Severance (16 page)

Ms. Sallans shook her head. “No, that was in Chengdu and
wasn’t until much later. I’m surprised you know about that, Bruce.”

Bruce frowned and furrowed his brow. “Oh. I thought it was
right there. Can you show us?”

“Sure,” Ms. Sallans said, turning around again, zooming out
on the map. Like a ghost, Bruce slid to the front of the room again, replacing
the terminal on her desk. “So, we’ll talk about this more tomorrow, but the
March of the Thousand Equals was down here. That was organized by Yao–sen —
Zhang’s right hand man — and it was basically these thousand guys demanding the
right to larger data caps and then getting lased from orbit.”

Having retaken his seat, Bruce nodded energetically. “Ahhhhh,”
he said, clearly pleased with himself.

Stein couldn’t keep the silent treatment going any longer. “Okay,
what was the point of that?” she whispered. He held up a finger to silence her,
a gesture which would normally have infuriated her. But she obliged him, if only
because she was so curious to see what he had done. She wasn’t the only one,
and could feel the tension in the room rising as the class simmered, waiting
for something to happen. Ms. Sallans had never had such an attentive class
before and enthusiastically continued her lecture. Fifteen entire minutes
passed before she sat down at her desk and picked up the terminal to assign
their homework. Looking at it, she furrowed her brow for a second and then
tapped a command into it.

“FAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRTS,” the terminal bellowed in a robotic
voice. The entire class erupted in laughter.

After that, if he had actually tried to make a move on
Stein, she probably would have relented. But he never did. Which she found a
bit confusing, though she never forced the issue — she had hated every guy she
had ever slept with and wasn’t sure the two events, fucking and hating, were
unrelated. The pair simply became friends.

More than that, she would realize years later. Bruce became
her ballast. Slowed her down, steadied her rocking. She probably wouldn’t have
finished school without his voice over her shoulder, and although he was no
stranger to intoxicated mayhem himself, it was all quite tame in comparison
with her life before she had met him. When she landed the maintenance job a few
years later, her case workers assumed it was that opportunity which caused her
to calm down. But Stein’s calming process was already well under way by that
point, with the help of her fool of a friend.

And now she might have gotten him killed.

Only might have though. Not definitely. She nodded, trying
to convince herself. Even if he had stumbled upon a room full of assassins,
that would just be rough luck for the poor assassins.

And if he had escaped, he would be hiding out somewhere,
probably someplace similar to where Stein was now.
Maybe a bit bigger.
They did have an agreed upon meeting spot in the event of a “fan hitting the
shit” — Bruce’s phrasing — but it was a long way from where she was hiding.
Getting there by completely subterranean means was probably possible, but not
without her terminal and the maps it contained. And several days’ worth of
crawling.

Eventually, her own body forced her from her hiding spot.
She found a grate several meters away that looked like it would drain in the
other direction and used it as a makeshift washroom. “My territory now,” she
muttered. But after the pressure in her bladder subsided, other complaints
surfaced. Hunger was there, though not bad yet — she knew intellectually that
she could go without food for a long time, and during her chemical–fueled
youth, had on multiple occasions gone more than a day without eating. But the
thirst was a more pressing matter, which was how she found herself on her
stomach, listening to the sounds of an empty pump room.

A minute later she exited the crawlspace, and on shaky legs,
stood on her own two feet for the first time in almost a day. She was glad to
see that it was indeed a pump room, and that it was, indeed, not full of armed
men. After a short search, she was able to locate a sampling fixture on the
potable water line and drank from it sloppily as the cold water poured forth.
Finally, she turned off the tap and sat down on the floor, exhausted by the
effort.

“This is bullshit,” she said, wiping her face on her sleeve
and then immediately regretting it, hours spent in the bowels of the ship
having not left it suitable for facial application. She didn’t know what she
was doing. Running was a bad idea. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She had
gotten paranoid, had spent too much time listening to Ellen’s rants about
security officers lurking underneath children’s beds. Security goons weren’t
all bad. Hell, she should know. She was almost dating one. She considered for
the first time whether Sergei might be able to help her, but quickly decided against
it. Let him ruin his own career.

