Tripoint

Chapter Ten

GRAPPLES RELEASED—no take-hold had sounded, easy regulations on this non-Family ship, meaning crew was up and about… and, on his way from Saby’s quarters, Tom found himself 10m short of the galley zone as that sound racketed through the frame.

He wasn’t the only crew caught out—”Shit!” someone yelped. Crew around him started running. He made a fast sprint, along with twenty or thirty others, out of the hazard of lower main for the take-holds that lined the mess hall transverse—some in the corridor, some the other side of the divider, in the galley, in his case, far as he could get sideways, toward the galley counter, excusing himself past other take-holders, hand to hand clasp and a “ ‘Scuse me, thanks,” as he slid past each individual, because you didn’t stand loose for a second on this ship—no please and thank you and no warning when Corinthian moved, God help them.

Jamal had already clipped secure-sheets over the sink and the counter-top to secure his work area, and taken-hold at the bow wall behind the counter, which was the good place to be. Tink stood that side, too, massive legs braced, his shoulders against the wall and both hands, somewhat riskily, for a keypad/calculator… but the far side, the bow-side of the transverse, was about to be the deck, temporarily.

While his was about to become the ceiling. “Tink. I’m here. “ From two, three niches along the take-hold bar.

“Yeah.—Looks like. “ Tink made a grimace, seeing his face. “Ouch. How you doing?”

“I’m all right.”

“You sure? You look like hell.”

“I’m fine. “ He caught a breath. “Jamal, I need in the worst way… I need to make a call after undock. I’ve got sheets and such to find—All right to do?”

“You all right, kid?”

“Fine. “ Lie. Again. He was still out of breath, and dreading the shove. He wished he dared make the dash across—a couple of guys had risked it, and made it, but it was too dangerous on this ship. “Got some arranging still to do.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Jamal said. “But you stay out of—”

Bow-jets shoved Corinthian hard, and strained muscles he hadn’t known he’d strained, located every bruise, up and down his arm and his ribs and back, before that burn abruptly redirected and added a nadir vector.

Tink grabbed a one-handed hold. Fast.

“Pilot’s pissed,” Tink said, rolling a glance overhead.

“At what?”

“You can’t guess?”

About that time the shove came hard and fast.

“Shit!” someone said, as a pan escaped the sheet-restraint, hit the overhead and rebounded.

“Loose object!” Jamal yelled—they were inertial for the moment, jets at momentary shutdown, and things and people floated. “Damn her!”

Then, thank God, the passenger ring engaged, and added another component to further shoves from the jets. The pan settled. So did human feet, and hair and clothes.

There was swearing. There were sighs. Tink called across at him:

“We got a slow-go here at Pell. Lady Bea can kick our ass out, but we can’t do more ‘n one-point kips until we clear the zone, about thirty minutes out. How’s the gut now?”

“I’ll live. You think she’s through up there?” He’d got the fact it was a woman at the helm. He heard the B, and it clicked into consciousness who was at the helm and why she wasn’t happy. “God, I wish they’d announce moves.”

“Pell’s usually a three-burn… “ a tech said from the take-holds down the wall, woman he didn’t know.

And the third shove came.

“There we go. That’s it. We’re inert. “ But everybody stood still at the handholds until the siren blast.

Then the company left the walls, and he went behind the counter where the galley corn-panel was, punched buttons for the universals of ship-com, the 01 that went to the captain’s message file.

“Sir. This is Tom Hawkins. I urgently need to speak to…”

“Austin. “ God, the thing had tracked him through the boards. “What?”

He’d composed a message. All the logic went straight out of his head.

“You apply the same standard. Me and my brother. Sir. “ His tongue went stupid. Breath caught in his throat and he swallowed. “Sir. He caught us breaking regs. He had some justice.”

Silence from the other end.

“It remotely strike you, Hawkins, that the captain might be busy?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I was just trying to message the system.”

“About your policy assessments?”

“Sir,—”

“Where are you?”

“The galley, sir. Sir,—I do want to talk to you about this.”

“Talk. Now. Fast. You’re tying up channels. “

“I mean I’ve got to talk to you in private. I’m on the galley-com, sir, I want to talk to you before you talk to—”

“Hawkins. I have a ship moving at 1. 092 kips, exceeding Pell traffic speed limits, for which we have a Ik fine. I have a ship in count behind me and a caution on an inbound insystem hauler and two service craft, whose point-location is often a mystery unto themselves. Do you think we could postpone the personal business?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you. “

Dead connection after that. He pounded the wall with his fist, thinking…

“Trouble?” Tink asked.

… Christian was going to walk into Austin’s office, remotely justified, and come out of there wanting to cut his throat.

Which wasn’t smart policy, which wasn’t what he wanted to live with, which wasn’t the man he’d seen for about two beats when Christian was figuring out how and on what ship to dump him.

Say it right: Christian could have left him in that warehouse to freeze, and nobody would have found him. Christian, Saby had said it, had gone to a lot of effort to get him shipped out, never mind Christian could have walked him into a lot rougher situation than a ticket out of port and out of their lives. Christian was fighting for his place on this ship, was what Christian was doing…

Beatrice didn’t want him. I brought him up.

And he understood Christian in that light a lot more than he’d ever understand the man who’d raped Marie.

“Tom?”

