fast as usual, if they were careful.
But everything was going to change in twenty minutes.
“You catch the news about the Admin bimbo?” Bonham asked.
“One bimbo at a time. I’m gonna go see—”
“Kelly? She costs more than she’s worth, Molt.”
“She digs me.”
“Whores pretend, Molt, that’s all. They’re consummate actresses, for one role and one only. And don’t try to tell me you made her cum—”
They went on like that for a while, neither man attending the conversation with his whole mind. And in fifteen minutes everything was going to change.
“So what’d you see onna news?” Molt asked, at last.
“Rimpler’s daughter. Cute little thing but super-chilled, I heard. She was taking some kubs out into the Open and one of ’em refused to come back, made a great speech how they were being cheated of their fair share of Open. Spengle made her look like—”
“Yeah. Yeah, I did hear about that. Somebody had a handset on the shuttle and—yeah, the technickis on the shuttle were glued on that one, man.”
“Smart move, whoever set that up,” Bonham mused. “There’s a protest tomorrow. You wanna come along?”
“Maybe. But . . . you know, Christ . . . ” The two men exchanged commiserating looks and sighed. They’d be surrounded by technics yammering technicki at the demonstration. But they had principles to live up to. Molt shrugged. “Where’s it going to be?”
“Corridor D-five.”
“Yeah, okay. What the hell.” He looked at his watch. “Let’s go to Bitchie’s, it’s probably open for—”
“Is that all you ever think about? Listen, you hear about the SWS readings for the dorm sections?”
“The what? Oh. No. What about it?”
SWS: Solar Wind Shield. The atmospheric envelope generated at the Ice-Lode Station. There were persistent rumors that the Admin crews didn’t keep the shield’s regularity field in place over the Colony’s technicki section; that they were indifferent to cancer risks for technickis.
“The reading was negligible, that’s what. About as much field as my mother has testicles.”
“The field has to be uniform for the Colony to go on working at all.”
They argued Colony politics for the next ten minutes. Molt was the voice of moderation. Social Democrat to Bonham’s Post-Trotskyite. At least, that’s the way Molt was until he got angry, scented violence. But just now, he was quiet as a bomb before it explodes.
In five minutes everything was going to change.
The waitress, Carla, wandered by the tables, picking up glasses, yawning. She was a horsey bleached blonde with a Reservationist’s tattoo half showing through her body stocking. Molt and Bonham exchanged banter with her for four minutes.
In one minute, everything would be different.
Carla went inside to bring out two more weak beers. She came out a minute later, without the beer, her hand clapped over her mouth.
“What’s the matter?” Bonham asked. “What’s the story, Carla?” Molt asked. Their questions jumbled together.
She looked at them, her bloodshot blue eyes stricken, her face paler than usual. She mumbled something through her hand.
Scared by inference, Molt irritably pulled her hand from her mouth and said, “Dammit, Carla, transmit!”
“The Russians. I heard it on the vid just now.”
“The Russians what?” Molt asked, thinking, Oh, shit, maybe they finally launched the big ones.
“They blockaded the Colony. Activated their laser platforms, the battle stations . . . Got ships hanging out there . . . They won’t let our shuttles through. We’re cut off. ”
Bonham was scared and looked it. But the fear melted away in Molt, and he realized he’d been waiting for this. He’d been holding something back for a long time. This meant he could let it all out. He could kill a few assholes.
Because everything was different. Now.
• 04 •
The rainstorm had blown onward. The sky had cleared, except for a soft breakage of clouds,
But everything was going to change in twenty minutes.
“You catch the news about the Admin bimbo?” Bonham asked.
“One bimbo at a time. I’m gonna go see—”
“Kelly? She costs more than she’s worth, Molt.”
“She digs me.”
“Whores pretend, Molt, that’s all. They’re consummate actresses, for one role and one only. And don’t try to tell me you made her cum—”
They went on like that for a while, neither man attending the conversation with his whole mind. And in fifteen minutes everything was going to change.
“So what’d you see onna news?” Molt asked, at last.
“Rimpler’s daughter. Cute little thing but super-chilled, I heard. She was taking some kubs out into the Open and one of ’em refused to come back, made a great speech how they were being cheated of their fair share of Open. Spengle made her look like—”
“Yeah. Yeah, I did hear about that. Somebody had a handset on the shuttle and—yeah, the technickis on the shuttle were glued on that one, man.”
“Smart move, whoever set that up,” Bonham mused. “There’s a protest tomorrow. You wanna come along?”
“Maybe. But . . . you know, Christ . . . ” The two men exchanged commiserating looks and sighed. They’d be surrounded by technics yammering technicki at the demonstration. But they had principles to live up to. Molt shrugged. “Where’s it going to be?”
“Corridor D-five.”
“Yeah, okay. What the hell.” He looked at his watch. “Let’s go to Bitchie’s, it’s probably open for—”
“Is that all you ever think about? Listen, you hear about the SWS readings for the dorm sections?”
“The what? Oh. No. What about it?”
SWS: Solar Wind Shield. The atmospheric envelope generated at the Ice-Lode Station. There were persistent rumors that the Admin crews didn’t keep the shield’s regularity field in place over the Colony’s technicki section; that they were indifferent to cancer risks for technickis.
“The reading was negligible, that’s what. About as much field as my mother has testicles.”
“The field has to be uniform for the Colony to go on working at all.”
They argued Colony politics for the next ten minutes. Molt was the voice of moderation. Social Democrat to Bonham’s Post-Trotskyite. At least, that’s the way Molt was until he got angry, scented violence. But just now, he was quiet as a bomb before it explodes.
In five minutes everything was going to change.
The waitress, Carla, wandered by the tables, picking up glasses, yawning. She was a horsey bleached blonde with a Reservationist’s tattoo half showing through her body stocking. Molt and Bonham exchanged banter with her for four minutes.
In one minute, everything would be different.
Carla went inside to bring out two more weak beers. She came out a minute later, without the beer, her hand clapped over her mouth.
“What’s the matter?” Bonham asked. “What’s the story, Carla?” Molt asked. Their questions jumbled together.
She looked at them, her bloodshot blue eyes stricken, her face paler than usual. She mumbled something through her hand.
Scared by inference, Molt irritably pulled her hand from her mouth and said, “Dammit, Carla, transmit!”
“The Russians. I heard it on the vid just now.”
“The Russians what?” Molt asked, thinking, Oh, shit, maybe they finally launched the big ones.
“They blockaded the Colony. Activated their laser platforms, the battle stations . . . Got ships hanging out there . . . They won’t let our shuttles through. We’re cut off. ”
Bonham was scared and looked it. But the fear melted away in Molt, and he realized he’d been waiting for this. He’d been holding something back for a long time. This meant he could let it all out. He could kill a few assholes.
Because everything was different. Now.
• 04 •
The rainstorm had blown onward. The sky had cleared, except for a soft breakage of clouds,
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