"Pell is running out of friends," Azov observed softly, with a glance at the sad-faced Mr. Ayres. "Now the indifferent desert her. The will of the governed, Mr. Ambassador."
Ayres's eyes turned toward Azov, sidelong. "We have accepted the situation. It was never the intent of my mission to obstruct the will of the people resident in these areas. Only I am anxious for the safety of Pell Station. We are talking about thousands of lives, sir."
"Siege, Mr. Ayres. We cut them off from supplies and disrupt their operations until they grow uncomfortable." Azov turned his face toward Vittorio, stared at him a moment. "Mr. Lukas— we have to prevent their access to the resources of the mines, and of Downbelow itself. A strike 376
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there ... possible, but militarily costly getting to it, and costly in its effect.
So we proceed by disentanglement. Mazian has a death grip on Pell; he'll leave ruin if he loses, blow Downbelow and the station itself, fall back toward the Hinder Stars ... toward Earth. Do you want your precious motherworld used for a Mazianni base, Mr. Ayres?"
Ayres shot him a troubled look.
"Ah, he is capable of it," Azov said, not ceasing to look at Vittorio, a cold, penetrating stare. "Mr. Lukas, that is as much as your duty involves. To gather information ... to dissuade merchanters from trade. Do you understand? Do you think that's within your capacity?"
"Yes, sir."
Azov nodded. "You'll understand, Mr. Lukas, if we excuse you and Mr.
Jacoby at this point."
He hesitated, a little dazed, realized it fuzzily as an order and that Azov's gray stare brooked no countersuggestions. He rose from the table. Dayin excused himself past Ayres, and that left Ayres, Blass, and Azov in council. Hammer's captain prepared to receive orders the nature of which he much wished to know.
Ships had been lost. Azov had not told the truth as it was. He had heard the crew talking. There were whole carriers missing. They were to be sent into that.
He paused where the curve curtained the meeting area, looked back at Dayin, sank down on a bench at the table in this the crew quarters. "You all right?" he asked Dayin, for whom he had never had great affection; but a face from home was very welcome in this cold place, in these circumstances.
Dayin nodded. "And you?" It was more courtesy than he had generally had from uncle Dayin.
"Fine."
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Dayin settled opposite.
"Truth," Vittorio asked him. "How many did they lose out there?"
"Took heavy damage," Dayin said. "I reckon that Mazian cost them some.
I know there are ships missing ... carriers Victory and Endurance gone, I think."
"But Union can build more. They're calling others in. How long is this going to go on?"
Dayin shook his head, rolled a meaningful glance at the overhead. The fans hummed, deadening conversation into local areas, but not shielding them from monitoring. "They've got him cornered," Dayin said then. "And they can get supplies indefinitely, but Mazian's bottled. What Azov said, that was the truth. He cost them, cost them badly, but they cost him worse."
"And what about us?"
"I'd rather be here than at Pell, frankly."
Vittorio gave a bitter laugh. His eyes blurred, a sudden pain in his throat, which was never really gone, and he shook his head. "I meant it," he said for those who might chance to be monitoring them. "I'll give Union the best I've got; it's the best thing I ever had going for me."
Dayin regarded him strangely, frowned and perhaps understood his meaning. For the first time in his twenty-five years he felt a kinship with someone. That it should be Dayin, who was three decades older and had a different experience ... that surprised him. But a little time in the Deep might make comrades out of the most unlikely individuals, and perhaps, he thought, perhaps Dayin had already made such choices, and Pell was no longer home for either of them.
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5
i
Pell: Green Dock; 2000 hrs. md.; 0800a.
Fire hit the wall. Damon flinched tighter into the corner they occupied, resisted half a heartbeat as Josh seized him and sprang up to run, followed them, dodged among the panicked and screaming crowds which back-washed out of green nine onto the docks. Someone did get shot, rolled on the decking at their feet, and they jumped that body and kept going, in the direction the troops meant to drive them.
Station residents, Q escapees ... there was no difference made. They ran with fire peppering the supports and the storefronts, silent explosions in the chaos of screams, shots aimed at structures and not the vulnerable station shell itself. Shots went over their heads now that the crowd was moving, and they ran until the weakest faltered. Damon slowed as Josh did, found himself in white dock, the two of them weaving through the scattered number still running in panic, the last few who in their terror seemed to think the shots were still coming. He saw shelter among the shops by the inner wall, went that way and Josh followed him, to the recessed doorway of a bar which had been sealed against rioters, a place to sit quietly, out of the way of chance shots.
Several bodies lay out on the dock before them, new or old was not certain. It had become an ordinary sight in recent hours. There were occasional acts of violence while they sat there against the doorway ...
fights among stationers and what might be Q residents. Mostly people wandered, sometimes calling out names, parents hunting children, friends or mates hunting each other. Sometimes there were relieved meetings ...
and once, once, a man identified one of the dead, and screamed and sobbed.Damon bowed his face against his arms. Eventually some men helped the relative away.
And eventually the military sent detachments of armored troops into the area, to round up work crews, ordering them to gather up the dead and 379
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vent them. Damon and Josh slunk deeper into the doorway and evaded that duty; it was the active and restless the troops picked.
