Tripoint

C. J. Cherryh

Chapter One

—i—

DREAM OF AN INTERFACE OF ENERGIES above the Einstein limit. Dream ofa phase-storm skimmingwhat it can’t envelop—

until the storm slides down, down, down the nearest gravity-pit

—

In this case, E. Eridani. Viking, Unionside, with ties to Pell, on

the Alliance side ofthe line. Shipyards and industry. Trade. Mining. Hydrogen glows in the bow-shock. The ship dives for

thermonuclear hell. The eld re-shapes itself. Almost. Once. Twice. Becomes Sprite, inbound for the habitation zone. The ring engages. Body settles to the mattress. Breaths come Viking-time now, ten, fteen to the caesium-

timed minute. Heart brillates and nds its beat. Right hand gropes after the nutri-pack, left hand utters o -

target, trying to pull the tab. Hand to mouth is another

targeting problem. God-bloody-awful, going down. But ifa man lay very, very

still for a few minutes, the luxury ofthe o -duty tech, he’d nd

he felt a lot, lot better for swallowingall ofit. And Tom Hawkins, at twenty-three, had made close to two

hundred such system drops, a few ofthem before he was born. At twenty-three, he was a veteran ofthe Trade, the Fargone-

Voyager-Mariner-to-Cyteen circle that had been Sprite’s routine. Long time since they’d seen Viking—in a time-dilated

childhood, longer since Vikinghad seen him. Those had been the scary days, runs when you got into port

and other ships told you you’d be crazy to go on as you

planned… even as a kid, you caught the anxiousness in the

seniors and heard the rumors. You knew, even as a kid, when a

run was dangerous, and you heard, though the seniors were

sure you weren’t in earshot, about dead ships and Mazianni

raids. Mariner was all rebuilt now, modern and shiningnew. The

pirates were mostly out of the picture. Pell resumed its role as

gateway to ancestral Earth and its luxury trade. Cyteen and Pell

had signed the long-negotiated trade treaty, with the nal

closing ofthe Hinder Stars, by the terms ofwhich, Pell dropped

its claim to Viking and agreed to tari adjustments on haulers

plying the Viking—Marinerrun, thus promotingViking

commerce, since Viking hadn’t much to sell except machinery,

raw materials, and accommodations for the long-haulers. But, bad news for the smugglers—by the treaty just signed,

Viking became a free port, Union by government, tax-free for

Earth goods, shipped through fromPell, and for certain Union

goods, shipped through fromotherports. Big boost for struggling Viking, that was what Mischa-

captain-sir had said when they’d drawn theirfat government

contract. Bigger boost for themselves—Sprite wasn’t a warm-

hold hauler, and only a fewofherclass had gotten into the

lottery for the government contracts, though the Family hadn’t

even been in agreement at the outset to take the o er, being

reluctant to fall out oftheirordinary cycle, and miss their

frequent rendezvous with decade-longfriends on Polly and

Surinam; but the gures had worked out, showingthem how

they were going to get back into the loop with theirtrading

partners—make two tightly scheduled, fast transits between

Viking and Mariner, and they’d be meetingPolly and Surinam on

their trips back from Cyteen OuterStation, intersectingtheir

old schedule for a loop out to Fargone once every othership-

year, making a literal gure eight with Bolivar and the Luiz-

Romneys, who had likewise lusted afterthe contract and found

the same objections. Sprite and Bolivar together could do what

the big combine ships did, perfectly legal, ifthey met schedule. So it wasn’t goodbye foreverto old friends, o -ship lovers

and favorite haunts—just wait-a-while. And hello to Viking. He’d not been here since he was six—

since an unscheduled long layoverhad provided the kids’ loft a

rare permission for the middles and olders in the loft to go

downside, right out the lock and down the dock, with a close

guard, in those wild years, ofarmed senior crew. That had been impressive—theirescort ofuncles and aunts

and mothers carrying guns at the hip, his rst-ever view ofa

station dock in all his youngship-born life, a memory ofcold,

frosty breaths, browned metal and huge machinery the seniors

said would snatch strayed children up and grind them into the

shcakes Viking sold. At that age, he’d believed it absolutely, had particular

suspicions certain two cousins in the group would feed him to

the machines, and held tight to the crocodile-rope, gawking

about but being very wary ofsneak attacks by cousins and

rapacious robot loaders. Warehouses, long, long areas ofwarehouses, huge cans

waiting loading, that was what he remembered: vending

machines where they’d all gotten soft drinks and chips—lousy

chips, but they’d never seen food drop out ofa machine and it

was a marvel. He remembered a longrowofbars children

weren’t supposed to go into, but the seniors had let them look

into one, which was dark and loud and full ofpeople who

stopped drinking and stared at them, moment frozen in a kid’s

remembrances. Thirty years ago, station-time, that was. He lived ship-years,

his own biological years. The arbitrariness ofoutside time had

confused him when he was six—and still, though computers

and numbers were his job and his livelihood, he fell into that

childhood misconception when he tried to feel the near forty

years outsiders said he’d lived. But that only mattered against history. He’d been six on that

outing, not ten—body and mind, a staggeringdi erence, but

station o cers always wanted your universal dates on the

customs papers you had to ll out. To ship-dwellers, body-years

mattered, and you knewthose fromMedical; computers

calculated it by where yourship had been, what it hauled, and

kept careful track all your life, never mind howlongit took

some long-ago planet to go around its star. Ship was yourworld. Ship was four hundred sixteen cousins and uncles and aunts, all

Hawkinses, every one. Inside was Us, where you were born,

where you had a ship-share and the freedom to come and go

with the ship forever—a couple ofweeks in any port and then

out again, good-bye, see you next turn about, orneveragain. Spacers weren’t in charge ofsureties. It was always if, and plans

changed, and ships went where the trade was. Two hundred ship-years old, Sprite was. Not a big ship. Not

as old as Dublin or Finity’s End. Not a glamour ship, no long

runs, no memorable action in the war, just a light-armed hard

worker that kept the goods movingand delivered the heartbeat

ofcivilization when she made port and the information ofher

last port owed into the current ports. Data on banks, stock

reports, trade gures, births and deaths, books, entertainments,

news and inventions across the web ofstars: the tick and pulse

ofeverything human was in Sprite’s databanks when she

docked. Some ofit she was paid to carry; some was public

information, obligatory for any ship that docked to carry, non-

charge, to its next port. At Viking, Sprite would drink down an

informational feed she hadn’t had directly in years, the data of

Earth-space and Alliance, such, at least, as Alliance was willing

to spill to Unionside in this strange new era ofpeace. That data ood-to-come meant a lot ofwork ahead for Sprite,

to make its own best use ofwhat it learned—knowledge

ultimately as valuable to the ship as the goods in herhold, data

that was pro t, and survival, for a ship that competed forits

contracts and owned at least most ofits own cargo. It took a lot

ofhead-work and computerwork to keep a small ship

competitive in a market that sawnew station-bound combines

and cartels trying to tie up the trade and turn everything

corporate…

Though captain Mischa Hawkins had said that wouldn’t go

down: the Beyond had fought the War to get rid ofthe Earth-

based corp-rats, and merchant spacers would never tolerate it. The starstations that had rebelled against Earth’s governance

might think they were goingto play that game themselves. But

ifstationer governments built ships to compete with the Family

ships that had helped them in the War, those ships would have

small, expensive accidents, nothingto cost a life—unless they

pushed back. Ifthey hired crew, they’d not be quality, or

reliable. The merchanter Families ruled commerce on both

sides ofthe Union-Alliance boundary, disdainingpermanent

allegiances, and they’d shut every station down cold, ifstations

tried to dictate to them again. Stations knew it. Stations kept one lawon theirupper levels,

but the docks and the sleepovers were under separate rules; and

on the deck ofevery individual ship was that ship’s own law, at

dock or in space. So the law was the same. Still, it was a new concept to

Thomas Hawkins—to go out on station docks with no ship he

knew in port—like a rst-timer, almost, which he assuredly

wasn’t… he’d been cruising the docks on his own since he was

ship-wise eighteen, never gotten knifed, never gotten into

anything he couldn’t talk his way out of. Most often he scored

with some spacer-femme likewise looking…

Particularly with one dark-eyed Polly crew-brat, who he

wasn’t certain was using precautions, but, ifyou said you

weren’t and she didn’t, that was entirely herbusiness and Polly’s

business. A man just wondered… might he have a kid on some

ship… somewhere… and he wouldn’t see herfor two years. Mind was going random. He was slidingdown into sleep

again. There was a little sedative in his post-jump packet,

aspirin, mostly. Didn’t take much to send you under, afterjump,

and he wasn’t scheduled for duty till next watch. Busy time coming, then. Lot ofequipment to check. Nav and

cargo on their necks, meanwhile juniors got all the wonderful

routine, the stu that wasn’t ops-critical, and there was always

a pile ofit, all the data storage, hard and matrixed…

Load the chain ofrecords, compare and check it o : ifsome

subspace gremlin had bombed one le it wouldn’t get the

backup in exactly the same way. The operations computers

checked themselves, monitored by Senior technicians. Forall

those data les not regularly loaded there were the juniortechs

to do the job, on the auxiliary boards, why else did lower

lifeforms exist?

Load another record…

Log the check…

Meanwhile test all the systems. Good reason for a nap. “Thomas Bowe.”

He blinked. Thought he’d dreamed it. Shut his eyes. “Thomas Bowe, con rm.”

Eyes opened. He wished they wouldn’t, call him that. He’d

complained. That was a by-the-book tight-ass senior cousin on

the bridge. He knew the voice: Duran T. Hawkins, seniorCom,

who didn’t give a damn about his complaints. But a by-name call, cominghard on systementry, scared

him, once his brain cut in—as if—God—had somebody dropped

dead on entry?

They didn’t call junior o cers on the com for

social chatter. He rolled out ofhis bunk, ignored the poundingin his

temples, and braced his armon the opposite wall to push the

button. “This is Tom B., con rmingto com.”

“Report to the captain, Thomas B., on the bridge, in good order,

ship is stable, con rm.”

“Con rm,” he said, and heard the comclick out without a

window to query, and no patience ifhe called back to ask

questions, not with Duran at the board. Besides, they were legitimately busy up there—it could be

they were calling computer techs for some kind ofops

emergency, in which case it was a de nite hurry. His heart had

begun thumping with a stupid panic, the pain in his sinuses

had grown acute, the result ofgoingvertical in a rush, but they

hadn’t said stat, they’d given an in good order, which meant take

time to clean up. So his mother couldn’t have had an attack or something. Marie was under forty, ship-time,—healthy as the proverbial

horse. They’d had breakfast togetherbefore they jumped, she’d

talked about something he couldn’t remember. But they called

you ifa relative had taken ill…

Or most ofall they called you ifyou’d screwed something

critical and they wanted to knowexactly what you’d done to

systems before Mischa asked you to take a hike in cold space. But he hadn’t laid a hand on the main boards since long

before they left Mariner. He was absolutely sure ofthat. Balance wasn’t steady yet. He bashed an elbow, slid the

bathroom door open—the whole end ofthe 2-meter-wide cabin

on a circular track. He met his own confused, haggard face in

the mirror, squinting at the automatic glare ofwhite light. He

peeled out ofhis clothes, set the showeron Conserve, forspeed,

slid through the shower door without losingvital parts and

shut his eyes against the 30 second all-around needlingofthe

cleaner-and-water spray. A quick, breath-takingblast sucked

the water back again. The vacuummade his ears pop, and didn’t

at all help a nervous stomach or a sick headache. But he was scrubbed, shampooed, shaved, and saner-looking

as he shut the bath behind him. He struggled into clean

coveralls, remembered the key-card while he was walkinghis

boots on, went back and found it on his dirty coveralls, clipped

it on one-handed as he opened the dooronto the lowermain

corridor. Ship is stable meant no take-holds expected, no clip-

lines required, and he made a dash down-ringto the lift. Crew

was coming and going, likewise at speed when they had to cross

the ship’s axis. Somebody for sure had reported ill: he could see

the in rmary lit and the door open, down the positive curve of

the deck. But Com had ordered him speci cally to the bridge, see the

captain, and bridge it was—he found the lift idle on rimside

level and rode it up, a good deal calmerin that ride, now that he

wasn’t jump-rattled and half-asleep—but uneasy, still, mind

spinning around and around the handful ofguesses his

experience a orded him. The lift clanked into lock and let out into the dim grey

plastics-and-computer light environment ofthe bridge. Heads

turned, senior cousins interruptingtheirwork to stare as he

walked through, the way people stared at victims ofmass

calamities. Which didn’t help his nerves at all. But his rst glance

accounted for his whole personal universe ofrelatives he cared

about: his mother, Marie, stood in the middle ofthe bridge,

talking to Mischa. Mischa was sittingat the main console. Marie

and the captain were sisterand brother; and Marie was clearly

all right—but what Marie was doingon the bridge during

approach was another question. God, what had he done that rated Mischa callingMarie up

from the cargo o ce?

“Sir,” he said, feeling like an eight-year-old criminal,

“ma’am.”

“Station schema just came in.” Mischa tapped the screen in

front ofhim, a schematic ofVikingstation and its berths, same

as any such diagram the outsystembuoy delivered them when

they dropped into system. He didn’t understand at rst blink, or

second, since he had nothingreasonably to do with that input

or the system that put it up. Mischa said, “Corinthian. Austin Bowe’s in port.”

Hit him in the gut, that did. He couldn’t look at Marie. Mischa

pointed to a certain berth on the station schema. “They’re

scheduled for undock nine days from now, we’re in for fteen

days’ turnaround, and we’ll make dock tomorrowmorning. Figure right now that there’ll be ample time afterhe’s left to do

any personal touring you want to do around that berth. I’m

giving an absolute order, here, that applies to you, Marie, and

you, Tom, and everyone in this crew. No contact, no

communication with Corinthian in any way, shape, or form that

doesn’t go through me, personally. We can’t a ord trouble. I’m

sure Corinthian doesn’t want it either. I swear to you, I’m not

going to look the other way on this, Marie. On government

contract, we’ve no latitude here, none, do you read me clearon

that?”

