Devil to the Belt (v1.1)

by C. J. Cherryh

  “Don’t distress yourself, Mr. Dekker.”

  January has thirty-one days. February is 28. March, 12.

  71.

  Out there in space. Seventy-one days. She’d have been out of air in 4 hours. Oh, God…

  “Mr. Dekker.”

  “March has thirty days. Or 31?”

  “31.”

  12 from 31 is 19. Nineteen days in March. April is—

  Thirty days hath September… April, June, and November…

  The doctor patted his shoulder. One of the orderlies came back.

  “No!” he yelled. “I’ve almost got it, dammit!”

  They shot him with it anyway. “Be still,” they said. “Be still. Don’t try to talk now.”

  49. They found me on the 21st. 49 and 21. Do you count the 12th twice?

  I’m losing it… start again.

  Or can I trust my memory?

  It was still 6-deck and still a waiting game. Every day Ben went down and checked the lists. Every day it turned up nothing but PENDING. Trinidad herself was still hung up in the investigation—there was no way they could lease her, no matter that there were a dozen teams applying; there was no way they could even start her charge-up, and every day she sat at dock she was costing money instead of earning it. Bird haunted the supply shops, pricing the few small parts she needed; but they couldn’t even get access to her, the way Bird put it, to fix the damned clothes dryer.

  “You can’t hurry the police,” Ben said, trying to put a reasonable face on things. “It can’t be much longer.”

  And Sal, between sit-ups—they were working out in the gym: “I thought you could fix anything.”

  “Not in my range of contacts,” he said, frustrated himself. Nudging Security was asking for more investigation.

  “Hell,” Bird said, mopping his face, leaning on the frame of a weight machine. “I sincerely hope they just get something decided. My heart can’t stand much more of this prosperity.”

  Meg didn’t say anything but, “Easy, Bird.”

  Payne said: “No, dammit, just don’t answer. Tell Salvatore—no, don’t tell Salvatore. I’ll talk to him…”

  Hell of a day. A Shepherd crew and a tender crew mixed into it in a bar and a bystander was in hospital; and this—

  Some clerk in Rl had return-sent the Salazar kid’s mail as Deceased, Return to Sender, and the sender in question, Salazar’s mother, had hit the phone asking for information on her daughter. The operator in ASCOM, knowing nothing about it, had sent the call to Personnel, the confused clerk that took the call in Rl Personnel there couldn’t find Salazar’s file and insisted to the bereaved mother there was no such person, while her supervisor had tried to stall for a policy clarification out of Rl’s Administrative levels, then realized she was out of her depth and tried to send it through to a higher level, after which it had bounced confusedly from department to department until a secretary in Legal Affairs put the call on hold and the woman hung up.

  Salazar’s mother was on the MarsCorp board, for God’s sake. Nobody had told him. Nobody had told Towney. Nobody had flagged the dead miner as a problem—

  Alyce Salazar’s next phone call had hit the president’s desk. Not Towney’s, in ASTEX. Hansford, in the Earth Company’s Sol Station headquarters. Hansford had called Towney, Towney had had to release the file, and Hansford’s office had released the details to MarsCorp.

  Alyce Salazar had found out Dekker had survived, and immediately claimed it was no accident, he was a scoundrel who’d seduced her daughter, kidnapped her to the Belt, and killed her for her money.

  Which turned out to have been a fair amount, before expenses. There was a binding surviving-partner clause—

  But Alyce Salazar was an angry woman, one damned angry woman… and lawyers were talking to lawyers at very expensive phone rates.

  “Mr. Crayton is on the line,” Payne’s secretary said.

  God…

  “Mr. Crayton, sir…”

  Crayton said, “Have you got the letter?”

  “Yes. I have it up now.”

  “One went to Security.”

  Oh, my God… “I’m sorry, sir. I certainly didn’t—”

  “Not from your office. From Ms. Salazar. She wants that boy’s head. You understand the implications? We need this mess cleared up. We don’t want him in court. I want you to patch this up. Get the facts straight. We’ve got to have an answer for this one.”

  Still no police clearance. And on a certain afternoon in the Bell, when Ben was in the bar doing some technical reading, Meg slipped into the chair across the table, leaned both arms on the table and said, “Benjie, cher, let’s go do talk.”

