Iseult's smile was genuine, if wry. “You have a talent for understatement, Lieutenant. From what I hear, you are making no progress at all—although you are making a number of enemies.”
Lee nodded. “I was hoping you might be a little more willing to help me.”
Iseult's smile now included a measure of incredulity. “Oh? And why is that?”
“Because you're a doctor.”
“Which would tend to make me resent paramilitary bullies such as yourself, non? After all, I get to clean up the messes made by you uniformed children.”
Lee shrugged. “I suppose so. But I thought that, given the increasing potential for violence on Callisto, you'd want to help me prevent farther bloodshed, rather than just patch it up when it occurs. But I guess I was wrong.”
Iseult's smile had disappeared, although her teeth were still displayed—now in a rictus of rage. “Merde! The gall—that you would attempt to extort cooperation from me in such a manner!”
“Like I said, Doctor, I just wanted to give you the opportunity to save lives.” Lee rose to leave.
“Mon Dieu, you are arrogant—no, sit. Sit down, damn you.” One tiny fist clenched and went white as she regained her composure, a process which took almost half a minute. Then she looked up, her eyes cold and bright. “Unfortunately, you are also right. Parsons' people are getting edgy. I am afraid that they will convince themselves that they must preempt the Dirtsiders—and even the Outbounders—by attacking them first. Physically.”
“And that concerns you.”
She blinked. “Of course it concerns me. As you so astutely observed, I'm a doctor.”
“No, I mean it concerns you because you sympathize with the Outbounders.”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “Do you wish me to help you—or simply to sit still for an interrogation?”
“Possibly a bit of both, Doctor. I do recall that, when I first arrived, you seemed to stick up for the Outbounders when Parson was bad-mouthing them.”
Iseult drummed her slender fingers against the tabletop, stared at them while she weighed her next statement. Finally: “I suppose I do support the Outbounder point of view, somewhat—as well as other moderates. It's the extremists and their pawns who are the real danger to us. Spacers and Customs Patrol, Sols and pro-Earth fascists—you'll all kill each other yet. And when your final war starts, Callisto and every other innocent spaceside community will be caught in the middle.
“And even if you do not have your idiotic war, it is still true that we live on a razor's edge here on Callisto. If the political mood on Earth worsens, then the Outbounder colonization program will be disbanded, and this facility will be closed. And the same will happen to many of the deep-space facilities which exist to supply us. In that scenario, many—-most—of those displaced Upsiders will have to be relocated to Earth. No other place can absorb such a sudden increase in population.”
“But what about the Upsiders who were born in low- or zero-gee, who can't survive on Earth, even in neutral buoyancy pools?”
“Lieutenant, I am a doctor, not a social planner. I do not have such answers—if any exist.” Frustrated, she looked away, her mouth leaned against her fist.
Lee stole a fast, assessing look at her. She cares, but she's genuinely torn about what to do. She doesn't have the dogmatic certainty of a political factionalist. Time to back off. “I'm sorry, Doctor; I didn't mean to upset you.”
“Lieutenant, it is bad manners to lie, particularly if you lie so badly. You most certainly did mean to upset me.”
Lee felt his face grow uncomfortably warm. “Yes, Doctor. I'm sorry—but I had to.”
“Well, at least you can be embarrassed enough to blush about it. Perhaps you are human after all, Lieutenant Strong.”
“Lee.”
She almost smiled. “Very well. Lee. You may call me Genevieve if you are done provoking me.”
“I believe I'm quite finished, Genevieve.”
“Good. Now, how can I help?”
A new voice intruded. “You can help by giving Mr. Panachuk a sedative, Doctor; he's a bit too eager to get out of bed and back to work.” Perlenmann emerged from the infirmary, pushing open the door and leaning against the jamb. “How goes the investigation, Lieutenant?”
“It's going, Mr. Perlenmann, but not very fast or very far. I was hoping Dr. Iseult could give me some new insights, particularly into the Outbounders.”
The administrator shook his head. “I find it hard to believe that the Outbounder leaders—Mr. Briggs and Mr. Kerkonnen—would advocate violence of any type.”