Last of all Downers came out of hiding, timidly, with soft steps and fearful looks about. They took it on themselves to clean the docks, scrubbing away the signs of death, faithful to their ordinary duties of cleanliness and order. Damon looked at them with a slight stirring of hope, the first good thing he had seen in all these hours, that the gentle Downers returned to the service of Pell.
He slept a little, as others did who sat over in the docking areas, as Josh did beside him, curled up against the door frame. From time to time he roused to general com announcements of restored schedules, or the promise that food would be forthcoming in all areas.
Food. The thought began to obsess him. He said nothing of it, his knees tucked up within his arms and his limbs feeling weak with hunger; weakness, he thought it, regretting a neglected breakfast, no lunch, no supper ... he was not accustomed to hunger. It was, as he had ever felt it, a missed meal on a day of heavy work. An inconvenience. A discomfort. It began to be something else. It put a whole new compexion on resistance to anything; played games with his mind; forecast whole new dimensions of misery. If they were to be caught and recognized it was likely to be in some food line; but they had to come out for that, or starve. Their very remaining still grew obvious as the aroma of food swept the docks and others moved, as carts trundled along, pushed by Downers. People mobbed the carts, started snatching and shouting; but the troops escorted each then, and it calmed down quickly. The food carts, stores diminished, came closer. They stood up, leaned there in the recess.
"I'm going out there," Josh said finally. "Stay back. I'll say you're hurt. I'll get enough for both of us."
Damon shook his head. It was perverse courage, to test his survival, sweaty, uncombed, in dirty, bloody coveralls. If he could not cross the dock for fear of an assassin's gun or a trooper recognizing him, he was going to go mad. At least they did not look to be asking for ID cards for the meals. He had three of them, and his own, which he dared not use;
Josh had two and his own, but they did not match the pictures.
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A simple act, to walk out with a guard watching, to take a cold sandwich and a carton of lukewarm fruit drink, and to retreat; but he retired to the sheltering storefront with a sense of triumph in his prize, crouched there to eat as Josh joined him ... ate and drank, feeling in that mundane act as though a great deal of the nightmare were past, and he was caught in some strange new reality, where human feelings were not required, only an animal wariness.
And then a shrill ripple of Downer language, the one with the food cart speaking out across the dock to others of his kind. Damon was startled; Downers were generally shy when things were quiet around them; it startled the escorting trooper, who lowered his rifle and looked all about.
But there was nothing, only quiet, frightened people and solemn round-eyed Downers, who had stopped and now went about their business.
Damon finished his sandwich as the cart passed on along the upward curve of the dock toward green.
A Downer came near them, dragging a box into which he was collecting the plastic containers. Josh looked anxious as the Downer held out his hand, surrendered the wrappers; Damon tossed his in the box, looked up in fright as the Downer rested a gentle hand on his arm. "You Konstantin-man."
"Go away," he whispered hoarsely. "Downer, don't say my name. They'll kill me if they see me. Be quiet and go away quick."
"I Bluetooth. Bluetooth, Konstantin-man."
"Bluetooth." He remembered. The tunnels, the Downer who had been shot. The strong Downer fingers closed tighter.
"Downer name Lily send from Sun-she-friend, you name 'Licia. She send we, make Lukases quiet, not come in she place. Love you, Konstantin-man. 'Licia she safe, Downers all round she, keep she safe. We bring you, you want?"
He could not breathe for the moment. "Alive? She's alive?"
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" 'Licia she safe. Send you come, make you safe with she."
He tried to think, clung to the furred hand and stared into the round brown eyes, wanting far more than Downer patois could say. He shook his head.
"No. No. It's danger to her if I come there. Men-with-guns, you understand, Bluetooth? Men hunt me. Tell her— tell her I'm safe. Tell her I hide all right, tell her Elene got away with the ships. We're all right.
Does she need me, Bluetooth? She needs?"
"Safe in she place. Downers sit with she, all Downers in Upabove. Lily with she. Satin with she. All. All."
"Tell her— tell her I love her. Tell her I'm all right and Elene is. Love you, Bluetooth."
Brown arms hugged him. He embraced the Downer fervently and the Downer left him and slipped away like a shadow, quickly occupied himself with picking up debris not far away, wandered off. Damon looked about him, fearful that they might have been observed, met nothing but Josh's curious gaze. He glanced away, wiped his eyes on the arm which rested across his knee. The numbness diminished; he began to be afraid again, had something to be afraid for, someone who could still be hurt.
"Your mother," Josh said. "Is that what he was talking about?"
He nodded, without comment.
"I'm glad," Josh offered earnestly.
He nodded a second time. Blinked, tried to think, feeling his brain subjected to jolt after jolt until there was no sense in it.
"Damon."
He looked up, followed the direction of Josh's stare. Squads of troops were coming off the horizon, out of green dock, formed up and meaning business. Quietly, nonchalantly, he rose, dusted his cothing, turned his 382
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back to the dock to give Josh cover while he got up. Very casually they began to move along in the other direction.