“Perfectly clear,” Marie said. Too cheerful by far, Tom

thought. Marie’s calm ran cold ngers up and down his spine. “Bygones can be bygones—unless, ofcourse, Austin Bowe comes

onto our dock.”

“I don’t like that attitude, Marie. I’ve halfa mind to hold you

and him and the whole crew aboard until he’s out ofhere. And

nobody’s going to be real damn happy with you ifthat’s what I

have to do.”

“And how would that look?

You want Viking sayingwe’re

afraid ofhim?”

“Viking, hell. I’ll lay odds no stationerhere remembers any

problem between us and them.”

“I’ll lay equal odds that ships at dock remember.”

“This is our business. And it is business, Marie. No personal

vendetta ofany memberofthis crew is worth ourlegal

standing, and anybody sane is goingto understand that. This

isn’t the War. The man’s a senior captain now. We’re talking

about our entire livelihood at stake.”

“I absolutely agree. I don’t see a problem.”

Lying through her teeth, Tomthought again, hands locked

behind him, face absolutely neutral. Mischa knew Marie was

lying, and couldn’t get her to engage with him. “Bygones, is it?

You listen to me, Marie. You, too, Tom. You

listen up Government contract and government cargo means

we’ve got clearances, we’ve got special ratings, we’re in rst on

the port they’ve been negotiatingfor the last twenty years, and

the Board ofTrade isn’t goingto care about excuses. Neitheris

the rest ofthe Family.”

“We’re in the middle ofthe damn bridge, Mischa, why don’t

we just throw the com open so the whole Family can hearit?

Send the kids to the loft and let’s just tuck down and hide in our

ship until Corinthian goes away, why don’t we?

We knowwe

can’t defend ourselves. Rape’s a lovely experience ifyou just lie

back and enjoy it. God, I can’t believe I’m hearingthis!”

“Quiet it down, Marie!”

“I’m going to do my job, Mischa!

I’m not sittingin this ship. I’m not hiding I didn’t commit any crime. I’m not a rapist, in

case you got it backwards at Mariner, and I’ve nothingto be

ashamed of!

IfCorinthian wants trouble, they can come looking. Ifthey don’t—”

“—ifthey don’t?”

There was quiet all around. Tomstood there remembering,

to breathe, and felt a tremor in his whole body when he heard

Marie say, quietly, reasonably, “I’ll do my job, Mischa. I’m not

crazy,” and heard the captain say to her, then, “You do that,

Marie, you damn well do it, and nothing else. That goes for every

member ofthis crew.”

Marie walked out. The captain’s sister, cargo chief, Marie

Kirgov Hawkins, challenged the captain to lock herin quarters

for the duration—and walked out, with the whole ops section

watching. Mischa possibly could have handled it better—but you never

knew where you were goingwith Marie. Mischa could have been

easier on Marie—but she’d lied to him the minute she’d said

bygones could be bygones with that ship. She’d lied to his face,

and her brother, as ship’s senior captain, had laid the law down. Drawn a line Marie Hawkins shouldn’t cross—and that was a

mistake with Marie, on a good day. Her son said, quietly as he could, “May I be excused, sir?”

“I want to see you. In my o ce. One hour. I’ve got my hands

full right now. You leave your motheralone. You don’t need her

advice. Hear me, Thomas?”

“Yes, sir.” At least, at twenty-three, he’d outgrown ‘boy.’

Other uncles managed to say ‘son’ to theirsisters’ o spring. Mischa never had. It was ‘your mother’ when he disavowed

Marie, it was ‘Marie’ when they agreed, and ‘Thomas’ when his

behavior was in question. “Yes, sir, I hear you.”

“Go on.” Mischa gave him a back-of-the-hand wave. He walked back to the lift. Otherheads averted quickly, back

to business, except the most senior cousins, who gave him

analytical stares, wondering, quite probably, whetherThomas

Bowe-Hawkins was in fact part ofthe Hawkins family, or

whether, because ofthat ship sittingat Vikingdock, he was

going to do something lethally stupid. “Son.”

Saja. Tech chief. Likewise givinghim a warningstare,

turning in his seat to do it. But Saja was senior on duty right nowand couldn’t break

away, so that was one heart-to-heart lecture he could duck,

although ifhe had to choose, he’d take Saja’s over the captain’s,

no question. The lift came up from downside, where Marie had left it. He

punched Down, hoping Marie had gone to hero ce, and left

the corridor. She’d be working, after this, nonstop, and God help

anybody in the Family who walked through hero ce door. He

knew her ts: Marie worked when she was mad, Marie worked

when she was upset, Marie got up for no reason at all in the

middle ofthe night and went to the o ce, stayingthere

nonstop, thirty-six, forty, fty hours, when she got in a mood,

and he wouldn’t go near hernowby any choice. The lift stopped. The door opened. Marie was waitingforhim

on lower deck, leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded. “What did you say to him?”

“Nothing. I swear. Nothing.”

Marie’s eyes were grey, black-penciled like herbrows; and

cold, cold as a moon’s heart when she didn’t like you. In point of

fact, she didn’t always like her son. She was undoubtedly

thinking about Corinthian, maybe seeing Bowe’s face on him…

he didn’t know. He’d never known. That was the hell ofit. So now Austin Bowe was Corinthians senior captain. Mischa

and Marie kept current usingdockside sources he didn’t have,

clearly they did. “I’ve done my job,” Marie said, “I’ve worked for this ship. Where does he get o , callingme on the deck like that, in front

ofthe whole damned crew?”

“I think he just wanted you to know, before the word got out

—he couldn’t leave…”

“The hell he couldn’t!

The hell he couldn’t manage the

intercom. Wake up, Marie, oh, by the way, Marie, could you

come up here, Marie?

Damn him!”

“I’m sorry.” When Marie blew, it was the only safe thingto,

say. Teenaged cousins clustered in the corridor, now, down by

the in rmary. Probably it was a shock case, some youngfool

cheating on the nutri-packs. Every half-grown kid thought he

knew what was enough—at least once in his life. “Mischa’s going to be talking to you,” Marie said. “I knowhis

ways. He’s going to be tellingyou all his good reasons why poor

Marie can’t be trusted outside. PoorMarie’s just too emotional to

do her job. Marie who got raped and beaten halfto hell while her

mother and her brother dithered about station lawjust might

do something like go down the dock and take a cargo hook to

the son ofa bitch that did it, because poor Marie just nevergot

over it. I chose to have you because I choose what happens to

me, and Mischa doesn’t trust poorMarie to manage herown

damned life!

Well, poor Marie is going to go around to hero ce

and study the market reports and see ifthere’s any way in hell

to screw Austin Bowe’s ship lit the nancial market, legally,

because that’s my arena!

So when dear Mischa calls you in to tell

you you’ve got to spy on poorMarie, for the sake of the ship,

you’ll know just what to tell him.”

“He wants to see me.”

“How could I not guess?

Tell him to—” Marie shut hermouth. “No, tell him whatever you want to tell him. But I’m not crazy,

I’m not obsessed. Motherhood’s not my career, I’ve always been

clear on that, but you’ve turned out all right.” She reached—in

teenage years he’d inch—she’d fought that piece ofhairall his

life. She brushed it away fromhis eyes. It fell. “Tell Mischa he’s

an ass and I said so.—It was a longtime ago I told you kill that

son ofa bitch that fathered you. It was a bad time, all right?

made some mistakes. But you’ve turned out all right.”

It was the rst time Marie had ever admitted that. She paid

him a compliment, and he latched on to it with no clearidea

how much she meant by it—like a fool, he tucked it into that

little soft spot he still labeled mama, and knew very well that

Marie ofall people wasn’t comingdown with an attack of

motherhood. She was absolutely right. It wasn’t herspecialty—

though she had her moments, just about enough to let on

maybe there was somethingthere, enough to make you want a

whole lot more than Marie was ever goingto give, enough

sometimes to make you feel you’d almost attained something

everybody else was born having. She walked away, on her way to hero ce. The general com blasted out the announcement that juniors

should be careful about the nutri-packs, and take theirdosages

faithfully. You could guess. Some kid down in in rmary had muscle

cramps he thought he’d die ofand a headache to match. Always a new generation offools. Always the ones that didn’t

believe the warnings or read the labels. He’d trade places with that kid—anythingbut showup in

Mischa’s o ce and listen to Mischa’s complaints about Marie. Mischa couldn’t tell Marie to sit down and shut up. He didn’t

know why, exactly, Mischa couldn’t. But somethingMarie had

said a moment ago, about hermotherand Mischa waitingfor

station law—that was anotherbit in a mosaic he’d put together

over the years, right pieces and wrongpieces. Put them in and

take them out, but never question Marie too closely oryou

never got the truth. Sometimes you got a reaction you didn’t want. His nerves

still twitched to tones in Marie’s voice, nuances ofMarie’s

expression. Sometimes she’d strike out and you didn’t know

why. Not a good mother—although he liked Marie most ofthe

time. Sometimes he admitted he loved her, orat least toyed

with the idea that he did, because there was no one else. Gran

was dead at Mariner. He didn’t rememberherexcept as a blurry

face, warm arms, a lap. Saja… Saja was solvinga sta problem,

by taking his side. And Mischa…

Well, there was Mischa. —ii—

“HOW’S YOUR MOTHER TAKING the situation?” Mischa asked, leaning

back, with the desk between them. That was a trap, and a broad one. Mischa, monitorthe lower

corridor?

Spy on his own crewand kin?

Maybe. “I don’t know, sir. We did talk. She wanted to.”

“She did.” Mischa didn’t seem to believe that, just stared at

him a beat or two. “I don’t knowhowmuch ofthe detail she

ever gave you…”

Plenty. Much too much, and he didn’t want a rehash from

Mischa, but he’d found out one and two things he’d not heard

before in the last hour, just by listening, and he sensed a remote

chance ofmore pieces. He shrugged, nerved himselfnot to blow, and waited. “We pulled into Mariner,” Mischa said. “Like now, Corinthian

was at dock. Ten other ships. It was the middle ofthe War,

stations were jittery, you didn’t knowwhat side the ship next to

you might be on. Corinthian was real suspect. Had a lot of

money, crew throwing it around. The ship smelled all overlike a

Maziannisellout, but you couldn’t prove it. We had a caution on

them. And my sister—” Mischa rocked the chair, regarded him a

moment, frowning. “Austin Bowe’s the devil, Granted. Marie

was seventeen, sweet, happy kid—in those years nobody could

know for sure who was runningclean and who wasn’t. You

stayed close to kin and you didn’t spill everythingyou knew in

sleepovers with strangers. That was the atmosphere. And this

was her rst time cruising the docks, not sure she’s goingto do

it, you know, but looking. ‘Stay close to Family,’ mama said. ‘Stick with your cousins.’ Two ships in port, we knew real well. We—Saja and I—tried to set herup with a real nice guy o

Madrigal. We arranged a meeting, we were goingto meet some

oftheir crew in a bar, but Marie ducked out on us. Wouldn’t go

with us, no. We waited. We had a drink, we had two. Marie

knew the name ofthe bar, she had herpocket-com, she didn’t

answer a page, I was gettingdamn worried, I was stupid—Saja

kept saying we should call in, I gured Marie was doingexactly

what she did, she wouldn’t go with any guy herbrotherset up,

oh, no, Marie was going to do things herway, and Heston—he

was captain, then—was goingto kill her, you know what I

mean?

I was covering for her. I gured she wasn’t too faraway. Wrong, again. We started searching, bar to bar, quiet, not

raising any alarm. Next thingI knowI’ve got a call from the

ship saying they’d had a call relayed through station com, clear

around Manner rim, Marie’s in trouble in some sleepovershe

doesn’t know the name of, she’s cryingand she’s scared.”

Marie didn’t cry. Never knew Marie to cry. He didn’t recognize

the woman Mischa was tellinghim about. And he couldn’t fault

Mischa on what Mischa said he’d done. “What we later reconstructed,” Mischa said, “your mother’d

hopped a ped transport that passed us. That was how she

ducked out. She’d gone into blue sector—we were in green—

pricier bunch ofbars, not a bad choice for a kid lookingfor

action, and here’s this complete stranger, tall, good-looking,

mysterious, the whole romantic baggage…Corinthian junior

o cer gets her drunker than she ought to be, talks herinto bed,

and it gets kinkier and rougherthan she knows how to cope

with. She gets scared. Guy’s got the key—mistake numbertwo. Mama—your gran—gets the comcall. At which point I get the

call, mama’s on her way over to blue with Heston, and they’ve

called the cops. At least Marie had the presence ofmind to know

the guy was Corinthian, she could tell us that. So the cops called

Corinthian, Corinthian probably called Bowe—but Bowe’s

Corinthian’s senior captain’s kid, so you knowCorinthian’s not

just real eager to see him arrested, and in those days, stations

weren’t just real eager to annoy any ship either. Supply was too

short, they were scared ofa boycott, the government wasn’t in

control ofanything, and they assumed they just had a sleepover

quarrel on their hands. Bowe took the comaway from your

mother, we didn’t have any othercalls, Corinthian was in

communication with Bowe—we still didn’t know what

sleepover he was in. But Corinthian crew knew. They occupied

the bar, maybe intending to get theiro cerout and back to the

ship where the cops couldn’t get him, maybe goingto take Marie

with them, we had no idea. We couldn’t get any information out

ofstation com, the police weren’t feedingus Corinthian’s

communications with them or with Bowe, ours were breaking

up ifwe didn’t use the station relay, but by nowwe had no

doubt where Marie was—I was on the station direct line trying

to get the stationmaster to get the police o theirreg-u-lations

to get in there, but nobody wanted to wake him up, the alterday

stationmaster was an ass, insisted they were movingin a

negotiating team. Meanwhile Heston and mama and some of

the rest ofthe crew went into the bar after Marie. Corinthian

crew had opened up the liquor—you can imagine. Things blew

up. A Corinthian got his arm broken with a bar chair, the station

cops got into it, they couldn’t force the doors. By time we got the

mainday station-master out ofbed, a cop was in station

hospital, six ofyour future cousins were in ourin rmary, about

an equal number ofCorinthian crew were bleeding on the deck,

and things were at a stando , with station section doors shut.”

