Rimrunners (26 page)

"Nossir. No fighting, sir."

"Lindy Hughes just slipped."

"I was all over soap, sir. Probably he was joking around, I take it that way,

sir."

Another quiet note onto the TranSlate. A shift of black eyes upward again. "God,

I hate smartasses."

Didn't seem the time to say anything. She waited, hands tucked behind her.

"You tell me, Yeager… are you smart, or just smartass?"

"Hope I'm smart, sir."

"You know what they call you on the bridge?"

"Nossir."

"Spit 'n polish.—Shit won't stick to you, is that it?"

"I try not to get into it, sir."

"Smartass again."

"Sorry, sir."

Orsini rocked his chair back, hands folded across his middle, and stared up at

her a long time. "You come on this ship with papers by the grace of your last

captain, you haven't got the rating you claim, have you?"

"Machinist, sir."

Long, long stare of those black eyes. "Hughes make a grab at you?"

She felt the sweat running. "Wouldn't venture to say, sir."

The com beeped. Orsini took it private, using the earpiece, listened while he

watched her.

"Thanks," he said to whoever. And to her: "Headache, is it?"

"Yessir."

"It's not Hughes' prescription. It's 'dust. You know that word?"

Worse than she figured, then. "Yessir."

"You still think it's Hughes."

She thought about that, with Orsini staring up at her and her heart thumping

hard. "I think if that was what he meant he's no friend of mine."

"You ever thought about the diplomatic branch?"

"Nossir." She hated round-the-corner attacks. Orsini was that kind.

"Are you clean?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where do you suppose it came from?"

"Somebody who wanted me in a lot of trouble, sir."

Long silence again.

"Why?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Spit 'n polish, where'd you learn your manners?"

"Lot of ships, sir." She made herself shift weight on her feet, stand easier,

civ-like. "And station militia. Pan-paris."

He might believe it. He might not. He said, one brow lifting: "Militia, was it?"

"Yessir."

"What rank?"

"Specialist."

"In what?"

"Weapons tech, sir."

He thought about.that, rocking his chair. Finally he said, "What kind?"

"Whatever we could get."

Too much truth, in the last years, the losing years. Her pulse skittered and

fluttered while Orsini kept up that gentle rocking.

"You can wait outside."

There was no indication how it was going. No figuring anything with Orsini.

"Yessir," she said, and she went and opened the door.

"Send Hughes in."

Hughes was out there, sitting on the bench along the wall. So was Bernstein out

there, standing talking with Fitch. "Your turn," she said to Hughes.

Hughes got up, scowling as they passed each other, and she sat down on the bench

in Hughes' place, while Bernstein and Fitch went on talking, Bernstein just as

calm and reasonable as if it was the supper menu they were talking about,

instead of NG Ramey.

"… no question," Bernie was saying, to Fitch's objections, "he's steadied down a

lot, no sick-reports, no problems…"

"The man's always the center of something. I'm not surprised to find him in the

middle of whatever's going on." Fitch made a move of his hand and pulled

Bernstein over out of earshot. Voices dropped, Fitch's face stayed angry,

Bernstein's worried.

Had to be coming up on alterdark, thirty minutes or so, and that meant the

alterday evening/maindawn lapover ended. So did Orsini's optional jurisdiction,

unless Orsini planned to stay up around the clock, and small chance Orsini

intended to do that.

Small chance that Bernstein could, counting he had one of his shift under arrest

and NG under consideration for arrest—God knew for what… but Bernie might have

his hands full tomorrow, working the boards himself unless he pulled somebody

off mainday right now and put him back to bed, or unless Orsini was going to let

him work somebody twenty-four hours solid at the boards—

And Fitch was just warming up, just starting to ask questions.

Like about NG.

What in hell can he have done?

God, are they on him because of me?

