Acts of Conscience by William Barton Page A

beforehand. They’ll just vote and that will be that.”
    And, if the vote goes against B-VEI, I’ve got nothing.
    He said, “I’ve left my mailtag with the apartment datastore. You just post me your authorization and I’ll make the transaction.” He turned, the door opened and closed, and he was gone.
    I sat and stared. Ordered another drink and felt my sweat start up afresh. Glanced in the little window and saw with a start that the value of ERSIE stock had gone up another six mills while we’d been talking.

Three: By mid-morning

    By mid-morning of the next day, Jimmy Haas and I had the D-1 prime mover buttoned up and ready to go. He’d been working on it in my absence, working mostly under Rossignol’s direction, though with a bit of help from Todd Sanchez, and seemed a little nonplused when I came back and more or less took over the final stage of operations. Watched me. Did what I said as I ran systems checks on the work that’d been done in my absence, made little changes here and there.
    I didn’t say anything when I discovered someone had failed to set the throat diameter on the plasma exhaust. Didn’t comment on the fact that the work record was unsigned, in clear defiance of regs.
    But I did open the comparison table to the section on plasma channels and ran the simulator to see what would’ve happened if the ship’s engines had been started with the settings as is. No explosions. Nothing flashy. Just a major overheat, components fusing, safeties running a too-late shutdown.
    The exhaust system on a relatively small field modulus device like this one isn’t too expensive, maybe in the range of 14,000 livres. I didn’t say anything. But I knew he’d be seeing. “OK, Jimmy. Let’s go up front and see if it works.”
    He started silently disconnecting the monitor system while I reeled in my tools and stood down the engine’s internal operating system. Finally, he said, “Gaetan, I was the one who was responsible for seeing to the throat settings.”
    So. I was wondering if he’d just let it slide. Maybe be pissed at me for seeing it, even though... “Jimmy, did Rossignol tell you you were responsible?”
    Silence. Then, “Um, no. He just took a quick peek before Todd and I shut the casing.”
    Well. Todd Sanchez knew I’d be coming back to finish her up. And he knew I’d be the one to sign off on the whole job. Have to have a nice chat with Ross, maybe during afternoon break. I said, “Don’t worry about it. Thanks for telling me.”
    With our appendages pulled in, we backed out of the exhaust bay and started moving up the outside of the ship’s hull, toward the forward airlock pressure curtain, where the others would be waiting. I wouldn’t be surprised if asshole Sanchez was trying to slip one by me. Rossignol? Damned sloppy is all. He knew I’d be coming back to the job. Knew God damned well I’d be thorough, would catch any mistakes.
    So he just fucking let it slide.
    I could imagine what he’d say when I brought it up: I’m sorry, Gaetan. Jesus, we’ve just been so damn busy ... Sometimes. Yeah. Right. 
    o0o
    Going home already, the end-of-work conversation with Rossignol already fading. No more than shadowed memories of taking him by the shirtfront as we floated in a dark, empty, private corner of the locker room, bracing myself with feet and free hand, swinging him around my center of gravity, hauling his face close.
    I think he was pretty surprised. I’m bigger and stronger than most of the mechanics at ERSIE-5, I guess, but it never matters. I haven’t gotten in a brawl the whole time I’ve worked here. Haven’t hit another person in anger since... well. Kids. You know.
    Rossignol’s eyes popping with astonishment as I held him close and told him what a lazy fucking shit I thought he’d become. Pitching my voice probably lower than I ought to have, I told him he’d have to have a chat with Todd Sanchez if he wanted to keep the peace on his crew and... I’d let him