Doors big as some ships. Stations didn’t do that. Not since the

War. “—We had two ships calling crew fromall around the docks,”

Mischa said. “Station central was refusingto relay calls,

threatening to arrest Corinthian and Sprite crew on sight,

Madrigal and Pearl crews were hiding some ofour guys from the

cops. I was in blue section, with about fty ofus. Corinthian,

unfortunately, was docked right adjacent to blue. There were at

least fty ofthem holed up in the bar, about fty more on deck,

in blue, about that number ofstation cops and security, several

hundred ofour crew and theirs and cops stuck in sections they

couldn’t get out of. Forty-eight hours later, station agreed to

total amnesty, we got Marie out, Corinthian got Bowe and the

rest oftheir crew out, and the bar owner’s insurance company

and the station admin split the tab. We agreed to di erent

routes that wouldn’t put us in the same dock again, which is

how, by a set ofcircumstances, we ended up Unionside. And

your mother turned up pregnant. That’s the sumofit.”

Mischa left a silence. Waitingfor him to say something. He

wanted to, nally ventured the question he wouldn’t ask Marie. “Was Austin Bowe the only one?”

“As Marie tells it, yes.”

“As she tells it?”

“The captain’s son, and in a hell ofa bind?

He knew she was

his best bargaining chip. Only thingthat might get Corinthian

out scot free was Marie, in one piece. She walked out of there. Cut lip, bruises. Refused medical treatment, station’s and

ours. She was holding togetherpretty well for about the next

twelve hours. She’d take the ordinary trank…”

The picture snapped into god-awful focus. “You took herinto

jump?”

“By the terms, we agreed to leave port.”

“Marie wasn’t the criminal!”

“Station had a riot on its hands. Station wanted us on our

way. Marie wanted out ofthat port. Medical thought she was

doing all right.”

“My God.”

“In those days, the guns were live, all the time. Heston

wanted out ofthere as soon as Corinthian jumped out. We

weren’t sure they weren’t spotters, we didn’t want them

sending any message to any spotterthat might be lyingin wait

out there in the dark—they did that, in those days, just lurk out

on the edges, take your heading, meet you out at yourjump-

point—spotters didn’t carry any mass to speak of. They’d beat

you there. They’d be waiting. You’d be dead. We skimmed that

jump-point as fast as we dared and we got the hell on to

Fargone. It wasn’t an easy run. We pushed it. You did things you

had to do in those days, you took chances, the choices weren’t

that damn good, Thomas, it wasn’t like today. No safety. When

you were out there in the dark, you were out there with no law,

no protection. We just had no choice.”

“It’s a wonder she isn’t crazier than—” He cut that o , before

it got out, but Mischa said, “—crazierthan she is. I know. You

think I don’t know. I knew her before.”

“Why didn’t somebody order an abortion?

I mean, doesn’t

Medical just do that, in a case like that?”

“The captains don’t order any such thing on this ship. Your

mother said ifshe was pregnant, that was ne, she wanted…”

“Wanted what?”

Mischa had cut an answer short, havingsaid too much about

something Mischa knew, about him. But if he chased that topic,

Mischa might stop talking. “She said it was her choice,” Mischa said, “and nobody else

was getting their hands on her. I’ll tell you something, Tom. There’s not been another sleepover. No men. She won’t get help. Your aunt Lydia studied formal psych—speci cally with Marie

in mind. Never did a damned bit ofgood. Marie copes just real

well, does exactly what she wants, she’s damned good at what

she does. I’ll tell you something. She wouldn’t have any prenatal

tests, wouldn’t take advice, damn near delivered you in her

quarters, except your grandmotherfound out she was in labor. Marie was dead set you were a daughter, and when she gave

birth and found out you weren’t, she wouldn’t look at you,

wouldn’t take you, wouldn’t hold you, until three days after. Then she suddenly changed hermind. All ofa sudden, it’s—

Where’s my son?

And youraunt Lydia tells me some crap about

postpartum depression and howit was a traumatic birth, and a

load ofpsychological nonsense, but I knowmy sister, I know the

look she’s got; and I’m not damn blind, Tom, I hoped to hell

she’d turn you over to the nursery, which she did when she

found out she really hated diapers, and beingwaked up at odd

hours. I wasn’t for it when she wanted you to come back and

live with her. I really wasn’t for it, but yourgrandmotheralways

hoped Marie would straighten out, sort ofreconcile things…

small chance. I watched you and her, damned carefully. Mama

did. I don’t know ifyou were aware ofthat.”

Blow across the face. Didn’t knowwhy. He didn’t know why

mama ever did things, one minute hit him, anotherheld him,

Marie had never made sense about what made hermad. Call her

Marie, not mama, that was the rst lesson he learned. Marie was

his mother, and nally, nally she took him home to her

quarters like the other kids’ mothers—but ifhe made hermad

or called her mama she’d take him back and the otherkids

would know…

Which she did. More than once. “Were you?” Mischa asked, and he didn’t knowwhat Mischa

had just said. “I’m sorry, I lost it.”

Long silence, long, long silence in the captain’s o ce, himself

sitting in front ofthe desk, like a kid called in for running, or

unauthorized access. Damn Mischa, he’d thought he

understood, he’d thought Marie was right. Now he didn’t know

who’d lied or what was real or howbiga son ofa bitch Mischa

was, after all. “I can’t control Marie,” Mischa said. “Yourgrandmother

might’ve, but she’s gone. I’ve talked to her. Ma’am’s talked to her. Your aunt Lydia’s talked to her. Said—You’re hurtingthat boy,

Marie, he’s too young to understand, he doesn’t know why

you’re mad at him, and for God’s sake let it be, Marie. Which did

damned little good. Marie’s not—not the kid that went into that

sleepover. She’d hold a grudge, yes. But nothinglike—”

Another trail-o , into silence. Maybe he was supposed to ll

it. He didn’t know. But he still had his question. “Why didn’t she abort?

What was it you almost said she

wanted?”

Mischa didn’t want that question. Clearly. “Tom, has she talked to you about killingAustin Bowe?”

“She’s mentioned it. Not recently. Not since I moved out on

my own.”

“She ever—this is di cult—do orsuggest anything

improper?”

“With me?” He was appalled. But he saw the reason of

Mischa’s asking. “No, sir. Absolutely not.”

“The answer to your question: she said…she wanted Austin

Bowe’s baby. And she wouldn’t abort.”

It rocked him back. He sat there in the chair not knowing

what to say, or think. Marie’d said, just an hour ago, she’d kept him because she

chose what happened to her. Obstinacy. Pure, undiluted Marie,

to the bone. He could believe that. But he could… hearing the whole context ofit…almost

believe the other reason, too. Ifhe could believe Mischa. And he

did, while he was listening to him, and before Marie would turn

around and tell him somethingthat made thorough sense in

the opposite direction. “Wanted his baby,” he said. “Do you knowwhy, sir?”

“I don’t. I’ve no window into Marie’s head. She said it. It

scared hell out ofme. She only said it once, before we jumped

out ofMariner. Frankly—I didn’t tell your grandmother, it

would have upset her, I didn’t tell Lydia, I didn’t want that

spread all over the ship, and Lydia’s not—totally discreet. I

didn’t even know it was valid in the way I took it. She’d been

through hell, she never repeated it in any form—it’s the sort of

thing somebody might say that they wouldn’t mean later.”

“Have you asked her about it?”

Mischa shook his head, for an answer. “Shit.”

“Thomas. Don’t you ask her. She and I—have ourproblems. Let’s just get your mother through the next week sane, that’s all

I’m asking.”

“You throw a thing like that at me, and say…don’t ask?”

“You asked.”

He felt… he wasn’t sure. He didn’t knowwho was lying, orif

Marie was lying to herself, orifMischa was deliberately boxing

him in so he couldn’t go to Marie, couldn’t ask her her side. “What do you want me to do?”

“Has she talked—down below—about killinganyone?”

“She said—she said she wants to get at him through the

market. Legally.”

“You think that’s true?”

“I think she’s good at the market. I think—there’s some

reason to worry.”

“That she might pull somethingillegal?

Damagingto us?”

IfMischa’s version ofMarie was the truth—yes, he could see a

danger. He didn’t know about the otherkind ofdanger—

couldn’t swear to what Marie had said, that she wouldn’t take to

anybody with a cargo hook, that it wasn’t herstyle. Cargo hook

was Marie’s imagery. He hadn’t thought ofit. “What are you going to do?” he asked Mischa. “Put Jim Two on it—have him watch hermarket dealings

every second. Have you go with her any time she goes onto the

docks. And you remember what she pulled on me and Saja. You

don’t take your eyes o her.”

“You’re going to let her go out there.”

“It’s a risk. It’s her risk. It’s forty years ago station-time, like I

said, probably Viking has no idea it’s got a problem—but ships

pass that kind ofthing around. Somebody out there knows. Damned sure Corinthian hasn’t forgotten it, and I’m hoping

Bowe isn’t as crazy as Marie is. He’s got no good reputation,

Corinthian’s still running the dark edges ofthe universe—

damned right I’ve kept track ofhim overthe years—and I don’t

think he wants any light shininginto his business anywhere. If

he’s smart, and I’ve never heard he was a fool, he’ll nd reason

to nish business early and get out ofhere. I’ll tell you I’m

nervous about leaving port out ofhere with him on the loose—

war nerves, all over again. But there’s nothingelse I can do. We’ve got a cargo we’ve got to unload, we’ve got servicingto do,

we just can’t turn around faster than he can and get out of

here.”

“You really think in this day and age, he’d re on us?”

“He didn’t acquire more scruples in the War. Damned right

he would, ifit served his purpose. And ifhe hasn’t tagged Marie

as a dangerous enemy, he hasn’t gotten hermessages overthe

years.”

“She’s communicated with him?”

“Early on, she sent him messages she was lookingforhim. That she’d kill him. She’s dropped word on crewthat use his

ports. Left mail for him in station data. Just casually.”

“God.”

“Dangerous game. Damned dangerous. I called heron it. Told

her she was risking the ship and I told Heston. But stopping

Marie from anything is di cult. I don’t think she kept at it.”

“And you’re asking me to keep tabs on her?”

“You better than anyone. Take herside. There’s nobody else

she’d possibly con de in.”

“Why, for God’s sake?

Why should she tell me anything?”

“Because you’re Austin Bowe’s son. And I think you gure

somewhere in her plans right now.”

“My God, what do you think she’s goingto do, walk onto his

ship and shoot him?”

“Ifshe’s got a gun it’s in spite ofmy best e orts. They’re not

that easy to get nowadays. And Marie may not have ever

expected to have her blu called. I haven’t gotten information

on Bowe’s whereabouts all that frequently—frankly, not but

twice in the last six years, and that had him way out on the

fringes. I didn’t expect to run into him here. No way in hell. But

he is here. And even ifshe was blu ng—she’s here, and it’s

public. This isn’t going to be easy, Thomas. I may be a total fool,

but I think she’ll go right overthe edge ifshe can’t resolve it

now, once for all. She’s my sister. She’s yourmother. She has to

go to the Trade Bureau like she always does, she has to do her

job, she has to walk back again like a sane woman, and get on

with her life. IfCorinthian leaves early, that’s a victory. Maybe

enough she can live with it. But it’s goingto scare hell out of

me.”

“You think he will leave?”

“I think he will. I think he’s on thin tolerance at certain ports. I think he’s Mazianni, I’ve always thought so. His side lost. I

don’t think he’ll want to do anything. Just hercrossingthat

dock with you is a win, you understand me?

Callinghis blu. Daring him to make a move.”

“Does he know about me?”

“I think she’s seen to it he knows.”

That scared him. Anonymity evaporated, and anonymity

was the thing he cultivated on dockside, for a few days ofgood

times not to be Thomas Bowe, just TomHawkins, just a

crewman out cruising the same as everybody else on the docks. He was famous enough on Sprite, with every damn cousin, and

his uncles, his mother and an aunt hoveringover him every

breath, every crosswise glance, every move he made subject to

critique, as ifthey expected he’d explode. And nowcaptain

Mischa was sending him out dockside with Marie?

Two walking bombs. Side by side. With signs on them,

saying, Here they are, do something, Austin Bowe. He sat there looking at Mischa, shakinghis head. “Ifshe goes out there and she does something,” Mischa said,

“the law will deal with her. And do you want Marie to end up in

the legal system, Tom, do you want them to take her into some

psych facility and remove whatever hate she’s got forhim?

you want that to happen to Marie?”

He couldn’t imagine permanent station-side. Never moving. Dropping out ofthe universe. Foreign as an airless moon to him. And as scary. Mind-wipe was what they did to violent criminals. And they’d do that to Marie ifshe went for justice. “No, sir,” he

said. “But you’re trusting me?”

Mischa said, “Who have I got?

Who will she deal with?

There’ll be somebody taggingyou. You won’t be alone. You just

keep with her. Ifyou can’t do it any otherway, knock hercold

and bring her back on a Medical, I’m completely serious, Tom. Don’t risk losing her.”

Nobody trusted Tom Bowe-Hawkins. Saja hadn’t trusted him

when he’d passed his boards, as ifhe was goingto blow up

someday and do something illicit and destructive to the ship’s

computers. “You know,” Mischa said, “ifyou did anything to Corinthian

crew, you’d fare no betterin the legal system. Station law

doesn’t know you. Station doesn’t give a damn for ship-law. It’s

not a system you’d ever want to be part of.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. Mischa’d had to say that last, just when he’d

thought Mischa might have trusted him after all. “I hearyou. Does this make me one ofyou?”

Silence after that impertinence. Longsilence. “Where does that come from?” Mischa asked. Didn’t the man know?

Didn’t the man hear?

Was the man

blind and deafto what he was doingwhen he pulled his psych

games?

