iv
Pell: Q; 1300 hrs.
Nothing worked. In Q nothing ever seemed to. Vassily Kressich punched buttons
totally dead and punched them again, hit the com unit with the heel of his hand
and still had no response from station com central. He paced the limits of his
small apartment. The breakdowns infuriated him, drove him almost to tears. They
happened daily; the water, the fans, the com, vid, supplies, shortages driving
home over and over again the misery of his living, the decay, the pressure of
bodies, the senseless violence of people driven mad by crowding and uncertainty.
He had the apartment. He had his possessions; he kept these things meticulously
in order, scrubbed often and obsessively. The smell of Q clung to him, no matter
how he washed and how diligently he scrubbed the floors and sealed the closet
against the pervading smell. It was an antiseptic reek, of cheap astringents and
whatever chemicals the station used to combat disease and crowding and keep the
life-support in balance.
He paced the floor, tried the com again, hoping, and it did not work. He could
hear commotion outside in the corridor, trusted that Nino Coledy and his boys
would have things under some control… hoped so. There were times when he could
not get out of Q, in the occasional disturbances, when the gates sealed and even
his council pass did not suffice to make an exception. He knew where he ought to
be—outside, restoring order, managing Coledy, trying to restrain the Q police
from some of their excesses.
And he could not go. His flesh cringed at the mere thought of confronting the
mobs and the shouting and the hate and the uglinesses of Q… of more blood, and
more things to disturb his sleep. He dreamed of Redding. Of others. Of people he
had known who turned up dead in the corridors, or vented. He knew that this
cowardice was ultimately fatal. He fought it, knowing where it led, that when
once he appeared to come apart, he was lost… and knowing that, there were days
when it was difficult to walk those halls, when he felt his courage inadequate.
He was one of them, no different from the rest; and given shelter, he did not
want to come out of it, did not want to cross even that brief space necessary to
reach the security post and the doors.
They would kill him, Coledy or one of the rival powers. Or someone with no
motive at all. Someday in the madness of rumor which swept Q, they would kill
him, someone disappointed in an application, someone who hated and found him a
symbol of authority. His stomach knotted now every time he opened the door of
his apartment. There were questions, outside and he had no answers; there were
demands, and he could not meet them; eyes, and he could not face them. If he
went out this day, he had to come back, when the disorder might be worse; he was
never permitted out of Q more than one shift at a time. He had tried, tested his
credit with them—finally gathered the courage to ask for papers, to ask for
release, days after the last disturbance—asked, knowing it might get back to
Coledy; asked knowing it might cost him his life. And they had denied him. The
great, the powerful council of which he was a member… would not hear him. He
had, Angelo Konstantin said, too great a value where he was, privately made a
show of pleading with him to stay where he was. He said nothing more of it,
fearing it would go more public, and he would not live long after that.
He had been a good man, a brave man once. He had reckoned himself so, at least,
before the voyage; before the war; while there was Jen, and Romy. He had twice
been mobbed in Q, once beaten senseless. Redding had tried to kill him and would
not be the last. He was tired and sick, and rejuv was not working for him; he
suspected the quality of what he had gotten, suspected the strain was killing
him. He had watched his face acquire new lines, a hollowed hopelessness; he no
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