  He’d thought at first Meg was just bored, Bird being out of sorts for the last couple of days; and he wasn’t totally surprised, back in her room, to end up in bed in mid-shift,—not the first time for him and Meg, but it was all the same unusual, even if he was entirely sure—and he was—that Bird wouldn’t take exception. The side-shaving was a turn-on. The mop on top and down the back was several shades brighter than elsewhere, but it was beyond a doubt Meg’s right color; and she had some kind of creature tattooed around one leg—snake, Meg had told him once, early on in their acquaintance. Bird had told him what kind it was and said if it bit you, you were dead in three minutes. He thought that might well fit Meg, if you got on her bad side.

  But he wasn’t on her bad side. He had it figured by then that Meg had ulterior motives, though Meg wasn’t the sort to hold a man off while his brains scrambled—he swore he couldn’t do anything until she’d told him what was going on, but she proved that wrong: she had him truly gone before she started asking him about the ship, about Dekker, about the way Bird was stewing and fretting—

  “Bird’s severely upset,” Meg said. “You think there’s a chance on that ship?—Because if there isn’t, you got to talk to him.”

  “Dekker’s brain’s gone. No question. Yeah, there’s a solid chance on that ship, there’s a good chance.”

  “Bird says if you get anything it’ll have to be in court. Bird’s saying you won’t win. That it’s all just a waste. But he doesn’t act it.—Is there anything the company can turn up? I mean, you didn’t seriously transgress any regs out there…”

  So that was what was bothering Meg. Meg and Sal had to be looking for a lease for their next run, if that ship wasn’t going to come through—or if they were only going to sell it to the company. Meg and Sal hadn’t been betting elsewhere: that was what he suddenly figured, and they were down to decisions. “There isn’t going to be any court. I promise you. You know what Bird’s problem is? He’s scared he’s going to make money. Every time you get to talking about it—he just looks off the other way. If I hadn’t filed on that ship, you think he’d ever have done it? Hell, no. He’d have waited till he got his legs. Then he’d have said, well, it’s too late, there’d be other creditors—you tell me what goes through his head, Meg. I swear I don’t know.”

  “Dirtsider.”

  “So?” One of Meg’s stories had her born on Earth, too. But that didn’t seem to be the version Meg was using today. “Are they all like that? Is it something in the water?”

  “Bird grew up poor.”

  “So I grew up an orphan. So what’s that got to do with anything?”

  “It’s habit with him: when he gets enough—that’s all. That’s all he wants from life. He doesn’t want to be rich. He just wants enough.”

  It didn’t make any sense—not at least the why of it. He held the thought a moment, turned it over, looked at its underside, and decided he wasn’t going to understand. “Well, it’s not enough for me. Damn well not enough for me.”

  Meg sighed. “Haven’t ever seen enough to know what enough is.”

  “Damned short rations,” he said. “That’s what Bird’s ‘enough’ comes to. And it doesn’t keep you fed when your legs and your back give out. Doesn’t get you insurance.”

  “Insurance,” Meg chuckled. “God, jeune
fils…”

  “That’s a necessity, dammit! Ask me where I’d have been if my mama hadn’t had it.”

  “Yeah, well.—She was a company pilot, wasn’t she?”

  “Tech.” He rolled over. He didn’t like to talk about things that were done with or people that didn’t come back. They didn’t matter. But the example did. “You don’t get any damn where halfass protected. Insurance—my company schooling—Bird’s knowing who to lease to—”

  “Like us?”

  Oh, then, here was the approach. Meg was looking at him, chin on hands, putting it to him dead-on, with no Bird for a back-up. He didn’t want to alienate Meg and Sal—especially Sal. They weren’t the best miners in the Belt, but they had other benefits—not all of them in bed. And he kept asking himself if he was using good sense, but the answer kept coming up that there might be miners better at their job, but if you wanted a couple of stick-to-a-deal, canny partners, present company and Sal weren’t damn bad.

  Some of Bird’s friends, now—had his affliction. And they were going broke or had gone.

  Meg said, “You suppose you could put in a word with Bird, explain how we’d be reasonable. We’d work shares.”