“What about Ms. Xi?”
Perlenmann shrugged. “She is the most temperamental of the Outbounders, but that makes her almost too obvious a suspect, don't you think?”
“Maybe she didn't do it herself. Maybe she got somebody else fired up enough to do it for her.” Out of the corner of his eye, Lee saw Iseult frown skeptically.
Perlenmann shrugged again. “Perhaps, but the only reasonable underlying motive—that the Outbounders are trying to frame and discredit the Sols or Spacers—seems a bit far-fetched. Now I must regrettably return to my office; I'm swamped with paperwork.”
Perlenmann drift-walked out of Iseult's office. Lee stared after him, and when the door had closed, asked, “What about him?”
Iseult cocked her head. “What do you mean?”
“Could he be—well, a secret Dirtsider fascist, someone who's been waiting for a reasonable excuse to get this facility shut down?”
“Perlenmann? A fascist or Neo Luddite plant? Are you mad?” Iseult's full laugh was a pleasant, musical sound.
“What's so funny?”
“Lieutenant, even if Perlenmann had sympathies for any of the extremist factions, he would never act upon them. Everything with him is by the book, and his mandate is quite clear: to keep Outbounder operations running at ‘the maximum sustainable level.' And despite the supply reductions and delays that the Neo Luddites have caused by their filibustering in Geneva, he has managed to stay close to the original ship launching schedule. Which is no mean feat, believe me.”
“I do.”
“Well, then there's your answer, too. Perlenmann's mandate is spelled out clearly and he does not deviate from its rules.”
Lee nodded. “Yeah—but it's the exception that makes the rule. Maybe this is the exception.”
Iseult shook her head once, sharply. “No. Listen, Lee: I know enough people who either speak to, or are undeclared, radicals. I'm not in on any of their plans, but they trust me—enough for me to know that they all consider Perlenmann to be a stooge for the moderate Greens who are in power back home. Upsiders, Dirtsiders, Spacers, Outbounders: the one thing they can agree on is that Perlenmann won't break the rules.”
Lee shrugged. “Well, I had to ask.”
“Yes, you did. Is there any other way I can help?”
“Not right now.” Lee rose into the almost nonexistent gravity.
“Good; then it's your turn to help me.” Iseult rummaged in her desk, produced a small bottle of pills and handed them to Lee. “For Sergeant Bulganin,” she explained.
Lee smiled. “Weight loss pills?”
Iseult's face became stern. “That is not funny, Lieutenant. Kindly make sure that the sergeant gets these. Promptly.”
Lee frowned. “What are they?”
Iseult, who had directed her eyes to her computer, looked back up at Lee, surprised. “You don't know?”
Lee shook his head.
“He didn't tell you?”
Lee shook his head again.
“Mon Dieu, men are so childish! Lee, Sergeant Bulganin suffers from asthma, and all that exercise you've been pushing him through has been making it worse. Much worse.”
Lee's thoughts were suddenly cluttered with images of Bulganin in the spin gym, his stony face alternately florid and pale, but always creased by rigid lines of suppressed pain. Lee had attributed the strain to the Russian's excess weight, but now he realized wh
y Bulganin's gray sweatshirt was always black with perspiration, why neither his running time nor his endurance had improved: he wasn't getting enough air.
Lee closed his hand around the bottle. “Thank you, Doctor. I'll see that he gets these immediately.”
* * *
Bulganin stood to attention as Lee entered the now-pristine duty officer's room. The American waved him down.
“Be at your ease, Sergeant. Have a seat and take ten.” Bulganin eyed Lee suspiciously and then slowly sank into his chair. He turned back toward the computer on his desk.
Lee extended his hand across the table, uncurled his fingers to reveal the medicine bottle. “Sergeant, I believe these are for you.” Bulganin's face reddened and his jaw locked in place. His bearish paw reached out, removed the bottle with slow dignity, and stashed it in his breast pocket. He nodded faintly and shifted in his seat to readdress the computer.
“Sergeant, why didn't you inform me about your condition?”
Bulganin's jaw worked silently for a moment before he muttered, “It is not serious, Sir.”
