Heavy Time

CHAPTER 16

THEY waited and they waited in the bar—they’d talked Bird, practically manhandled Bird, out of Trinidad and into the idea of a fancy dinner, best clothes, rezzes at the Europa, a bit of bar-hopping afterward—and now Dekker went missing. Ben was mad, Sal was a nervous wreck—Dekker had been acting strange all day, Meg reminded herself glumly, and spent her own money calling the gym he reasonably should have gone to hours ago.

Of course he hadn’t.

Damn.

“So, look,” Bird said when she reported that fact back to the table, “we just leave word with Mike. Mike can give him directions when he shows up. He’ll find us.”

“Leave that guy loose on the ’deck?” Ben groaned—not the way she’d have put it, but it was another worrisome side of it. “Let’s just give it a little while.”

“He’s a big boy,” Bird said. “He’s found his way around the Belt, for God’s sake, he’s not lost. He may not have understood it was a date.”

“He understood,” Meg said, and was about to say she agreed with Ben, they should give it another little while, when Mike at the bar signaled they had a call.

She stood up to take it, but Mike indicated Sal specifically, to her acute disappointment. She slid back into her chair while Sal went to take the call—probably some friend come onto R2, she decided: Dekker might call her if he was in a funk and he might call Bird, but Dekker asking for Sal was hardly likely.

“Probably in some bar,” Ben said. “Probably drinking his way to tomorrow. Or zee’d on pills.—Dammit, Meg, think of another place.”

“Pacific,” Bird said.

“So let’s call there,” Ben said, and something else, but Meg lost it. Sal hung up on her call and flashed her a come-here signal, looking seriously worried.

“Excuse me,” she murmured and got up and met Sal by the phone. Sal said, head ducked and voice low, “That was Mitch. He said meet him out front. Now.”

She felt a little chill. And puzzlement. “Seriously nonreg. He say anything?”

“No. Just that.” Sal looked truly scared. Terrified. “Cover me with Bird. I don’t know how long this may take.”

“God,” Meg said. “Yeah. All right.”

Sal went for the door and she went back to the table.

“What was that?” Ben asked.

“Friend with a problem.”

“Dekker?”

“No.”

“God, this isn’t getting any more organized. We’re all over the damn ’deck!”

“I think we ought to make that call to The Pacific.”

“Do that,” Bird said, so she pulled out her card and went for the phone again.

“No,” The Pacific said. “… Yeah, I know him. No, he hasn’t been here.”

Another try gone nowhere. Sal was off. Dekker was missing. Bird was as apt to go off next. Ben was right. She said to Mike, “Another round.”

“Sal coming back?”

“I wish I knew,” she said. “Skosh nervous day, Mike.”

Mike gave a little shake of his head. “A lot wouldn’t have the patience.”

“Yeah,” she said and went back to the table.

“Well?” Ben asked.

She shook her head.

“God, I don’t know why we’re putting up with this!”

“The lad’s probably sorting out a few things,” Bird said. “I’m not real surprised.”

“Yeah, sorting out a few things… For all we know, the cops have got him.”

“Look,” Bird said. “Let’s just put in a few phone calls. There’s eight more gyms.”

Sal came back, not looking like good news. She came up to the table and leaned against it with her hands. “Trouble,” she said, very low. “They just found Dek’s partner.”

“Alive?” Meg asked.

“Neg. Shepherd found her drifting. At the Well.”

Some things you heard and they just didn’t make any kind of sense. A fool kid got killed in the far interface of the refinery zones, back sometime in March, and turned up a couple of hundred million k away in September, in a Shepherd recovery path?

“No way,” Ben said.

“We have any word yet,” Sal asked, “where Dek is?”

“No,” Meg said, and leaned back as Mike brought the drinks.

“On my tab,” Bird said to Mike, all business, and Mike cleverly made himself absent.

Ben hissed, “What do you mean, drifting at the Well? What in hell’s going on?”

Sal shook her head, glitter and rattle of metal-tipped braids. “They don’t know. Word’s out on their net—code-com, to every Shepherd out there… you didn’t hear that. They don’t know if MamBitch can crack it, she gets mad as hell when they do it—but we got a seriously deviated ’driver out there.”

“Fired a body at the Well?” Ben said. “God, somebody’s stark crazy!”