“I need to check on something,” he said. “Tink, cover me.”

Maybe Tink wanted to ask. He didn’t want to answer. He ducked down the straightway of the galley back toward lower main, where alterday crew was headed for the lifts.

He looked to find Christian anywhere in the traffic. He knew where his cabin was. He thought about going there. He checked near lower deck ops, and then at the nearby lifts, where the next shift was cycling up by the carload. He slipped into that lot, nervous, waited his turn, one trip after the other, then jammed into the car with the rest and stared at the level indicator instead of the faces around him. Crew stared… the cuts and bruises, it had to be, or the question what he was doing, going topside. “He clear?” somebody finally asked. And: “Think so,” somebody else said. “—Mister, you got a clearance?”

“Appointment,” he muttered, as the lift banged into its topside lock. “Captain’s office. “ The door was opening. He wanted out. Fast. “Excuse me.”

A hand caught his shoulder.

“Hold it, Hawkins.”

He saw seniority in the grey hair. He said, “Yessir,” and figured he’d just routed himself back in the brig. The guy shoved him against the wall by the lift doors.

“Appointment, is it?”

“My brother’s supposed to be up here. I need to talk to him.”

“Is that so?” The officer—Travis, the pocket emblem said—turned him back to the next arriving lift. “Right back downside, mister. Stay to lower decks.”

Second lift opened. He faced, suddenly, blond hair, bruises, scowling face.

“Inside,” the officer said, and jerked at him by the arm, sending him past Christian, into that lift. “Downside. Go. Now.”

Hand propelled him inside. Christian dived in beside him, mad. The lift doors shut, on the two of them alone, and the lift sank.

“So?” Christian asked.

“I didn’t want what happened. I’m sorry. I don’t want to get in your way…”

“You had a good time, you and Saby?”

“We—” He couldn’t justify anything. Christian was looking for offense, and his face and his ribs were already sore. “We didn’t plan anything. We ran into each other—”

The lift hit bottom. Crew jammed aboard, pinning them to the back of the car.

“I don’t want another fight,” he said. They were face-to-face against the back wall of the lift car as the door shut and the lift started up again. “I don’t want to argue with you.”

“Yeah. Keep your concern.”

“He didn’t do right. He wasn’t right, lighting into you like that—”

“Just shut up, Family Boy. I don’t need your damn condescension, all right?”

The door opened. The crowd in front vacated the lift. Christian shoved his way through and he tried to follow, but Christian turned around, furious, the other side of the threshold. “Get to hell out of my life, Hawkins!”

Shocked faces, around Christian. He’d started forward, to leave the lift. It seemed useless, then, with Christian opposed, to pursue anything with anyone in command.

Downbound crew flooded in, pushing him back against the rail. The doors shut, the lift went down and let out downside. The other passengers got off. He did.

Straight face-on into Saby.

“Tink said—” Saby began, and grabbed his arm as they worked their way outward, against the five or six upbounds trying to get in the doors.

He wasn’t coherent. He waved a hand, made a helpless gesture as they got clear, back at the corridor wall. “No luck. Waste of time.”

“I could have told you,” Saby said. “Tom, let me talk to him.”

“Not Austin. Christian. Damn him. Attitudinal son of a bitch. “

“Him, too. “ Saby made a flustered gesture and punched the lift button. One car had gone. The other was downbound. “He’s being a fool.”

“You don’t go up there!”

Saby turned around with a furious stare. “I’m going up there because this is my shift, and I’m late!—And leave it to me who I talk to!”

“It’s my life, dammit!”

The lift arrived. Saby ducked in with a last few upbound crew. The doors shut. He stood there, having embarrassed himself, generally, having made a public scene with Christian, up and down the lift system, and disagreed with Saby, in public.

There was nothing but a shut door to talk to. There was nothing to do but walk back to the galley where he’d agreed to be. Forever.

Right now he wanted to strangle Christian. He’d blamed Saby. He’d blamed himself. He’d blamed Marie and Austin and fate.

But right now he saw only one person responsible for what had happened to Christian, and to him, and for the misunderstanding with Saby, and every damn thing else.

Wasn’t Saby’s fault she’d been drafted as surrogate mama to a jealous brat whose universe insisted every problem was somebody else’s fault.

He slammed his fist into the paneling as he walked. It hurt as much as he remembered. He pounded it two, three, four, five times, until the corridor thundered and the pain outside equalled the explosion inside his chest.

Somebody put his head out of ops and ducked back again. Fast.

He hit the wall four more times, until his knuckles showed blood.

Nobody asked. Nobody came out. He got as far as the next traverse, with the mess-hall in sight, when the siren sounded, and the PA thundered, “Take-hold, take-hold, long bum in one minute. This is your warning. “

He didn’t run. He walked, deliberately, counting the seconds, down the mess-hall center aisle, made it to the comfortable side, the stern wall, this time, where Tink and Jamal were getting set.

“Fix it?” Tink asked.

“Waste of time. Waste of effort. Nobody listens.”

Tink raised his brows. He remembered he was supposed to be seeing about bed-sheets. “Yeah,” Tink said, and held out a bag of candy. “Lot of that going around today. Have one. Have two.”

He did. His hand was skinned. He figured the knuckles would turn black. He ate the chocolate. Jamal had one, the three of them alone in a galley redolent of spices and, rare, expensive treat, bread baking.

