Boot file: PROCESS. Invoke: CALL13; README5; ADD2; ADD1; ADD3
Boot memory resident file: PROCESS2. Enter.
Student pranks. The datawindow showed dots, the Egg assembling its parts and pieces.
The datawindow said: CALLME: INS TXT
INPUT: $/CHART.CUR; CHART. 14; CHART. 15
OUTPUT: DEKKER
The datawindow said: ENTER SYSACC
His hands trembled over the keys. He didn’t think about cops. Or the corporate behind him, waiting to use the phone. He thought about data. He typed, rapid-fire: *2;20;W489\209:INSTAL:C\$/$y;*BOOT3;*3. l/$;{rs/#} /P*280:#[TAG/*1]
He switched datacards—inserted the Shepherd’s before the pause ran out.
Phone charge went to the Shepherd card. The Run trigger waited the first phone user after him. Nasty trick on the guy fidgeting behind him. He’dbe out of the bar.
He sipped the beer, punched charge, extracted the card and palmed it for his, held that one up, right color for a miner, if it mattered in the blue strobe, indication to the bar he’d paid: “Thanks,” he called out, drowned in the general thunder of the bass line, left his beer on the bar and went out the door.
He had the general shakes by then—but, damn, he’d really doneit, he’d actually runthe thing—his own tinkered-up finesse on an old Institute prank—with Assay Office bank and com direct line access numbers and a Shepherd’s 1-deck phone system authorizations. The question was now whether he was ahead of the current game with the trap programs—
—and whether he could get Bird off the ‘deck—whether he could findBird, before the cops did.
The cops were out in force, clearing the ‘deck. It was the old game, the cops said Move along, you said, Yes, sir, and you went somewhere else you didn’t live—helldeck played that game, the cops knew it was a game—didn’t push it too hard, helldeck crowd being what they were. They were going to have to make the sleeperies close their bars to everybody but residents, if they were serious and not just Making the Presence Felt: and thatmove would lock legitimate residents out on the ‘deck and have angry confrontations left and right—not what they were after, Ben told himself; but if it was your face they might be looking for, it seemed a good idea to hang to the back of crowds, keep behind taller people and drift on when they did.
God, he thought, no knowing what Bird’s puttering around into. I got to get him to cover somewhere—and if they pick us up, we just go along with it, take it easy, wait for the upper echelons to sort it out.
No way they’re going to screw us for this one—too many people know the truth, too many people on corp-deck are going to be covering their asses, and to do that, they have to cover ours, axe that sumbitch captain out there—and any clerk they can pin it on: those are the ones who need to worry.
Maybe we can even parlay this into a company buyoff, get us that helldeck office—
Justice, hell, Bird,—it’s the names you know that matter. It’s where they are and what you can do to them in court.
Wipe down this card is all—
Slip it right into the trashbin.
“Screwed the kid good,” Bird said, leaning close to Abe Persky, whispering over the music in the Europa. “But what they did to the girl, that wasn’t any company order. That was a ‘driver/Shepherd piece of business—damn sight more than letting a rock drift from a sling, this time. Shepherds are broadcasting it, outside code now—they’ll hear it clear to Earth, plain as plain. That’swhat the alert is about.”
“Damn,” Persky said with a shake of his head.
“Listen. I dumped my charts to the helldeck board—might check it before they catch it. Filename’s Dekker. D-e-k-k-e-r.” He nudged Persky’s arm. “Pass it on, everyone you know.”
“Got you,” Persky said, and reached for his datacard. Nudged him back as he was leaving. “ Careful, Bird.”
Collins’ table next. Collins was a company pilot now, but he didn’t like being that. He came to helldeck to keep up old acquaintances. He was sitting with Robley—Robley was doing factory work now: the kidneys had gone.
He sat down with Collins and Robley, and saw Persky pay out and leave.
Just one and two at a time. But the ‘deck telegraph moved like lightning.
Another call from Payne’s office. Salvatore said, “Yes, sir,” and, “We’re trying, sir, we’ve thought of that, sir, we’re trying that too…”
Payne said: “Don’t tell me ‘trying.’ I want all the records, I want the whole file on this guy. On allof them. Don’t give me another dead kid with relatives in MarsCorp, dammit, Administration’s had enough surprises in this case! I want to know who this Dekker is, I want to know if he’s got a record, I don’t care if it’s a misdemeanor, I want a total profile on him! You hear me? All the files, no ten-year cutoff, I want them as far back as they go, and I want them yesterday!”
Payne hung up. The comp flashed up a new message: Workers in Textiles 2B are demanding to be let go. There’s been some breakage, some pushing and shoving, manager’s scared and wants some help.
And another from Crayton’s office: Fleet Operations is recalling its personnel from liberty, stationing armed guards at two shuttle docks and at essential lifesupport and manufacturing accesses. We need immediate operations coordination…
God, Salvatore thought, and a report from Wills came in:
Morris Bird had dinner reservations at the Europa, for five. It was a no-show.
He wantedthe inhaler. He didn’t dare. “Call my wife at home,” he told his secretary. “Tell her to check on my daughter. Make sure she’s in the dorm.” He sipped cold coffee, trying to think who he could spare to liaison with the MP’s.
More messages crawled across the screen. A man is having chest pains in Textiles 2B. Paramedics have been called…
Wills again: Brown’s turned up a witness in customs who thinks Meg Kady was in the core at about 2040h. He’s not sure on that, says he saw all of them come and go the last few days taking parts back and forth— they had a permit for that, a ship in refit. We do have a confirmation on a card access for Dekker up there at 1723h. No exit. No card use at all from Kady since a phone call at 1846, from The Black Hole to The Pacific. The owner at The Black Hole claims they all left about 1900. He thinks.
Two people slipping a security gate on a borrowed card. Happened once or twice a week, usually for assignations.
The mast was a hell of a job to search, even under optimum conditions.
Textiles 2B reports a riot in progress. Manager requests additional security and paramedics…
Priority came through, bumped that: Virus Alert: Technical level shutdown.
Priority override: A virus is copying an unauthorized file through the Belt Management System. Contents are illicit sector charts. Virus variation onCOPYIT. Request computer crimes division to trace and erase proliferation through BM system.
“… cleared of all fault in the accident, which occurred as the result of a catastrophic equipment failure, and urges Mr. Dekker to contact the hospital immediately…”
Bird gave the vid a look over his shoulder, shook his head and looked at Tim Egel. “You’re a good numbers man. You believe that line?”
“No,” Egel said. “Not the tooth fairy either. Shoved to the Well by a load. I’d like to see the math on that one.”
“They don’t teach physics in Business Ad.”
“Don’t teach math either, do they?” That was a tender-jock, in on it, beer in hand. “What kind of stuff is that they’re giving out?”
“They want Dekker back in hospital. They worked him over with drugs. But he remembered the numbers anyway. That’s what they can’t cover up. 79, 709, 12. There was a bloody great rock there. That’s what it was about. That ‘driver came down on them while they were tagging it. Now the ‘driver’s sitting out there stripping that rock to loads. I’d like to match those loads with the sample Dekker had in his sling.”