Up Against It - M. J. Locke [14]
Geoff shook his head. “Nah. Gotta bounce.”
Kamal and Ian protested, but Amaya said, “Lay off.” And to Geoff: “We’ll talk to the reporters. Catch you later.”
“Yeah. Later.”
No point in delaying the inevitable. It was time to face his parents, and their disappointment that it was not Carl, but he, who had survived.
3
Back in Zekeston, Jane and her team got to work on inventories, damage reports, alerts, rationing plans. Hours passed in a blur. Marty Graham, her aide, followed her into her office, holding out two pills and a bulb of water.
“What are those for? I feel fine.”
Marty Graham, barely twenty-eight, was a recent transplant from Ceres. He had just gotten engaged. He had not been with Jane long, but had quickly made himself indispensable with his ability to fend people off without angering them, and to anticipate what she would need next in order to do her job. On the other hand, he could be rather a pest, and when she saw the pills and vial in his hands, she waved them away. “I’m fine.”
“Honestly, Chief, don’t be a baby. You’re exhausted. You need to be at your best.” He held up one capsule. “Clears out the cobwebs.” He held up the second. “Stimulant. Medic’s orders. None of us are going to get any sleep for a while. May as well enjoy it.”
He pressed them into her hands. She eyed them sourly. “All right, all right.” She swallowed them. “Has the prime minister gotten my initial report yet? When does he want his briefing?”
“I just got confirmation from his office a moment ago. He’ll see you in half an hour.”
“Good. Call Sean, Aaron, and Tania in.”
“In person?”
“Yes. I’ll want a meatspace meeting for this one.”
“Will do.” He left, and her office door closed behind him. Jane’s three direct reports entered—Sean of Shipping, Stores and Disassembly; Aaron of Utilities and Assembly; and Tania of Computer Support Systems.
“Come in,” she said, and entered the privacy code to her waveware. The tailored drugs did their work: a chemical wave of well-being and strength moved through her, and her thoughts cleared. OK, Marty; you were right, she thought, but she was still scowling. She did not like to depend on a pharmacy to function.
They waited while dead “Stroiders” spy glitter drifted toward the vents, and the “Stroiders” broadcast signal in her heads-up display went out. Gravity was light enough here that the room had no official ceiling; as with all the low-gee parts of the city, they bobbed gently in various shifting orientations around the conference room, twirling slowly and touching surfaces to guide themselves back toward the center. All but Sean, that is, who clung to a handhold: as a Downsider, he was uncomfortable with the tumbling indifference to which end was up that native Upsiders had.
“This will be a quick meeting,” she promised once the mote dust had cleared, “and then I’ll let you get back to work.”
As resource commissioner, she had a budget of twelve offline hours per workweek. During a crisis, as commissioner, she could invoke emergency privilege and take more. The fees were high—and she had no doubt that Upside-Down would bring pressure to bear to keep access open to her department, where the core of this drama was playing out. So be it.
“Sean, how many did we lose, up top?”
He twisted to look at her, and the banked fury in his face told her the news was bad. Hazel-eyed, black-skinned, gray-haired, and tall, Sean Moriarty sported broad, military-stiff shoulders. Deep lines engraved his forehead. He was at the edge of old age, pushing the century mark. “Besides Agre and Kovak? Eight.” His voice was hoarse.
Eight. She had killed eight. She released a slow breath, but did not allow herself to think about it. Not just yet. “I’m very sorry.”
He gave a sharp nod of acquiescence. “Send me their names,” she said. “I’ll notify their families.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He made a gesture inwave, and her waveface acknowledged receipt of the file. “Fourteen warehouse workers were injured,