPs. Hell. “So isn’t there an access record?”
“Computers can be wrong. Can’t they?”
Ben’s heart rate picked up: he hoped to hell there wasn’t a monitor hearing it. He tried to think of some scrap to hand Graff, for good will’s sake. He finally said, “Yes. They can be.”
“I want him functioning,” Graff said. “Say you’re on jnterservice loan—at high levels. It could be good. It could be bad. To take maximum advantage of that... you need to deliver.” Graff pulled a thick envelope from his jacket and held it out to him. “He listed you next-of-kin. So you have a right to see this.”
“I’m not his next-of-kin. He’s got a mother—”
“She’s specifically excluded. Don’t worry. There’s nothing in this packet outside your security clearance.”
He took it. He didn’t want to.
“I wouldn’t leave that material lying about unattended,” Graff said, “all the same. —You’ve got your quarters in hospital. I can’t order you not to use the phone. But if you do, if you contact anyone else, do you understand me, you’re not behind our screen any longer. Take my personal advice: get back to the hospital and stay there—and don’t use that phone.”
He looked at Graff a long, long moment. Lieutenant j-g. Carrier command officer. A tech/1 to a tech/2’s rank. But he had the impression Graff was leaning on some executive and clandestine authority to do what he was doing. It was in Graff’s tone, in the clear implication he should avoid his own chain of command.
“Whose office does this originate in, sir? You mind to tell me how official this is? Who’s in charge?”
“Ultimately, the captain.”
Two and two suddenly made four. Keu. Sol FSO. He looked Graff in the eyes and thought—I don’t like this. Damn, I don’t. He said, “Is your captain the only authority that’s covering me?”
Graff said, “No.”
Conrad Mazian? The EC militia commander who was romancing his way through the UN hearings? “In which service, sir? I want to know. I need to know that. I want orders in writing.”
“Ben. Take my word. I’d go back to quarters, immediately, if I were you. I’d stay quiet. I’d do everything I could to finish my job. If I were in your place.” Graff opened the door, and shut off the lights. “If you need me, for any reason—tell Dr. Evans.”
The keycard worked, at least. The room in the hospice was an institutional cubbyhole with a bunk, a phone, an ordinary flat-vid.
And no baggage.
Delivered, customs had said. Customs had showed him the slip. Delivered at 1500h. God only where.
He set down the soft drink he had carried up from level 1. He looked at his watch. 1845h.
He picked up the phone and went through hospital downside to call customs.
“This is Lt. Benjamin Pollard. I was just there. My baggage isn’t here. Is it still being delivered?”
“Who did you talk to?”
He sat down on the bed. He pulled a vending machine sandwich from his pocket, laid it on the table by the soft drink, and pulled out the customs claim ticket. “The claim number is 9798.”
A pause. “It’s been delivered, sir.”
“You didn’t deliver it to HOS-28.”
“That’s what’s on the ticket, sir.”
“That’s not what’s in HOS-28, soldier. I want to know where my baggage is right now.”
“That’s all the record I have, sir. You could check with Lost Baggage at 0700.”
“This shift doesn’t find baggage, is that it? It just loses it?”
A moment of silence. “I’ll make a note of it, sir.”
“Thank you.”
He punched out. He did not break the phone. He took a sip of his soft drink and unwrapped the sandwich.
No official assignment, no cafeteria open at this hour, no card with food privileges. He had fifty on him. Period. And Mr. Lieutenant j-g Jurgen Graff and his unnamed captain hadn’t seen to that detail.
God, he didn’t like the feeling he had. Bet that Graff had contacted Maj. Weiter? Hell if. Bet that the UDC knew where he was right now?
He looked at the phone and thought how he could call the UDC CO here. He could do that. He could break this wide open and maybe be a hero to the UDC—or get caught in the middle of something, behind a security screen that didn’t have Stockholm anywhere inside it. A screen confined to this place. Right now he could plead total ignorance. Right now he had a transfer order signed by Keu and a Security stamp on it and he could plead he had regarded the order exactly the way it said in the Interservice Protocols. And he could do what they wanted and get out of here.
Dammit, he didn’t know why Dekker was crazy. Anybody who wanted to fly little ships and get shot at was crazy. If even the simulator could half kill a guy—
He could have said get Dekker off the drugs. He could have said don’t sedate him—but Dekker knew too much about him, damn him, Dekker knew enough to babble things that could end up on his record, if Dekker got to talking to the psych; and if Dekker had told certain things to Graff, God—Graff could have been sifting everything he had said against information he had no idea Graff had, and weighing it for truth. Graff could have had technical backup doing it, big-time, interactive logic stuff you had no good chance to evade without a clearer head and a calmer pulse rate than he had had in that interview—
God only, what Dekker had involved himself in. Or why someone might have wanted Dekker dead.
Or what might happen if he picked up that phone right now and tried to get through to the UDC office—via hospital communications.
He didn’t know enough about how the lines were drawn here. He didn’t want to know enough. Do what Graff wanted and be on that shuttle on the 22 nd, that was all. Any way he could. And if the UDC did land on him—spill everything immediately. Total innocence. No, sir, they showed me orders, they said it was cleared—
Somebody subbed a pilot on a test run? And somebody put Dekker into a simulator drugged out of his mind?
Bloody hell.
He pulled out the envelope, from inside his jacket. Opened it and pulled out cards and pictures, a couple of licenses and old IDs.
Flight certification. Picture of Dekker and three other people. Group shot. All in Fleet uniform. Woman and two guys besides Dekker. All smiling. Arms over each other’s shoulders.
Old vid advert for a truly skuz sex item. God. We all have our secrets, Dek-lad,...
Picture of Sol Station. Picture of a couple of people outside a trans station. Picture of Mars Base from orbit. If there’d been any of Cory Salazar, Dekker had lost those, a long time ago.
Datacard. The phone had a reader, but he shoved the card into his own. Personal card showed vid rentals. Commissary charges. Postage charges. Bank records. Bits and pieces of Dekker’s life since they’d parted company. Lad had 5300.87cc to his account and no debts. Not bad. Not rich either.
The other datacard was old notes and mail. Not much of it. Notes from various people. One letter months ago from Ingrid Dekker. Four, this last year from Meg Kady.