When the kids in the loft painted Korinthian on his jacket?

When the com called himto the bridge an hourago as

Thomas Bowe—the way Marie had enrolled him on the ship’s

list, three days after he was born?

“You’re not the most popular youngman aboard,” Mischa

said slowly. “I think you knowit. I knowyou’ve had special

problems. I know they’re not all your fault. But some things are. You’ve got try-me written all overyou. You’re far too ready with

your sts, even in nursery you were like that.”

“Other kids—”—went home with theirmothers, he started to

say, and cut that o. Mischa would only disparage that excuse. “Other kids, what?”

“I fought too much. My father’s temper. I’ve heard it all.”

“You got a bad deal. I’m sorry, but, beinga kid, you didn’t

make it better. Do you know that?”

“I gave back what I got. Sir.”

“You listen to me. You made some mistakes. I’m sayingifyou

get through this situation clean, it could help Marie. And it

could change some minds, give you a position in this Family

you can’t buy at any otherprice. For God’s sake, use yourhead

with Marie. She’s smart, she’s manipulative as hell, she’ll tell

you things and sound like she means them. Above all else, get

that temper ofyours well in hand. I can’t control what

everybody on this ship is goingto say or do in the next few days. That’s not important. Gettingthis cargo o oaded and ourselves

out ofthis port with all hands aboard—is. Don’t embarrass

Marie. Let’s get her out ofhere with a little vindication, ifwe

can do that, and hope to hell we don’t cross Bowe’s path for

another twenty ofour years.”

Mischa Hawkins gave good advice when he gave it. Didn’t do

much for him, the son ofa bitch, but what did Mischa Hawkins

actually owe him?

“I’ll do my best,” he said. “I’ll do everythingI humanly can.”

Mischa stared at him a moment, estimatingthe quality ofthe

promise, or him, maybe. Finally Mischa nodded. “Good,” Mischa said, pushed the desk button that opened the

door, and let him out. Do something to clean up his reputation. What in hell had he

done?

God!

He didn’t punch the wall. Didn’t even punch the nearest

cousin, who passed him in the corridor, with a cheery, “Well,

what’s the matter with you, Tommy-lad?”

He went downside to the deserted gym, dialed up the

resistance on the lift machine, and worked at it until he was out

ofbreath, out ofbrain, and draped completely limp onto the bar. Things had been going all right until that blip showed up on

the display. Marie had been all right, he’d been all right, he’d gotten his

certi cate, grown up like the rest ofSprite’s brat kids, passed the

point ofteenage brawls, gotten his life in order…

Go rescue Marie from blowingAustin Bowe’s brains out?

some days he’d as soon wish herluck and hope they got each

other. He didn’t want to meet his biological father. There were

days ofhis life he wanted nothingmore than to space Marie. There were whole hours of his life he knew he loved her, no

matter what she did or how crazy she was, because Marie was,

dammit, his mother—not much ofone, but he was nevergoing

to get another one, and he always felt—he didn’t know how—

that somehow ifhe could growsmarter oract better, he could

eventually x what was wrong. Take-hold rang. He went to the back wall ofthe gym and

stood there while the passengerringwent inertial and the

bulkhead slowly became the deck. They were headed in. One could walk about the walls duringgentle braking, ifone

had somewhere urgent to be and a good idea howlongthe burn

was going to last. Easier just to shut the eyes and lie on the

bulkhead and let the plus-gpush straighten out a tired, temper-

abused back. Fool to go at the weights in a t oftemper. Only hurting

yourself, aunt Lydia would say. He was. But that was, Marie’s

own claim, at least his choice, nobody else’s. —iii—

PROGRAM CAME UP, PROGRAM RAN, categorizing and digesting the

informational wavefront fromthe station, and Marie made a

steeple ofher ngers, watchingthe initial output. She regretted the dust-up on the bridge, but, damn it, Mischa

had known he was pushing. Mischa deserved everythinghe got. Crazy, Mischa called her, in private and behind herback. And so, so considerate ofMischa to spare herfeelings…in

public, and all. Viking was at mainday at the moment, halfway into it, the

same as Sprite’s ship-time. But Corinthian was an alterday ship. Corinthian ran on that shift. Her principal o cers awake during

that shift: that meant the juniors were on duty right now. That suited her. Rumor had always maintained that certain merchanters had

close operational ties to Mazian’s Fleet, back in the War. The

Earth Company called them loyalists, Union called them

renegades. Merchanters called them names offewerletters. Most merchanters had taken no side duringthe early stages of

the War—Earth Company, Union, it was all the same: whoever

had cargo going, at rst you hauled it—until the EC Fleet

stopped ships, and appropriated cargoes as Military Supply and

took young crew at gunpoint, as draftees. After that, most

merchanters wouldn’t come near the Fleet. And when, at the end ofthe War, Mazian hadn’t surrendered,

but kept on raiding shippingto keep the Fleet alive, there were

certain few ships who, rumor had it, still tipped him about

cargoes and schedules—and picked o the leavings of the raids,

pirates themselves, but a small, scavengingsort. And, no less despicable, some ships still reputedly traded

with the Mazianni… ships that disappeared o the trade routes

and came back again loaded. The stations, blind to what

happened outside the star-systems, were none the wiser, and

with the Union and Alliance governments limited by the

starstations’ lack ofinterest in the problem. But deep-spacers whispered togetherin the bars, careful who

was listening. And she regularly caught the rumors, and sifted

them through a net ofvery certain dimensions—since stations

claimed they didn’t have the ability to check on every ship that

came and went… since stations were mostly interested in black

market smuggling ofdrugs and scarce metals and othersuch

commodities as a ected theircustoms revenues. Very well. Viking didn’t give a damn until the mess landed on

its administrative desk. Vikingcertainly didn’t rememberwhat

lay forty years in the past as Vikingkept time. Vikingwasn’t

going to call Corinthian and say there was a problem. Oh, no,

Viking, like every other station, was busy lookingforstray

drugs or contraband biologicals. And the fact that particularship was on alterday schedule

might give Sprite that much extra time to get into port before

senior Corinthian sta realized they had a problem: theirarrival

insystem had to come to Corinthian o station feed, since a ship

at dock relied on station for outside information—and how

often did a ship sitting safe at dock check the tra c inbound?

Not bloody often. Ifever. Though Corinthian might. Bet there

was more than one ship that had Corinthian on its shit-list. She owned a gun—illegal to carry it, at Vikingorin any port. She kept it in her quarters under herpersonal lock. She’d gotten

it years ago, in a port where they didn’t ask close questions. Paid

cash, so the ship credit system never picked it up. Mischa hadn’t gured it. Orhadn’t found where she kept it. But it was more than Austin Bowe that she tracked, not just

the whole ofCorinthian that had aided and abetted what Bowe

had done, and there was no more or less ofguilt. Nobody got

away with humiliating Marie Kirgov Hawkins. Nobody

constrained her. Nobody forced her. Nobody gave herblind

orders. She worked for Sprite because she was Hawkins, no

other reason. Mischa was captain now, yes, because he’d trained

for it, but primarily because the two seniors in the way had died

—she was cargo chiefnot because she was senior, but because

she was better at the job than Robert A. who’d been doingit, and

better than four other uncles and aunts and cousins who’d

moved out ofthe way when herdecisions proved right and

theirs proved expensively wrong. No face-saving, callingher

assistant-anything: she was damned good, she didn’t take

interference, and the seniors just moved over, one willingly,

four not. The deposed seniors had formed themselves an in-

ship corporation and traded, not too unpro tably, on theirship-

shares, lining their apartments with creature-comforts and

buying more space from juniors who wanted the credits more

than they minded double-deckingin theirpersonal two-meter

wide privacy. So they were gainfully occupied, vindicated at

least in their comforts. She, on the other hand, didn’t give a runningdamn forthe

luxuries she could have had. She’d had room enough in a senior

o cer’s quarters the couple oftimes she’d brought Tommy in

(about as long as she could stand the juvenile train of logic), so

she’d never asked for more space or more perks, and whetheror

not Mischa knew who really called the tune when it came to

trade and choices, Sprite went where Marie Hawkins decided it

was wise to go, Sprite traded where and what Marie Kirgov

Hawkins decided to trade, took the contracts she arranged. Mischa wouldn’t exactly see it that way, but then, Mischa

hadn’t an inkling for the ten years he’d been seniorcaptain

exactly which were his ideas and which were hers. As cargo

chiefshe laid two sets ofnumbers on his desk, one lookinggood

and one looking less good, and ofcourse he made his own

choice. Now Mischa was going to explain about Marie’s Problem to

poor innocent Thomas, and enlist his help to keep Marie in line?

Good luck. Poor Thomas might punch Mischa through the

bulkhead ifMischa pushed him. Thomas had his genetic

father’s temper and Thomas wasn’t subtle. Earnest. Incredibly

earnest. And not a damn bad head on his shoulders, in the small

interludes when testosterone wasn’t in the ascendant. Predict that Mischa would want to deal with Tom, now, man

to man, oh, right, when Mischa had ignored Tom’s existence

when he was a kid, when Mischa had resisted trackinghim into

mainday crew until Saja pointed out they’d betterput a kid with

his talent and his brains under closer, expert supervision. Every

time Mischa looked at Tom, Mischa sawMarie’s Problem; Mischa

had a guilty conscience about youngersister’s Problem, and

Mischa was patronizing as hell, Thomas hated beingpatronized,

and Mischa hated sudden, violent reactions. Gold-plated disaster. Best legacy she’d given Bowe’s kid—awareness when he was

being put upon. That, and life itself. End ofherdebt of

conscience, end ofher personal responsibility and damned

generous, at that. So Tom was gettingto be a human being. End

report. Tom was on his own. Twenty plus years of tracking

Austin Bowe, and she was here, free, owingnobody but that

ship—a little before she’d wanted to be, but one couldn’t plan

everything in life. It didn’t particularly need to involve Tom. She’d acquired

that small scruple. Leave Tomto annoy his uncle Mischa, iffor

some reason she wasn’t around to do the job. Nice to have a clear sense about what one wanted in life. Nice

to have an absolute and attainable goal. Mischa could never claim as much. But, then, Mischa forgave

and forgot. Rapidly. Conveniently—ifMischa got what he

wanted, and you could spell that out in money and comfort and

an easy course, in about that order. Not her style. Thank you, brother. Thank you, Hawkinses,

every one. Sprite might have come and gone peaceably at Vikingfor

three, maybe four long rounds ofits ports, exchangingloops

with Bolivar, without chancing into Corinthian’s path. That

wouldn’t have kept the data out ofherhands—recent data, of

Corinthian’s current activities. Sprite and Corinthian never even

needed to have met face to face in order for herto have what she

wanted. Watching Austin Bowe sweat?

That was a bonus. Her chiefanxiety now was the surprise ofthe encounter—

before she had enough ofthat most current data. The last thing

she wanted was for that ship to spook out suddenly and change

patterns on her. She wanted to be a fargreaterproblem to

Corinthian than that. Still, she improvised very well. Loosen up, Austin Bowe had told her, on a certain sleepover

night. Adapt. Go with what happens. You’re too tense. Best advice anybody had ever given her, she thought. He’d

meant sex, ofcourse. But he’d meant power, too, which—she’d

known it that night—was what that encounter had been all

about, a teen-aged kid’s conviction that she ran herown life, up

against a thorough-going son ofa bitch, not much older, used to

his own satisfaction. That was the mistake in scale Austin Bowe

had made. Her motives and ambitions hadn’t been that

important to him… then. She’d played and replayed that forty-

eight hours in her head, and afterthe rst few weeks, the rape

itselfwasn’t as bad as havinghad to walk out that door, the

physical act hadn’t been as ultimately humiliatingas her

damned relatives, drippingpity and so, so embarrassed she’d

been a fool going o by herself, relatives so upset—it was clearer

and clearer to her—that she’d damaged the reputation ofthe

ship, humiliated her relatives, gotten them all ordered out of

port—and they were all so, so disappointed when she didn’t

shatter and come crawlingto theirdamned condescending

concern. Hell, she got along ne after that, except their hoveringover

her and waiting for Marie to blowup. After mama died, Mischa

took over the hovering, and Mischa had said to herand

everybody who was interested that she’d be just ne ifshe ever

found herselfthe right man. That was funny. That was downright pathetically funny. Mischa thought ifshe just once got good sex she wouldn’t want

to kill Austin Bowe. Or Mischa Hawkins. Sex good or bad hadn’t put Austin Bowe in charge of

Corinthian. It might be gender, genes, family seniority, even,

God help them, talent; but it sure as hell couldn’t be his

performance in bed, and damned ifhers that night had

measured Marie Hawkins’ capacities, any more than Mischa’s

self-reported staying power in a sleepovermeant he was t to

captain Sprite. —iv—

DAMN COM BEEPED. INSISTENTLY. Ifit wasn’t a screaming emergency,

the perpetrator was dead. Austin Bowe reached out an arm fromunder the covers, in a

highly expensive station-side room, seekingtoward the red

light in the dark. Which disturbed… whateverhername was. Who moaned

and shifted and jabbed an elbowinto his ribs as he punched the

button. “Austin.—What in hell do you want?”

“Sprite’s inbound.”

He blinked into the dark. Thoughts weren’t doingtoo well. Too much vodka. The fool woman sat up and started nuzzling

his neck. He shoved her o. Hard. “Captain?”

“Yeah, yeah, I copy.” The brain wouldn’t work. The body felt

like hell. “Have we had any word fromthem?”

“No. They’re in approach.”

“What the hell are you doing on watch?

Is this Bianco?”

“Yes, sir.”

“They’re in approach.”

“I’m sorry, sir. No excuse. About two hours frommate-up.”

“That’s just fucking wonderful. Can we not discuss it here,

possibly?

Where’s Christian?”

“I—hate to tell you this, captain.”

“All right, all right, nd him. Dammit!”

“What are we to—?”

“Make it up, Bianco, damn your lazy hide, we’ve got a

problem. Use your ingenuity!”

