At this point, what had been standard middle-school bullshit turns into a riot.
I’m up and coming around the table as Darren tries to get back to his feet. He makes it as far as one knee before Berto puts a foot to his shoulder and shoves him back down. Berto still has one foot in the air when the first of the goons from Darren’s table slams into him and drives him facedown onto our table hard enough that I have to jump back to keep from being knocked down as it slides a half meter across the floor under the impact. Berto tries to wriggle free, but two more are on him now, kicking his legs out from under him and pinning his arms behind his back. I manage to get my good hand on one of their shoulders before someone grabs me by the collar, yanks me off my feet, slams me facedown onto the floor, and plants a knee in the middle of my back. The last thing I feel is the tines of a Taser pressed against the back of my neck.
* * *
“EXPLAIN YOURSELVES.”
I glance over at Berto. He’s staring at a spot on the wall behind Marshall’s head. After an awkward five seconds of silence, I say, “This was a bit of a misunderstanding, sir.”
Marshall closes his eyes and visibly unclenches his jaw. When he opens them again, they’re narrowed to slits.
“A misunderstanding,” he says. “Is that how you would characterize the events of this afternoon, Mr. Gomez?”
“No, sir,” Berto says. “I believe everyone involved understood what was happening quite clearly.”
“I see,” Marshall says. “And what, exactly, was this thing that everyone so clearly understood?”
Berto can’t keep a hint of a smile from creeping onto his face.
“Primarily that the Security officers involved were upset about the consequences of their own poor judgment, and one of them decided to work out his frustrations by assaulting an innocent bystander.”
“Huh,” Marshall says. “Mr. Drake assaulted you? How is it, then, that he’s in Medical with a cracked zygomatic arch, while you appear to be completely uninjured?”
Berto shrugs. “I said he assaulted me. I didn’t say he did a good job of it.”
Marshall’s scowl deepens, and he turns to me. “Do you agree with the way Gomez is characterizing this incident, Mr. Barnes?”
“Basically, yes,” I say. “Darren came over to talk to us on his own. We weren’t even looking at him. He was clearly pretty upset about having to eat cycler paste for dinner, and it seemed like he was hoping to start something with me over it. Once things got going he did seem to be a bit surprised, but I’m not sure why he should have been. I mean, he did lay hands on Berto first.”
Marshall’s face twists into a just ate dog shit grimace.
“Yes, well. I’d like to come down on you over this, especially since this is the second time I’ve had the two of you in my office in the past twenty-four hours. Unfortunately, however, surveillance video appears to back up your claim for the most part. Drake clearly approached you unsolicited, and he does appear to have at least touched Gomez prior to being coldcocked. Honestly, I expect better from our Security team.” He doesn’t clarify whether he means better judgment, or better skills at fistfighting. Instead, he leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “I am curious, though. Why was Drake eating cycler paste while the two of you were enjoying a comparative feast? If I recall correctly, I docked both of your rations yesterday, while he’s currently allocated two thousand kcal per day.” He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “And regardless of his reasons, why in the world would he have held you responsible?”
Berto shoots me a quick look, but I’ve got nothing.
“It’s hard to say, sir,” he says. “Maybe he had a big breakfast?”
“I see,” Marshall says. “So it wouldn’t have had anything to do with this?”
He taps a tablet lying on his desk, and a video clip pops up in my ocular. I blink to stream. It’s a grainy, long-distance view of Berto’s flitter diving toward a jumble of rocks piled at the crest of a snowy ridgeline. The formation looks pretty much the way I remember it, with two slabs rising up from a boulder field to form a narrow triangle. From this angle, there doesn’t appear to be any possible way that the flitter can fit through the gap, and even though I know what happens, I can feel my stomach clenching. Berto pulls up level about a hundred meters out, adjusts his altitude slightly, and then rolls the plane at the last instant so that it passes through the rocks without so much as scratching the paint.
“Oh,” Berto says. “You caught that, huh?”
“Yes,” Marshall says. “We caught that. We are in a state of heightened alert at the moment, Gomez. We have been losing people, and we have precious few to spare. As a result, we are keeping an eye on things. There is very little you can do that we won’t catch. Now, given that you are aware of our precarious position in terms of both personnel and material resources, would you care to explain why you found it necessary to risk both your own life and, more importantly, two thousand kilos of irreplaceable metal and electronics for what appears to be a juvenile stunt?”
Berto sits silent, eyes fixed on the wall. Marshall stares him down for what feels like a very long time.
“Fine,” Marshall says finally. “I’m aware of your wager, obviously. I don’t suppose there’s any point in explaining to you all the regulations you’ve violated in the past two days, because you clearly don’t care.” He leans forward, plants his elbows on his desk, and sighs. “At this point, I’m not sure what to do with you, Gomez. I can’t afford to ground you, which honestly is the very least that you deserve, and sadly flogging is not an approved disciplinary technique under standard Union guidelines.” He pauses then, and turns to me. “Barnes—do you have any suggestions?”
I glance quickly at Berto, then back to Marshall. “Me, sir? No, sir.”
Marshall sighs again, and leans back in his chair. “Given my limited options, I suppose the best I can do is increase your workload and cut your rations. You’ll cover Adjaya’s shifts aloft as well as your own for the next five days, Gomez. That should keep you out of trouble, at the least. In addition, I’m reducing your rations a further ten percent. That shouldn’t bother you, as you won’t have time to eat in any case. I’m also blocking your ability to accept transfers from any other personnel, just in case you have any more ideas for scamming your fellow colonists.”
“Sir—” Berto begins, but Marshall cuts him off before he can even finish that first syllable.
“Don’t waste your breath, Gomez. As I said, this is the absolute least that you deserve. If you press me on this, you may force me to examine more radical solutions to the problem you present.”