“What’re you doing here?” he snapped, annoyed at this intrusion into his domain.
“I’m Katherine Westfall,” she said, stepping closer to him. “I need to talk with you.”
Devlin wiped his hands on his grimy apron. “Mrs. Westfall?”
It was her, all right. He recognized her from the images he’d seen on the nets. Small, slightly built, her face sculpted in planes and hollows like a statue out of ancient Egypt. She wore a one-piece coverall of coral pink that fitted her like a second skin. Jewelry glittered at her wrists, her throat, her earlobes.
“You are Rodney Devlin, aren’t you?” she asked, in a voice that was almost a whisper.
“Yes’m,” he replied, wiping his hands again before extending his right toward her.
Westfall barely touched his hand. “I understand that you are quite good at getting things done.”
For one of the few times in his long life, Devlin felt embarrassed. Here was this elegant lady and he was in his grease monkey’s apron, his wiry red hair uncombed, his bushy mustache straggling. She was inspecting him, eying him up and down, as if he were a horse or a pet that she was considering buying.
“I do my best, Mrs. Westfall,” he said.
“How long have you been here at station
“Long as the station’s been open, ma’am. More’n twenty years.”
Westfall nodded. “You’re older than you look,” she said absently. “You ought to get the gray streaks out of your hair, though.”
He didn’t know what to say.
“You’ve been getting away with a lot of illegal activities over all those years, haven’t you?”
Devlin’s mouth dropped open.
“Drug manufacturing, smuggling equipment, brewing liquor, VR sex simulations … it’s quite a list.”
“Uh, ma’am, I may have done a few things in my time that’re outside the rules, but nothing that was illegal.”
“Extralegal,” Westfall said, the hint of a smile at the corners of her lips.
Devlin shrugged. “Can’t run an operation like this station by staying inside the rule book every step o’ the way. People need things that the rules don’t cover, y’know.”
“Perhaps,” Westfall conceded.
Sensing that she was after something, Devlin asked, “So what is it I can do for you, ma’am?”
She hesitated. After a couple of heartbeats she said, “You understand that my people have uncovered enough evidence against you to put you away for the rest of your natural life.”
“Now wait—”
“Don’t bother to deny it. I can produce witnesses that will swear to your illegal activities.”
“Extralegal,” Devlin amended. But his palms were starting to sweat.
“Whatever,” said Westfall. “As a member of the IAA’s governing council, it’s my duty to see that the laws are obeyed and the regulations enforced.”
Devlin’s tension eased. She’s after something, he realized.
“Mrs. Westfall,” he said, lowering his head slightly to indicate some contrition, “whatever I’ve done, I’ve never harmed anybody. I’ve helped this place to function better, more smoothly.”
“Have you?”
“I have, ma’am. And I’m ready to help you, if you need something that’s, ah … stretching the rules.”
“Do you know those two nanotech people who came here from Selene?” she asked, her tone suddenly sharp, brittle.
Devlin nodded. “I run meals down to ’em every day.”
“Then you know their nanotechnology laboratory.”
“I know where it is.”
“Good,” Westfall said. “I need a sample of nanomachines. And I need it without anyone knowing about it, except the two of us.”
Devlin ran a hand over his close-cropped brush of red hair.
“Can you do it?” she demanded.
He tugged at his mustache momentarily, then replied, “Sure.” To himself he added silently, I’d rather steal nanobugs than go to jail.
DORN’S QUARTERS
“I’m sorry to intrude on your privacy like this,” Deirdre said as she stood in the doorway of Dorn’s compartment.
“It’s not a problem,” the cyborg said, gesturing her into the room with his human hand.
“I should have called first,” she said, stepping past him.
“It’s not that late,” he said as he slid the door shut. “I just got back from dinner.”
“Yes, I know. I saw you leave the galley.”
Looking around, Deirdre saw that Dorn’s quarters were the same sized room as she had, a few dozen meters down the passageway. But somehow it looked austere, barren. The bed was made with military precision. The display screen above the desk was blank. The desk itself was completely bare. No decorations of any kind. It’s as if no one really lives in here, she thought.
“I saw you in the galley, as well,” said Dorn. “With the Torre woman. I thought about asking to join you…” He left the thought unfinished.
Deirdre said, “We would have welcomed your company.”
For an awkward moment neither of them said a word. Then Dorn broke the silence. “Won’t you sit down? Would you like something to drink? I can make coffee for us.”
Moving to the armchair in the corner of the room, Deirdre replied, “Coffee would be fine.”
Dorn stepped to the minuscule kitchenette on the other side of the room. Deirdre noticed all over again how lightly he moved, how lithe he was despite half of his body being metal.
“May I ask why you’ve come to visit me?” he asked, his back to her as he poured ground coffee into the machine.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have.”
“No, no, it’s all right. I’m simply curious. Something’s bothering you, that much is clear.”
“Dorn, are you really a priest?”
He half turned to look at her over his shoulder. Deirdre could see only the metal half of his face, unreadable.
“I thought of myself as a priest for many years. Not of any organized religion. I was on a mission to find the dead who’d been abandoned to drift in space after the Asteroid Wars. I considered it my sacred duty to find them and give them proper funeral rites.”
“That … that was a very holy thing to do. More than any other priest did.”
The coffeemaker chugged and spewed steam. Dorn turned to face her. “Like many priests,” he said gravely, “I am celibate. I have no option.”
“Oh!” Deirdre felt awful, as if she were prying where she had no right to.
“The surgery,” Dorn explained.
“That must be … difficult for you,” she limped.
The human half of his face tried to smile. “It’s not that bad. I have no physical urges. Only memories.”
How terrible, Dierdre thought. But she couldn’t find any words to speak aloud.
The coffee machine pinged and Dorn turned back to it. He poured two cups of steaming black brew and brought them to the tiny round table beside Deirdre’s chair. Then he pulled up the desk chair and sat facing her.
“So,” he said. “I am not really a priest. But you need someone to talk to and I am willing to listen.” Before Deirdre could say anything, Dorn added, “And, like a priest, I will treat your words as private and entirely confidential.”
“It’s about Andy.” Deirdre surprised herself by blurting it out.