The burn started, smooth, clean, steady, this time.

Mainday crew was the heavy load for the galley, the dockers, who seemed to keep whatever schedule they fancied—but figure that the horde would hit the galley hall for supper once the burn cut out. Sandwiches out to the working stations. Everybody to feed before they made jump.

Gentle burn. Reasonable burn.

“Easy does it now,” Tink said. “Pell is the most reg-u-lated place in the ports we do. You sneeze and gain a tenth of a k in their zones, you got a fine. One k ain’t nothing. Pilot knows.”

“Runs in the genes,” he muttered, while that ‘ports we do’ hit the conscious part of his brain, the assumptions he’d made, the questions he’d asked himself and not asked, because the routes were so laid down by physics and what points a ship could reach from where they were that he’d assumed Earth, Tripoint, and Viking. From Pell, they could make Earth, spooky enough thought, strange, overcrowded place. But that had been where Christophe Martin was bound. Christian wouldn’t ship him where Corinthian was already going. From Pell… if they went really off the charts they could reach the Hinder Stars, the old bridge of stars the sub-lighters had used for stepping-stones out from Earth—shut down, now, dead,

… civilized powers couldn’t keep the Mazianni out of them, and the Military had dismantled the stations.

So they said.

“Tink. “ He felt stupid asking, at this late date. “Where are we going?”

“Tripoint. Just Tripoint to Viking.”

So mundane it shook him, after the giddy speculation he’d just made. He wasn’t even sure he’d have believed it, if it hadn’t come from Tink.

“Where’s the Fleet connection?” he asked. It was just the three of them in the galley, Tink, Jamal, himself.

And a silence.

Then: “Tripoint,” Tink said. That was all. The silence outweighed curiosity, reminding him Tink wasn’t innocent. Saby wasn’t. Nobody on this ship was. Now he wasn’t, because he’d voluntarily come back aboard.

He’d been in a position, while he was free, to do everything Marie would have done—whatever it might have cost him. But he hadn’t. Hadn’t wanted to—thinking about himself. Then Tink. Then Saby, after which… he guessed now he was where he wanted to be, scared, lost—queasy at the stomach as the burn kept up, getting them up to the v Pell would let them carry in its inner zones.

And very, very lonely, just now. Cut off from everything and everyone he’d grown up with. From everything he’d been taught was right and wrong, good and bad.

Burn cut out.

“That’s about 10 kips,” Tink said. “Out and away from Downbelow’s pull. We’re outbound now.”

“How long have we got? Days? Hours?”

“Four hours inside the slow zones,” Jamal said. “Two meals to two shifts, fast as we can turn ‘em, and all the resupply at the posts. You make coffee?”

“I can learn. “ He stood away from the wall, steady on his feet. Movement was starting down the corridor, a drift of mainday crew past the tables… “Serving line’s not open yet,”

Jamal yelled out, which roused no complaint, but faces were grim-Ship, he heard. People weren’t happy, and it didn’t have to do with the line not being open. While Jamal and Tink hauled the serving-pans out and settled them on the counter, he opened up the cabinet and got out the coffee and the filters, listening all the while.

Something about a ship following them.

Marie? he asked himself. His heart skipped a beat, two, recalling what Austin had said, that Marie might come here.

Then he heard another word. Mazianni. And he stopped cold, asking himself what in hell was going on, that Corinthian had to worry.

Didn’t they supply the Fleet? Weren’t they on the same side?

He looked at Tink. Tink looked grim, too.

“Aren’t they friendlies?” he asked Tink. “What are they talking about?”

“Dunno,” Tink said. “But, no, they ain’t, all of’ em. Not by a long shot.”

—ii—

“I DON’T FEEL SORRY FOR YOU,” Austin said, for openers. “Not one damn bit. Am I going to hear you whimper, or what?”

“You don’t get to hear anything,” Christian said, and sank into the well-worn interview chair. “You’re not interested. Do I get to go back to the bridge now? We’ve got a ship pulled away from dock. You might be interested.”

“You have a seriously maladjusted psyche, Mr. Bowe.”

“I have a seriously warped sense of values, captain, sir, that would indicate to me the captain might have advised me, rather than leave me and the second chief navigator outside the information loop. I hope you enjoyed your joke. I hope you enjoyed it a lot. Because thanks to our rattling around back there on Pell docks, that’s a Mazianni spotter behind us. That’s a ship called Silver Dream, based at Fargone, if you haven’t noticed before this.”

“Let me recall how, also leading to this event, we had a deal with an Earth-bound ship that I didn’t authorize. Let me recall…”

“Let me recall we’re not talking about a personal matter. If Family Boy and cousin Saby want to screw each other blue in lower main, fine, that’s their judgment, I’m glad they had a good time while we were turning the bars upside down and knocking on every door on Pell. So that’s all right, they’re in a room somewhere on your credit, thanks ever so much—but the burning question’s still that ship back there. I’m sorry I blacked brother’s eye, just for God’s sake pay attention to what I’m saying.”

“Attention? Did I hear the word, Attention?”

“Listen to me! Damn you, will you just one time listen to me?”