  Not every day somebody as tough and canny as Meg needed something from him—seriously needed something. He toted it up, what the debts might be, what the collection might be. If one looked to have a long career leasing ships—one needed a couple of reliable partners who knew the numbers. And Sal in particular had possibilities—if Sal could get a grip on her temper and shake out that who-gives-a-damn attitude. Sal also had useful contacts. While Meg—

  He said, he hoped after not too long a pause: “I could talk to him. What are friends for?”

  “Wake up.” Someone shook at Dekker’s shoulder. “Come on, Dekker. Come on. Come out of it.”

  He didn’t want to come back this time. It was more white coats. He could see that with his eyes half shut. But there was dark green, too, and the gleam of silver. That didn’t match.

  A light slap at his face. “Come on, Dekker. That’s fine.—Do you want an orange juice?”

  It never was. It was a cousin of that damned Citrisal. But his mouth was dry and he sipped it when they put a straw between his lips and elevated his bed. G felt heavier here. He thought: This isn’t the same place. We’re deeper in.

  “How are you feeling?” his doctor asked him.

  But he was looking suddenly at the company police, realizing what that uniform was.

  “Paul Dekker?” the head cop said. “We want to ask you a few questions.”

  He heard that beep again. That was him. That was the cops listening to his heartbeat, and it was scared and rapid.

  “Have you found her?” he asked. Cops always came with bad news. He didn’t want to hear what they might have to say to him.

  But one of them sat down on the side of his bed. That man said, “What did you do with the body?”

  “Whose body?” For a moment he honestly didn’t know what they were talking about, and the monitor stayed relatively quiet. Then his pulse picked up. “Whose body?”

  “Your partner’s.”

  The beeps became hysterical. He hauled the rate back down again, saying calmly, “I couldn’t find her. They hit us. I couldn’t find her afterward.”

  “Mr. Dekker, don’t play us for fools. We’ll level with you. Don’t you think it’s time you leveled with us?”

  “This ship ran us down—”

  “—and it wasn’t on the charts. Come now, Mr. Dekker, you know and I know you had a motive. College girl comes out here with her whole life savings, and here you are—not a steady job in your life, no schooling, not a cent to your name. How’d you get here? How’d you get passage?”

  “Cory and I were friends. From way back.”

  “So she puts up the equity, she just insists the ship go down as joint ownership, with a death provision in there—”

  “No.”

  “Or was that your idea?”

  “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  “You signed it. We’ve got your signature right at the bottom.”

  “I didn’t read it. Cory said sign, I just signed it!”

  The officer had reached for a slate the other cop had.

  He pressed buttons. “We have here a deposition from your port of origin, from one Natalie R. Frye, to the effect that you and Ms. Salazar quarreled over finances the week you left…”

  “Hell if we did!”

  “Quote: ‘Cory was mad about a bill for a jacket or something—’”

  “I bought a jacket. She thought I paid too much. Cory’d wear a thing til it fell apart…”

  “So you quarreled over money.”

  “Over a jacket. A damn 38-dollar jacket. We fought, all right, we fought, doesn’t everybody?”

  “Ms. Frye continues: ‘Cory had been sleeping around. Dek didn’t like that.’”

  “Screw Natalie! She wasn’t a friend of ours. Cory wouldn’t spit on her.”

  “Did Ms. Salazar’sleep around’?”

  “She slept where she wanted to. So did I, what the hell?”

  “Well, that wouldn’t matter to anyone, Mr. Dekker, except that she never got back.”

  The beeps accelerated, not from shock: a fool could see where this was going. He was shaking, he was so mad, and if he went for the bastard’s throat they’d trank him and write that down, too.

  “Cory’s lost out there,” he said doggedly. “A ship ran us down—”

  “Mr. Dekker, there was no other ship in that sector.”

  “That’s a lie. That’s a damn lie.” He reached frantically for things they couldn’t deny. “Bird knew it was there. Ben knew. We talked about it. It was a ‘driver, was what it was—it wasn’t on my charts—”

  The officer said, dead calm: “Bird and Ben?”

  “The guys that picked me up!” He was scared they were going to tell him that never happened either. But someone had brought him in. “I called that sonuvabitch, I told it we were there, I told it my partner was outside—”

  “Are you sure the rock didn’t block the signal?”