“Damn it, Bulganin, that's not true and you know it. More to the point, now I know it, too.”
Bulganin's eyes did not meet Lee's. “You are removing me from duty, then?”
Lee shook his head. “Hell, no, Sergeant. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. I can't afford to lose you.” Bulganin's eyes grew slightly less hard. “But I do want to know how long you've had this condition and why—why—you didn't tell me.”
Bulganin looked away from the computer, considering. Then: “May I speak frankly, Sir?”
“I insist upon it.”
“I did not tell you about my condition because I will not be humiliated by being excused from your physical training requirements—Sir.”
“I did not set those standards, Sergeant, and you know it. They are Customs Patrol regulations.”
Bulganin nodded slightly. “Yes, that is true. But after your arrival, I—I did not wish to receive any special treatment from you, Sir.”
Lee nodded. “I think I understand, Sergeant. But hopefully we've gotten beyond our initial friction—at least somewhat. I'm still going to expect an hour of 1-gee PT from you each day. However, you are now to fulfill that requirement by spending three separate twenty-minute periods in the gym, with at least an hour of nonphysical duties preceding each of those PT periods.”
Bulganin had his mouth open to protest, but Lee held up his hand. “That is an order, Arkady.”
Bulganin closed his mouth, stared, and then smiled slightly. “It will be nice to breathe again.”
Lee smiled back. “I imagine it will. How long have you had this condition, and why isn't it on your records?”
Bulganin frowned. “It's not on my records because I've never reported it.”
“Christ, Bulganin, that's taking a hell of a chance.”
The Russian shrugged. “I would have been taking a bigger chance if I reported it. As you pointed out, my record has some rough patches, including anti-Neo Luddite protests. What do you think would happen if they found out I had severe asthma? Discharged from the service. And then what? I don't know how to do anything other than be a soldier. So I requested spaceside duty and tried to volunteer for the most isolated posts.”
“—Hoping that on those assignments, you could either conceal your asthma, or that your CO wouldn't bother to report it.”
“Da—I mean, yes. That is it exactly.”
“Well, don't worry, Arkady; I'm not going to add any health reports to your record.”
Bulganin blinked and then beamed. “Spaseebo, Lieutenant.” Then he looked away, uncomfortable.
“What is it, Sergeant?”
“Sir, I am afraid I have—er, ‘forgotten'—to tell you something that might be relevant to your investigation.”
Ah hah; now maybe I can get somewhere. “I understand how something might have slipped your mind, Sergeant. It's been a very busy ten days.”
Bulganin smiled gratefully. “It's about Kotsukov, Sir. He was involved with the Outbounders. Although they did not share his fervor for Earth's continuing dominion, they were certainly interested in ensuring the continuation of the Outbound operations.”
“So I've heard. But why would Kotsukov associate with them? Logically, he'd consider them traitors, right?”
Bulganin nodded. “And so he did. But Kotsukov was practical. They had the same foes: the Sols. Besides, for the time being, Kotsukov was only too glad to see Earth ridding herself of dissidents so disaffected that they would rather take their chances traveling to the stars.” Bulganin shrugged. “Towards the end, he even helped them to arrange their secret meetings.”
“Secret meetings? Why secret?”
“Well, I think the Outbounders were starting to make contingency plans, trying to decide what they should do if Earth terminated work on the current colony ship.”
“Were they considering militant options?”
“I'm not sure, Sir, but I think some of them were. And Kotsukov, he . . . well, he . . .”
“Yes?”
Bulganin swallowed. “He told me where they held the meetings.”
* * *
As the ventilation fan cycled to a slow halt, Bulganin uncoupled the unit's hinge. A heavy push, a scratchy squeal of breaking rust, and then the fan and its mounting bracket swung inward, revealing an air shaft approximately one meter in diameter. Bulganin squeezed himself into the aperture and waved for Lee to follow.
It was a tight crawl. On three separate occasions, Lee regretted that Fast Eddie wasn't familiar with the ventilation system. He would have been a much faster duct-crawler than Bulganin.
