it?
He hated his relatives with a fury beyond reason. He hated all humanity at the moment.
He went out the doors, one after another, realizing, in a colder panic since the test that brought him here, that they—the
they
in station administration who lifelong had ordered him around—could now get him up to the station for their own convenience in their lawsuit, but
they
might not get around to bringing him back all that quickly, even if all things were equal and he
hadn't
just gotten Bianca Velasquez into trouble—a shuttle ticket up, they'd pay for. Down, he couldn't afford. That meant even if things went absolutely flawlessly, his lawyers were going to have to sue to make them send him back, which would take time, a lot of time.
They could ruin his life while they messed around and made up their minds. They
were
ruining his life, just filling out their damned forms and sending him up to the station again because the
law
said he had to be in court to say so.
Seven hundred hours. That was when the shuttle broke dock, flew, did whatever it did. He heard the shuttles go over in the early mornings when the staff was having breakfast. They'd roar overhead and people would stop talking for a few beats and then they'd go on with their conversations.
Where's Fletch
? they'd say tomorrow morning.
Bianca would miss him for a couple of weeks. Maybe longer.
But what good would it do?
He'd never see Melody and Patch again, and they
damned
sure wouldn't understand where he'd gone. The monsoon was coming. They could
die
in their long walk and he wouldn't be here, he wouldn't know.
Rain washed over him and lightning whitened the door of the men's dorm as he opened it and shoved his way through into the entry. In a shattered blur of white he saw the usual pile of clean-suits for the cleaning crew to take, all the masks hanging, clustered on their pegs. His mask should join them. He should unsuit, go in, pack, as he was told.
But he didn't want to unsuit. Not yet. Not yet for going inside and facing the questions he'd get from supervisors and the others in the program when he started packing up. Emotions would answer. And that was no good, not for him, not for his future. He wanted an hour, one hour, to walk in the rain—just to get himself together, not to have a fight with Marshall Willett on his record.
And he'd reported to the Base. He'd checked in with Admin. He wasn't on anyone's list as missing any longer. You could be outside. There wasn't a curfew on. If he wanted to get wet, it was his choice, wasn't it?
His mask was on one cylinder.
Hell, he thought, and opened another mask, one on the pegs, and borrowed one, in the thought he'd annoy someone, but nothing against the necessity of getting himself a chance to cool down before he had to deal with anybody.
Then, to be safe, he borrowed one from another mask—it would risk whoever it was to take both, in case they were stupid enough to ignore how light the mask was and go out thinking they were set…
But then he wasn't as trapped. And in a fit of anger he raided a third and a fourth mask. A fifth and a sixth. He wouldn't
be
trapped. He was going to
miss
that shuttle. Maybe his lawyers could fight it through the court: they'd take his side, and it was time for them to earn their station-given stipend. Get himself up there in reach and some court order could get him set aboard his relatives' ship, and then no court order could get him off. That was one thought. The other was that right now he wanted not to have to see Marshall 's smug face and that most of all he wanted not to have to tell Bianca that he was sorry, he wasn't like other people, lawyers owned him and they could deport him if the courts didn't rule he was mentally unstable.
In which case they'd throw him out of the program anyway, and the station would give him some makework job because his mental state made him unemployable at anything else he was qualified to do.
He resettled his mask. He'd stuffed his
He hated his relatives with a fury beyond reason. He hated all humanity at the moment.
He went out the doors, one after another, realizing, in a colder panic since the test that brought him here, that they—the
they
in station administration who lifelong had ordered him around—could now get him up to the station for their own convenience in their lawsuit, but
they
might not get around to bringing him back all that quickly, even if all things were equal and he
hadn't
just gotten Bianca Velasquez into trouble—a shuttle ticket up, they'd pay for. Down, he couldn't afford. That meant even if things went absolutely flawlessly, his lawyers were going to have to sue to make them send him back, which would take time, a lot of time.
They could ruin his life while they messed around and made up their minds. They
were
ruining his life, just filling out their damned forms and sending him up to the station again because the
law
said he had to be in court to say so.
Seven hundred hours. That was when the shuttle broke dock, flew, did whatever it did. He heard the shuttles go over in the early mornings when the staff was having breakfast. They'd roar overhead and people would stop talking for a few beats and then they'd go on with their conversations.
Where's Fletch
? they'd say tomorrow morning.
Bianca would miss him for a couple of weeks. Maybe longer.
But what good would it do?
He'd never see Melody and Patch again, and they
damned
sure wouldn't understand where he'd gone. The monsoon was coming. They could
die
in their long walk and he wouldn't be here, he wouldn't know.
Rain washed over him and lightning whitened the door of the men's dorm as he opened it and shoved his way through into the entry. In a shattered blur of white he saw the usual pile of clean-suits for the cleaning crew to take, all the masks hanging, clustered on their pegs. His mask should join them. He should unsuit, go in, pack, as he was told.
But he didn't want to unsuit. Not yet. Not yet for going inside and facing the questions he'd get from supervisors and the others in the program when he started packing up. Emotions would answer. And that was no good, not for him, not for his future. He wanted an hour, one hour, to walk in the rain—just to get himself together, not to have a fight with Marshall Willett on his record.
And he'd reported to the Base. He'd checked in with Admin. He wasn't on anyone's list as missing any longer. You could be outside. There wasn't a curfew on. If he wanted to get wet, it was his choice, wasn't it?
His mask was on one cylinder.
Hell, he thought, and opened another mask, one on the pegs, and borrowed one, in the thought he'd annoy someone, but nothing against the necessity of getting himself a chance to cool down before he had to deal with anybody.
Then, to be safe, he borrowed one from another mask—it would risk whoever it was to take both, in case they were stupid enough to ignore how light the mask was and go out thinking they were set…
But then he wasn't as trapped. And in a fit of anger he raided a third and a fourth mask. A fifth and a sixth. He wouldn't
be
trapped. He was going to
miss
that shuttle. Maybe his lawyers could fight it through the court: they'd take his side, and it was time for them to earn their station-given stipend. Get himself up there in reach and some court order could get him set aboard his relatives' ship, and then no court order could get him off. That was one thought. The other was that right now he wanted not to have to see Marshall 's smug face and that most of all he wanted not to have to tell Bianca that he was sorry, he wasn't like other people, lawyers owned him and they could deport him if the courts didn't rule he was mentally unstable.
In which case they'd throw him out of the program anyway, and the station would give him some makework job because his mental state made him unemployable at anything else he was qualified to do.
He resettled his mask. He'd stuffed his
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