  “No!—Yes, I’m sure! I had it on radar. Why in hell didn’t it see me?”

  “We don’t know, Mr. Dekker. We’re just asking. So you did see it coming. And did you advise your partner?”

  They made him crazy, changing the rules on him. One moment they accused him. Then they believed him. Sometimes he seemed to lose things.

  “Didn’t you say you’d hit a rock? Wasn’t that your story at one point?”

  He was lost and sick and the drugs still had him hazed. The beeps increased in tempo. He wasn’t sure whether it was his heart or something on com.

  “So where did you manufacture this ship, Mr. Dekker?”

  “It was out there.”

  “Of course it was out there,” the officer said. “You had it on your charts. Your log showed that. How could we doubt that?”

  He was totally confused. He put his hands over his ears, he tried to see if the alarm going was his heart or something in his head. “Call the ‘driver, for God’s sake. See if they picked Cory up.”

  “Didn’t you call?” the cop asked.

  “Yes, dammit, I called, I called and it didn’t answer. Maybe my antenna got hit. I don’t know. I called for help. Did anybody hear it?”

  “A ship heard you. A ship picked you up.”

  “Different.” He was tired. He didn’t want to explain com systems and emergency locaters to company cops. “Just call the ‘driver out there.”

  “If there is a ‘driver out there,” the cop said, “well ask. But if they had picked up your partner, wouldn’t they have notified their Base? Don’t you think they’d have called that in?”

  He thought about that answer. He thought about the way that ship had ignored warnings. He thought about it not answering his hails. He thought—It’s not hours, is it? It’s months, it’s been months out there.

  The ala
rm sounded again. He wanted it calm, because when he didn’t do that within a certain time they sedated him, and he was trying to be sane for the police. “I don’t know they heard me. Just call them.”

  “We’re going to be calling a lot of people, Mr. Dekker.” The cop got up from his bed. “We’re going to be asking around.”

  They walked to the door. The doctor went with them. He lay there just trying to keep the monitor steady and quiet, on the edge of hysteria but a good deal saner than he wanted to be right now. He remembered Bird, he remembered Ben. He was relatively sure he had come here on their ship. But sometimes he even feared Cory might not have existed. That he had always been in this place. That he was irrevocably crazy.

  CHAPTER 7

  IF 8 was gray and automated, 6 was green paint and a few live-service restaurants and shops, but the time still dragged: you worked out in gyms, you hit the shops til you had the stuff on the counters memorized, you skipped down to 3-deck for a while and maybe clear to 2 for an hour til your knees ached and your heart objected. The first few weeks after a run were idle time, mostly: you didn’t feel like doing much for long stints. You’d think you had the energy and then you’d decide you didn’t; you sat around, you talked, you filled your time with vid and card games and when you found your legs, an occasional grudge match in the ball court or sitting through one of the company team games in the big gym on 3-deck was about it. But mostly you worked out til you were about to drop, if you had to wrap your knees in bandages and pop pills like there was no tomorrow—and that was what Bird did, because the younger set was chafing to get down to heavy time that counted, down in the neon lights and fast life of helldeck—down in the .9 g on 2 that was as heavy as spacers lived—specifically to The Black Hole, that was the accommodation they favored, and the hour Mike Arezzo called and said he had two rooms clear, adjacent, no less, they threw their stuff in the bags and they were gone.

  Checking in at The Hole felt like coming home—old acquaintances, a steady traffic of familiar faces. Mike, who owned the place and ran the bar out front, kept the noise level reasonable and didn’t hold with fights, pocket knives, or illegal substances. Quiet place, all told. Helldeck might have shrunk from its glory days: worker barracks and company facilities had gnawed it down to a strip about a k and a half long, give or take the fashionable tail-end the corporates used: that was another ten or fifteen establishments—but you wouldn’t find any corporate decor in The Hole; no clericals having supper, not even factory labor looking for a beer. The Hole was freefaller territory: dock monkeys and loaders, tenders, pushers, freerunners, construction crew from the shipyard and the occasional Shepherd—not that other types didn’t stray in, but they didn’t stay: the ambient went just a bit cooler, heads turned and the noise level fell.