Devil to the Belt (v1.1)

by C. J. Cherryh

  So what the hell good could they do each other? He wouldn’t take any more of her money. Or her peace of mind, whatever it was now. And she couldn’t help him.

  He ordered a beer and handed the bar his card, hoping the hospital hadn’t cut off alcohol—not good for a man on trank, but he didn’t care. The bartender looked at him and stuck the card into the reader, where he could find out as much as a bartender needed to know, namely could he pay for what he’d just ordered, and had he any active police record?

  A Medical showed up. He could see the screen from where he was supporting himself on the bar. But the guy didn’t argue about the beer, just drew one and gave it to him; and he found himself a vacant booth and fell into it, sipped his beer, shut his eyes and sat there a while in relative null before his brain started to conjure pictures he didn’t want to recall. So he looked at the stuff the hospital had given him—took his watch out of the bag and put it on.

  It said, 06/06/23: 15:48:10. 15:48:11: he watched the seconds tick along, thought, No, that date’s not right. It’s August. August 15.

  Cory’s somewhere out there. All that black. All that nothing around her.

  She’d have seen the explosion, seen the ship—it could have run right over her—

  Dammit, no! she wouldn’t have, because that wasn’t what had happened, that was the doctor’s story. There wasn’t any bad valve, there’d been a ‘driver… he’d argued with it: This is our claim, hear us?

  Instruments went crazy, collision alert sounding—he yelled over and over again, A-20, Mayday, Mayday, my partner’s out there—

  You damned ass! What do you think you’re doing ?

  He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, thinking how the log would show those instrument readings. The doctors kept saying something different, but maybe the cops hadn’t even gotten into the ship—the doctors wouldn’t know shit about the technicalities and they didn’t care, they just made up stuff they thought was going to shut him up—it was their job, and they didn’t want him complicating it. The way the company worked, the cops probably hadn’t even looked, either, just some judge took all these reports from a ‘driver that didn’t want any record of what it had done and operators in BM who didn’t want to admit—

  —admit a ‘driver had jumped a claim.

  His head ached with a vengeance. He shied away from the company’s reasons. He thought about the pills and sorted through the lot, reading labels.

  But beyond that…

  He looked at the time again. August 15th. The accident—

  (No accident, dammit.) That was the 12th of March.

  March 12 to March 31 is twenty days. 20 plus 30 in April is 50. 50 plus 21 in May is 71.

  January 1 to March 12. Thirty-one days in January, 28 in February, they said it wasn’t a leap year, 12 in March. 31 and 28 and 12 makes seventy-one days. Seventy-one days til they found me. Seventy-one days from January 1st to the accident. No. From the accident—that was why the watch read out the 12th. The numbers are a match—that’s all. And between then and now—is it coincidence? Or do months always do that? What do 30’s and 31’s have to do with anything sane?

  He couldn’t think. His mind slid off any long track it tried to take. It made his head ache. He took his datacard and used its edge to reset his watch. August. The 15th. That was it. It said August 15 and Cory was out there somewhere, while he was sitting in an R2 bar. Half a year was gone, part of it lost in the dark, part of it on the ship, part of it in hospital. The 15th of August. And his card was active here, on R2, and they hadn’t said a word about sending him home: he supposed they didn’t want the expense.

  Or they didn’t want him talking.

  Screw that—if he knew anyone to tell anything to on helldeck—

  If they’d gotten his ship in, if—he had anything to live on—

  He remembered the license suspension—the doctors said it was oxygen deprivation and nerve damage because he dumped a stupid box on the floor and pissed off some doctor with an Attitude, that was what had gotten written down on his records. Or they’d pulled it because of the accident—but they’d cleared him of that. He could fix the license part of his problems, get the shakes out, get some sleep and do a few days in the gym—

  All he had to do was sign up and pass the operationals again. No problem with that.

  Except the hours requirement…

  The company was going to be reasonable? The thought upset his stomach.

