—admit a ’driver had jumped a claim.
His head ached with a vengeance. He shied away from the company’s reasons. He thought about the pills and sorted through the lot, reading labels.
But beyond that…
He looked at the time again. August 15th. The accident—
(No accident, dammit.) That was the 12th of March.
March 12 to March 31 is twenty days. 20 plus 30 in April is 50. 50 plus 21 in May is 71.
January 1 to March 12. Thirty-one days in January, 28 in February, they said it wasn’t a leap year, 12 in March. 31 and 28 and 12 makes seventy-one days. Seventy-one days til they found me. Seventy-one days from January 1st to the accident. No. From the accident—that was why the watch read out the 12th. The numbers are a match—that’s all. And between then and now—is it coincidence? Or do months always do that? What do 30’s and 31’s have to do with anything sane?
He couldn’t think. His mind slid off any long track it tried to take. It made his head ache. He took his datacard and used its edge to reset his watch. August. The 15th. That was it. It said August 15 and Cory was out there somewhere, while he was sitting in an R2 bar. Half a year was gone, part of it lost in the dark, part of it on the ship, part of it in hospital. The 15th of August. And his card was active here, on R2, and they hadn’t said a word about sending him home: he supposed they didn’t want the expense.
Or they didn’t want him talking.
Screw that—if he knew anyone to tell anything to on helldeck—
If they’d gotten his ship in, if—he had anything to live on—
He remembered the license suspension—the doctors said it was oxygen deprivation and nerve damage because he dumped a stupid box on the floor and pissed off some doctor with an Attitude, that was what had gotten written down on his records. Or they’d pulled it because of the accident—but they’d cleared him of that. He could fix the license part of his problems, get the shakes out, get some sleep and do a few days in the gym—
All he had to do was sign up and pass the operationals again. No problem with that.
Except the hours requirement…
The company was going to be reasonable? The thought upset his stomach.
Retake the medical exam, maybe, put the damned washers on the stick, this time. He could prove it never should have been pulled. Getting the ship in order might take everything he had—tanks blown, all that crud when the lifesupport went down—but he could do a lot of the cleanup himself—but the dock charges… they’d come in, when? July 26th? June 26th?
God, he didn’t want to think about time any longer, didn’t want to add numbers or sweat finance right now or figure out how much he’d lost. But now that he’d started thinking about it he couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t keep any figures straight in the state he was in, and he had no idea what the tanks were going to cost. Twenty, thirty thousand apiece, maybe, counting the valves and controllers and hookups: some value for the salvage on the old ones, but it was going to take bank finance, and they had his account tied up—it might be smarter to sell it, buy in on some other ship—
The bar had a public reader. He got up with his beer and his bag of pills and his belongings, and went and put his card in, keyed past the surface information for detail this time.
APPLICATION MADE FOR FUNDS TRANSFER: 47,289.08 in ASBANK Rl branch to ASBANK R2. ACCESSIBLE AFTER 60 DAYS. PUBLIC NOTICE POSTED 08/15/23. CURRENT AVAILABLE BALANCE: 494.50.
Sixty days. God. What could take 60 days? He wanted to know where his ship was, what berth, what those charges were so far. He typed: 1-84-Z: STATUS.
R2’s computer answered: UNAVAILABLE.
Screwups. There wasn’t a thing in his life that some damned agency hadn’t messed up.
He took his card, went back to the bar, said, “Can I use the phone?”
The bartender held out his hand, he surrendered his card for the charges and the guy waved him to the phone on the wall at the end of the bar.
He punched up INFORMATION, asked it: DOCK OFFICE, pushed CALL, waited through the Dock Authority recording, punched Option 2, and patiently sipped his beer while his call advanced in queue. A live human voice finally acknowledged and he said, “I’m Paul Dekker, owner of One’er Eighty-four Zebra. Should be at dock. I’m getting an UNAVAILABLE on the comp, can you tell me what—”
“Confirm, One’er?”
“Yes. Towed in. Might be in refit.”
“Just a minute. You say the name is Dekker?”
“Paul Dekker.”
“Just a minute, Mr. Dekker.”
He took another sip of the beer, and leaned heavily on the counter, his breath gone short. He’d had enough of incompetence, dammit, he’d had enough of doctors arguing with him what he had and hadn’t seen and he wasn’t ready to start a round with the Dock Authority. A ship Way Out’s size was a damned difficult object to misplace.
“Mr. Dekker, that ship was here. I’m not finding any record of it. Just a minute.”
A long wait while he sipped his beer and his heart pounded.
“Mr. Dekker?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure that ship hasn’t gone out?”
He was on the edge of crazy now. He said, “I’m an owner-operator. No, it hasn’t gone out. It shouldn’t have gone out. Try Refit.”
“I’ll check.” The operator sounded concerned. Finally.
The barman was looking at him. A bunch of military drifted in and took his attention. He hadn’t seen them on Rl. But they were customers. He was glad of the distraction. He was in no mood for a bartender’s questions.
The bartender served the other drinks. The hold continued. The soldiers settled in at a table. The barman signaled him: Refill?
He slid the empty mug down the bar, still waiting, still listening to inane music.
“Mr. Dekker?” the phone said.
“Yes.”
“I’m going to put my supervisor on. Please hold.”
He had a bad feeling, a very bad feeling. The beer came sailing back to him, and he stopped it and sipped at it without half paying attention.
“Mr. Dekker?” A different voice. Older.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Dekker, that ship’s number was changed. I’m looking at the record right now. You’re Mr. Paul E Dekker. Would you confirm with your personal ID, please.”
“12-9078-79.”
“Yes, sir. That title was transferred by court order. It was claimed as salvage.”
He couldn’t breathe for a moment. He took a drink of the beer to get his throat working downward again.
“Mr. Dekker?”
“Did the guy who claimed it—happen to be named Bird? Or Benjamin-something?”
“I’m not supposed to give out that information, Mr. Dekker. I can give you the case number and the judge’s name. If you have a question, I’d suggest you go to the legal office. We don’t make the decisions. We just log what they tell us. I’m very sorry.”
“Yeah.” He was having trouble with his breathing. He didn’t have his card to take the note the Dock Office was putting in. He didn’t want to involve the barman to get it. It went wherever it went when you didn’t key a Capture. “Thanks.”
“Good luck, Mr. Dekker.”
The Dock Authority hung up. He pushed the flasher, keyed up Information and keyed into Registry. Took the 1 choice this time and asked the robot for M. Bird.