A hand came under Dekker’s arm. Pulled. The nurse took hold of Meg’s arm and lost that grip. Fast.
“You want those fingers, mister, you keep ‘em the fuck off my arm.”
The nurse had hit an alarm, or something: a light was flashing. But Dekker knew where he was, he knew who was keeping his balance for him and he’d trust Meg in the black deep of space. He said, “Door, Meg. Now.”
“He’s not released,” the nurse said. Other meds showed up. Higgins arrived at the desk, looked at Meg and said, “Who are you?”
“Ben Pollard right now,” Meg said. “Ben’s getting my pass straightened out.”
“Get security,” Higgins said to someone in the hall. “Lt. Dekker, they’ll take you to your room.”
“No such.” He held his feet. “I’m going.” Head was killing him. But standing was easier. “Where’s my uniform?”
Security showed up, MPs, UDC. An MP grabbed for Meg, and next thing he knew he’d grabbed the MP—the guy looked at him, he looked at the guy with his fist doubled, but the MP with a fistful of his pajamas wasn’t about to hit a hospital case. So he kept his hold on the MP, the MP kept his hold on him, and they stared at each other while the interns tried to drag him away. “You tell Tanzer fuck himself. Hear? —Meg? Get. Get out of here.”
They told her, “You’re under arrest. You’re not going anywhere,” and Meg said, “Hell if. Spiel on, chelovek, a judge is going to hear every word of this. You seriously better not bruise him.”
“Now wait a minute.” Higgins pulled the MP off—tried to: he wasn’t about to let go his only anchor, and Higgins was upset. “All right, all right, calm down. Everybody calm down. Lt. Dekker, let go of him.”
Things were graying out. But he got a breath and held on, said, rationally, he hoped, “I’m walking out of here and I’m going back to my barracks.”
Meg said, “Dek, calm down.”
Her, he listened to. Kept his grip the way the MP held on to him and listened to Meg say, “He had a seriously bad time with Company doctors. Fed him full of prescription drugs, while he was spaced. You let him go. He’ll be all right.”
“I’m not a damn mental case, Meg.”
Higgins said, smooth as silk, “We’re not maintaining that. He’s had concussion and broken bones. If you’re a friend of his, persuade him back to bed.”
“I’ve been in bed too damned long. Won’t let me up, won’t let me walk—”
“You’ve been to therapy, lieutenant. Don’t you remember?”
Scared him. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t argue with what they might be able to prove. Or fake records for. He was afraid he was going to pass out, and end the argument that way. “I want my release. Now.”
Higgins frowned, bit his lip. Finally, “I’ll release you to your CO. Personally. If he wants you. Ms. —?”
“Kady. Magritte Kady. Meg, to whoever.” She stuck out her hand. Higgins looked confused and angry. “Higgins, is it?”
He ignored the hand, “Do you mind explaining who the hell you are and where you came from?”
“Manners,” Dekker said. Still with his grip on the MP, he looked the man close in the eyes and said, “You want to let go? I want to let go.”
Man wasn’t amused. Man said, “Doctor?”
“Let him go.”
Took a bit just to get his hand unclenched. The MP’s uniform had a circle of sweaty wrinkles. The MP refused to straighten it. Man was cold and thin-lipped, and mad as hell. UDC was full of those types. He reached for Meg’s hand and said, “Let’s go.”
“There are forms to fill out,” Higgins said. “And a physical.”
“Had one,” he said, walking—he hoped Meg knew where the door was: he didn’t. He halfway expected the MP was going to have his way after all. He remembered he was in pajamas when he saw the door. He didn’t know any way back to the barracks but the Trans. Didn’t know how he was going to stay conscious through that ride. Little bit of g it pulled would wipe him out.
But Meg steered him for a bench by the door and set him down. “You just stay mere a minute. I’m going to go back there and call your CO. Isn’t anybody coming near you. —Is your CO going to pull you out?”
“Yeah, yeah, I mink he’s already got somebody coming.”
“Then I’ll stand here and wait. If you’re sure. —You going to be all right?”