"Sounds like they're about to get organized out there," Josh said.
"We're all right," he insisted. They were not the only ones moving. The niner hall of white was not that far. They drifted with others who seemed to have the same motive, found a public restroom next to one of the bars that sat at the corner of white nine; Josh turned in there and he walked in after. They both made use of it and walked out again, taking a normal pace. Guards had been posted at the intersections of the corridor with the dock, but they were not doing anything, only watching. He walked further down nine, stopped at a public call unit.
"Screen me," he said, and Josh obligingly leaned against the wall between them and the opening of nine where the guards stood. "Going to see what cards we have, how many credits, where the original owners belonged. I don't need my own priority to do that, just a records number."
"I know one thing," Josh said in a low voice. "I don't look like a Pell citizen. And your face ..."
"No one wants to be noticed; no one can turn us in without being noticed himself. That's the best hope we've got; no one wants to be conspicuous."
He thrust in the first card and keyed the override. Altener, Leslie: 789.90
credits in comp; married, a child. Clerk, clothing concession. He put that one in his left pocket, not to use, not wanting to steal from the survivors.
Lee Anton Quale, single man, staff card with Lukas Company, restricted clearance, 8967.89 credits ... an amazing amount for such a man. William Teal, married man, no children, loading boss, 4567.67 credits, warehouse clearances.
"Let's see yours," he said to Josh. Josh handed his over together, and he shoved the first in, hastening feverishly, wondering whether so many inquiries in a row off a public terminal might not set comp central off.
Cecil Sazony, single man, 456.78 credits, machinist and sometime loader, barracks privileges; Louis Diban, five-year marriage terminated, no dependents, 3421.56, dock crew foreman. He pocketed the cards and 383
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started walking as Josh followed and caught up with him, around the corner into a crosshall, and around the next corner to the right. There was a storeroom there; all the docks were mirror image one of the other when it came to the central corridors, and there was inevitably a storage room for maintenance hereabouts. He found the appropriate, unmarked door, used the foreman's card to open it, and turned on the lights. There was ventilation, a store of paper and cleaning supplies and tools. He stepped in with Josh behind him and punched the door closed. "A hole to hide in," he said, and pocketed the card he had used, reckoning it the best key they had. "We sit it out, go on alterday shift a day or so. Two of our cards were alterday people, single, with dock clearance. Sit down. Lights will go out in here in a moment. Can't keep them on ... comp will find a storeroom light on and turn it out on us, very economical."
"Are we safe here?"
He laughed bitterly, sank down against the wall, legs tucked up in the cramped space to afford Josh room to sit down opposite him. He felt of the gun still in his pocket, to be sure it was there. Drew a breath. "Nowhere is safe." Tired, the angel's face, grease-smudged, hair stringy. Josh looked terrified, though it had been Josh's instincts that had saved them under fire.
Between the two of them, one knowing the accesses and one with the right reflexes, they made a tough problem for Mazian. "You've been shot at before," he said. "Not just in a ship ... close up. You know that?"
"I don't remember."
"Don't you?"
"I said I don't."
"I know the station. Every hole, every passage; and if shuttles start moving again, if any ships start going and coming from the mines, we just use the cards to get close enough to the docks, join a loading crew, walk onto a ship...."
"Go where, then?"
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"Downbelow. Or outworld mines. No questions asked in either place." It was a dream. He fabricated it to comfort them both. "Or maybe Mazian will decide he can't go on holding here. Maybe he'll just pull out."
"He'll blow it if he does. Blow the station, the installations on Downbelow with it. Would he want to leave Union a base to use against him when he falls back?"
/> Damon frowned at truth he already knew. "You have a better suggestion what we should do?"
"No."
"I could turn myself in, negotiate to get back in control, evacuate the station...."
"You believe that?"
"No," he said. That account too he had already added up. "No."The lights went out. Comp had shut them down. Only the ventilation continued.
ii
Pell: station central; 2130 hrs. md.; 0930 hrs.
a.
"But there's no need," Porey said softly, his dark, scarred face implacable,
"there's no further need for your presence, Mr. Lukas. You've done your civic duty. Now go back to your quarters. One of my people will be sure you get there safely."
Jon looked about at the control center, at the several troopers who stood there, with the safeties off the rifles, with eyes constantly on the fresh shift of techs who managed the controls, the others under guard for the night.
He gathered himself to pass orders to the comp chief, stopped cold as a trooper made a precise move, a hollow scrape of armor, a lowered rifle.
"Mr. Lukas," Porey said, "people are shot for ignoring orders."
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"I'm tired," he said nervously. "I'm glad to go, sir. I don't need the escort."
Porey motioned. One of the troopers by the door stood smartly aside, waiting for him. Jon walked out, the trooper treading behind him at first and then beside him, an unwanted companion. They passed other troops back on guard in quiet, riot-scarred blue one.
More of the Fleet was docking. They had drawn in to a tighter perimeter, decided finally to dock, which seemed to him military insanity, a risk he did not understand. Mazian's risk. His now. Pell's, because Mazian was back.