“Worry what else they might do,” Meg said. “If a general message is going out on the Shepherd net, that ’driver’s going to hear the transmission, going to know the time and the PO, going to have an idea what that message was, even if they can’t crack the code.”

“They’re not going to tell MamBitch anything,” Sal said. Her voice was shaking. “But the question is how long the Shepherds can hold this quiet. This is a seriously bad time for Dek to go missing.”

“If the cops haven’t got him,” Bird said. “Question is—does Mama know what’s in that transmission? They’ll pick him up.”

Sal pulled two datacards from her pocket and laid them on the table. “That’s from a couple of friends. We’re them. They’re real high Access. The word is Find Dek. Get him to the club next to Scorpio’s, and don’t use our cards or his.”

Ben whispered, “Dammit, we got a launch tomorrow!”

“He may not make it.”

We may not make it, Meg thought. The cards lay there—seriously illegal, what the Shepherds were doing and what they were risking. One kid was dead. Good chance there could be another.

She picked up one card.

Bird picked up the other.

The message stack was jammed by the time William Payne reached the office—halfway through an important dinner and three glasses of wine under his belt when the phone had rung, and he wished to hell he’d had at least one fewer. He turned on the light, slid into his chair and keyed on line, watching the flash of prioritied incomings—

His immediate superior, Crayton, with a cryptic memo: An unexplained ship to ship message is proceeding from the Shepherds. Be alert for sabotage.

A statement from the president of the board: The company stands by its policy on abuse of communications.

From Cooley, in News & Entertainment: Continuing regular programming pending further instructions.

From Salvatore, in Security: Stage 1 alert in progress. Code team is assembling.

Payne keyed on, waiting for Crayton’s instructions to flow down, waiting for information to flow up from Salvatore. He was shivering. The temperature in the office was still coming up. Or it was nerves.

The Shepherd negotiations were in trouble, and this happened—they were clearly making a move and the company now had to break off the contract talks or lose credibility—

With agitators stirring up the dockworkers and the refinery workers spoiling for a chance to press their agendas—real problems in those groups. The EC insisted on dumping its touchy cases out here, and those problems didn’t go away, they just recruited other problems and made demands. They opened valves in the mast. They slashed hoses. They vandalized plastics vats. Now the Shepherds committed a deliberate, massive defiance of company rules—outright challenging the company to take action, possibly even signaling the long-threatened work stoppage.

The right action, it had to be, and incoming information and outgoing instructions intersected at his desk in Public Information.

Continue the media blackout? That might keep the lid on for an hour, but it also made rumor the main source for the workers. Better to start dribbling out information as soon as he could get a policy direction out of Crayton: keep the workers glued to the vid reports and off the open decks. Some offices in the mast had equipment to hear that illicit transmission, and rumors were as quick as two workers hitting the 8-deck vending machines on coffee break. There were war jitters—and coded-com like that could set off alarms over in the shipyard, in the military base, God, clear to Earth’s security zone.

He keyed up, composed a query from PI to Crayton in General Admin. Request clearance for news release to forestall rumor and speculation.

There were going to be hard questions for every administrator in the information chain. Every decision over the next few hours was going under a magnifying glass. The EC, the UN, UI—God only knew how far and how many careers were going down with this as it was; the Shepherds, damn them, were calling the company’s bluff.

He wasn’t in The Pacific, wasn’t in the Tycho or the Europa or the Apollo, and so far as they could find out, he wasn’t in any gym they’d ever used. They fanned out, gave up communication with each other—couldn’t phone when you didn’t know where to phone, and you never knew when the company was listening. I’ll check 3, Meg told Ben, last time their paths crossed on the’deck, and she caught the Trans to 3, to check the gyms there.

“Seen a dark-haired guy, rab cut, about 20, thin?”

No, no, and no. She had a stitch in her side, she had a bash on her elbow from a fast stop in .8 g, and she was running out of places that didn’t involve the cops or the hospital. She imagined odd looks at her back, imagined the rumor starting to run the corridors: What’s to do with the dark-haired rab? On helldeck she’d gotten Will I do’s? from guys she asked, and the last try in the gym she hadn’t—out of breath and looking like no joke at all. That wasn’t good. That invited questions from the cops—especially with the Shepherds sending illegal transmissions. She took the stretch back toward the Transstation at a slow walk, catching her breath and racking her brain for where next to look, when the thought hit her that she was already on 3—and Dekker obviously hadn’t done anything logical, or they’d have found him.