What’s-her-name put an arm around his neck. Said

something he wasn’t listeningto. Beatrice was on the dock

somewhere. Their son was likewise somewhere on the docks,

supposedly seeing cargo moved, but Corinthian didn’t know

where Christian was at the moment?

“Aus-tin,” the woman said. “Is somethingwrong?”

“Damn dim-brain,” he muttered, and got up and looked for

his clothes. “That’s not nice.”

He found the light-switch. Glared at the fool, who looked

scared and shut up. Stationer, he remembered that. He had a headache to end all. He didn’t know how he’d ended up with a total fool. Crewwoman o a station-sweeper would have bettersense than

hang onto a ship’s o cer with a trouble-call. He dressed. “Are you coming back?”

“IfI do, you’d better have yourass out ofhere.” He pulled on

his sweater. Ifhe got any rest, he’d want rest, not present

company, a bar-crawler with a libido too active for herbank-

employed husband. Hawkins. Worst damned mess he’d ever gotten into. Sending

him death threats for more than twenty years. Psych case, as

best he gured it, ifnot then, de nitely now. Woman with a problem. Cargo chief, market and

commodities expert, as he got the make on the Marie Hawkins

—looking for a way to get him, which might not be with a gun

or a knife, give the woman credit for brains and professional

expertise, which he hadn’t, the night he’d made one ofthe

prime mistakes ofhis life. And gotten a son who was reputedly on that inbound ship, as

Marie Hawkins had continually been solicitous to let him know. Damn. Damn and damn. Station probably didn’t rememberthe incident. Stationers

had a lot oftrouble guringship-time, and hell ifany ship

actively helped them do it. Mariner’s records were blown to cold

space, nothing he knew ofhad transferred, and Corinthian was

clean at Viking. So far. “Aus-tin?”

“Damn you, you pay the tab, I’m fuckingbored!”

He keyed the exit, he left at a fast clip, he didn’t know why

he’d ever thought the stationerfool worth the price ofthe room,

except Beatrice had her agreement, and they kept it, and that

meant Beatrice had probably found herselfsome youngpiece

foolish enough to think he could handle an exotic experience. Which, ifshe’d snugged in for the duration oftheir

scheduled layover, meant that ndingBeatrice wasn’t a minor

problem, either. Beatrice wasn’t on cargo duty. Christian was. Austin walked

out the fancy doors and onto the docks and took out the pocket

com. “This is Austin. Bianco, any information?”

“Sabrina’s looking,” Corinth-com said. “Christian’s been in

touch o and on. I think he’s on green, right near the Transship

o ce. He’s been in and out ofthere.”

“That’s just real good. Where’s ourfriend comingin?”

“Berth 19.

Orange.”

Considerably separated fromthem, around the rim. That was

a vast relief. “They request it?”

“I don’t know, captain. I didn’t think—”

“Right. I copy. I’m coming back to the ship. General recall, all

sta who aren’t on a job.”

“I’m on it,” Bianco said. As well say Red Alert. He didn’t want to talk cargo where

station could pick it up, although he didn’t expect Vikingto

have any suspicion oftrouble. Marie’s brotherwas captain on

Sprite now, he’d heard that. Possibly Sprite had had no idea

Corinthian was here, but it wasn’t Sprite’s ordinary route. Possibly they’d come in on the new station status. Or possibly Hawkins had gotten information that made this

no chance meeting at all. And Hawkins, with her particular skills, was extremely bad

news. He started walking, lookingfor a ped-transport. Corinthian

being on alterday schedule, meant dealingwith second-tier

station authorities, who didn’t always ask close questions, as

well as avoiding some ofthe tra c that clogged mainday

o cial channels. It had its advantages. But on the docks

mainday and alterday were meaningless; the bars and shops

were always open and there was always night, always darkness

above the oodlights that lit the girders, up where the lights

and the cold ofthe pipes made theirown weather. Warehouses. Processing areas. Factories. Food production. Fabrication. The place dwarfed everythingbut the ship-accesses

and the machines that served them. And a crew scattered on a two-week liberty with all ofViking

Station to lose themselves in—was no easy matter to locate,

individual by individual, in every tiny sleepoverand baron the

strip. Christian had a com. The duty sta all had corns. Certain

people weren’t answering. One ofMarie Hawkins’ most logical targets wasn’t damned

well answering. —v—

YOU DIDN’T EXPECT A HAPPY hello from Marie. You interrupted herat

work and you took your chances. But Tomthought he should at

least try, after the burn. The market gures were up on the

screens. Marie, two senior cousins and fourjuniors were sorting

through the usual welter ofincomingstock market and

commodities data o station feed. But not the usual. He’d lay odds Corinthian’s arrival date and

market dealings were somewhere in the gures on Marie’s

monitors. She keyed the displays, in rapid sequence, to Privacy. He leaned against the desk, arms folded: “I just thought I’d

check on you.”

“I haven’t turned blue. What did Mischa say?”

“Mostly that he trusts you to do your job. Right or wrong?”

“Son ofa bitch.”

“Which one ofus?”

Marie slid him an oblique, grey-eyed look, and lifted a brow. Easy to understand how a man twenty years ago had made a

move on Marie Hawkins. “Outside of Corinthian,” he said, “how does it look?”

She caught that implication. He sawthe second quirk ofher

brow, the tightening at the cornerofhermouth. “You’re bothering me,” Marie said, leaningback in herchair,

folding her hands on her stomach. “Go somewhere.”

“Mischa said you’d be ne. He trusts you, Marie.”

“Right. Sure. I heard echoes ofthat, topside.” Marie shoved

her chair back. “What did he say?”

He’d tried to compose it. The threads threatened to scatter

under Marie’s sniping attacks. “Just—that you’ve got him scared

for your safety, that he’s not real certain Corinthian isn’t going

to lay for us out in the dark when we leave. He said, on the other

hand, he agrees with you about doingourbusiness and sticking

to our area—”

“Where are we coming in?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t heard.” He hadn’t, but he didn’t like

the question or the direction ofthinkingit indicated. He didn’t

know whether to break the news that he was herassigned tagor

not. He didn’t think, on second thought, that he wanted that

information to come out in the present context. “Just checking. Glad you’re ne. Talk to you later.”

Marie rocked forward, stood up, hauled him by the arm to

the corridor. The o -shift was comingon, crawlingout ofbunks

and stirring about preparatory to shift change. Cousins passed. Marie backed him against the wall, with, “Spill it.”

“He told me a lot ofstu. Nothingthat changes anything.”

That was, he guessed, what Marie most wanted to believe. And

he took a deliberate, not quite lying, chance. “I’d like to break

that bastard’s neck.”

“Mischa’s?”

“Bowe’s.” He’d stepped over the edge. On Mischa’s side. He

didn’t know ifMarie was goingto swallowit. But it took no

acting. He was upset. Scared ofher, scared ofMischa, scared of

that ship out there. “Marie, I swearto you, I wish I could get

him, but there’s not a way in hell—”

“Is Mischa talking about restrictingme?”

He shook his head, thinking, God, she’s not intendingjust the

markets. “He says not. He says you’ve got to do this on your

own, you’ve got to walk out there and back and showyou can

face him, he’s says that’s enough, that does as much as you need

to do.”

“And tagging me?”

“He didn’t say that.”

Marie took a breath, ducked herhead, arms folded, looked up

at him. “I’ve got the trade stats. I knowwhen Corinthian came

into port, I know what went on the sales boards, I know what’s

moved o green dock. It’s a sluggish market, and Corinthian’s

o -loading with nobody’s buy snowingon the reports, not even

an o er on the boards.”

“Warehousing stu here?”

“Or hauling for somebody, or hauling a pre-sold cargo. Something’s irregular.”

“Are you going to take it to authorities?”

“Possibly nothing’s illegal. Nothingwrongwith haulingjar,

or pre-selling. Nothing wrongwith warehousing. Corinthian’s

been legal for decades. It was legal all through the War.”

“But not totally legal.”

“Not ifyou could get at all the picture. Corinthian is a small

ship. It paid for a re t ve years ago. Ifit’s in debt I haven’t

found it.”

I have my sources, Mischa had said, regardingCorinthian and

its movements. Depend on it that the cargo o cerhad sources,

too. And Marie had been tracking Corinthian, that part was true. “Could you?”

“Say I’ve been careful not to triggeralarms. Say I wrote the

transactions-search program twenty years ago. I’m no fool, kid. Not this woman. It’ll smell any out-of-parametermarket

situation in any time frame I ask it. Plus availability ofloaders,

dockers, all those little details station doesn’t mind givingout,

while it keeps ship-records sacrosanct. I knowwho’s been

o oading, who’s bought, all that sort ofthingthey say they

don’t tell us—at least, I can make a good guess, knowingwhat

fallible human minds come knowing.”

It wasn’t the picture Mischa had painted, ofan out-of-control

crazy, hell-bent on murder. Marie had a case. She was buildingit

piece by piece, with the trade records, through the trade records,

the way Marie had told him outside the lift, and, damn it, she

confused him. Marie was lyingor Mischa didn’t give hercredit

for what she could do with hercomputers and hersense of

what was normal and not—Marie was a walkingencyclopaedia

oftrade and market statistics, imports, exports, norm and

parameters, and ifMarie thought she had a sense ofsomething

in the pattern when Corinthian hit the market boards… there

might well be. Unless Marie was deluding herself, too desperate to make a

case, now, while they had Corinthian in reach ofstation

authority. “Can you nail him?” he asked. “I need to get to the trade o ce. Myself. Do a little personal

diplomacy.”

An alarm went o. Late. Marie had his back to the wall in

more senses than one. Suddenly it was Marie’s agenda, Marie’s

conspiracy, not Mischa’s. He made a try to save his autonomy in

it. “I’ll go with you. IfMischa says you shouldn’t go, I’ll say I’ll

keep track ofyou.”

Marie looked up at him—halfa head shorter than he was. Fragile-looking. But the expression in hereyes wasn’t. She was

steady as a high-v rock, while he lied to her, and while he

remembered what Mischa had said: that Marie had to walk

across the dock and back again, call it settled—an exit with

honor. And where was Marie’s vindication in hertwenty-year ght

ifher son and her brothertricked herand did everything?

People on the dock might not nd out. But the family would. The more people who were in on it, beyond one, that much

harder it was to have it accepted that Marie had carried it o

herself. The more people… like Mischa… who knew that Marie was

chasing Corinthian through the nancial records, and, maybe,

as Marie said, that she was nessingherway into things she

wasn’t supposed to access…the more likely Mischa was to

intervene and screw things up royally. He took a step on the slippery slope, then, knowinghe was in

danger, knowing Marie and the whole ship were, ifthings blew

up. So far as he knew, Marie couldn’t jack the station computers

from outside the station system. The access numbers that any

merchanter cargo chiefor ship’s chieftech knew were never

going to get anybody into station les: merchanter ships carried

techs who well knew how to get where they weren’t supposed

to be in any system, but stations had learned fromthe War

years to take precautions: even Saja couldn’t get into station

central banks or into a ship’s recorder, and Saja was good. “You gure out everything we need,” he said to Marie. “And

when we dock, you go out like always. I’ll go with you. I swear,

Marie. I want to.”

They never much looked at each otherstraight on—not the

way he did and she did now. His heart was pounding, his brain

was telling him he was a fool, but for about twenty seconds

then, Marie was ma’am, and mama, and home, and all the ship-

words a man had to attach to, in the ancient way ofmerchanter

matriarchy. “He put you up to this?” Marie asked him hoarsely. “Yes.” Ifone ofthem could twist truth inside out and confuse

a man, so could he. She’d taught him. So had Mischa. “But he

doesn’t know I mean it.”

“You son ofa bitch.” Not angry, not cruel. Marie could make it

into a love-note. “You’re all I’ve got,” he said, and really felt it, for the moment,

fool that he was. “Get out ofhere,” she said, and laughed, the grim way that

Marie could when, rarely, he scored a point in theirendless

fencing. But she caught his arm before he could leave. “Tom. Bitch-son. Only chance. IfCorinthian spooks, he’s gone. Understand?”

In a lifetime, maybe her only chance at this ship. Only chance

to win. Only chance to risk everything. He knew howmuch that

meant. “Read you,” he said, already a traitor to Mischa. “No

question.” Betraying Mischa was easy. But he wanted Marie to

get the bastard—just not… not the way he still feared she might

try. She let him go. He walked away, to escape hercloser

questions about Mischa and his intentions, and decided on rec

and the commissary, he didn’t really care. But once he thought about it, he knew he ought to eat: jump

took too much out ofa body. He decided he’d better, hungry or

not, and wondered ifMarie had—but Marie had probably

ordered in, probably had one ofthe junior techs bring

something to her: you could do that ifyou were sittingStation. He should have asked her. But he wouldn’t, now, didn’t want

back in Marie’s reach. Cousins were thick, goingand comingaround the

commissary area, which was no more than a district in lower-

deck. He hadn’t, himself, checked the boards. He didn’t expect

assignment di erent than Mischa had given him. Saja had to

know that he was spoken for. He hoped to God no one else had

the idea what Mischa had set him to do, but rumors about

Corinthian’s presence were running the corridors—he caught

whispers, furtive stares. And had cousin Roberta R. ask him, brilliantly, as he eased

his waythrough the gatheringaround the stack ofsandwiches,

“You hear about Corinthian in port?”

Then cousin remotest-thank-God-removed YuriCurtis

Hawkins added in a not discreet undertone that he’d heard

they’d had thirty in hospital at Marinerthe last time the ships

met, and maybe they should snatch themselves some

Corinthian crew and “show them a thingor two.”

“Yeah, right,” another cousin said, “fromthe station brig, big

show.”

He shouldered his way past the comments, got his sandwich,

ignoring the lot, but YuriC. said, “Hey, Bowe-Hawkins, what’s

your idea?” and somebody else, Rodman, drawled, “Bowe-

Hawkins, I hear they inbreed on Corinthian, what d’ you think?

You got all those crossed-up genes?”

