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ii

Mallory looked tired, a hollowness to her eyes as she paced the aisles of command central, countless circuits of it, while her troops stood guard. Damon watched her, himself leaning against a counter, hungry and tired himself, but it was, he reckoned, nothing to what the Fleet personnel must be feeling, having gone through jump, passing from that to this tedious police duty; workers, never relieved at their posts, looked haggard, muttered timid complaints… but there was no other shift for these troops.

“Are you going to stay here all night?” he asked her.

She turned a cold look on him, said nothing, walked on.

He had watched her for some hours, a foreboding presence in the center. She had a way of moving that made no noise, no swagger, no, but it was, perhaps, the unconscious assumption that anyone in her way would move. They did. Any tech who had to get up did so only when Mallory was patroling some other aisle. She had never made a threat — spoke seldom, mostly to the troopers, about what, only she and they knew. She was even, occasionally and before the hours wore on, pleasant. But there was no question the threat was there.

Most residents on-station had never seen close up the kind of gear that surrounded Mallory and her troops; had never touched a gun with their own hands, would be hard put to describe what they saw. He noted three different models in this small selection alone, light pistol; long-barreled ones; heavy rifles, all black plastics and ominous symmetries; armor, to diffuse the burn of such weapons… that gave the troops the same deadly machined look as the rest of the gear, no longer human. It was impossible to relax with such among them.

A tech rose at the far side of the room, looked over her shoulder as if to see if any of the guns had moved… walked down the aisle as if it were mined. Gave him a printed message, retreated at once. Damon held the message in his hand unread, conscious of Mallory’s interest. She had stopped pacing. He found no way to avoid attention, unfolded the paper and read it

psscia/ pacpakonstant indamon/ au1-1-1-1-1/1030/ 10/4/52/2136md/0936a/start/talley papers confiscated and talley arrested by fleet order/ sec office given choice local detention or military intervention/talley confined this post/ talley request message sent konstantin family/ herein complied/request instruction/request policy clarification/ saundersredoneseccom/ enditenditendit.

He looked up, pulse racing, caught between relief it was nothing worse and distress for what it was. Mallory was looking straight at him, a curious, challenging interest on her face. She walked over to him. He considered an outright lie, hoping she would not insist on the message and make an issue of it. He considered what he knew of her and reckoned otherwise.

“There’s a friend of mine in trouble,” he said. “I need to leave and go see about him.”

“Trouble with us?”

He considered the lie a second time. “Something like.”

She held out her hand. He did not offer the message.

“Perhaps I can help.” Her eyes were cold and her hand stayed extended, palm up. “Do we assume,” she asked when it was not forthcoming, “that this is something embarrassing to station? Or do we make further assumptions?”

He handed over the paper, while there were choices at all. She scanned it, seemed perplexed for a moment, and gradually her face changed.

“Talley,” she said. “Josh Talley?”

He nodded, and she pursed her lips.

“A friend of the Konstantins. How times do change.”

“He’s Adjusted.”

The eyes flickered.

“His own request,” he said. “What else did Russell’s leave him?”

She kept looking at him, and he wished that there were somewhere else to look, and somewhere else to be. Adjustment spilled things. It thrust Pell and her into an intimacy he did not want… which too clearly she did not want — those records on station.

“How is he?” she asked.

He found even the asking bizarrely ugly, and simply stared.

“Friendship,” she said. “Friendship, and from such opposite poles. Or is it patronage? He asked for Adjustment, and you gave it to him; finished what Russell’s started… I detect offended sensibilities, do I not?”

“We’re not Russell’s.”

A smile to which the eyes gave the lie. “How bright a world, Mr. Konstantin, where there’s still such outrage. And where Q exists… on the same station. Within arm’s reach one of the other, and administered by your office. Or maybe Q itself is misplaced compassion. I suspect you must have created that hell by half-measures. By exercise of your sensibilities. Your private object of outrage, this Unioner? Your apology to morality… or your statement on the war, Mr. Konstantin?”

“I want him out of detention. I want his papers back. He has no politics any longer.”

No one talked to Mallory that way; plainly no one did. After a long moment she broke contact with his eyes, a dismissal, nodded slowly. “You’re accountable?”

“I make myself accountable.”

“On that understanding… No. No, Mr. Konstantin, you don’t go. You don’t need to go in person. I’ll clear him through Fleet channels, send him home… on your assurance things are as you say.”

“You can see the records if you want.”

“I’m sure they’d contain nothing of news.” She waved a hand, a signal to someone behind him, a tiny move. His spine crawled with the sudden realization there had been a gun at his back. She walked over to the com console, leaned over the tech and keyed through to the Fleet channel. “This is Mallory. Release the papers and person of Joshua Talley, in station detention. Relay to appropriate authorities, Fleet and station. Over.”

The acknowledgment came back, impersonal and uninterested.

“May I,” Damon asked her, “may I send a call to him? He’ll need some clear instruction…”

“Sir,” one of the techs nearby said, facing about in her place. “Sir — ”

He glanced distractedly at the anguished face.

“A Downer’s been shot, sir, in green four.”

The breath went out of him. For a moment his mind refused to work.

“He’s dead, sir.”

He shook his head, sick at his stomach, turned and glared at Mallory. “They don’t hurt anything. No Downer ever lifted a hand to a human except to escape, in panic. Ever.”

Mallory shrugged. “Past mending now, Mr. Konstantin. Get on about your own business. Someone slipped and fired; there was a no-shoot order. It’s our business, not yours. Our own people will take care of it.”

“They’re people, captain.”

“We’ve shot people too,” Mallory said, unruffled. “Get on about your business, I say. This matter is under martial law, and I’ll settle it.”

He stood still. Everywhere in the center faces were turned toward them, and the boards flashed with neglected lights. “Get to work,” he ordered them sharply, and backs turned at once. “Get a station medic to that area.”

“You try my patience,” Mallory said.

“They are our citizens.”

“Your citizenship is broad, Mr. Konstantin.”

“I’m telling you — they’re terrified of violence. If you want chaos on this station, captain, panic the Downers.”

She considered the point, nodded finally, without rancor. “If you can mend the situation, Mr. Konstantin, see to it. And go where you choose.”

Just that. Go. He started away, glanced back with sudden dread of Mallory, who could cast away a public argument. He had lost, had let anger get the better of him… and go, she said, as if her pride were nothing.

He left, with the disturbed feeling that he had done something desperately dangerous.

Clear Damon Konstantin for passage,” Mallory’s voice thundered through the corridors, and troops who had made to challenge him did not.


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