After half an hour of crawling, Bulganin came to a dead end where the vent broadened and was blocked by a rapidly spinning fan. After cutting power to the fan and waiting for the blades to drift to a halt, the Russian freed the hinge and yanked the fan inward. It swung back, revealing a tight-meshed grate. The two men crawled forward until they were within inches of the mesh.
Beyond the black metal grille-work, about thirty-five individuals were sitting in an irregular semicircle. Bulganin pointed once, twice, three times; “Briggs, the leader and the smartest. Kerkonnen, his right hand. Xi, good spokesperson. She's only twenty-seven; holds more appeal for the younger ones.” The other individuals represented a broad mix of age, ethnicity, and profession.
Lee drew his sidearm: he was once again carrying a standard issue ten-millimeter caseless automatic. Concerned that the homebrewed Upsider gyrojet pistol might raise some eyebrows and unwanted speculation about his own loyalties, he kept it well out of sight.
Lee's attempt to eavesdrop on the Outbounders' debate was unsuccessful. “Bulganin, can you hear what they're saying?”
“No, Sir. Too much noise out there and too much echo in here.”
Lee checked his watch. “Well, we'll have the opportunity to inquire about the topic of tonight's meeting soon enough. Coming up on the two-minute mark. Check your weapon and make sure you've got tranq rounds loaded.”
Bulganin frowned. “Are you sure you want the tranq, Sir?”
“Quite sure, Sergeant. Besides, we'll have another option on call if we need it.”
Bulganin nodded, produced his own ten-millimeter automatic, and sat so that his legs were curled up between his body and the grille.
Lee watched the seconds tick away. “Follow me in as soon as you can. And don't try jumping for distance, Arkady, just a good landing.”
“And ‘safety-on' until I'm steady.”
“Right. Okay, it's show time. Make it a good kick.”
Lee, alongside Bulganin, rose into a scrunched parody of a sprinter's crouch. The sergeant pulled his legs back and kicked the grate—hard.
As the grate tumbled out and away—pinwheeling in the low-gee—Lee launched himself forward. His fast, level glide carried him about seven meters, at which point he swept his bent legs up and then stamped down; a whump and he was grounded. He snapped the handgun's sa
fety off—and could barely keep from grinning at the semicircle of open mouths before him.
“In accordance with Earth Union Legal Code 1770B2, I am detaining all persons here assembled, effective immediately. Please do not—”
Xi and two others launched into a long, floating run toward the room's main entrance, a large door directly opposite the vent Lee had come through. Bulganin, landing with a thump just a few feet behind Lee, made a guttural inquiry. “Drop them?”
“Not necessary, Sergeant. Just flank out.”
Xi and her companions reached the door just as it opened inward, revealing two panicked adolescents. They began screaming about a raid and were then forcibly propelled forward into the room, courtesy of Fast Eddie's booted feet. Xi turned and bolted back the way she had come.
But the other two exits were now blocked by Lee and Bulganin respectively. Xi completed her last leaping step just a few feet away from where she had started, her lips a taut line, her almond-shaped eyes wide and bright—and locked on the pistol Bulganin had pointed at her. Behind Xi, Briggs and Kerkonnen exchanged looks and raised their hands slowly into the air.
Lee holstered his weapon, but left the safety off. “Much better. And now, if you don't mind, I've got a few questions . . .”
* * *
Perlenmann stared at Lee over steepled fingers and across a table littered with open books. “So where does that leave us?”
“Just about back where we started.”
Perlenmann closed a few books, revealing more open ones beneath, as well as the new scanner that had been offloaded from the Gato. “You're sure none of the Outbounders were involved in the sabotage?”
“Am I sure? I don't know if I'm sure of anything.” Lee sighed, wondered what the scanner was doing mixed in with Perlenmann's precious books. “I can tell you this much, however. If any of the Outbounders were involved in some elaborate false-flag sabotage plot, they're keeping it a secret from their own leaders.”
“What about Ms. Xi? She seems to their political firebrand; could she be more militant than she appears?”
Lee shook his head. “Not likely. And she's got a pretty good alibi for the seventy-two hours prior to the explosion.”