them.”
He tried to absorb it. “You know what a candle’s chance we have with a Q
mob—against troops?—and why go to you? Why you, Josh? Maybe they’re afraid I’d
recognize faces and know something. I don’t like this.”
“Damon. How much time can we have? It’s a chance. Everything’s a risk at this
point. Come with me. Please come with me.”
“They’re going to be checking all over white. I stumbled into an alarm over
there… may have killed someone. They’re going to be stirred up, searching for
someone using accesses…”
“Then how much time can we have left to think it over? If we don’t—” He stopped,
looked sharply about at Ngo’s wife, who brought them bowls of stew, setting them
on the table. “We’re going somewhere. Keep it hot for us.”
Dark eyes stared at them both. Quietly, as everything about the woman was quiet,
she gathered up the bowls and took them to another table.
“Won’t take long to find out,” Josh said. “Damon. Please.”
“What are they talking of doing? Rushing central?”
“Causing trouble. Getting to the shuttle. Setting up resistance on Downbelow… a
small number of us. Damon, it all relies on your knowledge. Your skill with
comp, and your knowledge of the passages.”
“They have a pilot?”
“I think there’s someone who is, yes.”
He tried to gather his wits. Shook his head. “No.”
“What do you mean, no? You talked about a shuttle. You planned for it.”
“Not to have another riot on the station. Not with more people killed, in a plan
that’s never going to work…”
“Come and talk to them. Come with me. Or don’t you trust me? Damon, how long can
we wait on chances? You haven’t even heard it out.”
He let go his breath. “I’ll come,” he said. “They’re going to start checking
id’s in green soon enough, I’m afraid. I’ll talk to them. Maybe I know better
ways. Quieter ones. How far is this place?”
“Mascari’s.”
“Across the corridor.”
“Yes. Come on.”
He came, out amongst the tables, past the bar.
“You,” Ngo said sharply as they passed. He stopped. “You don’t come back here if
you bring trouble. You hear me? I helped you. I don’t want that kind of pay for
it. You hear me?”
“I hear,” Damon said. There was no time to smooth it over. Josh waited by the
front door. He walked out to join him, looked left and right and crossed the
corridor with him into the noisier and darker interior of Mascari’s.
A man at the left of the entry rose and joined them. “This way,” the man said,
and because Josh went without question, Damon swallowed his protests and went
with them, to the far side of the room, which was so dark it was hard to avoid
chairs.
A dim light burned in a curtained alcove. They went inside, he and Josh, but
their guide vanished.
And in another moment a second man came in at their backs, young and scar-faced.
Damon did not know him. “They’re coming,” the young man said, and quickly the
curtains moved again, admitted two more to the alcove.
“Kressich,” Damon muttered. The other was not familiar to him.
“You know Mr. Kressich?” the newcomer asked.
“Only by sight. Who are you?”
“Name’s Jessad… Mr. Konstantin, is it? The younger Konstantin?”
Recognition of any kind made him nervous. He looked at Josh, finding
discrepancies, bewildered. They were supposed to know him. This man should not
be surprised.
“Damon,” Josh said, “this man is from Q. Let’s talk details. Sit down.”
He did so, at the small table, uncertain and apprehensive as the others settled
with him. A second time he looked at Josh. He trusted Josh. Trusted him with his
life. Would hand him his life at the asking, having no better use for it. And
Josh had lied to him. Everything he knew of the man insisted Josh was lying.
Are we under some threat? he wondered wildly, seeking some cause for this
charade. “What kind of proposal are we talking about?” he asked, wishing only
that he could get himself out of here, and get Josh out, and get it all