If they have, if Fitch corners him—God knows what he'll do, he'll go out on

Fitch, he'll do one of those eetee spells with Fitch watching and they'll jerk

him off the boards, they'll lock him up—it'd kill him, it'll finish him—

If he doesn't go for Fitch's throat …

If Fitch doesn't goad him into it…

And Fitch would.

She sat there staring at the wall while a couple of the bridge crew and a

mainday tech on business walked through. She listened to the few words she could

catch from Fitch and Bernstein. Bernstein was looking worried, from what she

could catch out of the corner of her eye; and she reckoned Bernstein didn't even

have the right to stay there, once the curfew rang and the watch passed to

Fitch, Fitch could order him out of it, Fitch could order any damn thing he

wanted with anybody in his way—except maybe Orsini.

Oh, God! let Orsini stay on the case.

Bernstein and Fitch stopped talking. Bernstein just stood there looking upset,

but Fitch walked off a little up the rim and gave some order on his pocket com,

with his back turned, so she couldn't hear what he was saying, or read lips for

it.

Bernstein walked back to her and said: "The packet was 'dust."

"Yessir, I heard."

"They're pulling half of main Engineering, putting them on alterday."

"What are they going to do?" She felt the panic rise and fought it. No use for

the adrenaline rush, nothing to fight, and it sure as hell didn't help a body

think. "They didn't plant anything on NG—"

"Musa's rep is clean, and that's a given. Just keep calm. You've got a witness."

"They arrested NG?"

"He's up for questioning. Just questions."

God. Like someone had hit her in the gut. She couldn't breathe for a second. But

the mind went on working, thinking about him and small spaces, about him and his

temper and Fitch getting him in his office—and she thought about how to stop

that and the answer came up the only way she could sort it out.

"What's the log if I tell Orsini it's mine?"

Bernie frowned, quick and hard; and she thought in the same second that log

wasn't a civ word, and that Bernie hadn't missed it and that Bernie was adding

that up, somewhere in the muddle of everything else going on, Bernie was upset

as hell and ready to kill Hughes with his bare hands.

Because they were in a trap and she should have broken Hughes' damn neck, hell

with the chance of getting caught at it—the chance of Lindy Hughes coming back

at her was a hundred percent, and she'd known that, dammit, known it right in

the gut and she'd pulled back from what she should have done till Gypsy and

Davis and Presley were in on it and everything was too damn late.

So when you screw up you cover it, Bet Yeager. Same as under fire.

"It's a detention offense," Bernstein said, quiet and fast, under the

ship-noise. "If you're lucky. You don't sign off this ship. There isn't any

discharge, you understand me? You've got no priors, you've got a good work

record—but you know what happened to NG—"

"I'll live. I'll get Hughes—someday. I'll pay him."

She was saying that to a mof. But Bernie understood her, Bernie was somebody you

could say that to and Bernie would keep his mouth shut when Hughes had a real

bad accident someday.

"Think I better talk to Orsini," she said, "before curfew goes."

"Dammit," Bernstein said. "Dammit to hell—"

"Yeah," she said, took a deep breath and felt halfway better. "But little spaces

don't spook me." She motioned with her eyes toward the door. "I got to talk to

him. How much time do we got?"

Bernstein did a fast, covert check of his watch. "Three minutes."

"God!"

Bernstein went to the office door, hesitated a bare half-second.

"Mr. Bernstein," Fitch said from behind them.

Bernstein pushed the button.

Door was locked. Sure as hell.

"Mr. Bernstein."

As the bell rang.

Stupid as hell, she thought. Power games at the top of the whole damn command.

But it was valid, it was past alterday's shift, and Bernie looked Fitch's

direction the way he had to and said with a deliberate slowness, "Yes, Mr.

Fitch."

"Yeager," Fitch said, and invited her with a move of his hand. You didn't say

no. Even Bernstein couldn't—twice over Bernstein couldn't do anything with

Orsini refusing to open his door and armed Security a little way down the

corridor just watching everything that happened—two of them, probably Fitch's

own pick of the docks. Or wherever.

