“Yes, sir, I do understand.” No temper. “I am thirty-eight unapparent years of age, sir, and older than that as you count time. I was in command of this base during the last hearings, I was lately the director of personnel in this program, I am currently in charge of this facility and the testing program, and of the investigation, and we do have an answer, at least to what happened to Jamil Hasseini and his crew.” He reached in his pocket and held up a yellow plastic washer. “This caused the so-called accident.”
He had their attention. At least.
“How?”
“Operations records showed a hangup in an attitude control. This plastic washer turned up to block the free operation of the yoke. In a null-# facility, you may know, maintenance has to be extremely careful to log and list and check every part, down to the smallest screws and washers, that they take into the facility. These are experienced null-g workers. We don’t know by those records how long this little part has been there—whether it was there from the time the pod was assembled and it by total accident floated over a course of years undetected into the absolutely most critical position it could take in the control system—or whether it was placed there recently.”
“Sabotage, in other words.”
“We view it as more than suspicious. Paul Dekker was assigned to that pod.”
“So we’ve heard.”
“How much have you heard?”
“Maybe you’d damn well better tell us what there is to hear. We hear Dekker was assigned there and pulled at the last minute. Again. Why? How?”
“By my order, as chief of personnel. I made a routine final check on the crew stats: they were coming out of a period of orientation and lab sims. I felt we might be rushing it, in terms of fatigue levels. A stand-down under those circumstances is routine. Routine—except that this was the time his replacement crew was going into sims with him. Except that the same individuals we suspect of sabotage had access to that area. Civilian employees: Dekker’s given a positive ID on one of them as guilty of assault in the last so-called accident. We’re talking about deliberate sabotage and premeditated murder committed on Dekker—”
“With what motive?”
“I doubt it was personal. We’ve two employees of Lendler Corp under surveillance. We don’t know all their contacts, yet. But they had access on both occasions.”
Frowns. “Can you prove anything?”
“We’re developing a case. But you see the problem we’ve been working against.”
“Your security is supposed to be on top of things. People come and go where they like here, is that the way it works?”
“People with security clearances, yes, sir—in this case clearances granted by the UDC, interviewing people on Earth, where we have no screening apparatus. We’re reviewing the systems, and the clearances, but there are 11338 civilians on B Dock, hired by the UDC and overseen by various offices. We’re naturally giving Lendler Corp a higher priority in our review, but that doesn’t mean information can’t go out of here through another route.”
“Meanwhile Dekker is unavailable.”
“He is unavailable.”
“And you have no proof of this sabotage.”
“Their access. Dekker’s testimony. The washer. Circumstantial evidence placing them in the area.”
“You know what that’s worth.”
“A good reason not to let out what we know or make charges we can’t substantiate. We’re gathering evidence.”
“Meanwhile these purported saboteurs arc at work on this station.”
“Yes, sir. Of necessity, they are.”
“And Paul Dekker’s out there on that carrier. —Is he in any way involved in the upcoming test?”
“Certainly he’ll be in observation and advisement. All crews have that assignment during a run. Whether he’ll be assigned the run or not—that’s dependent on evaluations.”
“He can’t be the one to take the controls. That name can’t be prominent in this program. —Have you no comprehension?”
“Senator, political decisions in crew choice caused the last disaster to this program. And I can’t believe I’m hearing this all over again.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing from the junior command officer on this base. I can’t believe your persistence in putting this man into the glare of publicity. Let me make it clear to you, lieutenant, careers are going down in flames if there’s a second disaster. We’ve backed you, we’ve delivered votes in the JLC, we’ve patched together the coalition that gives you what you asked for and damn you, you serve us up Dekker for a witness to sabotage and Dekker for the representative of your program, and leak to the press, while you’re ‘developing a case’ you daren’t bring to court. Are you aware what’s happening on Earth? Are you aware of the fire-bombing at the EC headquarters? Are you aware of the bill pending in committee?”
“The extradition bill? Yes, I’m aware of it. And both acts of sabotage were aimed at him—by people who didn’t even know him. This is no personal grudge on the part of the saboteurs, senator, it’s politically motivated murder, the same as the substitution that killed his crew was politically motivated, by people who may not have known where their orders came from. Now we have another coalition, as I understand it, part of which is working for this bill, but somebody else clearly doesn’t want him in court—somebody in a position to obtain security clearances wants him dead, and if we break the Lendler case into the open right now, it’s going to be a string that reels more and more information into the spotlight—it’s as explosive as the Dekker case and for identical reasons. That’s why we haven’t expelled these individuals. We know where they are. We suspect who they work for.”
Temper. Saito had warned him. He got it under control. He faced the senators and the busily note-taking aides with a cold stare, and saw anger and consternation on both senatorial faces.
“I also want to know,” he said, “how this exact information about Dekker’s being pulled from the sim got to the Joint Committee. Was it out of Stockholm?”
