Rimrunners (35 page)

with the rig, except it must've hit something pretty hard, probably—"

"How much to go on this one?"

"I dunno, sir, depends on whether I go for a clean fix or a dirty one."

"How well's a dirty one hold?"

"'Bout the same. Just a matter of—"

"How long?"

—Doing it right, she had been about to say. Pride. Something like that. Fitch's

attitude pissed her. But she said, "On this one… maybe eighty, a hundred hours.

I want to get into the pumps, check—"

"What about the other one?"

"I dunno, sir. Longer than that."

"You need some help?"

"I don't think we got it," she said. "You know or you don't know, you go to

fuckin' around with the joint screws, you can get everything out. You ever had

it in adjustment, you got a chance; you ever had somebody messing with the

screws, you got no starting point to depend on, you got a real mess. Sir."

Muscle in her knee started twitching from the angle she was sitting at; one in

her arm was trying. Or it was the cold. Or it was Fitch standing there staring

at her.

"I want this one working," Fitch said, "tonight. I want the other one

working—tomorrow. Do you need any help, Ms. Yeager?"

Listen to me, you son of a bitch…

But you didn't say that.

"I can't do that, sir. Can't promise that."

"I don't care how you do it, Ms. Yeager. I want this equipment fixed, I want it

fixed dirty and working, I want both working by tomorrow, you understand me, Ms.

Yeager?"

"Can't do it."

"We're not talking about your getting any sleep, Ms. Yeager. Or taking any

breaks. I want this thing fixed, and I want it now, Ms. Yeager."

"I don't know if the other one can work, I don't know if any of these damn pumps

aren't blown, I don't know how many of the circulation lines ruptured when that

rig took a hole, I got no notion whether all the motors work, or whether we got

some of those damn little screws stripped out, in which case that rig may not go

into adjustment, sir, until I machine something and take the damn seating

apart—"

"Just do it, Yeager."

She sat there on the floor staring up at him, too mad to shake at the moment,

wondering was he after getting her logged with something, was he just being a

sonuvabitch, or . .

"There some kind of problem, sir?"

"Not your worry, Yeager. Say we've got a little difference of opinion with

station management."

Scratch the notion of just quietly screwing it up.

"Say we've got a real problem here," Fitch said between his teeth. "Say we need

that equipment, Ms. Yeager. We need it, and we may need it to work."

Pulse steadied into a slow, heavy beat, trouble-sense working on more than Fitch

of a sudden.

"Mind to say, sir?"

Fitch stared at her like she was a spot on the deck. She stared back, jaw set,

with this notion, this sudden notion, that she might be real important to Fitch…

and that Fitch didn't like that and didn't like her and didn't like anything

about it, but she was what he had.

"You fond of people in this crew, Ms. Yeager?"

"Some."

"You sleeping with Ramey, Ms. Yeager?"

She gave Fitch the long, cold stare, thinking, God, what's he after? "Happens

so," she said. "Yessir."

"Make you a deal, Ms. Yeager. You get me what I want, by tomorrow, we clear the

file on Mr. Ramey. Do you like that idea?"

The man's an absolute crazy.

"How do you feel about that, Ms. Yeager?"

"I'd say that was a takeable deal, sir, except I'm going to need that help. I

could need a good machinist, maybe just somebody to put me together a four-ply

of Flexyne, to order…" Lying, because that was what the man wanted to hear. She

started ticking off the items on her fingers, thinking desperately, the while,

Can I believe this sonuvabitch? Can I believe a thing he says? What's he up to

and what's he trying to do?

Or what's wrong out there?

"You got Merrill."

"… plus a live body." With a gesture toward the Europe rig. "For that. Sir."

"Custom fit."

"Only way it works." She opened up the tool-kit again and rammed her hand into

the gauntlet, threw the manual toggle. Made a fist. "Precision fit. Or you fall

on your ass or throw something. Sir.—Who's supposed to wear it?"

Long moment of quiet in the locker, just the distant heartbeat of the fueling

pump.

Fitch said, "You and me, Yeager."

Pieces and facts just went off, out of reach. She looked up at him and didn't

see anything but Fitch being outright crazy.

"Yessir," she said, then, with this terrible feeling that belonged with the

smell and the feel of the rigs. Different than the shells you wore on ordinary

business. Damn different. Didn't have to make sense why the mofs ordered it.

Didn't have to make sense why this one did. They told you go kill some sons of

bitches and you went and did that, before they got you first. You didn't ask

why. You didn't ask who. You just did it.

But I got friends on this station—

Crewmates out there, too, with their asses on the line.

NG downside, no knowing what Fitch had said—

"Does NG know?" she asked Fitch. "Did you tell him where I come from?"

Fitch gave her a cold stare. "Like that, would he?"

"What did you tell him?"

"That if he wants to stay alive he's going to sit that station hours on and

hours off. We've got six people left on this ship and everybody's on,

twenty-four solid. Or this ship's going to die here. He is. Your friends out

there. And you. Hear me?"

"Yessir," she said. "I got you clear."

"Then get it the hell fixed, Yeager."

Fitch went out the door, Fitch shut it, and she grabbed the gauntlet and the

forearm and started mating up lines and shoving in push-clips, thinking how the

back hurt, thinking how the back was going to hurt a damn lot more—

Wishing that was all there was to think about.

Damn it, damn it, damn it, going to die in this one, Yeager, this whole thing's

got the taste of it, everybody in one big fuckin' hurry, where in hell is

everybody, what kind of mess has station got us in and why is the fuckin' pump

still running if we got station troubles so bad?

Fitch is lying. Fitch is fuckin' lying, when did the man ever do anything but

what served Fitch?

Going to die in this one, going to die, going to die, and what in hell's NG

going to think about it?

