All but a very few lights in the corridors had been broken out, so that
everything was twilight, and station no longer dimmed lights for
mainday/alterday shifts; it would have become dangerously dark. There were some
side corridors where all the lights were out, and no one went into those lairs
unless he belonged there—or was dragged screaming into them. There were gangs,
who fought each other for power. The weaker souls clung to them, paid them all
their resources, not to be harmed, and perhaps to have the chance to harm
others. Some of the gangs had started in Q. Some were Pell gangs which formed in
defense and undertook other business ventures. He feared them indiscriminately,
feared their unreasoning violence most of all. He had let his beard grow, let
his hair grow, walked with a slouch and acquired as much dirt as possible,
changed his face subtly with cosmetic… that commodity sold high on the market
too. If there was any comedy in this grim place it was that most of these folk
hereabouts were doing exactly the same thing, that the section was full of men
and women who desperately did not want to be recognized, and who avoided each
others’ eyes in a perpetual flinching as they walked the halls… some who
swaggered and tried to threaten, unless troops were at hand… more who flitted
like downcast ghosts, scurrying along in evident hope no one would set a hue and
cry after them.
Perhaps he had changed so much in appearance that no one did recognize him. No
one had yet pointed a finger at him or at Damon in public. There was some
loyalty left on Pell, perhaps—or their involvement with the market protected
them, or others who knew them were just too frightened to start something. Some
of the gangs were linked into the market.
Occasional troopers walked in the halls, some back in nine two, no less common
than Downers about their business. Green dock was still open as far as the end
of white dock; and Africa and occasionally Atlantic or Pacific occupied the
first two berths of green, while the other ships berthed in blue dock, and
troops came and went freely through the personnel access beside the section
seals on that end of green. Troops entered green and white on liberty or on
duty, mingling with the condemned… and the condemned knowing that all they had
to do to escape was to go up to those troops or to the cleared-area access doors
and turn themselves in. Some did not believe that the Mazianni would decompress
the section, simply because of that close and almost friendly association.
Troopers shed their armor on liberty, walked about laughing and human, hung out
in the bars… staked out a couple of establishments for themselves, it was true…
but mingled in other bars, turned an occasional benevolent smile on the market.
So much the easier to handle the victims until it came, Josh reckoned. They
still had choices left, played the game with the troops, dodged and struggled…
but all it took was a button pushed somewhere in central, no personal contact,
no watching faces as they died. All clinical and distant.
He and Damon planned, wild and futile schemes. Damon’s brother was rumored to be
alive. They talked of stowing away on one of the shuttles, taking one over,
getting to Downbelow and into the bush. They had as likely a chance of stealing
a shuttle from armed troops as they did of walking to Downbelow, but the
planning occupied their minds and gave them hope.
And more realistic… they could try to pass the seals into the cleared sections,
and chance the alarm-rigged access doors, regimented security, checkpoints at
every corner and card use at every move… that was the way of life over there.
Mallory’s doing. They had been checking it out. Too many men-with-guns, was
Bluetooth’s warning. Cold they eyes.
Cold indeed.
And meanwhile there was the market and there was Ngo’s.
He approached the bar along green nine, not by the tunnel ways which led to the
corridor outside Ngo’s back door, for that was for emergencies and Ngo had no