“I think that ship’s armed, it’s not a regular merchanter, and

we’re not in a damn good situation ifit gets pissed, cousin,

thanks for the personal concern.”

Hoots and catcalls for the exchange. He wasn’t popularwith

Yurior with Rodman, whose eye he’d blacked, in theirsnot-

nosed youth. He didn’t care what Rodman did or said. He cared

only marginally about YuriC. or Yuri’s two half-sibs, and

Roberta was no hyperspace engineer. He took his sandwich, got

his drink and took his lunch to the quiet ofhis own quarters. It was peace, there. He settled sideways and cross-legged on

his bunk, sore from the temper t in the gym, and ate his

sandwich—he couldn’t even identify the avor. Jump did that

to you, too, left you with a metallic taste that was mineral

de ciency. But he was thinking—ifMarie could tag Corinthian with

illicit trading, smuggling, whatever—there was everything

Marie wanted, on a platter. Damned right he wasn’t goingto take on Rodman Hawkins. He wasn’t crazy, the same way Marie wasn’t. You could put up

with a hell ofa lot to get somethingyou wanted as badly as he

wanted the question settled, wanted Marie straightened out, or

something nally resolved. So she’d wanted to keep Austin Bowe’s kid, Marie had, back

when the choice had been possible. She hadn’t aborted him. And a while ago she’d requested the only companionship

she’d ever asked ofhim.—Well, not asked, but at least not

rejected when he o ered. That was something. That was

entirely unlike Marie. And, damn Mischa’s holier-than-thou-ism, he so wanted

Marie to be right this time, he so wanted Marie to have the

vindication that would let Marie score herpoint, win hercase,

prove whatever Marie had needed all these years to prove. Damn, ifMarie could get herlife straightened out, ifMarie

could stop the pain that made herdo the things she did…

Ifhe could just once in his life help her…

He sat there eating the sandwich and drinkinghis soft drink

while Sprite glided toward rendezvous. He told himselfhe was a

mortal fool for believing Marie. But tellinghimself, too, that he

didn’t owe Mischa a damned thing. Least ofall… loyalty. Take-hold sounded. Sprite was approaching the slow-zone. Coming into the region ofcontrolled approach. Insystem

velocities. After this they were well within Viking’s time-packet—

realtime with station com. —vi—

MILLER TRANSSHIP SAID AN HOUR. They’d said it an hour ago, when

the voltage regulator on their only 20k can transport went fritz

and died the death. Get a part from supply, Millersaid, as ifit was that easy. No

big delay. Hell. Christian Bowe slammed the receiver down on the hook and

went back to the table in Fancy’s, while Fancy Leeman himself

was strolling among the tables. Bigguy, Fancy was, and you

didn’t ask about the name—Fancy caught his eye and Christian

made the st and thumb, signalingone more re ll. “So?” Capella, chin in hands, looked up, a ash ofdark eyes in

pale blue glitz-paint. Tattooed snake up one arm, tattooed skull

and rose on her right buttock—but that wasn’t on display. Christian sighed and subsided into the chair. “Hour.”

“Hour!

It’s been an hour!

Let’s just screw it. Come on, Chrissy-

sweet.”

“A round’s coming. We give it that long.”

Capella sighed. Traced a circle in the condensation on the

table. The hand had a fortune in rings. The wrist had a band of

stars intattoo, and below it, Bok’s Equation, in ornate letters. Navigator’s mark, in certain quarters. The hand captured his, amid the circles oftwo prior rounds

and one double ice water. “Chrissy.”

“Christian.”

Lavender lips quirked. “Chris-tian, they’re not goingto get

that sum-bitch moving till alterday. You knowthat, I know that,

they’re going to crawl clearinto next shift, they’ll be Beatrice’s

problem, anyway. Why sit?

Music is happening. Dancing is

going on.”

Beatrice was sleeping. Or whatever. Austin was de nitely

barricaded for the night. The drinks came. They went down too

fast for prudence. “You can call them from the next bar,” Capella said, nudging

his leg with her foot. They had a fair amount ofthe cargo taken care of. Capella

was right, the transport was probably screwed for the next few

hours. Late mainday was a bad time to have a mechanical;

mainday techs already had theirwork schedule full, they’d

bitten o about what would send them o duty on schedule. If

something more came in they’d just pile it up and let it wait for

alterday, no matter how they told you they were ‘goingto get to

it.’ It never happened. It was unions. And they weren’t goingto

budge on their hours requirements, not ifthey held theirbreath

and turned blue. Damn and damn. Austin could go kick ass and maybe get

something accomplished. But MillerTransship’s mainday

management and Austin’s mid-rank kid weren’t heavy enough

push to get things accelerated anotherhouror so. Capella

might. That tattooed bracelet carried cachet with some techs,

but it made other people nervous, and at Vikingyou didn’t

know, you just didn’t know what loyalties orwhat agency you

might be dealing with. Besides, Capella was in a mood, Capella was ready to go o -

shift, and the third drink had fuzzed things a little—hazed the

blinking neon, brought a little less imminency to the situation,

hell, Austin had said don’t botherhim with cargo problems,

handle it, and wasn’t it dealingwith it, when you knew damned

well they weren’t getting anywhere?

They had fty cans yet to

move. Then they could onload and use any trans port. What

came out ofMiller’s was no problem. Hire anything. Anybody. They were well within schedule as was. “One more call,” he said, and went across the room to the

phone. Station line. It was clearerthan the com with the music

going full bore. He shielded one ear and listened to Miller’s chief

tell him one more time that they were doingwhat they could,

they’d gotten the part, well, yes, but with the union rules, they

just couldn’t get a crew on. “Yeah, I know that dance,” he said. “Look. I’m goingto be

traveling the next while. I’ll keep calling. You get somebody’s

ass in there. Call in debts. You like dealingwith us. You call in

debts.”

“Look,” the answer came back, “there’s a limit to what we can

do—”

“Look, sir.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Bowe, I understand that. I’m sorry, but—”

“Senior captain’s going to be in there, ifthis doesn’t get

moving.”

“Yes, sir. I know. We’re working.”

He hung up, walked back to the bar and signed the tab. Capella showed up at his elbowand they left for the next bar,

Capella doing this odd little step down the deck-plate joints. Crazy as they came, but hyperspace operators ofCapella’s ilk

were, ifpossible, crazier than pilots, stayed high the whole ride

and did as they damned well pleased—danced to a beat they

claimed to hear in space, claimed to hear the stars, the echoes of

the planets. Mean as hell, Capella was, but that was the high she

gave when she tripped, the way she was trippingnow—she’d

take him, she’d take anythingifhe funked out, and watching

over their junior apprentice hyper-jock and keepingherout of

jail was Assignment Two. Austin wouldn’t like him ifhe let that

happen, either… Capella wouldn’t be wrong, the hyper-jocks

were never quite wrong, for the very reason the senior, book-

following navigators and engineers never quite listened to

them. “Slow down, you.”

Capella danced back and grabbed him, whisked him into the

next bar and onto the dance oor. Capella was hell and away more fun than MillerTransship. Capella was a drug, a natural high—glitz ickered in the

strobing lights, found patterns on herskin. The snake on her

arm came alive and its eye on herwrist glowed metal red,

leaving trails of re. The bracelet ofstars and Bok’s Equation

glowed green—they could do that in the tattoo shops on Pell. It drew attention. One drunk sod with a Knight patch on his

sleeve wanted to dance with Capella, wanted to get up close,

and there was damn all forhercompanion to do but object to

that ifCapella minded, but Capella grabbed the drunk and

skipped away, contrived to maneuver him right o the dance

zone and right into a tableful ofLodestar’s nest, who didn’t like

their drinks spilled. “Come on,” Capella laughed, grabbed his hand and ducked for

the door before the riot spread beyond Lodestar’s vicinity. Sun re was the next bar, all gold and neon reds, bigglowing

sun holo in the middle ofthe bar, and mirrors everywhere,

sending the images up and down at angles to the original. The

bar served up a specialty about the same colors, with a kick like

a retro, and the dance oorwas up a step, where ifyou weren’t

sober you’d slide right down the edge. They were doingthis

number that involved back to back and turn, and then front to

front and up close—

Which between the dizziness ofthe mirrored suns and the

warmth ofbodies and the shortness ofbreath, made the

slanting edge a precarious thing. Out onto the dock, then, carryinga couple ofdrinks—he’d

remembered to sign the tab, that sober, at least, but they knew

deep-haulers on leave, and they’d have tagged Corinthian,

seeing the patch on him and on Capella—there had to be a

hundred Corinthians on the dock at the moment, and

somebody’d have signed the tab, ifthey’d have blown it, or

they’d have gone to Austin, which you didn’t want to happen…

Meanwhile he’d gotten crazy enough he was linked arm in

arm with Capella and tryingto do herskip-step and pattern

down the deck-plates. “Chris!” someone female yelled frombehind him. Which confused his navigation, since the female he was

with was beside him. Which let him know he wasn’t thinkingclearly, and that

reminded him…

“Hell. I haven’t called Millers.”

“Christian!”

Familiar voice. Crew. Cousin. “Oh, screw it,” Capella said, as he veered about. “She’s no

fun.”

He blinked, sweating in the cold chill ofdockside. A drop of

condensation came down, splat!

o some pipe overhead. That

was Sabrina, ten years senior, and dead, dead serious, he saw

that on her face. “Christian, where in hell’s your com?”

He felt ofhis pocket. Pulled it out, and disengaged his arm

from Capella. The red light was on. God knew howlong. Must have been

beeping from time to time—somewhere under the music in the

bar. “You and Capella,” Saby said. “Deafas rocks, both ofyou. Sprite’s inbound.”

Took him a couple ofheartbeats. He was at a lowebb. “Shit all,” Capella said, in the same second he placed the

name and realized this was a de nite emergency. “Austin know?”

“Austin’s on it. What’s this about Miller?

What’s this about a

transport down?”

“They’re next-shifting it, I’ve been tryingto move them.” His

navigational sense was shot to hell. He was on green dock, he

could gure that. He ran a hand through his hair, blinked at

Saby’s righteous sobriety. “Electrical problem, they tagged it,

they know what it is. It’s the damn Vikingunions, Millercould

do the job themselves, except nobody can touch it.”

“We may be pulling out ofhere,” Saby said. “Austin’s furious,

nobody can nd Beatrice. I’d just get your reardown to Miller

and tell them get the next shift up early, put it on ourtab. We’re

on recall, everybody with no business out. I’ll call in, say I’ve

found you.”

“We’ve got cargo on dock,” he said, in the beginningof a cold,

sober sweat. Austin was going to kill him. Ifworse didn’t come

down. “We got cans on the dock.”

“Beatrice—” Saby began, but that was nonsense. “Find Beatrice, ifyou can, and good luck—Capella, you get

down to Miller and tell himhis trade is on the line, don’t tell

him why, tell him it’s majortrouble, and ifwe get screwed we’ll

take him with us.”

“Where are you going?”

Visions ofcans in the warehouse, halfofthem re-labeled and

halfnot. Visions ofa broken transport stalled God knew where

between Corinthian and Miller Transship’s warehouse with God

knew what aboard, and he didn’t want to guess. Sprite. Hawkinses. He had a brother on that ship. Half-brother, at least. He was, on one level, curious. On another, he wasn’t. Not

until they got those cans labeled. “Tell Austin,” he said to Saby, “I’ll be in the warehouse, I’ve

got the com on, I’m listening. Just let me straighten this out.”

“Christian,—”

“I’m ne, I’ll x it.”

“Hell,” Capella said. “Listen to the woman.”

“Christian,—”

“We are exposed as hell,” he said to Saby, walking backward, a

feat proving his sobriety, he decided, consideringhis recent

alcohol intake. Austin didn’t want excuses. It was his watch. He couldn’t screw this. “I’ll x it. Tell Austin I’ll x it, there’s

no problem.”

“Answer your damn com afterthis!” Saby yelled at him. A

loader was working somewhere. Human voices were very small,

on the dockside, easily overwhelmed by the clash and bangof

metal. Capella caught his arm and spun him about. “Better bribe the mechanics,” Capella said, with hercurious

faculty for realism, drunk orsober. “Cheaper than station brig,

Chrissy-lad. Which we could all be in ifwe screw this. You got to

sober up, spaceman. We got to get a watch on that ship when it

comes in. Anybody comes around the dock, we just arrange a

distraction.”

“We get the cargo moving,” he said. That was the absolute

priority. Couldn’t just leave those cans on the dock. Austin was

applying personal diplomacy to the mechanics, he was willing

to bet that—Corinthian was as good as down-timed herself

while Millers’ transport was stalled, stupid half-ass company

owned theirs, which was why they dealt with them, but they

were creaking antiques—

Didn’t want just any transport drivers in that warehouse

anyway. Emergency had him sweatingin the cold air. A ship showed

up that he’d never expected to meet—one they’d taken care for

years not to meet. The karmic feeling, things happeningthat

shouldn’t be. And would Austin run, from Marie Hawkins?

From a crazy

woman?

Hell. That wasn’t the Austin he knew. He used the next public phone. He called into ship-com. He

hoped not to deal with Austin. “Where the hell is your com?” Austin’s voice came back to him. “Sorry, I was in a noisy environment.”

“/ have a damned good idea where the hell you were, Christian. Save it. Did you get the message?”

“Yes, sir.—But we’ve got a transport down. They’re tryingto

x it. I didn’t think you wanted to be—”

“I’m awake. I’m bothered. I’m mad as hell and I’m calling Miller. We’ve moved the count up, we’ve got a serious problem, and I

suggest you get your ass down there and get that cargo moved. Yesterday!

I’m reassessing your le, mister, the same as any crew

member who can’t do his job!

You doubt me?

You want to tell me

how I owe you a living?”