  Retake the medical exam, maybe, put the damned washers on the stick, this time. He could prove it never should have been pulled. Getting the ship in order might take everything he had—tanks blown, all that crud when the lifesupport went down—but he could do a lot of the cleanup himself—but the dock charges… they’d come in, when? July 26th? June 26th?

  God, he didn’t want to think about time any longer, didn’t want to add numbers or sweat finance right now or figure out how much he’d lost. But now that he’d started thinking about it he couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t keep any figures straight in the state he was in, and he had no idea what the tanks were going to cost. Twenty, thirty thousand apiece, maybe, counting the valves and controllers and hookups: some value for the salvage on the old ones, but it was going to take bank finance, and they had his account tied up—it might be smarter to sell it, buy in on some other ship—

  The bar had a public reader. He got up with his beer and his bag of pills and his belongings, and went and put his card in, keyed past the surface information for detail this time.

  APPLICATION MADE FOR FUNDS TRANSFER: 47,289.08 in ASBANK Rl branch to ASBANK R2. ACCESSIBLE AFTER 60 DAYS. PUBLIC NOTICE POSTED 08/15/23. CURRENT AVAILABLE BALANCE: 494.50.

  Sixty days. God. What could take 60 days? He wanted to know where his ship was, what berth, what those charges were so far. He typed: 1-84-Z: STATUS.

  R2’s computer answered: UNAVAILABLE.

  Screwups. There wasn’t a thing in his life that some damned agency hadn’t messed up.

  He took his card, went back to the bar, said, “Can I use the phone?”

  The bartender held out his hand, he surrendered his card for the charges and the guy waved him to the phone on the wall at the end of the bar.

  He punched up INFORMATION, asked it: DOCK OFFICE, pushed CALL, waited through the Dock Authority recording, punched Option 2, and patiently sipped his beer while his call advanced in queue. A live human voice finally acknowledged and he said, “I’m Paul Dekker, owner of One’er Eighty-four Zebra. Should be at dock. I’m getting an UNAVAILABLE on the comp, can you tell me what—”

  “Confirm, One’er?”

  “Yes. Towed in. Might be in refit.”

  “Just a minute. You say the name is Dekker?”

  “Paul Dekker.”

  “Just a minute, Mr. Dekker.”

  He took another sip of the beer, and leaned heavily on the counter, his breath gone short. He’d had enough of incompetence, dammit, he’d had enough of doctors arguing with him what he had and hadn’t seen and he wasn’t ready to start a round with the Dock Authority. A ship Way Out’s size was a damned difficult object to misplace.

  “Mr. Dekker, that ship was here. I’m not finding any record of it. Just a minute.”

  A long wait while he sipped his beer and his heart pounded.

  “Mr. Dekker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure that ship hasn’t gone out?”

  He was on the edge of crazy now. He said, “I’m an owner-operator. No, it hasn’t gone out. It shouldn’t have gone out. Try Refit.”

  “I’ll check.” The operator sounded concerned. Finally.

  The barman was looking at him. A bunch of military drifted in and took his attention. He hadn’t seen them on Rl. But they were customers. He was glad of the distraction. He was in no mood for a bartender’s questions.

  The bartender served the other drinks. The hold continued. The soldiers settled in at a table. The barman signaled him: Refill?

  He s
lid the empty mug down the bar, still waiting, still listening to inane music.

  “Mr. Dekker?” the phone said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to put my supervisor on. Please hold.”

  He had a bad feeling, a very bad feeling. The beer came sailing back to him, and he stopped it and sipped at it without half paying attention.

  “Mr. Dekker?” A different voice. Older.

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Dekker, that ship’s number was changed. I’m looking at the record right now. You’re Mr. Paul E Dekker. Would you confirm with your personal ID, please.”

  “12-9078-79.”

  “Yes, sir. That title was transferred by court order. It was claimed as salvage.”

  He couldn’t breathe for a moment. He took a drink of the beer to get his throat working downward again.

  “Mr. Dekker?”

  “Did the guy who claimed it—happen to be named Bird? Or Benjamin-something?”