“Mister, I have the most shocking revelation for you. Your discoveries of the universe are twenty years behind mine, your insights and your wisdom do not overreach my own, your outrage at the situation does not outmatch mine, and I am moved at this moment to leave this chair and explain to you physically the same rules my father explained to me the week I made my own most egregious mistake, except that I swore that I’d lean a bit heavier on communication and a little less to the fist. Which I do, in consequence.—So what was it you had to say?”

“I said… “ He fought for self-control. And quiet in his voice. “I said, We should lay back in Pell system, go slow… this guy’s not hauling, I’ll lay you money he’s not hauling. He’s certainly armed with more than the ordinary. Capella says… he’s some different faction of the Fleet.”

“Welcome to the real universe. Different factions of the Fleet. I’m amazed.”

“Be serious, dammit.”

“I am. Very serious. Decades of seriousness. “ Austin rocked his chair back, crossed his leg over his knee, folded his hands on his stomach. “Has it ever struck you, Christian, this fragmentation, this stupid factionalization of the Fleet that should have defended civilization,—says something about the human condition? That enemies are much more essential to our happiness than friends? That our rivals shape our ethics, and our failures define our goals? Seems so, from the business on our own deck. Screw Mazian. And Mallory. But what a miserable, stupid end it comes to.”

“It’s one damn ship out there! Quit talking about endings and give me some of that experience you claim to have.”

“Scared, Mr. Bowe?”

“Screw you!”

“If you can’t mate with it, eat it, or wear it, it’s no good? I thought that was your philosophy. Maybe it can do something about the ship back there.”

“Cut it out! You’ve made your point. Let’s talk about that ship, let’s talk about what to do—”

“Shoot at it, maybe? Or stall us insystem? I think that was Capella’s advice. Fine for her. But not for us.”

“You’re running scared! You’re more scared of Marie Hawkins than—”

“Than that spotter? No.”

“Then, damn you, quit joking. I don’t know when you’re listening.”

“You could ask.”

“I could take it for granted, if you weren’t such a bastard.”

“Never take anyone’s listening for granted. Children teach you that. Any other divine revelations? Human insights? Moderately wise notions?”

Christian set his hands on the chair arms, to get up. “That I’ve got things to do. I’ve had it. I’m through. I’m not listening, after this.”

“Oh, give me some news. This isn’t it.”

“Damn you, pay attention to something but your ego! Capella says the other faction wants her—with the navigational data she has in her head. She’s saying they’d go after us to get her.”

“Ah. Information. Finally.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

Austin shrugged. “I’ll let you know.”

“What kind of an answer is that?”

“Exactly that. Go see to your own business. I’m offduty, you’re on, good luck, good night, stay out of trouble. Meanwhile, consider that the woman you’re sleeping with might just possibly have motives of her own.”

“Oh, that’s right, drive a wedge, plant suspicion—”

Austin rocked his chair back. “God, this is boring. Wake me when you have a thought.”

“Damn you!”

“Still waiting.”

God, he wanted to get up, walk out… he hated Austin in this damned, superior mode, this smug, condescending spite. He’d interrupted. He knew the pose.

“Father, sir,—what were you about to say?”

“Ah. About Capella? Her advice to stay in port… was better for her than for us.”

“Because we’re running from the Hawkins ship?”

“Because we can’t keep this ship sitting at dock running up charges, boy, basic economics.”

“Your real reason, damn you.”

“Through putting words in my mouth?”

“Yes, father. “ Through clenched jaw. “Please.”

“Because that ship is going to sit out there at Tripoint and wait as long as we can wait. Very simple. We can’t avoid it. We can’t outwait it. I’m afraid your friend Capella would like to stay at dock simply because there’s a chance of a ship coming in that she can skip to, quietly, so when Corinthian does meet with trouble… she won’t be on it.”

“Forgive me, but I don’t read her that way.”

“I used to be that naive.”

A biting remark was on his tongue. He didn’t vent it. “Can we talk about the ship, sir? It’s going to overjump us. I agree it’s going to be waiting for us when we get there. It’s going to read our entry shock and it’s going to fire on it,”

“Yes.”

“Then what do we do?”

“If they know precisely where we’re going, not damn much we can do. We hope that’s not the case. We’ve got til our wave reaches them and their response, whatever it is, reaches us. We hope that’s a long distance, that’s what we do.”

“That can’t be all! They could be sitting right on our drop-point—”

“Why would they want Capella?”

“Because she knows a lot of Fleet drop points. Not just this one. Because they don’t want to blow up the ship she’s on.”

“Possibly. Also—possibly because she knows the Tripoint drop and they don’t. It’s a lot of space to search, for something the size of a freighter. You can bet the dissident factions have tried to find it and you can hope they’ve failed. If they need her, we’ll have whatever advantage she can give us. And she’s not anxious to die. Or fall into their hands. So I do trust Capella—that she’ll do what she does very well.”

“So what do you want me to set up for you, on the boards? Any changes in config? In defaults, in display?”

“No. Nothing unusual.”

“Dammit, this isn’t a game.”

“You’ve seen that. Good. This is not a drill. In the event of this actual emergency… we’ll hand off thirty minutes before jump. Meanwhile, I need my nap.”

“You’re not actually going to sleep.”

“I think so. I’ll have my dinner. Catch an hour or so. See you. Good luck. Don’t screw things too badly.”

“God, I hate you.”

Humor left Austin’s expression, ever so briefly. And returned, like a mask. “You used to say that when you didn’t get your way. Sorry, this one depends on that ship out there. I say again, don’t screw it.”