Silence for a moment. The other senator said, harshly, “Through the media, lieutenant. Not the way we prefer our briefings.”
“Haven’t you the power to find out those sources?”
“No. We haven’t. There are laws.”
“To cover illegal activity? I find that incredible.”
“We want to know who made this decision to test. Is mere a test? Or is this whole maneuver a cover for this Dekker person?”
“There assuredly will be a test.”
“With Dekker’s crew?”
“Possibly.”
“Let me tell you what this looks like to us. It looks like a do or the proposition, a harebrained go-for-broke damned stupid risk, on your senior captain’s perception that the Fleet’s losing prestige in Europe and your facility here is shut down! We can’t get you another ship to wreck, lieutenant, we can’t continue our support in the face of this stupid risk of lives and equipment!”
Senior captain? Mazian? “The program is not shut down, sir. If you perceive that, you’ve been misled.”
“The simulators are wrecked, you’re vulnerable to sabotage, you’re sending out crews who aren’t ready—”
“No, sir. I’m delighted to report that all necessary equipment is functioning. There’s been no hiatus in the program. All our crews are at work, including the UDC teams, integrated with ours.”
A silence. Doubt, curiosity, and deep offense. He had his own doubts, of these men Saito called essential and friendly and to be trusted with the truth, these fools who wouldn’t so much as talk to Saito, because Saito wasn’t a command officer and Saito wasn’t in charge.
“This doesn’t agree with our information.”
“I hope I have better news, then, sir. Our crews are keeping schedules, we are bringing our other senior crews, including UDC personnel, up to mission-ready; and when they’re ready they will go. Officially, I know nothing about the upcoming test. I won’t know the time u
ntil I’m told. But assuredly it will go. And any media attention to this facility will find everything in operation.”
A modicum of respect, perhaps. A reassessment, a reevaluation what situation they were dealing with, certainly.
“Maybe you’d better explain yourself, lieutenant. With what equipment? With this tape you’ve come up with? Are we brainwashing our crews?”
“Crews at mission ready have to practice daily to maintain those skills. With the damage to the sims, Fleet Command opted to use the Hellburner prototype, patched to the shipboard simulators.”
“When was that authorized?”
“The patch?”
“The shipboard facility. The chamber.”
“Not chambers, sir, nothing like. I’m not privy to the details, but this is equipment we brought with us into the system, that we regularly use. Combat crews on stand-by also have to practice, virtually daily, to keep their edge. We certainly can’t stop a carrier’s operations or use its physical self for exercises. Naturally we have the equipment.”
“Then why in hell haven’t we been using it all along? Why spring it now? Why this whole damned, accident-riddled program?”
“Politics, sir.” He hoped he kept all satisfaction off his face. “As the situation was told to me, we were ordered at the outset, over our captains’ explicit protests, to submit our trainees to the UDC Systems Test protocols, to their aptitude criteria, their rules and their existing equipment during testing of the prototypes. As I believe, there was a major policy battle over that point in the JLC, and we lost.”
Total quiet in the room. The clicking of the aides’ keys had stopped.
“You never said explicitly,” the other senator put in, “that you had the equipment.”
“There was some fear,” Graff said, “that the UDC might use its position to demand control of that equipment. In a situation in which we arc not to this hour solely in control of communications system accesses, in which we’ve had sabotage, attempted murder of our personnel, assignment of flight personnel on criteria purely ideological in nature— plus the security breach—we are trusting your discretion on this point and we trust mere will not be another leak. What we train on is a very dearly held piece of information. If our enemy knows what equipment we have—we are, in the vernacular, screwed. We protested, through every channel we trusted, that the station facilities here are a hundred fifty years old, with maintenance problems that eat up funds for improvements we asked for. The decision to put the rider training into the hands of the UDC, to use Lendler’s data conversion system for the pods in the first place—was as I understand, a purely political decision. We asked to review the software. We were not trusted to make that input. We... were... no/... trusted.”
Another silence. An angry silence on both sides. But it wasn’t productive anger. Graff shifted back in his chair. “I’m not a diplomat. My captain left other officers here who are. But they aren’t command track by UDC rules. So I pass their word on to you. As for the operational crews of all the ships—you gave us a requirement to have carriers on standby to defend this system—and I can tell you with absolute certainty I would be grossly irresponsible to take that carrier’s controls after months of total stand-down. We’re in constant training, all ops crews and staffs are in training during any stand-down; and the UDC has never provided carrier control siras. It’s certainly no secret.”
“Where did you obtain this other equipment?” Anger. Still, a genuine offense, and he answered with careful exactness:
“I haven’t been on that carrier and I honestly don’t know the source.”
“Where would you expect that carrier to obtain it?”
“The black market.”
“Whose black market?”
The question seemed naive. “The one out there, sir. Outside this solar system. There’s very good equipment available.”