She stared at the room around her. She couldn’t keep doing
this, living and pissing in ditches. No, it was time to get up, go outside, and
get on with her life. If they arrested her, she would at least get a shower out
of the deal. She swallowed, proud of the mature decision she had made, then
pushed herself to her feet. She wobbled over to the door and opened it.

From the hue of the street lights, she could tell it was
morning. Almost a full day had gone by. She looked around to get her bearings and
eventually realized she had traveled nearly seven blocks underground. She
looked down at the badly stained knees of her jumpsuit, which told the same
story. “Well, let’s see if I can manage a shower and change of clothes without
getting arrested,” she said. Turning south, she set out for her apartment,
walking as nonchalantly as she could manage. The ship was quiet at this hour,
most people sleeping off the effects of whatever they had done the night
before.

A few minutes later, she reached an intersection, and
hearing running footsteps, peered around the corner cautiously. Three security
officers jogging down the street, coming right at her. Time to put her very
sensible and mature plan to the test. She stepped out into the intersection,
smiled weakly, and held her hands out at her sides, giving herself up. “Hey,
guys,” she began to say, before she stopped, watching in amazement as all three
of them jogged past her. She looked in the direction they were going, watching
them move quickly to the south.

“Where’s the fire?” she asked. Annoyed at the possibility
that she had just spent a day living in a coffin for no reason, and worried
that they might be off to subdue a large man she knew, she turned to follow
them.

§

Kinsella stopped in the doorway of the command center. Naval
officers at their stations, chattering away in that strange manner of theirs.
Numbers and acronyms and pale skin. They were busier than he had seen them
before, preparing for the Push. That was something he knew too little about, he
ruefully acknowledged. That would soon change, but until now he’d had his own
maneuvering to worry about.

Buried in the aft of the ship, several decks above and a bit
behind the Bridge, the control center held all the navigational, propulsion,
and engineering controls necessary for classifying the Argos as a spaceship and
not just an extremely fast rock. As the mayor, Kinsella had every right to be
here, but it had never felt welcoming. This was the domain of the Captain of
the Argos.

There were a lot of very good reasons why the ship’s naval
operations had been kept separate from the civilian government’s direct
authority. Sense of tradition. A need for specialized expertise. Speed in
decision–making. Kinsella understood all of that and agreed with it completely.
Besides, there were extensive provisions for civilian oversight — the captain
did ultimately serve at the mayor’s pleasure. What was happening now was really
just aggressive oversight.

Most of the naval officers looked up at their mayor, curious
expressions on their faces. Kinsella was amused by this, their eyes wavering
back and forth between him and the imposing figure of Thorias behind him. “Helot,
can we speak for a moment?” Kinsella asked the captain from across the room,
speaking in his well–practiced, very serious voice. “Privately.”

From his position on the raised portion in the back half of
the command room, Helot’s only reaction was a set of slightly raised eyebrows
as he carefully returned the mayor’s gaze. Kinsella’s deliberate omission of
the man’s title had failed to provoke him; if anything, the bastard actually
looked amused.

“Everyone, please carry on,” Helot ordered his staff. After
a moment’s hesitation, most of the command crew put their heads back down to
their consoles and continued their work, albeit in a manner Kinsella thought
was more subdued. “In my cabin?” he asked Kinsella, gesturing to a door at the
back.

Kinsella suppressed a laugh. He had seen the captain’s ‘cabin’
before. Barely more than a closet.
These navy cretins did like to cling to
their ancient vocabulary. Like it was…something boaty.
A life–preserver, he
decided after a moment’s consideration. He followed Helot into his ‘cabin’ and
sat down in the chair across from the captain’s desk without waiting for an
invitation. He got a good look at the Captain’s chair, glad to see that it was
dumpier–looking than he imagined.

“What’s this about, Eric?” Helot asked, seating himself in
the utilitarian chair.

Kinsella set his jaw and composed himself — he had practiced
this next bit a dozen times in the mirror. “Captain James Edward Helot, it has
come to my attention that you may be morally compromised to the point that you
should no longer hold a position of authority on board the Argos.”