There was silence. He got up, slowly, and walked out. The door hissed shut.

He stood outside, against the wall, for some few moments, telling himself calm down, actually confusedly sorry about that parting shot, for the way Austin had looked for half a heartbeat. He’d never scored on Austin like that. Never gotten Austin’s real expression in an argument. In retrospect, maybe that was what scared him. As if Austin was somehow and for a moment wide open to him—as if, maybe Austin wasn’t expecting to come out of this mess.

But, hell, Austin had been in the War, Austin had shepherded Corinthian through fire and mines and stray ordnance, only a couple of times taken damage, Austin had gotten them out of far worse, while he’d shivered inside the pillow-padded storage bin where Saby hid with him, Saby swearing it was going to be all right, the ship was going to move hard for a while, Austin and Beatrice were doing it, don’t be scared, Chrissy, don’t be scared—while Saby shivered, too, and half-broke his bones when the g-force built, and you didn’t know when it would stop, or when it did, you didn’t know why, or what could hit you, or when.

Never forgot those years. The nerves had still been there when he was sixteen, worse, maybe, that he’d only heard later what was going on, never so that he could pin this sensation to that movement… impressions all muddled up in a three-year-old’s memory, a five-year-old’s terror.

For sixteen, seventeen years he’d been spooked by jump, by the g-forces, by the whole feeling of a ship doing what a ship did. But Capella had laughed him through his terrors, Capella had snared him in other sensations, taught him to enjoy the craziness, to see the dimensions as other than up and down and falling. Austin was wrong about her—Capella had come to him on the docks, not the other way around: he hadn’t thought of that argument against Austin’s suspicions, he always thought of the telling ones after the door was shut.

He could trust her. Trust her with his life, absolutely.

With his half-brother—hell, cancel that. Don’t think about it. Elder brother was stronger, faster, smarter, any adjective you wanted, he was also god-awfully clean-minded, noble, true, and honest. A thorough-going bore.

Dance, she’d said, light flickering around her, the music drowned in the drum-beat, the equation of a different space glowing below the bracelet, and no damn guarantee the enemies she was avoiding weren’t going to walk through that door.

They’d been in mortal danger. He hadn’t thought about it. Capella had been waiting for it. Wanting, maybe, a chance at it on the dockside, where her enemies were much more vulnerable.

Or… maybe keeping Austin guessing, whether she’d board or not. And making Austin know he might force her to board—but work for him?

God. God, he’d been blind. Focused on the wrong problem. Again. He had to get the pieces together, had to pull it out, if Austin was sinking into some self-destructive funk… Austin and Beatrice were feuding, you could feel it in the way the ship moved; the ship could lose more than trade, it could lose, out there in the dark, where if they didn’t make that pick-up, they couldn’t guarantee there’d be another. And if an enemy found that supply dump… they couldn’t guarantee anything, either. Not even their getting out alive.

Capella sat on main crew, this trip. Had to. He was supposed to set things up… and no changes in routine, Austin said?

When they were running into ambush, and Austin knew it?

Had to talk to Michaels, that was what. Had to be sure that capped switch was thrown and the guns were up when they made the drop at Tripoint. Elder brother and that matter… didn’t matter, in that context. A non-issue, until they got to Viking. If they got to Viking.

—iii—

RUMORS MULTIPLIED ON LOWER deck once mainday tech crew had hit the galley line in numbers, and the incoming detail gathered form as informants from various ops posts got together at the tables and fact and speculation intersected: Fact: the ship out there was Silver Dream, it was a closed-hold hauler, you couldn’t tell whether or what it had in its holds. Fact: it had a large engine pack, which was always suspicious on a non-Family ship. Observation: Christian and the second chief navigator were uneasy about it, and: Speculation, were sure it wasn’t hauling, and when they cleared the slow zones they were going to light out of Pell like a bat.

That much, Tom picked up just passing around the tables, refilling table coffee and tea pots. Heads were together, the galley was uncommonly quiet, voices were subdued and urgent. Dockers clustered apart from the techs, at their tables at the end of the galley zone… the questions in that corner were slightly different, no less urgent: What are we going to do, skip through the Point? And the answer: Can’t offload. No way we can offload.

Somebody wondered, then, whether they’d still get their pay, in that event. The rest, apparently old hands on Corinthian, said Shut up, don’t be a fool, being alive to spend it was the issue, and the captain would make it up, the captain never shorted you for what wasn’t your fault.

Tom collected plates, grabbed them as fast as they emptied, folded up the tables and the seats, fast as he could. Heard names like Mallory, and Porey, and Edger, names of captains of the dismembered Fleet. Talk about ambushes. And a dump, whether v-dump, meaning whether they were going to slow down, or supply dump… it sounded like the latter. Rendezvous, of some kind? he asked himself.

“What do we regularly do out there?” he asked Tink. “Level with me. What’s the ordinary scenario?”

“There’s a place,” Tink said, but someone came near, just then, and Tink didn’t feel comfortable talking, it was clear. Jamal frowned at both of them.

“Tink, get some help, that cart’s ready for the bridge, Medical’s ready to roll.”

“Yeah, I’m on it,” Tink said, grabbed a couple of offduty maintenance techs and dragooned them into cart-transport, while he folded tables and secured safety latches, wanting not to think about Mazianni weapons bearing down on them.