“No, sir. I will—I’m doing that. No, sir, I knowyou don’t.” The

nerves twitched. They remembered. Austin meant exactly what

he said, and it wasn’t necessary he have liberty again forthe

next three years ifhe pissed Austin any further. End report. Capella had gotten sober, too. Entirely. Chapter Two

—i—

APPROACHING INNER SYSTEM WAS a matter ofhours, at a high fraction

ofc. Dumping that velocity while they could still graze the

interface was a relatively easy matter. Working at station-proximity speeds to get a high-mass

freighter into a rotating station, on the otherhand, was a

tedious, nerve-wracking operation. Always be aware ofthe

nearest take-hold point. Stay out ofthe lift except on business. Stay out offore-aft corridors. Keep belted when seated orasleep. Meaning that trim-ups might be rare when a long-haulerwas

following the computer-directed approach—no pilot ew

docking by the seat ofthe pants—but stations were debris-

generators, thick with maintenance and service tra c and

escaped nuts, bolts and construction tiles, and, while in the

zone of greatest risk a freighter pilot was no-stop, come hell or

the Last Judgment, or absent anythingbut damage to the

docking apparatus (meaningany pusher-jock in a freighter’s

approach path was a bump and a noise and a gentle course-

correction), the possibility ofevasive maneuver did exist. That

meant the children battened down in the cushioned Tube in the

loft, in which they could take most any vector-shift; and crew

o and on duty found themselves a de nite place to Be forthe

duration. Which in Marie’s case was hero ce; and in a junior

computer tech’s, it was the bridge. Load the le, wait forthe

check, load another le, wait for the check. It left too much time for said junior tech to think, between

button punches, in his lowly station sandwiched in with seven

other cousins at the tail ofthe bridge. It left too much time to rehearse the session with Mischa,

and the one with Marie, comparingthose mental les for

discrepancies, too, but you never caught them out that easily. They didn’t outright lie in nine tenths ofwhat they told you. They were brother and sister. They had grown up conningeach

other. They’d learned it fromeach otherifnowhere else. And

they were good at it. He wasn’t. Heredity, maybe. Like the temperMischa said did him no

favors. He was, ifhe thought about it, scared as hell, guring

Marie wasn’t done with double-crosses. Marie didn’t trust him. And, when it came down to the bottomline, Marie would use

him, he knew that in the cold sane moments when he was away

from the temptation she posed to think ofheras mama and to

think he could change her. Get that approval (she always

dangled) in front ofhim, always a little out ofpossible reach. But nothing mattered more to Marie than dealingwith that

ship. And ifMarie was right and she smelled somethingin the

records that wasn’t right with Corinthian—you could depend on

it that she’d been trackingthem through every market and

every trade she could access long-distance—she might have

les down there in cargo that even Saja didn’t knowabout. Files

she could have been buildingfor years and years and never

telling anyone. Load and check, load and check. He could push a few keys

and start wandering around Marie’s data storage—possibly

without getting caught, but there were a lot ofthings a junior

tech didn’t know. The people who’d taught him undoubtedly

hadn’t taught him how to crack theirown security: the last

arcane items were for senior crew to know and mere juniors to

guess. So it was load and check, load and check, while his mind

painted disaster scenarios and wondered what Marie was up to. Supper arrived on watch. The galley sent sandwiches, so a

tech had one hand free to punch buttons with. Liquids were all

in sealed containers. On the boards forward in the bridge, the schemata showed

they were coming in, the numbers bleedingaway rapidly now

they were on local scale. A message popped up on the cornerofhis screen. At dock. See

me. Marie. —ii—

MARIE LEANED BACK FROM THE CONSOLE, seeing the Received ash at

the corner ofher screen. So the kid was at work. The message

had nabbed him. He’d arrive. The numbers meanwhile added themselves to a pattern

built, gathered, compared, overtwenty-fouryears. How

shouldn’t they?

Corinthian was what it was, and no ship and no

agency that hadn’t had direct and willinginformation from

Corinthian itselfcould know as much about that ship as she did. She knew where it traded, when it traded, but not always

what it traded. She knew at least seven individuals ofthe Perrault clan had

moved in from dead Pacer, long, long ago. Pacer had had no good

reputation itself, a lurker about the edges, a small short-hauler

that, on one estimation, had simply been in the wrongplace at

the wrong time… and on another, had entirely deserved being

at Mariner when it blew. She knew that Corinthian took hired-crew, but it didn’t take

them often or every voyage, or in great number. Hired-crew

skuzzed around every station, most ofthem with egregious

faults—tossed out ofsome Family, the worst ofhire-ons, as a

rule, or stationers with ambitions to travel, in which case ask

what skills they really had, or the best ofthem, the remnant of

war-killed ships. Sure, there were hired-crew types that weren’t

out to cut throats, pick pockets, ormutiny and take a ship. But

those were rarer, as the War generation sorted itselfout. Mutiny had never taken Corinthian. Which argued for a wary

captain, a good eye for picking, or cosmic good luck. Except that Corinthian rejects never turned up on dockside. And her crew spent like fools when they were in port—certainly

hired-crew had reason to want to stay with Corinthian, and

could count themselves well paid. But nobody ever got o. Not that she’d found. Not, at least, in

any crew record she’d found…and she’d searched—nothingto

prevent any ship in any port from drinkingdown the hired-

crew solicitations, and reviewingthe backgrounds they’d admit

to: had a program for that, too. And at Viking, where Corinthian

had called frequently (since the second closingofthe Hinder

Stars, strange to say)—there were no Corinthian ex-crew. There

might have been hires. But no one let o. You couldn’t be so lucky as to get all saints, all competent, all

devoted crewmen. So what became ofthe rejects?

There was still a commerce in

human lives—rumor said; the same commerce as duringthe

War, when the Maziannihad stopped merchanters and

impressed crew. Rumor said… some ships that dealt with the

Maziannistill traded surplus crew for a fair pro t in goods, and

therefore hired-crew had betterwatch what they hired-to. The lurkers in the dark were certainly still out there. Accidents took ships—rarely, but accidents still happened, and

ships still disappeared somewhere in the dark. Couldn’t prove

that Corinthian in speci c had anythingto do with those

rumored tragedies… but it had to get yourattention. You had to

realize… ifyou were in port with the likes of Corinthian, and if

they knew you were on theirtrail…that your odds ofaccident

had just gone higher, too. You had to realize, ifyou were the only one aboard who

wanted that son ofa bitch’s hide, that certain members ofthe

Family, less motivated and habitually more timid, would

sabotage you, out ofconcern for theirown lives. So Tom was on her side. And Tomhad talked to Mischa. So Mischa had his spy. Well, at least that meant walkingout ofthe ship was easier. —iii—

THE CENTRAL QUESTION, IN TOM’S mind, was how the clearance

through customs was goingto work—or, at least, how it was

going to look. IfMischa believed he was leavingthe ship with Marie on his

business, he’d get the permission fairly easily; but Mischa

wasn’t supposed to know that he’d told Marie that Mischa had

put him up to it, or he wasn’t supposed to knowthat Marie

already knew all about it and they’d agreed to go divingin

station records. It was all too damned tangled, and he’d had word fromMarie,

which might or might not mean Marie accepted him at face

value… or that Marie had been in contact with Mischa. He

didn’t know—couldn’t knowwithout askingquestions that

might bring Mischa and Marie head to head. So he didn’t wait for o cial clearance to come to him from

Mischa’s o ce. He excused himselfo duty with Saja, telling

Saja that Mischa had said see to Marie, and got Saja’s leave to go

downside the minute Sprite locked into dock. He shut down his

station, left his seat and rode the lift downside, leavingthe

cousins to wonder—and Saja to ask Mischa was it true, and

Mischa to give the permission, grantingMischa hadn’t yet

gured out that he’d gone over to Marie’s camp, and wouldn’t be

reporting in. He went to Marie’s o ce, found Marie talkingwith customs

on com, a routine call he’d heard hermake since he’d rst sat in

on her duty station—at six orseven, close to when Marie’d rst

taken him home. He’d thought all this exchange of numbers

and origins and cargo data mysterious and impressive, then;

he’d rated it tedious since—but nowhe listened to it in

suspense, hoping for some clue to Marie’s intentions and

dreading intervention from Mischa at any moment. But nothing in the conversation sounded unusual, just

Marie’s easy, crisp way with station o cials, all the i’s dotted

and the t’s crossed. Station, at least, showed no indication to

them that Viking was in any way nervous about theirpresence. He didn’t hear any word of special security arrangements from

station o cials, didn’t hear any advisement from Marie

whatsoever that there was a history between Sprite and a ship

already in dock—just a welcome in fromstation, a little chatter

ofa friendly nature, a little exchange ofnames and procedures. A free port meant no customs to speak of, the way he’d

understood the brie ng, at least not the usual meticulous

accounting ofgoods carried in. There were rules, mostly about

rearms and drug trading, and an advisement that long-haulers

would be advised to stay clear ofwhite sector. Meaning out ofthe Viking local haunts, he supposed, the

territory ofViking miners, dockers, construction personnel, and

the occasional citizens who preferred the free and easy

atmosphere ofdockside to the pricier, fancierestablishments

above. In that arrangement, Viking was no di erent than Fargone,

where you didn’t go into insystemer bars and sleepovers unless

you were truly spoiling for a ght. “We copy that,” Marie said. “We’re a quiet lot. Thank you. Glad to be here, hope we can be a regular. We need to do some

on-site consultation with the Trade Bureau. Can you tell me

who to talk to?”

His ears pricked up. A name. Ramon French, Trade Bureau,

Union A airs. Marie made anothercall, said they’d been called

in on short notice, hadn’t any Alliance gures, wanted access to

the local Trade resource library, in the Bureau, which they’d had

word at Mariner that they would be able to access underthe

new rules. They had to establish an account, had to take care of

certain legalities. General crew would exit in about an hour

after shut-down, but certain o cers would as soon be through

customs early so they could get the credit accounts established,

could Viking arrange that?

There was a good deal ofback and forth afterthat, on screen,

Marie looking for something, the program, he supposed it was,

searching at high speed through the records for the patterns it

wanted, while Marie talked on the station line with m’ser

French, secretary in the VikingTrade Bureau, about accounts,

and arranging the data search. “Good, good,” Marie said, signed o , and spun herchair

about. “I take it you’re coming, Tommy-lad.”

“I guess I am,” he said, wonderingifit was really goingto be

that simple to get o the ship. But Marie just closed down her

boards, led the way down the corridor, and keyed them through

the airlock. He was appalled. You didn’t just… open the lock without the

captain’s order. But nobody had the lock codes alarmed,

evidently. Mischa had to knowwhat Marie was likely to do, and

Mischa hadn’t ordered any special security. Which was one vote, he guessed, for Mischa havingtold him

at least a quarter ofthe truth. Which might bear on who was tellingthe rest ofthe truth…

and whether he ought in fact to report back to Mischa. Scary

proposition, to be rst out ofthe ship…down the winding

access, breath frosting, and out the station lock on the

downward ramp. He’d never gone through customs with Marie before. Maybe

the easy attitude he saw in the o cers was because Vikinghad

just become a free port, whatever that exactly encompassed. Maybe it was just that senior crewon reputable ships didn’t get

the once-over and question and warningjuniors got in places

like Mariner and Fargone. Marie got a wave-through from a

uniformed o cer, the only one visible, without even a kiosk set

up, or a single glance at her papers. She said, “He’s with me,” and

the customs o cial waved him past with her. Amazing. He thought he could like beingsenior crew, ifthat

was what it meant. And Vikingmight be a grim, utilitarian

place, as grim and browned-steel as his childhood memory of

this station, but ifit meant wave-throughs fromcustoms, and

no standing in long lines ofexitingcrew, he thought he could

like Viking port’s attitude. Except for the other clientele. —iv—

BERTH 19 ORANGE SECTOR WAS moderately convenient to Viking’s

blue section, where the Trade Bureau maintained its o ces, a

long walk or a relatively comfortable ride on one ofthe slow-

moving public transports. There was, uncommon on stations

Tom was familiar with, plenty ofsittingroomon the transport

benches. You stepped aboard—ifyou weren’t able-bodied you

could ag it to a complete stop—and it also would do a full stop

at any regular Section Center, but otherwise you just

intercepted it when it made one ofits scheduled rollingstops,

stepped up as you grabbed the boardingrail, and stepped o the

same way. One ofthose full stops was, ofcourse, the station o ces in

blue sector. Marie got up, as the stop came up. He waited beside

her, hanging onto the rail until the transport slowed down. A

crowd was waiting to board, confrontinga good numbergetting

o. You could always gure that blue would be the highest

tra c area on the station, give or take the insystemerbars at

maindark or alterdark shift-change, or the occasional concert or

public event: blue held all the station business o ces, the

administrative o ces, the main branches ofall the banks, the

embassies and trade o ces, the bigcorporate o ces, and the

station media centers. You saw people in business suits, people

in coveralls—halfthe crowd carried computers or wire-ins,

pocket-coms, you could take your pick ofaccountants and

security o cers, o cial types—those usually in single cab-cars

that wove in and out offoot tra c, and hazardously close to the

ped-transports: step o without lookingand you could get

attened. Heart-stopping, close call, that, just then, cab and

pedestrians, human noise ofa sort you only heard in places this

dense with people. It gave him the willies…just too many

people, all at once, going in chaotic directions, not caringifthey

hit each other. Marie stepped o in the middle ofit. He stepped

o beside her, his eyes trackingoncomingtra c. “Straight on,” Marie said, as ifshe’d had an inborn sense

where things were—or maybe she’d checked the charts. He

hadn’t. He really didn’t like the jostlingand the racket—he’d

looked all along the dockside they passed for Corinthian

patches, or for any reaction at all fromMarie, as ifshe’d seen

something or might be lookingfor somethingotherthan what

she said, but Marie was cold and calm, all business, Marie

tolerated people shoving into them, which was steadiernerves

than he had, and fell back as the crowd surged toward the

stopped transport. He caught his balance as a man shoved him,

looked around for Marie as the transport started to roll, with

people still trying to grab the rails and board. Marie was back on the transport. People shoved past him in a last-moment rush for available

deck-space. He elbowed back and tried to catch the boarding

rail, but others were in front ofhim and the transport was

gathering speed, faster and faster. “Marie!” he yelled, knocked into a man in a suit, and into a

rougher type, who elbowed him hard. He wasn’t interested in

argument. He ran, chasing the transport in the wake it made in

the crowd, knocked into a woman as they both made a frantic

grab for the standing pole on the rearofthe transport atbed. He caught it, and clung to it. The woman had gone down. Others were helpingherup, he

saw them diminishing as, havinggained the platform, he

spared the glance back. He hoped the woman wasn’t hurt. He

didn’t know what else he could have done, and he’d made it. Wobbly-kneed and out ofbreath, he excused himselfpast

several pole-hangers on the standing-room-only transport,

worked his way up to where Marie was standing, likewise

holding to the pole. She awarded him a cold glance. “Dirty damned trick,” he panted. “I knocked a woman down,

Marie!