Think I screwed him over, that's what, what else is he going to think?

Dammit.

She safety-clipped the finished arm, got herself up on her knee and hauled

herself up to her feet, headed out the door and through the bridge pulling her

sleeve to rights.

"Yeager!" Fitch yelled at her back.

She got to the lift, pushed the button and looked back at him coming her

direction. She held up five fingers. "Five minutes. Five minutes downside. You

want that fuckin' rig fixed, sir, you stay off me, stay off my friends."

While the door opened.

She walked in, she faced about. Fitch stood there with his face turning red.

The door shut and the lift engaged.

He could stop it from the bridge, she reckoned. There were a lot of things he

could do from the bridge.

One of them wasn't to get those rigs operational, not by any finagle in hell.

CHAPTER 25

« ^ »

She hit the downside corridor running, sprinted the up-curving deck, dived into

Engineering and came up onto the stairstep deck-plates with a clatter that

brought NG face-about and frightened-looking before she got to him.

"I got five minutes," she said, holding up the same hand. "Fitch gave me that

much. I got to tell you—Fitch is saying the ship's in trouble, they need me to

fix this stuff—"

Damn, it wasn't getting to the point. She stalled, dead, and he stood there

staring at her…

Scared for her, she thought, and she halfway choked on that thought.

"Fitch give me this deal," she started to say. But that wasn't it either.

"They got this job…"

Third bad try.

"NG… I dunno if you got any notion… Hell, I'm not merchanter, you understand

me?"

Militia came to her tongue, last desperate lie. But she didn't say it. Make a

man a fool once. Not twice. Not and ever expect him to forgive you.

"… I was with Mazian."

She wanted some cue where to go next, and he didn't react, he just had this

glazed-over, scared look.

She said, "Never wanted to lie to you, never wanted to load it on you, what I

come from. I figure you're the most likely on this ship to want my hide,

probably with good reason…"

Maybe he'd gone away, gone out-there again. Maybe he wasn't even listening

anymore. He didn't look mad, just numb.

She reached out and touched his hand. It was cold and hard as the counter it

rested on. "Want you to know," she said, "I never lied to you about anything

else, never did anything I thought would hurt you. I never would, hear me?" She

shook at his arm. "NG. Hear me?"

Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. He pulled his hand and looked away from her.

She could have said her ship-name too. It had been a point of pride all her

adult life. But Africa had a rep with the merchant trade, a bad one. She'd

learned that, on Pell docks. And maybe he didn't need to know that yet, maybe he

just would rather not know.

He didn't say anything, didn't look at anything in particular for a second, then

discovered the slate in his left hand and studied it as if he was going to find

some answer there.

Logical as anything. Some things had to rattle around awhile before you could

even start to think.

So she figured it was just a case of walking out quietly, letting him alone and

letting it settle as much as it ever could—Merrill was coming in, Merrill and

Parker both were going to be working down here, he wasn't going to be alone,

thank God.

But he caught her arm as she was going. She stopped, wanted to grab onto him—but

he didn't invite that, just put his hand on her shoulder, just a quiet "don't

hate you, Bet…"

But it had as well been a "not sure I can say anything beyond that, either."

He let her go. She looked back when she got to the door.

She said, because she didn't want to leave him in all that quiet, "Is Merrill

up? Fitch was going to call him."

"Fitch said there was shop-work, said we're going twenty-four on."

She nodded. So he could be civilized, get the job done, shove the personal stuff

over till the mind could cope. It was a relief, of a kind.

"What's happening out there?" he asked.

"Dunno," she said. "They got these busted-up armor-rigs, they got some damn

problem they think they need this stuff, real fast—Fitch says. Not everything

Fitch says is making sense—"

You hearing me, man?

—Fitch says there's trouble onstation, Fitch says there's just six guys on this

ship, everybody else is off. I got this terrible feeling it's no accident who's

left aboard."

His face had that scared look again.

"Do what Fitch says," she said. The adrenaline was running out. She was getting

the shakes, feeling sick at her stomach. "I got to go. Fitch gave me five

minutes down here. I got to go back. Stay out of trouble. I need you, understand

me? For God's sake, I need you."

"What deal?" he asked, suddenly getting words out.

Then he had been tracking, sharper than she thought. Her heart thumped over a

beat. She started to lie…

Remembered in time what she'd just said about lies.

"Clean slate," she said on autopilot, gone numb herself, while her brain was

trying to figure out how much he'd understood, what he understood, whether there

was anything she could say in two seconds that could make any difference. "You

and me, clean slate. Fitch says. Says it's station trouble.—But if we got

station trouble—why in hell is the pump still going?"

"Yeager"! Fitch's voice rang out over the general com.

She saw NG's face, cold and shocked, as she spun around and ran out the door,

headed down the corridor as fast as she could.

He could've heard, God, I think he heard that—

"Ten minutes," Fitch said when she got topside.

"Sorry, sir. But we got some stuff straight. NG's straight with it. He's all

right. Promise you."

Fitch just gave her the eye a second. Then: "Twenty-four hours, Yeager."

"Yes, sir."

She moved. She got to the locker and she moved double-time—dirty job, Fitch

wanted.

So you did any damn thing that luck might let hold six hours.

Which was as long as you could last anyway, without a reserve pack.

And they didn't come with any.

One of the circulation pumps was blown, she'd expected that, thank God the next

valve on the line had shut before it froze. Jim Merrill had that one to

fix—wide, hard stare from Merrill when he opened the door on number one topside

stowage and found out exactly what the Flexyne was for, and where the pump he

was supposed to fix came from.

"Shit," he said. "They expect us to fix these things?"

So nobody'd briefed Merrill, at least. Maybe a lot of crew had known what was in

the topside locker, maybe for years.