Mazianni operating at Pell, free and open, for God’s sake? And following them out of port?

Where did they get undock clearance? Who assigned them dockers to get them out that fast, to follow Corinthian? Nothing fit with what he knew unless it was Mallory on their tail… but Mazianni didn’t above all describe Mallory, who did operate out of Pell. Mallory was semi-legitimate. Had total station cooperation—it could be some ship working for her, and Pell authorities, to arrest them… or get evidence on them, but there were warrants for that, easier to do at dock.

“Tom!”

Tone of a man who’d been trying to get his attention. He looked at Jamal, blank of what the man had been saying.

“Hell, I’ll get it,” Jamal said. “No damn brain on duty anywhere. Stay here! Pull the delivery slips, check it off. If you screw up, Hawkins, somebody’s without trank. Can you manage that?”

“Got it. “ He went back to the paperwork desk, laid Jamal’s handheld on the communication plate, punched the requisite code for the deliveries, DDAT, to transfer, 1 plus T, no mystery in the software. The handheld registered File Complete, meaning it had read an end-of-file,—and a furtive, stupid thought sprang up. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he said to himself, system’s guarded, all kinds of partitions. He looked longingly at that console, then, hell, shook his head and let it alone.

He’d done the checklist when Jamal came back with what looked like the stuff from Medical. Jamal took the list he’d vetted, left, with: “Stow everything behind doors. Don’t trust counter-mounts. We don’t know what we’re into. Turn the water off, under the sink. Lock the drain down. You know how to do that?”

“Yessir,” he said. Tink was still out on deliveries. He flipped the lever to dismount the mixer and the processor, stowed them below, secured oven latches, washers, cabinets, put the pans behind solid doors and latched them in. Got the water shut off, put the anti-vacuum lock on the drain. He’d never used one, but he’d heard about whole sections voided of air through a pipe breach.

Cast another, longing look at the computer. Looked at the door. Edged closer, then flipped it on just to see what program would come up.

Screen showed: MES>94.

He hit 01, keyed: Your message software’s a dinosaur. I could access. I didn’t. T. Hawkins.

Austin had a lot else on his mind. The whole ship rang with urgency. Stupid to do. Distracting to Austin. To… God knew who… but, dammit, things were happening up there he didn’t have a clue to judge. He had skills he wasn’t using. Somebody was after them, and he had to sit down here, being shot at, keeping pans from falling out of cabinets, getting rumors from the walk-ins… his stomach was in a knot.

It might make Austin know he restrained himself. Might get him at least access physically where he could access electronically. Software was a dinosaur. God knew what other was.

But, damn, no, ship was at risk. Wasn’t a time for personal stuff. He ran a delete. Flipped the switch. Killed it.

Could be the militia after them. And here he was. Wrong side of Marie’s quarrel. Wrong side of everything.

The ship was growing so quiet. He’d never heard anything the like on Sprite before they went to jump. On Sprite there were so many Family, there were so many kids running up and down, people yelling information at each other. Here… just quiet. Somebody walked outside the partition that divided the galley from general passage. Somebody shouted, far off in the ring. Somewhere, sounding sections away, a cart rattled. He made himself move away from the console, get to work, the last few table-seat units to fold up, thunderous, appalling crashes in the silence.

Jamal came back, started running checks on the cabinets. “You’re L14.”

“Yes.”

“Left your stuff there. Trank and all. You ever get sheets?”

“I… no. I didn’t. “ Sheets were the farthest thing from his mind. “I can do without. It’s all right. “ In the crisis at hand, he regretted his protestations to Saby about his own quarters. Didn’t want to be alone. Desperately didn’t want to be alone, but he’d taken that position… didn’t see how to talk to her now.

“Freeze your ass off,” Jamal said. “I tossed some blankets in. Put your trank on the bunk. Sheets are down in Medical, you got to do that yourself.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a crazy trip. Hope we see the other side of it.”

Cart rattled and thumped somewhere, growing closer. Tink coming back, he thought, and Jamal said, “We’re shut down here. You want to go get those sheets? I’ll sign you out.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks. “ Jamal was down furnishing his quarters while he was sneaking access on the galley computer. Didn’t make him feel better. He went for the exit toward lower main, dodged Tink and the inbound cart.

“We done?” Tink asked cheerfully.

“Seems so,” he said. He tried cheerfulness. It didn’t take.

But Tink bumped him on the arm with a tattooed fist. “Hey. We’re all right. Seen us sail through the damnedest stuff. Pieces rattling off the hull. We come through. We always come through. Can’t scratch this ship.”

“You been aboard that long?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tink said. “You just belt in good. Hear? Hope you secured those cabinets, or we’ll have pans clear to Engineering.”

He laughed a little. He truly wanted to laugh. “Yeah,” he said. It made him feel better as he went his way down to Medical. Check out the sheets, yeah, pillow, too, got the blankets, already, sir, no problem, got the trank, yeah, I’m on the roster, I’m on galley duty, Jamal said he saw to it.

He got the sheets, he went to lonely L14 and checked out the accommodation. It wasn’t quite a closet. It had plumbing. He remembered what Austin said about turning the water on. He tried it and it was off. But the outbound pipe needed shutting. He got down to locate it, found the cutoff labeled, and turned it.