Probably Orsini thought it was Fitch at his door, and Orsini wasn't about to

unlock and talk. More damn power games between the watch officers, No word from

Wolfe, the whole command busy with its own politics and a skuz like Hughes had

favor-points with the tekkie sum-bitch bridge officer he was probably in bed

with, enough to get away with murder.

Or Fitch had been hunting something on Bernstein himself for a long, long time,

and everything else was just Fitch's way of getting the leverage.

So she said, mildly, "Yessir," got up from the bench and went where Fitch

indicated, trusting Bernie to do as much as he could.

Fitch's office, it happened, being the next over.

CHAPTER 19

« ^ »

Wasn't mine, sir," she said, one more time through the drill.

"Are you thinking I'm a fool?" Fitch asked.

"I'd never think so, sir."

"Seems to me you do, seems to me you think everybody on this ship must be fools.

I pulled you out of the fuckin' brig, Yeager, I signed you on this ship, and you

haven't been a fuckin' thing but a pain in the ass, you know that"!

"I don't think so, sir."

"You don't think so, you don't fuckin' think so! You're calling me a liar,

Yeager. Are you calling me a liar?"

"I don't admit the charges, sir."

They were recording, she was sure; and if they were they weren't going to get a

damned thing Fitch could edit into something else.

And maybe Fitch was just crazy or maybe he was better in control than he looked

and he was trying to get her to react. He left his desk, he prowled the office

while he yelled at her, he bent down and he yelled in her face.

She thought, Better than you have tried, and she retreated into null-mode, just

the same as standing at attention with old Junker Phillips yelling at you, just

focus on the questions and keep twisting right back to your basic position, no

matter where the son of a bitch tried to lead you. If you didn't say anything

different they couldn't get anywhere, and they got mad and then they got bored

and then they just logged you what they could and gave up and maybe eventually

forgot about it.

Yessir, nossir, nossir, I don't admit the charges.

And if the son of a bitch couldn't scare you he might want you to hit him; might

just push you far enough that you could, if you were a fool, but you weren't, so

you didn't.

Nossir.

Keep at it all day if you want, mof. Keep at it till shift-change and Orsini's

watch starts. I got the time.

At least NG's not in here.

"You hear me?"

"Yessir."

Fitch grabbed the front of her jumpsuit and jerked her hard, and she just gave

with it, just went limp.

"Gave you a chance. Hauled you out of one brig and here you are trying to get in

another. Hauled you out of there and you were carrying contraband. Weren't you?"

"Nossir."

She figured Fitch would hit her. He jerked her hard, leaned into her face and

said, "I have other sources, Yeager, I know where the trouble comes from on this

ship and I know where to go when something's wrong and nobody in lowerdecks

wants to talk."

Man's crazy, man's absolute crazy, she thought; and thought, He's talking about

NG.

"You want to think it over?" Fitch asked her. "You want to think about it?" He

jerked her up to her feet, pulled her off balance and she didn't do the natural

thing, didn't grab at him or hit him, just got her feet under her and bashed her

leg against the transit-braced chair. He hit her, jerked her and hit her along

the side of the head.

Won't show, she thought while her brain was ringing. Bruises won't show there.

So she brought her knee up.

He hit her, about twice before she went flying backward into the wall and hit it

full length, thought she was going to stand up, but she bounced off it and the

floor came up.

Hazy for a second, then. She moved to tuck up and protect herself, and she had a

view of Fitch's boots, figuring he was mad enough to kick hell out of her.

Plenty of bruises, damn sure.

"Get up," he said. She lay there, he grabbed her and jerked her up by the collar

and hauled her for her feet.

She stared him in the eyes, thinking, Got you, you sum-bitch.

Got you, if you got any regs on this ship.

He pulled her over to the chair, he sat her down, he went over and set his rump

on the corner of his desk, just looking at her.