“Influence-trading,” Demas said. “Scandals of the rich. Young lovers. Salazar and her money against the peacers. The public’s fascinated.”
The Fleet didn’t need this. He didn’t. Dekker certainly didn’t. A bomb threat involving Salazar’s plane, the peacers denying responsibility, the European Police Agency finding a confidential report in the hands of the news services. Rode the news reports outside Sol Two almost as hot and heavy as the Amsterdam Tunnel collapse.
While Demas and Saito only said, Hold on, Helm. Hold on. Don’t make a problem, the captain doesn’t need a problem.
“I honestly,” Demas said, “don’t think Dekker needs to see this particular broadcast, regardless of any promises.”
“She’s never called him. Never returned the call.”
“Lawyers may have advised against. I’d advise against. Personally, J-G.”
“I knew you would.”
“So you didn’t ask.”
“I don’t know Earth. Now I wonder if I even know Dekker. He’s never asked me, either—whether there was word.”
Light and dark. The AI substituted its interlink for crew, he was fine till the randoms popped up, till he saw the wicket he had to make and the pod reacted—bobble and reposition, reposition, reposition—
Fuckin’ hell\
Screwed it, screwed it—screwed mat one—redlight—
You’re hit. Keep going. Don’t think about it.
Chest hurt, knees hurt, right arm was numb. Damn hour and five sim and he was falling apart—
Made Five. Lost one.
Randoms again, five minutes down. God, a chaff round….
Blinked sweat. Tasted it. Hate the damn randoms, hate the bastards, hate the Company, dammit—
Overcorrection. Muscles were tired, starting to spasm, God, where was the end of this run?
Couldn’t hold it. HUD was out, the place was black and blacker—
“Dek, Dek, wake up,” from the other side of the door and Ben, with the territory behind his eyes all full of red and gold and green lines and red and yellow dots, hoped Meg would just put a pillow over the sumbitch’s face. Beside him. Sal moved faintly.
“Dek!”
“Shit,” Sal moaned, and elbowed him in a muzzy catch after balance.
“Dek? Come out of it.”
“Son of a bitch,” Ben muttered, felt a knee drop into the cold air outside the covers and set a foot on the floor, hauled himself to his feet and banged into the chair by the bed.
“Ben?” Sal murmured, but the blow to the hip did it. He shoved the door open into the dark next door and snarled, “Dekker!”
Dekker made a sound, Meg gave a sharp grunt above a crack of flesh and bone meeting. The son of a bitch had got her.
“Dekker!” He shoved past a smooth female body to get a shove of his own in, got a grip and held it. “Dekker, dammit, you want to take a cold walk?”
Same as he’d yelled at Dekker on the ship, when Dekker got crazy. He had one hand planted against a heaving, sweating chest, right about the throat, and Meg had cleared back, gotten to the light switch. He couldn’t see anything but a blur, and he didn’t let up the pressure—if Dekker moved to hit him Dekker was going to be counting stars, he had his mind made up to that. Dekker was gasping for breath—eyes open now.
“Spooks again,” Meg panted.
“I’ll say it’s spooks, this is the damn spook! I dunno why yon sleep with him.”
The inside door opened and Sal came in at the periphery of his vision. He heard Meg saying, “It’s all right, it’s just surface,” and kept his own hold on the lunatic, who still looked spaced and shocky. Dekker’s heart was going hard, felt like detonations under his hand. Dekker’s eyes had lost their glaze, started tracking around him.
Drifted back again, looked halfway cognizant.
“Let up,” Dekker said.
He thought about that. He thought about Meg saying for the last damn week Dekker was just confused, and Sal saying back off and give him some space. While Dekker kept a sim schedule the other crews were talking about. He gave Dekker a shove in the chest. Hard.
“Let up, hell. I’ll solve your problem, I’ll break your neck for you. You hit Meg, you skuz, you know that?” Dekker didn’t say anything, so he asked, for Dekker’s benefit, “You all right, Meg?”