The first of the acceleration warnings sounded, then. He banged his head on the cabinet getting out, his heart going like a hammer. He heard Christian’s voice, at least he thought it was Christian: “We’ll clear Pell slow zones in ten minutes. At that time we’ll start our acceleration toward departure. We’re releasing non-ops personnel to quarters to secure premises. Please secure all pipes and unplug all but emergency equipment. Area chiefs please check compliance and all vacant compartments. As you are aware, we have a follower. We do not know the ship’s intentions, but we are on condition red alert. Double check all secure latches, secure all non-essential items.”

Damn, he thought, palms sweating. Canned speech. Christian was reading—he couldn’t be that calm and collected. But Christian had something to do besides imagine. He didn’t. The walls seemed to close in on him.

“Be doubly sure of your belts. If you detect any belt malfunction, pad up with all available materials and secure yourself in the smallest area of your compartment. All personnel, review your emergency assignments. “

There wasn’t a ‘smallest area. ‘ The compartment was it. He got up off the deck and tested the belts. They worked. The emergency procedures all seemed unreal to him, more extreme than any drill he’d ever walked through, precautions against maneuvers he wasn’t sure Sprite had ever had to make, at the worst of the War. They’d sat the bad times out in port.

Pieces rattling off the hull. Hell.

The door opened, without a by-your-leave. “Looking for a room-mate,” Saby said.

He was glad. He was incredibly, shakily glad of that offer—welcomed Saby’s arms around him, held to her as something solid, against the suppositions.

“Yeah,” he said. “Good. Fine with me.”

—iv—

“EVERYTHING IN PARAMETERS,” Christian said, on the hand-off. Austin lowered himself into the chair, scanned the console, found the routine settings. “Anything else?”

The boy was always touchy. You never knew, unless you’d deliberately hit the button.

“No,” he said. “Belt in, stay tight, this one’s going to be interesting.”

“We’re going to skim it, right?”

Shoot right through Tripoint with no v-dump. Accumulate v at the interface and come into Viking like a bat out of hell…

Certainly it was one solution. But they were loaded heavy. Hell of a mass.

“You run the calc?”

“‘Pella and I did. It’s on your number two, all the options I figured. She says she can put it in margin. I say it’s dicey.”

“Very.”

“They always short you in the cans. Absolute mass is 200k less. Saby says.”

“That’s nice.”

“Nice. Hell. “ Christian was keeping his voice down, standing right by his chair. “What are we going to do? We’re not stopping.”

“Maybe.”

“God in—”

“Shush, shush, shush, Mr. Bowe, a shade less emotional, if you please.”

“You damn, grandstanding… bastard, no, forget I said it, you haven’t anything to prove to me, I know you can do it, let’s just not try, all right?”

“I’m perfectly serious—as a possibility. I trust you calc’ed that with the rest.”

“It’s on there.”

“It had better be. It had better be right, mister. Bet our lives it’s right.”

Christian’s mouth went very thin. “Yes, sir,” he said, and went forward, said a word to Beatrice, stopped for another to Capella, who wasn’t standing down at shift-change.

Capella listened, frowned, nodded to whatever it was. Christian bent and, definite breach of regulations, kissed the second chief navigator on the forehead.

The second chief navigator grabbed his collar, gave him one on the mouth that went on. And on. Christian came back straightening his collar and headed, clearly, past, without explanation.

“Inspiring the crew?” Austin said.

“Just for God’s sake listen to her.”

“Emotion, emotion. Get some rest.”

Christian left. The sort-out of shift-change was mostly complete.

“You know,” Michaels said, stopping by his chair, to lean on the arm and the back and deliver a quiet word to his ear, “the boy said, hit the sims, first thing; said, stay on ‘em, said don’t even ask you, just push the arming button last thing when we go up.”

“Did, did he?”

“Whole list of orders, yours, his, identical down the line. Just thought you’d like to know.”

He gave a breath, a laugh, couldn’t say what. Michaels patted his arm, went on for a word to Beatrice. Felt all right, it did. There was hope for the brat, give or take what he’d stirred.

No way their tagalong was Mallory’s. The Pell militia wouldn’t chase you from Pell docks into jump. If Pell wanted you, you’d have hell getting undocked. They’d have agents out to blow something essential while you sat at dock, no question, they’d learned their lesson the hard way about quarrels with ships.

So, granted it wasn’t the law, it was clearly a ship with a mission, and it was clearly on the Tripoint heading. If guesses were right, at worst-case, those holds were empty, and their lighter mass was going to give Silver Dream’s big engine-pack a hype to send it right past Corinthian. In terms of v, realspace negligible. In terms of position in space-time… ahead of them. Waiting for them, when hyperspace abhorred their energy-state out again at Tripoint.

But bet they wouldn’t use nukes, not if they wanted to board and take the second chief navigator for themselves. They’d use inerts: simple mag-fired rifle balls, in effect—hoping to cripple Corinthian’s jump-capacity; and they’d have to launch those after they’d picked up the wavefront of Corinthian’s arrival.

“Nav.”

“Sir.”

“Are you comfortable with what you have, with data?”

“Yes, sir, more than adequate. “

He keyed up the alternatives. Found the one he wanted. The supply dump. “Nav, receive my send. How close can you put us?”