“Yeah,” he said. His teeth had started to chatter. He was barefoot. The pajamas weren’t worm much. Meg took off her coat, put it around his shoulders, and made him hold on to it. She left him a moment and came back with a blanket, God knew how.
She said, “Higgins is severely pissed. He’s on the phone. But the nurse is all right. Nurse asked if you wanted a chair.”
Nurse was the one he’d hit. More than once. He shook his head, with some remorse for that—and regret for missing his chance at Higgins. Meg tucked the blanket around him, and under his bare feet, and sat down and offered him a warmer place to lean. They’d never been to bed together, had just been letter writers, at 830 million k remote from each other. They’d discovered they were attracted to each other too late to do anything about it, except that goodbye kiss. And now a hello one, a hug and a place to lean on, when he’d gotten to the absolute bottom of his strength. Meg never found him but what he was a mess. And here she was, he’d no idea how. She hadn’t come straight with him. And maybe sitting here with her like this was all another hallucination. If he was hallucinating this time he didn’t want to come back again, didn’t want to fight them, didn’t want to get even, didn’t want to prove anything to anybody. Just sit, long as he could, long as he could hold himself awake.
Meg said, “Well, well, blue uniforms, this time. That us?”
He focused stupidly on figures the other side of the glass. On one young, fair-haired.. .Graff, for God’s sake. With Fleet Security.
He bit his lip til it hurt enough. He said, “Don’t let me fall, Meg,” and stood up, letting go the blanket, as Graff came through the Perspex doors. “Lt. Graff, sir.”
Graff looked at him, up and down, Graff frowned—you could never tell what Graff was thinking. Could have been of skinning him alive, for all he could read.
Meg said, “They’ve been drugging him to the gills, sir. He never did do well with that.”
Graff said to the MPs, “Take him to the ship.”
“Barracks,” Dekker said, then was sorry he’d objected. He’d take anywhere but here. But he didn’t know the ship.
He wanted somewhere he knew. He wanted people he knew, namely Meg, and Sal, and Ben.
“Just long enough for a check-up,” Graff said. “I want you on record, Dekker. From the outside in. You behave yourself, hear? No nonsense.”
“Yessir,” he said. He let Security take hold of him, he sat down and they said they were going to borrow a chair; he heard Graff tell Meg Welcome in; and: “Hereafter, don’t start a war. Wait for the UN to declare it.”
“Yessir,” Meg said. Which wasn’t a word he ever recalled from Meg Kady. But Meg had enlisted. The fool. The absolute fool, if that was the price of Meg’s ticket here. He felt tears in his eyes, thinking about that.
But damned if he could figure out how she’d managed it, all in all.
Time had gotten away from him again. It kept doing that. So maybe he was, the way Ben said, crazy.
CHAPTER 6
WELCOME back,” they said, “welcome back, Dek.” Jamil and Trace, Pauli and Almarshad and Hap Vasquez—they intercepted him at the door when he was only calculating how much strength he had to get to his own quarters and fall into bed. Jamil warned the rest about grabbing hold of him, thank God, most of all thank God for Ben and Meg and Sal Aboujib showing up out of the depth of the room to rescue him from too much input too fast... he was tracking on too much: he knew and didn’t know in any detail what he’d said to the guys or what they’d said to him, and for one dislocated moment he really thought Pete or Elly or Falcone was going to turn up in the barracks; they always had... But they weren’t going to do that ever again, dammit, end report, o-mega; he was here on this wave of time, and by a break of bad luck they weren’t, and he was going to fall on his face if the guys didn’t let him get to his quarters. He’d spent hours out in a null g sickbay, been prodded and probed and sampled and vid-taped from angles and in a condition he didn’t want on the evening news, and his imagination until now had only extended to lying down in quiet, not running an emotional gauntlet of friends of dead friends— who could see how absolutely he’d been screwed over, dammit, when he should at least have gotten some of theirs back. He didn’t know what had happened to him in hospital, not all of it; he didn’t know what he’d admitted to, most of all he couldn’t remember what had put him there, and by that, he’d evidently let the lieutenant down, too, in some major way...