Helot’s expression, still one of modest amusement, didn’t
waver. “How so, Mayor?”

Kinsella sneered.
Fine, let the fool play one.
“Images
and movies depicting sexual activities with minors have been found in your
possession during a routine network scan.”

“A network scan of my belongings? That doesn’t sound very
routine.” Helot asked, barely suppressing a grin.

Kinsella ignored him and continued his rehearsed speech. “The
evidence tying you to this
filth
is incontrovertible and damning. I have
not seen the images myself, but I’m told that they do not appear to be
historical in nature — and that several appear to have been taken on board the
Argos itself. Which, if true, suggests not just a moral lapse, but a far fouler
and more serious crime.”

Helot looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. “If true.
Images can be doctored fairly convincingly.”

Kinsella’s nostrils flared. He couldn’t believe this. “Forensic
teams have already confirmed they’re authentic, Helot,” he lied. He looked up
at Thorias for some sign of support, but the big lummox only stared back at him
dumbly. “Look, you’re not going to get out of this on a technicality or charm
your way past a jury,” Kinsella said, turning back to Helot. “If these pictures
get out, you
will
go down. Your only alternative is to submit your
immediate resignation. In exchange, these pictures need never see the light of
day.” Kinsella swallowed, the hard part over. “I will give you a few seconds to
think about it.” He sat back in his chair, crossed his legs, and laced his
fingers over his knee.

Helot sat behind his desk looking at the mayor curiously.
Kinsella realized now just how much he hated the man. Even as he worked to push
him out of office, he had never thought of him as anything more than a hurdle. But
now, looking at the captain, with his infuriatingly calm gaze, Kinsella
realized he actually hated the man. He hated his arrogance. He hated his calm self–righteousness.
And his face. Kinsella sat and stewed, hating the man’s fucking face.

Finally, Helot spoke. “I was wondering if you were going to
spring this little plot of yours in time. I’d honestly have felt more than a
little guilty if you hadn’t. Thank you, Mayor. You’ve done my conscience a
great service here.”

Kinsella sat up in his chair, leaning forward, blood rushing
to his face. “That doesn’t sound like a resignation to me, Captain! You can
save your false displays of bravado for someone more easily impressed. If you
don’t resign,
immediately
, this evidence will be sent to every person on
board the ship. If I don’t instruct my assistant otherwise in…,” Kinsella
checked the time on his terminal to illustrate the point, “…four minutes, this
will
happen.”

“By assistant, you mean Bletmann, correct?” Helot’s eyes
flicked up to Thorias.

Thorias cleared his throat behind Kinsella and spoke, his
voice louder and clearer than normal. “He will have been relocated by this
point, sir. The entire Bridge should be by now. The mayor would have been as
well, but then he asked me to come here with him,” Thorias said with a hint of
mirth. “I thought this might be more amusing.”

Helot’s brow furrowed, and he leaned forward, resting his
chin in his hands. “Tough call. We do have some pretty tight time constraints
today, Chief. But I will grant that this is pretty amusing. And things have
been running ahead of schedule. I think I’ll let you get away with it.” He sat
back and smiled.

Kinsella leapt from his chair, back arched, fur on end. “What
the hell are you two talking about?” He was furious at Helot, and at Thorias,
and at himself for losing control of the situation. He withdrew his terminal
and attempted to call Bletmann. These efforts were interrupted by Thorias’
meaty paw smacking the terminal to the ground. Kinsella jumped back, aghast.

“Mayor,” Helot began calmly, “you don’t have any evidence.
It was all fabricated. I should know. I’m the one who ordered it.”

Kinsella’s brow creased. He had received the photos from
Thorias himself. The security man had come to him months ago with the evidence,
and the idea for how to best stick it in Helot’s back. Kinsella had thought —
had been sure — the security chief loathed the captain as much as he did.
Kinsella looked up at Thorias now and the bemused expression he wore on his
face. It had all been an act. “Why?” he asked Helot. “Why would you do that?”