“Sir. May I talk privately?”

“Come ahead.”

Capella left her chair, came and leaned an elbow against his console. “Sir,” Capella said. “If you want honestly to leave it to me, give me leave to dump at any point, I’ll guarantee you best of two alternatives.”

“What two?”

“We find this sumbitch far enough out we can make that dump or close enough in we take my bet and skip through to Viking. We can dump down. Swear to you.”

You looked in Capella’s eyes when she was off duty, you learned nothing. You looked there now and you got the coldest, clearest stare.

“I believe you, second chief navigator. Are you saying leave that choice to you? My priorities involve the economics of this ship. Involve keeping a contract, with entities I believe you represent. Can you set us next our target, if our problem isn’t within, say, three hours light? Can you assure me… we can stay emissions-neutral?”

“Hell of an accuracy, sir.”

“Can you do it?”

Capella when that grin cut loose was the devil. The very devil. You didn’t know.

“Maybe.”

“I’d suggest you figure it, second chief navigator.”

“You are one son of a bitch, captain, sir.”

“Yeah. I am. How good are you?”

“Damn good.”

“Then do it.”

“Yes, sir. “

Never a way in hell he could have gotten that berth within the Fleet—point of fact, there hadn’t been a way in hell he’d have wanted one, in his adult life, when they were losing ships faster than they could reckon what they’d lost, and attitudes inside the Fleet were responsible for that trend. He could still name a couple of the captains he’d have shot as soon as deal with, and the feeling was still, he was sure, entirely mutual.

He’d never truly known where Capella fit in that mosaic, until just now that he’d nudged Capella into action: Don’t question me, second chief, just obey the order. And that straight look and that ‘sir’ out of their nameless navigator…

Satisfying, that he could get ‘sir’ out of this woman, who’d had the career that had slipped away before he was old enough to chase it, in any sense that the War could be won or that there was time left to reconstitute the old order. He’d seen nothing past the impending debacle, once upon the omniscience of his youth, seen nothing worth obeying or believing, fool that he’d been; and now his son was staring into another Götterdämerung, nothing of fire and fury, just a niggling increase of regulations—he could see that from where he sat, watching anachronism on her way to the navigation console.

He’d had his moral victory, maybe, maybe could slip out of this mess… maybe escape all the rest of the little regulation-generated disasters, so long as he lived, on a ship that had thrown in its lot with what was changing. Little ships couldn’t get the profit margin, with the new regulations, couldn’t keep ahead of the Family ships and the state-sponsored combines.

So what did a small-hauler do, but go on serving the ports they could, getting cargo where they could, even doing what obliged them to take personnel the Fleet dictated they take?

No way to refuse the honor, of course, no objection possible, and no assurance the divisions inside the Fleet weren’t going to play out one day on their own deck, for interests a mere merchant captain didn’t guess, and against opposition said captain might not find out about until it was too late.

Unless, say, the second chief navigator saw it, too, saw the same wall coming, and the same Götterdämerung.

Yes, sir, that word was, and he watched her settle in, all business, listened to her, on A-band, engage Beatrice, and tell Beatrice she’d have certain data, and she should trust it blindly, no matter how extreme it seemed.

Beatrice half-turned in her seat. He nodded. Beatrice settled back. So they were going with it. Beatrice would handle it. He had confidence, too, in the Fleet’s gift—granted you knew which faction she belonged to.

—v—

ACCEL GREW HARDER, JOINTS POPPED. Fingers twined with fingers. Couldn’t think of anything, not at this g-stress, just company.

“Want the light?” Saby asked.

“No. Dark’s fine. I know who I’m with. “ Light just confused the eyes with here and now, and didn’t solve what went on in the dark space.

Didn’t silence Marie. She lived there, at the edge of jump. Like Rodman. Like Roberta R. Like the kids.

Just wondered… where they were going. What they were going to do.

“Tink says… back through Tripoint. Non-stop, I take it?”

Silence out of Saby for a few breaths. Her quarters. Her bed. Her fingers twitched in his. “We’re hauling. Not light mass on this leg. My bet is, we’ll deliver.”

“Deliver to what?”

“Where we have to.”

“Level with me. What do we haul? What are they after, this ship they’re talking about?”

“Don’t know. Don’t know who this ship’s working for. “ Another twitch of the fingers. “But while they’re searching… we can move cargo. They can try to find us.”

“That’s crazed. You just dump it out there, or are we meeting somebody, or what?”

“Just a place. Spooky place. Dead ship. I don’t like it. But stuff’s waiting there for us. Always is.”

“Those were the cans at Viking.”

A moment Saby just lay still. “Yes,” she said. “Sorry to say, that’s what you found.”

“Stuff they raided?” Indignation was hard, this close to the edge, under the heavy hand of acceleration. “That’s your trade? Stolen goods?”

“Stuff from a long time back. Old stuff. It’s the dates, the dates you don’t want to question. Ships we deal with don’t raid anymore. Don’t want the attention. Long as we sell them food, medicines… import Scotch.”

“And arms.”

“Food. Medicines. Mostly food. Plants. Live plants.”

“Live plants.”

They maintained a separate silence a while, hands joined.

“That’s the damned oddest thing I ever heard,” he said.

“Truth,” Saby said.

“I guess. “ Best offer he had. “If you say so—yeah, I believe it.”