The cops might be tracking card use by now, and using a Shepherd card was about as nervous a proposition as using her own. But there were more Shepherds than there were Meg Kadys on R2, and a cop looking for a guy might just look past her. She about-faced and went for the core lift, used the card and rode it up with a couple of obnoxious tender-jocks who wanted to get friendly. She stared obdurately at the door, arms folded, sweating, panicked, thinking, God, no trouble, I don’t want cops… not carrying an illegal card…

Up through lighter and lighter decks, where you had to take hold: the tender-jocks tried to talk her into getting off at 8 and going to a sleepery with them. She said no, very patiently, and swore she was going to hunt these guys down and kill them if she got out of this.

8. The jocks got off. Thank God… The car made the jolting transit to the core and stopped—the Access light went on and she shoved the card in, hoping to God customs wasn’t on duty right now.

The door opened. She caught the grip on the line, and rode it through the numbing cold—no jacket, obviously not dressed for the core; but she’d done it before, and customs off in their warm little office had seen her come and go like this a dozen times.

Hope to God nobody’s put a watch on the ships.

She was half-frozen by the time she’d braked off the line and caught Trinidad’s rigging-cord—hadn’t even a hand-jet: she monkeyed over to the hatch, her breath coming in ragged, teeth-chattering hisses as she opened up and hauled herself through.

The damn fool was there, just doing a little wipe-down on a cabinet. He made a slow turn to look at her, all calm—like, What’s the rush, Meg? What could possibly be the matter?

She brought up against a console, hauled herself steady against the recoil, out of breath, not knowing what that look meant—that he’d lost his mind and gone totally eetee, or that he was holding it together, up here testing the limits of his sanity.

“You kind of missed a dinner date,” she said.

He blinked as if he were dropping into another track of thought. “God,” he said, “I’m sorry.”

Blank and innocent. She wasn’t entirely sure he was sane right now, or that she was even safe with him in this lonely, noise-insulated place. She said, with her teeth chattering, “Dek, we got to get down and find Bird—right now. Something’s come up.”

“Something wrong?”

She wasn’t about to explain to him here, alone. She grabbed his arm. “We just got a problem.” Her teeth rattling made it hard to talk. “Come on, Dek, for God’s sake, I’m freezing.”

“What’s going on?”

“Tell you on the way.” She made a little finger-sign that meant bug. “Bird wants you. Now.”

He disposed of the cloth he was holding. He wiped his fingers on his sweater, looking scared now.

But he dimmed the lights and followed her out of the hatch.

Message from Salvatore: We’ve got some kind of stir among the military personnel on the ’deck—MP’s and officers going from bar to bar, spreading out. Looks as if they’re pulling their people off leave…

Payne passed the message on to Crayton’s office and grabbed the phone. “FleetCom,” he told it, and got one ring after another, then a robot.

“Input your priority please.”

“This is Payne, ASTEX Public Information Office.”

“Your call is entered in queue. Your call will be answered…”

Priority beeped him off. Red lights spread like plague across the phone console.

“Sir!” Salvatore said into his ear, but another priority beeped Salvatore down to autorecord.

The phone said, simultaneously with the computer, on voice: “… This is President Towney’s office. We are in receipt of an uncoded message echoed from Shepherd craft at the Well, quote:…‘At 1540 hours on September 2nd, the Shepherd Athens picked up an anomalous object in the recovery zone. It proved to be human remains, carrying the identification of Corazon Salazar, a miner registered to Rl, and reported lost earlier this year during a reported bumping incident between the ’driver Industry and the miner ship 1-89-Z. Our calculations indicate an origin consistent with other loads fired by the aforenamed ’driver. We are in possession of charts which indicate falsification of records. We are advising the company of these facts and we are demanding that charges immediately be filed of willful murder and attempted murder, with arrest warrants issued for the chief officers of the ’driver ship—’ ”

Sweating, heart thumping, Payne keyed to Salvatore: Whereabouts of Paul Dekker. Priority One.