“I find this outrageous. Union equipment? Is that story true?”
“We have manufacturers. We’re not primitives looking for Earth’s expertise, my God, senator. We provided the designs that are making your corporations money.”
“Are you using Union equipment?”
“Senator, we don’t look for the label. If it works, if it’s better, we use it. If we can get our hands on Unionside equipment, we’re delighted, and they’d be extremely upset, if they knew it. They don’t want us using their programs.”
“Are you creating tape?”
“Of course. They’re creating tape over in the UDC. In TI. They’re creating tape in Houston, for physical rehab patients—”
“You know what we’re asking. These people with their fingers on the fire button—are you saying, lieutenant, that the tape training your crews are being given is being adjusted to the personality of some single individual, and among those individuals may be Paul Dekker?”
“Physical reaction tape doesn’t affect personality. That’s a complete misapprehension.”
“It’s a public perception. Truth doesn’t matter. Public perception does! You’re going to use a rab agitator, a man linked to riots in Bonn and Geneva—”
He held his voice steady and his hands from clenching. “A young man who knows nothing about riots in Bonn, who was qualified for a pilot’s license before his enlistment, which one would hope the ECSAA doesn’t do for its own ease.”
”Oh, come on, lieutenant! The ECSAA licensed every miner in the Belt!”
“Dekker was a pusher pilot at Sol One, in your own space, by your certifications. He’s an outstanding young officer who’s distinguished himself by his work and his dedication to this program. And if he meets mission criteria, he will be a source for training material. Skill—”
“He’s too politically sensitive. It’s already too public. God! Why do you people persist in shoving this man in our faces? Are you actively challenging the legislature?”
He shook his head. “Your creativity, sir, with all respect. Any choice made on political and not operational grounds reduces this ship’s chances of survival. If this test fails, the EC has no alternative and no further resources to offer us. I’m authorized to tell you we will have no choice at that point but to pull out entirely and abandon our defense of the motherworld. That’s precisely where it stands.”
“Dammit!”
“Yes, sir. I agree with you. But no one but our predecessors had a choice.”
Things kept on surreal, so far as Dekker was concerned, time-trip to a place he’d never been, and the little things got to you: the moment in the shower you couldn’t remember where you were: the split-second during mission prep the whole scene seemed part of the station, not the carrier. Nothing felt safe, or sure. You ran the prep, you ran the sims, you scribbled away on your plans, you ran the sims, and every once in a while they gave everybody a day down and you could put your feet up, play cards and enjoy a light beer, because the carrier pilots were using the equipment, but the whole thing cycled endlessly.
You could believe at times you were in the war, the other side of the Hinder Stars. Or in Sol Station’s carpeted corporate heart, where orderlies served you food you didn’t even recognize, arranged in pretty patterns on the plates. Your bed turned up made, your clothes turned up clean and the bar when it was open served free drinks. Wasn’t so bad a life, you could get to thinking. But debt for this had to come due, either to Porey or to God, or to somebody.
Hit two hundred-percenters, back to back, and he started dunking, the sims are lying to us. They’re jerking us around, trying to give us confidence—
They want their damn theory to work, they’re targeting the tape they’re giving us at the exercises, that’s why we’re getting scores like that, that’s why it’s not happening to the other teams—
Some damned fool in an office somewhere could believe a lie and put us out there, when it’s all lab stuff that looks good...
“Dek, what are you guys having for breakfast?” Call from the end of the narrow room, down by the display.
Damn
, they’d posted the scores.
Lot of guys went and had a look. “Hell,” he groaned, but it wasn’t ragging this time, it was a rueful shake of heads and a:
“Dek, looks like you got the run.”
“Not yet,” he said to Almarshad.
“No, I mean you got the run. You’re posted. Mitch is back-up one, we’re two, half a point between us.”
Blood went to his feet. He sat there, with his crew, who weren’t celebrating, who just looked at him; and got up as Mitch and Almarshad came over and congratulated him, not looking happy, not taking it badly either. It was too serious for that, too damned uncertain for that.
“Not a thorough surprise,” Mitch said. “Sounds like we’re headed for girl-tape for sure.” Ragging it a little close to the edge, that. But he took Mitch’s offered hand, and Meg let him lay a congratulatory hand on her shoulder after. “Kady. Class job, you guys. Sincerely.”
Meg looked as if she’d swallowed something strange. Sal just looked smugly satisfied, and gave Mitch a kiss on the cheek.
Ben said, “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe this. What am I doing here?”
CHAPTER 18
HIS mother had said often enough, You don’t care, Paul, you just don’t care about people, there’s got to be something basic missing in you— Maybe there was. Maybe he didn’t feel things other people did. Maybe machines were all he came equipped to understand, all that was ever going to make sense to him, because he couldn’t stay away from them... he honestly couldn’t live without doing this...
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