  “I’m not supposed to give out that information, Mr. Dekker. I can give you the case number and the judge’s name. If you have a question, I’d suggest you go to the legal office. We don’t make the decisions. We just log what they tell us. I’m very sorry.”

  “Yeah.” He was having trouble with his breathing. He didn’t have his card to take the note the Dock Office was putting in. He didn’t want to involve the barman to get it. It went wherever it went when you didn’t key a Capture. “Thanks.”

  “Good luck, Mr. Dekker.”

  The Dock Authority hung up. He pushed the flasher, keyed up Information and keyed into Registry. Took the 1 choice this time and asked the robot for M. Bird.

  Bird, Morris L.: 2-29-T berth 29 and 2-210-C in Refit.

  He signed Registry off and keyed up information on Morrie Bird. It gave a can-be-reached-at phone number.

  He called it. The voice that answered said: “Black Hole?”

  “Is this a sleepery?”

  “Sleepery and bar. Help you?”

  He hung up. He drank a big gulp of beer and picked up his. sacks off the bar. He asked the barman: “Where’s The Black Hole?”

  “About three doors down. Something the matter, mister?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  And left.

  CHAPTER 10

  HEAVY time was, for a very major thing, a desperate chance at all the vids you’d missed, at food that Supply Services hadn’t blessed, at faces you wouldn’t see day after day for three months, and at the news you didn’t get out there where Mama’s newscast was the only gossip you got, telling you crap like, Gas production in R2 is up .3%; or: There was a minor emergency in core section 12 today when a hose coupling came loose, releasing 10,000 liters of water—

  The mind conjured intriguing images—but they were thin fare to live on. Heavy time was real life: the reviews Mama radioed you out in the deep Belt of vids in the top ten only let you know what was a must-see when you got back. A stale rehash of handball scores was no substitute for seeing the interdivisional games, and electronic checkers with your shipmate was damn sure no substitute for sex.

  Heavy time was anything you could afford besides your hours in the public gyms and your socializing in the sleeperies and bars and your browsing in junk shops—precious little you could buy except consumables and basics, because a miner ship had no place to store unusefuls, and mass cost fuel: but experience didn’t mass much except around the waistline—so those were the kind of establishments you tended to get on helldeck, those that catered to the culturally, sexually, and culinarily deprived.

  And if a couple of your partners turned up absent since quitting time into supper, with a sudden lot of credit in the bank, you knew it was probably one of the above.

  Even if it left you doing the supply shopping and handling the guys wanting a lease, you couldn’t blame him too much, and Bird didn’t: Ben had never been inclined to do it, Ben had worked hard on the legal stuff and the filings, and Ben had finagled a deal with a company repair crew to get the tanks installed.

  But leaving him with the phone calls…

  The regular lease crews wanting a piece of Trinidad or Way Out—those you could explain to. They weren’t overjoyed, but they understood. It was the horde of part-time unpartnered would-be’s, most of whom you wouldn’t trust to find their way up the mast and back, who called up every time a ship went on the list; and who, finding out that Trinidad, newly on the list, wasn’t to lease, argued with you; and, worse, that a brand new ship, Way Out, was already first-let to one Kady and Aboujib, of less seniority and a certain reputation—

  Well, it told you that you sure didn’t want to lease to those hotheads anyhow. He said to the latest such to call, “Screw you, too, mister. Hell if you ever get any ship I’m handling,” and hung up.

  After which he walked past the looks from the other tables, back to the table by the door and the figures he was working with Meg—bills and bills, this week, pieces and parts of Way Out, mostly. He sat down and shook his head.

  “Another fool,” he said, and punched up the Restore on the slate beside his plate, trying to recall his previous train of thought, and wishing to hell they still gave you paper bills, instead of damn windows on a slate that caught the glare from the ceiling lights. “Wayland Fleming. I never let to that son of a bitch and right now I’m damn glad.—Where in hell’s Ben and Sal off to, anyway?”

  “Vid, I think.”

  “Spending money.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what’s got into Ben.”

  Meg looked up with raised eyebrows and said, “Now, Bird, you know what’s got into Ben.”

