Good question. Complicated question. “Our ship’s routes. The ship I was born to. Polly d’Or. Didn’t ask for trouble, but they tried to cut us out, wanted to regulate where we came and went—retaliation for the Earth Company’s visas. Economics on one scale. Our ship on the other.”
Villy still looked confused, still didn’t get it.
“We’d lose everything. The Fleet’s what keeps those routes open. Only thing that does. They can’t enforce their embargo.”
“Hell and away from us.”
“Now. Not forever. Lucky you have us. It’ll come here— eventually it’ll come here.”
“Not everybody believes that.”
“Nobody outside this system doubts it. You’ll deal with Cyteen—on your terms. Or on theirs. Their technology. You want your personality type changed? They can do it. You want your planet re-engineered? They can do that. They are doing it—but we can’t get close enough to find out what. We don’t get into that system anymore.”
“We.”
“The merchanters they don’t own.”
“You ever been down to a planet?”
He shook his head.
“Ever thought about it?”
“No.”
“What are you afraid of?”
The question bothered him. He was in a mood right now. Maybe it was Tanzer. Maybe it was because he’d never really thought about it.
“Maybe all those people. Maybe being at the bottom of the well, knowing I can’t get myself out of it.”
Villanueva frowned, said, finally, “I grew up under blue sky. But if they get me down there I can’t get out either. Trying to retire me to the damn HQ. I want this ship to fly. It’ll be the last one I work on. I want this one to fly. That’s my reason.”
“We got a few slots, Captain Villy.”
A glance, a laugh. “Old guy like me?”
“Time’s slower out there. Remember I’m in my forties.”
Villanueva pushed back from the table, leaned back in the chair. “Damn you, you’re trying to seduce me.”
He felt a tight smile stretch his mouth. “We’re the only game there is. You don’t want to the in the well. Take you out. Captain Villy. Don’t let them send you down….”
“Damn you.”
“Think on it.”
Villy set his elbows on the table. “About the Dekker business—“
He was merchanter—before he was militia, before he was Fleet. And you did try to get it screwed down tight, whenever you talked deal.
“Dekker’s back in the program.”
“Marginally back in the program. Contingent on the medicals.”
“Our medicals.”
“Coffee could use a warm-up. Yours?”
Rec hall, the term was, but it was the same messhall, they just pulled the wall back and opened up the game nook next door dinner started at 1800h, canteen and a bar opened at 2000h if you could keep your eyes open that late, which Dekker didn’t think he could, even if it was one of the rare shifts his duty card wouldn’t show a No Alcohol Allowed. He was walked out, talked out—“Get the man a sandwich and shove him in bed,” was Meg’s advice; and he was in no mind to argue with it.
There were a few empty tables left in the middle. They drew their drinks. “Stake out a table,” Dekker advised them. “Nobody’11 take it if your drinks are sitting.”
Ben was in the lead; Ben stopped and hesitated over the choice of seats in front of them. “They got a rule where you sit or what?” Ben asked, with a motion of his cup forward. Dekker looked, numbly twigged to what was so ordinary a sight it didn’t even register: all UDC at the one end of the hall, from the serving line; all Fleet at the other.
“This end,” he said.
“There some rule?” Ben repeated.
“They just do.” Sounded stupid, once you tried to justify it. “Not much in common.” But you didn’t sit at the other end. Just didn’t.
“Plus §a change, rab.” Sal gave a shake of her metal-capped braids, set down her drink and pulled back a chair. “You sit, Dek. We’ll do. What shall we get? Cheese san? Goulash? Veg-stew?” Fast line or the slow one, was what it amounted to.
“Dunno.” He hadn’t known how sore he was till he felt a chair under him, and now suddenly everything ached. The walking tour of the facility was a long walk, and bones ached, shoulders ached, head ached—he said, “Chips and a chicken salad—automat, if you don’t mind.” Do them credit, the cooks kept the stuff as fresh as you could get on the line; or the rapid turnaround did. Something light sounded good, and come to think of it, sleep began to. He wasn’t up for a long evening. In any sense. He hoped Meg wouldn’t take offense.