He put his card in the slot: the door clicked and opened. Reel Security occupied the solitary desk in the foyer; beyond it was a potted silk palm, an abstract picture, and another beige windowless door.
“Pollard,” the officer said, with no attention to the protocols in the rulebook. Or his face. Just the readout on his screen. “Benjamin J. You’re carrying electronics.”
“Reader.”
The officer held out his hand. Ben surrendered it and watched the officer turn it on and punch buttons.
“Fancy.”
Break his effin’ neck getting here and this cop-type stalled him playing games with a piece of expensive and delicate equipment. He said, “I’ve got an appointment at 0930.”
The guard said, “HQ,” and motioned with the back of his hand. “Lieutenant Jackson.”
Jackson, was it? Fleet Lieutenant. Which, in the much-argued and protested Equivalencies, was a rank just under Maj. Weiter’s; and one over his. Ben drew himself up with a breath, thinking, with part of his brain: Son of a bitch deep-spacer Attitude, and minded for half that breath to make an issue of interservice protocols; but the rest of his brain was still wondering if the Fleet could have any legitimate interest in him and hoping all he had was a pocket full of EIDAT-screwed orders. So he saluted, got a flip of the hand and walked to the inner door, that clicked open on a long bar of a desk and a sober-faced clerk who said (efficiency, at least) “Lt. Pollard?”
“Yes.” Manners. Finally. He took the offered escort to a side office. Jackson took the salute, offered him a seat. Young guy. Pleasant, serious face.
Better, he thought.
“Thank you, sir.”
Jackson folded his hands on the desk, “Lt. Pollard, —I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news: a friend of yours has been involved in an accident.”
“Friend of mine?” That was a complete mental shift. He honestly couldn’t think if he had a friend. Not lately. Bird was dead. Sal?
“Name of Dekker,” Jackson said and Ben all but said, Shit! before he remembered he wasn’t in the Belt and swallowed it.
“Fatal?”
“Serious. He’s asking for you.”
“For me?” He was vastly relieved it wasn’t Sal. Distressed if Dekker’d gotten in trouble. He didn’t hate Dekker. Not really. Dekker had enlisted with him, gone off into some secret pilot training program... real hot piece of equipment, Dekker had said.
Jackson said, “His doctors fee! it might be some help, a familiar face....”
He thought. Oh, God, I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to see the guy again—I hate hospitals... I don’t like blood—
But there it was, the brass had made a humanitarian move, no way to explain all the old business between them—it could drag up too much he didn’t want on record; if Dekker had killed himself in some top-secret operation he was sincerely sorry, and if he was all Dekker could dredge up for a request—well, hell, the guy had saved his neck, sort of, back in the Belt—
And cost Bird’s life, damn him, however indirectly.
“Sorry to drop this on you,” Jackson said.
“Not a problem. Truth is, we weren’t friends. —But I guess I owe him to drop over there.”
“I’ve got a travel voucher for you.”
“Travel voucher.”
“B dock.”
“Oh, now, God, wait a minute—“ B dock wasn’t on Sol One, it was on an auxiliary station three and more days out, on Sol Two. Ben reached for his pocket, right then. “I can’t do that. I’m sorry. This is a priority rating. There’s an agency officer coming for an interview this week. I can’t leave.”
Jackson laid an envelope on top of his. “There’s a B dock shuttle leaving at 1205. That’s your travel voucher and your leave. It’s already signed and cleared.”
“Sir, —that’s six days even if I get a same day turnaround,” He gingerly eased his letter from underneath and laid it gingerly to the side, in Jackson’s view, where the United Defense Command logo showed. “This is from HQ Geneva. It says I’m a military priority.”
“This one’s from Captain Keu, in this office. On a classified priority. You’re going.”
“Dekker isn’t a friend of mine!”
“He’s listed you as next-of-kin.”
“We’re not related! God, —he’s got a mother right here on the station, Astrid, Ingrid, something like that. Talk to her!”
“He’s in a classified program. Only certain people are approved for contact in a next-of-kin emergency. You’re it. You’re not to call anyone. You’re not to talk to anyone. Your CO will be advised simply that you’re on humanitarian leave—“
“I’m UDC essential personnel!”
“Show me an assignment.”
Shit!
“So you’re going.”
“What about my interview?”
“That’s not my information flow. I’ll log it as a query.”
“Look, this is important. If I miss this slot I could wait six months!”
Jackson shrugged. “We all have our hardships, lieutenant.”
“Look, this is a screw-up. It’s an absolute screw-up. God, Dekker and I don’t even like each other.”
Cold as a rock. “I don’t have that information. Transport will pick up your baggage at your quarters. Just leave it. Report to the shuttleport by 1145.”
“It’s near 1030 right now. It’s twenty minutes to quarters—“
“I’d be on that shuttle, Lt. Pollard. When you get to B • dock, report directly to the FleetOps office on the dock, give them this pass and they’ll see you get straight to the hospital. Don’t mistake that instruction.”
“Listen, —sir, you know what happened—Dekker wrote me in as a joke. He never thought they’d be using that information. It’s a damn joke!”
“If it is, I’m sure they’ll straighten it out at the other end. I’d be moving, lieutenant.” Jackson stood up and handed him the two envelopes as he rose. “Good luck.”
“Yes sir,” Ben said, took his papers and his orders, saluted the son of a bitch and left.
Collected his reader from the front desk, and made a fast, desperate consultation of the trans schedule while he was walking to the doors.
Twenty minutes to his apartment, thirty to the shuttle dock, ten to pack. If he risked a phone call to Weiter to request a rescue, it was a 90% certainty that Weiter couldn’t do a damned thing against FSO before 1145 or later and he’d be screwed with Weiter for putting him in a Position. You didn’t crack a security screen. Not if you hoped to keep your clearance in UDC computer tech.
They’d get him back in maybe six days?
Hell. Six days too late if he was on humanitarian leave on ‘ B dock when the UDC filled the Stockholm post. He’d get the scraps, the cold left-overs after Meeker got posted; and Hamid; and Pannelli— The next best choice he had was to appeal to Weiter when he got back and hang on as staff til something else came through, oh, six months, seven, eight months on, who knew?
Dekker had screwed up, the Fleet was evidently about to lose its investment in him—and, not in his most copacetic state, Dekker had asked for him?
Ben thought, with every thump of the trans on its homebound course: I’ll kill him when I get my hands on him, I’ll fuckin’ kill him.
Chapter 2
DEN hated institutions, hated hospital smells and institution colors and most of all he didn’t look forward to this, in his first hour on B dock. He felt like hell, he’d slept in a damn cubbyhole of a berth hardly larger than a miner-ship spinner, his feet had swelled, he’d had sinus all the way: he’d spent too long in the null-g hi his life and his body had a spiteful overreaction to the condition. They didn’t issue pills and stimsuits for a three-day shuttle trip, no, that prescription’s not on your records, lieutenant, sorry... If you’d just checked with medical—