  No, he honestly hadn’t had it figured until Meg said that—and it somewhat upset his stomach. Ben and Sal? Cold, cool Ben?

  With Sal Aboujib?

  “You didn’t have it figured?” Meg said. “Come on, Bird.”

  That they were sleeping together, hell, yes—going at it non-stop, absolutely, but that was youthful hormones. What Meg implied was something else. A guy like Ben, who’d saved every penny all his life, out spending it on a woman?

  Ben, his best-ever numbers man—being courted by Kady’s? And advising him who to lease to, against his better judgment?

  Meg had toted up the expense figures while he was at the phone: she had a better head for bank balances than he did, she was damned pretty, and sometimes, looking at her, even if an old blue-skyer’s eyes had to get used to fire-red hair shaved up the sides and bangles up the ears, it was the likes of Meg that could keep a man interested in living.

  But what was he doing suddenly sleeping steady with Meg Kady, when there were whole stints ashore he’d spent without a woman so much as looking at him? And what was Ben doing spending his money on Sal?

  He was afraid he did have the answer to that, and maybe he ought by rights to be mad. Maybe he ought to throw Meg Kady out on her scheming ear and rescue Ben from Sal’s finagling.

  The problem with that scenario was—

  A hand landed on his shoulder, jerked him around and out of his chair.

  A fist sent him back over the table. He had his foot up to stop another attack, but he knew the wild-eyed lunatic that was standing there wobbling on his feet. Everybody in the room was out of their chairs, Meg had hers in her hands, Mike was probably calling the cops, and Dekker was standing there looking as if standing at all was an effort.

  “Where’s my ship?” Dekker yelled at him.

  Bird got a cautioning hand up before Meg could bash him. “Ease off,” he said, and yelled at Mike Arezzo, behind the bar: “ ‘S a’ right, Mike, I know this crazy man.”

  “You’re damn right you know me!” Dekker said. “I get out of hospital, I call the dock to get my bills, and what have I got?”

  The jaw wasn’t broken, but teeth could be loose. He rolled off the table and staggered to his feet with Meg’s hand under his arm.

  “Is this Dekker?” Meg asked.

  “This is Dekker,” he said. “—Sit down, son, you look like hell.”
>
  “I’ve been there.” Dekker caught a chair back to lean on, getting his breath. “You damned thief.”

  “Easy. Just take it easy.”

  “Easy! You went and stole my ship, you lying hypocrite!”

  It wasn’t a kind of thing a man wanted to discuss in front of neighbors. Mike Arezzo asked, from over at the bar: “Want me to call the cops, Bird?” At tables all over the room a lot of people were listening. “I’m not having my place busted up.”

  “Why don’t you?” Dekker gasped. “Prove I’m crazy, this time, so you don’t have me to deal with. They can do the rest of the job on me—that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? That’s what you set up for me. You took everything else. Why don’t you just finish the job?”

  “Mike, I’m buying this guy a drink. I want to talk to him. He’s all right.”

  “ I don’t want to talk to a damn thief!”

  “Beer, Mike, that’s what he’s been drinking.—Sit down, Dekker. Sit!”

  Dekker breathed, still leaning on the chair, “I need those log records. Just give me the log records, that’s what I want—”

  “I don’t have ‘em,” he said. And when Dekker just stood there looking at him: “She was cleaned out when they turned her over. God’s truth, son. They’re not going to give somebody else’s log over to anybody else—I don’t know if they got it stored somewhere, but her whole tape record was clean when she came to us. Zero. Nada. Everything’s out of there.”

  Dekker was absolutely white. “The damn company killed my partner, they’re saying there never was a ‘driver near us—they erased my log—”

  “Kid, shut up and sit down.”

  “You know that ‘driver was out there! You know what the truth was before they changed it—”

  Meg pulled at his arm. “Bird,—”

  “Ease off, Meg.—Just sit down, son.” People were headed for the door. People were clearing the place.

  Dekker slumped against the chair-back, bowed his head, shaking it no, and Abe Persky said, brushing up close on his way out, “Not bright, kid. Understand?”