“What?”

“Tell the doctors what happened to you. Hear me? I want you to answer their questions and tell them what they want to hear and I don’t, dammit, I want to be on that shuttle. You want me to call them in here so they can listen to you explain and I can get out of here?”

Dekker shook his head.

“Dekker, dammit, don’t be like that. You’re a pain in the ass, you know that? I got to get back!”

“Then go. Go on. It’s all right.”

“It’s not the hell all right. I can’t get out of here until you tell them what they want to know! Come on. It’s June 19 ^th. 2324. Argentina’s won the World Cup. Bird’s dead. Cory’s dead. We came out here on a friggin’ big ship neither of us is supposed to talk about and Gennie Vanderbill is top of the series. Do you remember what put you here?”

“I can’t remember. I don’t remember—”

“Because you climbed into a friggin’ flight simulator tranked to the eyeballs—does that jar anything loose?”

A blank stare, a shake of the head.

Ben ran a hand over his head. “God.”

“It’s just gone, Ben. Sometimes I think it’s the ship again. Sometimes it’s not. You’re here. But I thought you were before. What are they saying about the sim?”

“Dekker, —” He gave a glance to the door, but the doctor-types were conferring outside. He said, in a low voice: “You’re not hooked on those damn pills again, are you?”

Dekker shook his head. Scared. Lost. Eyes shifted about. Came back to him.

“Ben, —I’m sorry. Please tell me the time again.”

He didn’t hit Dekker. He leaned forward and took Dekker’s hand hard in his despite the restraints and said, very quietly, “It’s June 19 ^th. Now you tell me the year, Dek. I want the year. Right now. And you better not be wrong.”

Dekker looked seriously worried. A hesitation. A tremor of the lips. “2324.”

“Good. You got it memorized. Now there’s going to be a test every few minutes, hear me? I want you to remember that number. This is Sol Two. You had a little accident a few days back. The doctors want to know, that’s not so hard to hold on to, is it?”

“I can’t remember. I can’t remember, Ben, it’s just gone...”

“Shit.” He had a headache. He looked at Dekker’s pale, bruised, trusting face and wanted ever so much to beat him senseless. Instead he squeezed Dekker’s hand. “Dek, boy, listen. I got a serious chance at Stockholm, you understand me? Nice lab job. I’m going to lose it if you don’t come through. I really need you to think about that simulator.”

Dekker looked upset. “I’m trying. I’m trying, Ben. I really am—”

Something was beeping. Machine up there on the shelf. Doctors were in the door. Higgins said, “Lt. Pollard. He’s getting tired. Better leave it. —Ens. Dekker, I’m Dr. Higgins, do you remember me?”

Dekker looked at him, and said faintly, “Ben?”

“You do remember him,” Ben said. “Hear me? Or I’ll break your neck!”

“Don’t go.”

“He’ll be back tomorrow.”

“The hell,” Ben said. “Dekker, goodbye. Good luck. I got to catch a shuttle. Stay the hell out of my life.”

“Lieutenant.” That was Evans. “In the hall.”

He went. He got his voice down and his breathing even. “Look, I’ve done my job. I’m no doctor, you’re the psych, what am I supposed to do?”

“You’re doing fine. This is the first time he’s been that sure where he is.”

“Fine. I’ve got orders waiting for me on Sol One. I haven’t got time for this!”

“That’s not the way I understand your orders. You have a room assignment—”

“I haven’t got any room assignment.”

“—in the hospice a level up. It’s a small facility. Very comfortable. We’d prefer you be available for him 24 hours. His sleeping’s not on any regular pattern.”

“No way. I’ve got a return order in my pocket, my baggage is still right back there in customs. Nobody said anything about this going into another shift. That wasn’t the deal.”

“Nobody said anything about your leaving. You’d better check those orders with the issuing officer.”

“I’ll check it at the dock. I’ll get this cleared up. Just give him my goodbyes. Tell him good luck, I hope he comes out all right. I won’t be here in the morning.”

“Hospice desk is on level 2, lieutenant. You’ll find the lift right down the corridor.”

Ben had been there a while. Ben had told him—

But he couldn’t depend on that. Ben came and Ben went and sometimes Ben talked to him and told him—

Told him about an accident in the sims. But if it was a sim then maybe people he thought were dead, weren’t, even if they told him so. The doctors lied to him. They regularly lied, and Tommy didn’t come back. They kept changing doctors, changing interns, every time he got close to remembering....

Only Ben. Ben came and he started to hope and he knew that hope was dangerous. You didn’t hope. You just lived.

Ben asked him was he on drugs. He had been once. He had been crazy once, now and again, but Ben and Bird had pulled him out. The ship was spinning. Cory was out there alone, and somebody had to pull him out—

Ship was spinning. Pete was yelling. And Cory—

Ben said he would kill him if he was crazy and he hoped Ben would do that, if he truly was, because he didn’t want to live like that.

Ben said remember. But he couldn’t remember any specific time in the sims. He could remember an examiner giving him his C-3. He could remember the first time he’d Men me boards. Remembered pushing beams at Sol. Supervisor had said all right, he could do that: he was under age, but they needed somebody who wouldn’t ram a mass into the station hull. His head was bandaged, his ribs were. His knees ached like hell, he thought because he had hit the counter, trying to hit the button, but he wasn’t sure of anything. You blinked and you got green numbers and lines, and if you followed them too far you never came back. Midrange focus. Back it up, all the way inside.

There’d been an accident and the ship had blown up. And his partners were dead. Or maybe never existed. It was a sim. Bright ball of nuclear fire. And he was here and they were in it, and it was all green glowing lines out there, whipping and snaking to infinity.

He remembered faces now. People he thought he liked— Bird. Meg and Sal. Cory, and Graff. Pete and Elly and Falcone. Faces. Voices. Falcone yelling, Hey, Dek, see you tomorrow.

But Falcone wouldn’t. Elly wouldn’t. They never would.

“You damn bastards!” he yelled. “Bastards!”

Interns came running, grabbed hold of him. “No,” he said, reminded what happened when he yelled. “No. Tommy!”

“Get the hypo,” one said, and he got a breath, he got a little sanity, said, “I’m not violent. I don’t need it. It’s all right. Let go, dammit! Get the doctor!”

They eased up. They stopped bruising his arms and just held him still.

“Just be quiet, sir. Just be quiet.”

“No shots. No damn shots.”

“Doctor’s orders, sir.”

“I don’t need one. I swear to you, I don’t need one.”

“Doctor says you’re not getting any rest, sir. You better have it. Just to be sure.”

He looked the intern in the face. Big guy, red face and freckles, lying across him. Out of breath. So was he. And two other large guys who were leaning on him and holding his legs.

“Sorry,” he said, between breaths. “Don’t want to give you guys trouble. I really don’t want to. I just don’t want any shot right now.”

“Sorry, too, sir. Doctor left orders. You don’t want to be any trouble. Right?”

“No,” he said. He shook his head. He made up his mind he had better change tactics. Agreeing with them got him out of this place. It would. It had. He couldn’t remember. It was only the drugs he had to worry about.

“Just hold still, sir. All right?”

“Yeah,” he said, and the hypo kicked against his arm. Stung like hell. His eyes watered.

He said, “You fuckin’ get off me. I can’t breathe. Let me up, dammit.”