Company Wars 01 – Downbelow Station

longer recognized the man he had been a year ago. He feared obsessively for his

health, knowing the quality of medical care they had in Q, where any medicines

were stolen and might be adulterated, where he was dependent on Coledy’s

largesse for drugs as well as wine and decent food. He no longer thought of

home, no longer mourned, no longer thought of the future. There was only today,

as horrible as yesterday; and if there was one desire he had left, it was to

have some assurance it would not be worse.

Again he tried com, and this time not even the red light came on. Vandals

dismantled things in Q as fast as their own repair crews could get them working…

their own crews. It took days to get Pell workmen in here, and some things

stayed broken. He had nightmares of such an end for them all, sabotage of

something vital by a maniac who did not consider personal suicide enough, the

whole section voided. It could be done. In crisis.

Or at any moment.

He paced the floor, faster and faster, clenched his arms across his stomach,

which hurt constantly when he was under stress. The pain grew, wiping out other

fears.

He gathered his nerve at last, put on his jacket, weaponless as most of Q was

not, for he had to pass checkpoint scan. He fought nausea, setting his hand on

the door release, finally nerved himself to step out into the dark,

graffiti-marred corridor. He locked the door after him. He had not yet been

robbed, but he expected to be, despite Coledy’s protection; everyone was robbed.

Safest to have little; he was known to have much. If he was safe it was that

what he had belonged to Coledy in his men’s eyes, that he did—if word of his

application to leave had not gotten to their ears.

Through the hall and past the guards… Coledy’s men. He walked onto the dock,

among crowds which stank of sweat and unchanged clothes and antiseptic sprays.

People recognized him and snatched at him with grimy hands, asking news of what

was happening over in the main station.

“I don’t know, I don’t know yet; com’s dead in my quarters. I’m on my way to

learn. Yes, I’ll ask. I’ll ask, sir.” He repeated it over and over, tearing from

one pair of clutching hands to the next, one questioner to the other, some

wild-eyed and far gone in the madness of drugs. He did not run; running was

panic, panic was mobs, mobs were death; and there were the section doors ahead,

the promise of safety, a place beyond which Q could not reach, where no one

could go without the precious pass he carried. “It’s Mazian,” the rumor was

running Q dockside. And with it: “They’re pulling out. All Pell’s pulling out

and leaving us behind.”

“Councillor Kressich.” A hand caught his arm and meant business. The grip pulled

him abruptly about. He stared into the face of Sax Chambers, one of Coledy’s

men, felt threat in the grip which hurt his arm. “Going where, councillor?”

“Other side,” he said, breathless. They knew. His stomach hurt the more.

“Council will be meeting in the crisis. Tell Coledy. I’d better be there. No

telling what council will hand us otherwise.”

Sax said nothing—did nothing for a moment. Intimidation was a skill of his. He

simply stared, long enough to remind Kressich that he had other skills. He let

go, and Kressich pulled away.

Not running. He must not run. Must not look back. Must not make his terror

evident. He was composed on the outside, though his belly was tied in knots.

A crowd was gathered about the doors. He worked his way through them, ordered

them back. They moved, sullenly, and he used his pass to open their side of the

access, stepped through quickly and used the card to seal the door before any

could gather the nerve to follow. For a moment then he was alone on the upward

ramp, the narrow access, in bright light and a lingering smell of Q. He leaned

against the wall, trembling, his stomach heaving. After a moment he walked on

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