Because they were in a trap and she should have broken Hughes' damn neck, hell with the chance of getting caught at it—the chance of Lindy Hughes coming back at her was a hundred percent, and she'd known that, dammit, known it right in the gut and she'd pulled back from what she should have done till Gypsy and Davis and Presley were in on it and everything was too damn late.
So when you screw up you cover it, Bet Yeager. Same as under fire.
"It's a detention offense," Bernstein said, quiet and fast, under the ship-noise. "If you're lucky. You don't sign off this ship. There isn't any discharge, you understand me? You've got no priors, you've got a good work record—but you know what happened to NG—"
"I'll live. I'll get Hughes—someday. I'll pay him."
She was saying that to a mof. But Bernie understood her, Bernie was somebody you could say that to and Bernie would keep his mouth shut when Hughes had a real bad accident someday.
"Think I better talk to Orsini," she said, "before curfew goes."
"Dammit," Bernstein said. "Dammit to hell—"
"Yeah," she said, took a deep breath and felt halfway better. "But little spaces don't spook me." She motioned with her eyes toward the door. "I got to talk to him. How much time do we got?"
Bernstein did a fast, covert check of his watch. "Three minutes."
"God!"
Bernstein went to the office door, hesitated a bare half-second.
"Mr. Bernstein," Fitch said from behind them.
Bernstein pushed the button.
Door was locked. Sure as hell.
"Mr. Bernstein."
As the bell rang.
Stupid as hell, she thought. Power games at the top of the whole damn command. But it was valid, it was past alterday's shift, and Bernie looked Fitch's direction the way he had to and said with a deliberate slowness, "Yes, Mr. Fitch."
"Yeager," Fitch said, and invited her with a move of his hand. You didn't say no. Even Bernstein couldn't—twice over Bernstein couldn't do anything with Orsini refusing to open his door and armed Security a little way down the corridor just watching everything that happened—two of them, probably Fitch's own pick of the docks. Or wherever.
Probably Orsini thought it was Fitch at his door, and Orsini wasn't about to unlock and talk. More damn power games between the watch officers, No word from Wolfe, the whole command busy with its own politics and a skuz like Hughes had favor-points with the tekkie sum-bitch bridge officer he was probably in bed with, enough to get away with murder.
Or Fitch had been hunting something on Bernstein himself for a long, long time, and everything else was just Fitch's way of getting the leverage.
So she said, mildly, "Yessir," got up from the bench and went where Fitch indicated, trusting Bernie to do as much as he could.
Fitch's office, it happened, being the next over.
CHAPTER 19
Wasn't mine, sir," she said, one more time through the drill.
"Are you thinking I'm a fool?" Fitch asked.
"I'd never think so, sir."
"Seems to me you do, seems to me you think everybody on this ship must be fools. I pulled you out of the fuckin' brig, Yeager, I signed you on this ship, and you haven't been a fuckin' thing but a pain in the ass, you know that"!
"I don't think so, sir."
"You don't think so, you don't fuckin' think so! You're calling me a liar, Yeager. Are you calling me a liar?"
"I don't admit the charges, sir."
They were recording, she was sure; and if they were they weren't going to get a damned thing Fitch could edit into something else.
And maybe Fitch was just crazy or maybe he was better in control than he looked and he was trying to get her to react. He left his desk, he prowled the office while he yelled at her, he bent down and he yelled in her face.
She thought, Better than you have tried, and she retreated into null-mode, just the same as standing at attention with old Junker Phillips yelling at you, just focus on the questions and keep twisting right back to your basic position, no matter where the son of a bitch tried to lead you. If you didn't say anything different they couldn't get anywhere, and they got mad and then they got bored and then they just logged you what they could and gave up and maybe eventually forgot about it.
Yessir, nossir, nossir, I don't admit the charges.
And if the son of a bitch couldn't scare you he might want you to hit him; might just push you far enough that you could, if you were a fool, but you weren't, so you didn't.
Nossir.
Keep at it all day if you want, mof. Keep at it till shift-change and Orsini's watch starts. I got the time.
At least NG's not in here.
"You hear me?"
"Yessir."
Fitch grabbed the front of her jumpsuit and jerked her hard, and she just gave with it, just went limp.
"Gave you a chance. Hauled you out of one brig and here you are trying to get in another. Hauled you out of there and you were carrying contraband. Weren't you?"
"Nossir."
She figured Fitch would hit her. He jerked her hard, leaned into her face and said, "I have other sources, Yeager, I know where the trouble comes from on this ship and I know where to go when something's wrong and nobody in lowerdecks wants to talk."
Man's crazy, man's absolute crazy, she thought; and thought, He's talking about NG.
"You want to think it over?" Fitch asked her. "You want to think about it?" He jerked her up to her feet, pulled her off balance and she didn't do the natural thing, didn't grab at him or hit him, just got her feet under her and bashed her leg against the transit-braced chair. He hit her, jerked her and hit her along the side of the head.
Won't show, she thought while her brain was ringing. Bruises won't show there.
So she brought her knee up.
He hit her, about twice before she went flying backward into the wall and hit it full length, thought she was going to stand up, but she bounced off it and the floor came up.
Hazy for a second, then. She moved to tuck up and protect herself, and she had a view of Fitch's boots, figuring he was mad enough to kick hell out of her.
Plenty of bruises, damn sure.
"Get up," he said. She lay there, he grabbed her and jerked her up by the collar and hauled her for her feet.
She stared him in the eyes, thinking, Got you, you sum-bitch.
Got you, if you got any regs on this ship.
He pulled her over to the chair, he sat her down, he went over and set his rump on the corner of his desk, just looking at her.
She sucked the cut lip and kept staring at him.
"You're asking for it," Fitch said.
She didn't say a thing.
"Catch your breath," Fitch said calmly. "You want a drink?"
"Nossir."
Fitch cut the recorder off, ran it back a minute or so.
Didn't restart it. And she worried then.
"I keep the records," Fitch said. "See what smart gets you? Come onto this ship, go right for the troublemakers—You've been damned useful, Yeager. You think you're smart. But I don't need a thing out of you—now we're off the record. I just need you to exist. Bitch."
She figured she was in for it, then, figured Fitch had plain revenge in mind and a whole lot of things could have been a bad mistake.
"Now," Fitch said, "I want you to think about something. I want you to think how you can save your own ass, because this is the chance you've got. I want you to think about how you can go on being useful to me, and I'm going to help you think about that, you hear me?"