“They have regeneration specialists at Selene. With some of your stem cells they’ll be able to regrow your arm in a few months.”
“Can you do it with nanomachines?” Amanda asked.
Cardenas shot her a strangely fierce look: part anger, part guilt, part frustration.
“Regeneration could be done with nanotherapy,” she said tightly, “but I couldn’t do it.”
Fuchs said, “But you are an expert in nanotechnology. A Nobel laureate.”
“That was long ago,” Cardenas said. “Besides, I swore that I wouldn’t engage in any nanotech work again.”
“Swore? To whom?”
“To myself.”
“I don’t understand.”
Cardenas was obviously struggling with herself. After a few heartbeats she said, “This isn’t the time to tell you the sad story of my life, Lars.”
“But—”
“Go to Selene. They have regeneration experts there, George. They’ll grow your arm back for you.”
George shrugged good-naturedly. “Long as they don’t grow it back before our hearing.” He waved his stump. “I want those IAA bludgers t’see what the bastards did to me.”
Fuchs patted George’s good shoulder. “And I want Humphries to be there to see it.”
Fuchs and Amanda spent that night making love. No words, no talk about what had happened or discussions about what the future might bring. Nothing but animal heat and passion.
Lying beside her afterward, their room lit only by the dimmed numerals of the digital clock, Fuchs realized he had made love to Amanda as if he would never see her again. He had learned something in that battle out in space: His first brush with imminent death had taught him that he had to live life as if it would end in an instant.
I have no future, he told himself in the silence of their darkened room. As long as I’m in this war against Humphries I cannot hope for anything. I must live moment by moment, expecting nothing, ready to accept whatever comes next and deal with it. Only then can I escape the fear; only by shutting out the future can I cope with the present.
Briefly he thought about the frozen zygotes they had waiting in Selene. If I’m killed, Fuchs reflected, at least Amanda will be able to bear our child—if she wants to.
Amanda, lying beside him, pretended to sleep. But she was thinking too. What can Lars accomplish by this hearing with the IAA? Even if they find Humphries responsible for the attacks on all those ships, what can they do about it? Whatever happens, it will only make Martin even more enraged against Lars.
If only Lars would give this up, forget this war of his. But he won’t. He’ll keep on fighting until they kill him. He’ll keep on fighting until he’s as murderous and hateful as they are. He’ll never stop, no matter how I beg him. He’s moving away from me, becoming a stranger to me. Even in bed, he’s not the same person anymore.
CHAPTER 33
“So he’s getting a hearing with the IAA,” Humphries said as he mixed himself a vodka and tonic.
The bar in his palatial home was a sizable room that also served as a library. Bookshelves ran up to the ceiling along two walls, and a third wall had shelves full of video disks and cyberbook chips stacked around a pair of holowindows that showed slowly-changing views of extraterrestrial scenery.
Humphries paid no attention to the starkly beautiful Martian sunset or the windswept cloud deck of Jupiter. His mind was on Lars Fuchs.
“The hearing will be held in the IAA offices here in Selene,” said Diane Verwoerd. Seated on a plush stool at the handsome mahogany bar, she nursed a long slim glass of sickly greenish Pernod and water.
Verwoerd was the only other person in the room with Humphries. She was still in her office clothes: a white sleeveless turtle-neck blouse under a maroon blazer, with dark charcoal slacks that accentuated her long legs. Humphries had already changed to a casual open-necked shirt and light tan chinos.
“Is he bringing his wife with him?” Humphries asked as he stepped out from behind the bar.
“Probably.” Verwoerd swiveled on her stool to follow him as he paced idly along the rows of leather-bound books. “You don’t know for certain?”
“I can find out easily enough,” she said.
Humphries muttered, “He wouldn’t leave her alone on that rock.”
“It didn’t do you any good the last time he brought her here.”
He shot her a venomous look.
“We have something else to worry about,” Verwoerd said. “This man Harbin.”
Humphries’s expression changed. It didn’t soften: it merely went from one object of anger to another.
“That’s why you wanted to talk to me alone,” he said.
She raised a brow slightly. “That’s why I agreed to have a drink with you, yes.”
“But not dinner.”
“I have other plans for dinner,” she said. “Besides, you should be thinking about Harbin. Thinking hard.”
“What’s the situation?”
She took a sip of her drink, then placed the glass carefully on the bar. “Obviously, he failed to eliminate Fuchs.”
“From what I’ve heard, Fuchs nearly eliminated him.”
“His ship was damaged and he had to break off his attack on
“I don’t care a termite fart’s worth for what he believes. I’m paying him for results and he’s failed. Now I’m going to have the idiotic IAA to deal with.”
Humphries kicked at an ottoman that was in his way and sat heavily on the sofa facing the bar. His face was an image of pure disgust.
“You have Harbin to deal with, too.”
“What?” He looked up sharply at her. “What do you mean?”
“He knows enough to hurt you. Badly.”
“He’s never seen me. He dealt entirely with Grigor.”
With deliberate patience, Verwoerd said, “If Harbin tells the IAA what he’s been doing, do you think they’ll lay the blame in Grigor’s lap or yours?”
“They can’t—”
“Don’t you think they’re intelligent enough to realize that Grigor would never authorize attacks on prospectors’ ships unless you ordered them?”
Humphries looked as if he wanted to throw his drink at her. It’s dangerous being the messenger, Verwoerd told herself, when you bring bad news.
“You’ll have to eliminate Harbin, then,” he said. “Maybe Grigor, too.”
And then me? Verwoerd asked herself. Aloud, she replied, “Harbin’s thought of that possibility. He claims he’s sent copies of his ship’s log to a few friends on Earth.”
“Nonsense! How could he—”
“Tight-beam laser links. Coded data. It’s done every day. It’s the way he communicated with our own tankers out there in the Belt.”
“Send messages all the way back to Earth?”
Verwoerd took up her drink again. “It’s done every day,” she repeated.
“He’s bluffing,” Humphries mumbled.
She got off the stool and stepped toward the sofa where he was sitting. Nudging the ottoman into position with one foot, she sat on it and leaned toward him, arms on her knees, drink in both hands.
“Even if he’s bluffing, it’s too big a risk to take. Eliminating him won’t be easy. He’s a trained fighter and he’s tough.”