Where in hell do you think you’re going?

Where’s this

about appointments with Records?”

“Did I bring you up to be naive?”

“Dammit, you brought me up to tell the truth!”

“That’s to me. Don’t expect any favors from the rest ofthe

universe. Why don’t you jump o at the next stop?”

“Because I didn’t lie to you!

I want to help you!

Can’t you take

loyalty when you get it?”

“I take it. For what it’s worth.”

“God, Marie!” He couldn’t get his breath. He hungon to the

pole as the transport swerved. “This is crazy!”

“I’m crazy. Hasn’t Mischa told you?

PoorMarie’s just not that

stable.”

“You’re acting like it!” There were people all around them,

giving them room, determinedly avoidingtheirvicinity even

standing shoulder to shoulder with them. He couldn’t get

breath enough to argue. He felt crushed by the crowds. He clung

to the pole with one hand, people sittingbehind them, the dock

business frontage passing in a blur. Green sectorwas coming

after blue, where, accordingto what they’d seen comingin,

Corinthian was docked. “Where are we going?

The obvious?”

“Not quite,” Marie said, leavinghim to wonder, because they

couldn’t discuss murder on a crowded transport. He didn’t want Marie arrested. Marie wasn’t goingto give

him an answer here anyway, and he wasn’t entirely sure, by

that last answer and by Marie’s sarcasm about poorMarie and

Mischa, that Marie wasn’t still on to somethingthat didn’t

involve attacking Corinthian bare-handed, or doing something

that could get both ofthem… he recalled Mischa’s warningall

too vividly, and had a sickly and immediate fear in the pit ofhis

stomach… caught by station police and ground up ne in

station law. Held on station while the ship went on without them. Psych-

adjusted, however far that went, until they didn’t threaten

anyone. Stationers wouldn’t kill you, no, they didn’t believe in the

death penalty. When the psychs were through with you, you

couldn’t even wish you had that option. That was what Marie

was risking, and he shut up, because he didn’t know what the

local law was; he didn’t knowwhetherjust suspicion ofintent

to commit a crime could get you arrested—it could, on Cyteen

Outer Station, and he didn’t want to talk about speci cs or

name names with witnesses all around them. He just clungto

the pole on the overcrowded transport, watched Marie forsome

evidence ofan intent to bolt, and watched the numbers pass as

they trundled along from blue dock, where the government and

the military ships came in—a government contracted cargo

didn’t entitle them—toward green dock, ordinary merchanter

territory, closer and closer to Corinthian. The transport stopped just before the green section doors. Three passengers got on, maybe ten or fteen people got o. A

transport passed going the otherdirection, and stopped near

them. He stood ready to move in case Marie should try to lose

him again, and go the other way around the station rim. But she

stayed still, refused when he pointed out to herthat there was a

seat free. Someone else took it. Marie held to the pole, not saying

anything, but sharp and eagerand not at all distraught—happy,

he kept thinking, uneasily, happy and alive to hersurroundings

in a way he’d never seen in his life. They passed the section doors and rolled into green. He

didn’t know Corinthian’s exact berth, but he had it pegged from

the visual display as somewhere a third ofthe way into green

out ofblue. He wasn’t ready for Marie’s hop o the transport as it slowed

for a ag-down. He jumped, and tagged herquick pace alongthe

frontage ofbars and sleepovers, overtook heras she stopped

and waited for him. “What are you doing?” he hissed. “Marie, what are you

doing?

Tell me when you’re getting o !”

“The berth’s right down there,” Marie said, gazingdown-ring,

deeper into green. “They’re showingas o oading.”

He could see the orange light, but only a single transport was

sitting, loaded, at the berth. “Not moving.”

“Taking their own time, forcertain. I want a look at the

warehouse and the company where that’s going. The transport

logo says Miller.”

It sounded better than shootingat Corinthian crew. “What

are we looking for, speci cally?”

“What we can nd. What they’re dealingin.” She grabbed his

sleeve and drew him back against the frontage ofa trinket shop

as a man walked past them. He was confused for a moment,

looking for obvious threat on the man, but Marie didn’t let up. “That’s a Corinthian patch. Corinthian o cer.”

Sleeve-patch on the light green coveralls showed a black

circle, an object he understood was some kind ofancient

helmet. Crossed missiles. Spears. He’d learned that word from

Marie. The patch had never looked halfas much merchanteras

military. But, then, that described Corinthian to a tee. And that might even be a cousin, stridingalongas ifhe

owned the dock. Or a cousin’s shipmate, he amended the

thought, considering that the slurs about hire-ons and sex as a

pre-req for employment that he’d heard all his life from his

cousins were probably entirely true. He found himselfnervous,

unaccountably afraid, even in this degree ofproximity to the

ship and a side ofhis life he didn’t want to meet. “Come on,” Marie said, and tugged at his arm, urginghim

closer to that berth. “No!” He disengaged, grabbed herarm and drewherback. “You said you’d settle with them in the market. You said you

were looking for something in the data.”

“Scared?”

“You can’t go down there, I won’t let you go down there.”

“Won’t let me?”

“I won’t. Ifthey spot a Sprite patch, they’re going to be all

over us. It’s crazy, Marie!

Ifyou can x him through the market,

do it, I’m with you, I’ll help you, but I’m not goingto see you go

down there and do somethingstupid!”

“I’m ne. What’s to worry about?

Afraid to say hello to your

father?

I’m sure he’d be interested.”

The cousins who gave himtrouble had nothingon Marie. “I

doubt he knows I exist. Unless you knowa reason for him to.”

“Interesting question.”

“Marie,—for God’s sake—”

“It’s not a problem, Tom, I don’t knowwhy you’re makingit a

problem. We just go a little closer, have a look around…”

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie.”

“Marie, what do you care now?

After twenty years, forGod’s

sake, what could you possibly care about that man?

I don’t. I

don’t give a damn where he is, what he does, I don’t want to

meet him, I don’t want to knowanythingabout him.”

“Are you afraid?”

“No, I’m not afraid, but—”

“Liar yourself.”

“Do you want him to rule yourlife, Marie?

Is what happened

twenty years ago going to govern your whole damned career?”

Marie’s hand was in motion, and he’d gotten faster overthe

years. He blocked it. It stung, even so. “Don’t you lecture me!” Marie hissed. “Don’t you lecture me,

Thomas!”

“‘Bygones be bygones.’ Hell!”

He wasn’t looking for the second try. He didn’t intend the

force ofthe hand that blocked it. “Cut it out, Marie!”

“Don’t you lift a hand to me, don’t you everlift a hand, you

hear me?

Damn you!”

“I said cut it out!” He intercepted the third try, realized he

was holding too tight and let go. “I’m not him, dammit, Marie,

I’m not him, God, stop—stop it, Marie!”

She got a breath. She was absolutely paperwhite, staringat

him with white-edged eyes, mouth open—he was shaking. She

could still do that to him, he didn’t knowwhy, except that she

could make him mad and that when he was mad he didn’t

think. He could hit her in his temperand maybe hurt her,

maybe want to hurt her, that was the fear that paralyzed him. She got her breath. She stared at him. “Whose side are you

on?”

“I didn’t know there was a side!”

“You damned well believe there’s a side!

Don’t you talk to

Mischa behind my back!

I didn’t have to have you. I didn’t have

to keep you. And what’s fair—what’s fair, Tom, yourtalkingto

Mischa, when Mischa neverdid one damned thingto help me,

my own ship never did a damned thingto help me—like it was

all my fault—”

“I know what you feel, Marie, I don’t blame you, but you

don’t know—”

“You don’t know what I feel!

You don’t knowany part ofwhat

I feel. Don’t give me that!”

“I don’t want this ship to leave you in some station psych

unit!”

“I’m not stupid, boy!

Does Mischa think I’m stupid?”

“Mischa doesn’t have a damned thingto do with my being

here, I’m here for you, Marie, for God’s sake, don’t act like this!

Listen to me!”

“Get away from me!” She shoved him o , ran alongthe

frontages, and he ran afterher, caught her, but she started

hitting him. “Marie,—”

“Hey!” somebody said, a voice he didn’t know. Someone

grabbed him hard from behind and shoved him, Marie broke

and ran, and he was staringat an angry spacer a head tallerand

a good deal wider, yelling, “What’s your problem?”

“That’s my mother, dammit!”

The man grabbed him by the collar. “You treat yourmama

like that?”

“She’s in trouble!

Let me go!”

“What trouble?”

“Let go!” He broke the hold and ducked, ran toward

Corinthian’s berth, and stopped, havinglost all sight ofMarie. Someone came running behind him, and he swungaround,

held up both hands in token ofpeace, ducked the man’s attempt

to grab him again. “I’m telling you that’s my mother, it’s crewbusiness, I’m not

after a ght—just leave me the hell alone, she’s breakingregs, I

got to nd her!”

He shoved the man o , ran down the dock closerto

Corinthian, hoping he’d nd some hidey-hole Marie might have

found—there were bars and he skidded into one, hopingfora

service door—saw one, but it was behind the bar. He kited back

along the wall as the damnfool spacer came in lookingforhim. He slipped out the door behind the man’s back, then ran down

the row to the second bar over, and into the fardim back ofthe

room, in case the man should give it anothertry. He was out of

breath, hoped the man hadn’t called the cops. He sawa public

phone and went to it—it was too fararound the station rim to

rely on the pocket-com. He punched in the universal numberfor

ship-lines, Sprite’s berth at orange 19, then the internal number

for bridge-corn. “This is Tom Hawkins. Put me through to the captain, this is

an extreme emergency.”

Mischa came on, immediately, with, “Where did she lose

you?”

“Green 10,” he said, shamefaced. God, not even a What

happened?

“Kid, stay put, do you copy?

Where are you right now?”

He had to look up at the bar name on the back wall. “The

Andromeda.”

“You don’t budge from there. Do you copy?

Don’t budge. Saja’s on the dock. He’s had you in sight. He’s been tryingto

catch up to you since you left, damn your hide.”

Chasing us, he thought. Why?

They had the com. Why didn’t

they just call us?

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ll be here.” Imagination painted what

Marie might be up to, trying to get on board Corinthian, lying in

ambush for their crew on dockside—gettingcaught at it, and

arrested, because Corinthian had probably gathered all sorts of

evidence on Marie’s intentions overthe years, ifMischa was

right about the messages she’d sent. He hung up. He followed the edge ofthe room, around the

tables, not to leave the bar, but because he wanted not to be

visible from the door. Tra c was moderate in the

establishment. A group ofspacers came in and went to the bar. He spotted a darkness about the patch. It could be Corinthian. He couldn’t tell from his vantage; and the man that was

following him hadn’t shown. He thought he might just sit down

in the corner and order a drink, but it wasn’t a table-service

kind of place, you had to go up to the bar, and he wasn’t eagerto

go up there with the newcomers. He took a look outside, a careful look-see, anxious whether

there was any sight ofSprite personnel, or whether the man

who’d followed him into one bar was still searching. No sign ofeither. But he saw Marie, down the row, just

standing in front ofsome shop, lookingacross the wide dock to

Corinthian’s operations zone. He could go back and call Mischa. He could lose her, that way. He stayed where he was, thinkingSaja and his group could spot

him that way, and thinkingto keep Marie in sight. But Marie started to walk alongthe frontage, still in the

direction she’d been going, with consistent looks toward

Corinthian’s area. Stalking them. He stood watching, looked frantically forSaja

to show up, and saw Marie getting further and furtheraway. Screw it, he thought. Mischa knew where he was betterthan

he was going to know where Marie was ifhe didn’t move. He

started walking as fast as he could—he gured runningwould

draw attention he didn’t want. He just tried to look like

someone on business, without makingthe noise that would

alarm Marie or drive her to coverdown some service access that

on some docksides you found unlocked. She stopped and took somethingfromherpocket, he was

scared to death it was a gun; but it was an optic ofsome sort,

maybe a camera, he wasn’t sure. She was lookingtoward

Corinthian and he took the chance to run, as lightly and quietly

as he could, in her direction. She saw him at the last moment, spun about in alarm and

then scowled at him. “Dammit,” he panted. “What are you lookingat?”

“Damn yourself. The answer’s MillerTransship, 23 green, no

long distance from 10.

They’re onloading. But that’s a Miller

company transport. You’d knowthat son ofa bitch was goingto

deal all inside.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he’s not hiring outside help. No freight handlingby

any outside party. He sells to Miller, he buys from Miller, Miller’s

his transport, his commissioned supplier…”

“That’s not illegal, is it?”

“No, it’s not illegal. It does mean there’s minimal contact

with people who might ask questions. God, I wish we’d been

here just ve days ago.”

“When he was o oading.”

“Damn right when he was o oading. The market’s just so

smooth right now. Can you imagine a ship arrivingand the

market not showing a single change on the boards?”

He couldn’t. The market always reacted. “I don’t think so.”

“Bravo. You don’t think so.”

“So what do you think?”

“Oh, just coincidence. Corinthian just carries such a mix of

average goods you just don’t get a tick at all. Goods Miller

warehoused the instant that ship hit system. And you still don’t

get a tick.”

“Why doesn’t station spot it?”

“Station may have spotted it. But it’s not illegal for Millerto

hold a shipment o the boards, either. They’re a transshipper. They don’t have to declare in a free ora dutied port, not since

the War. Transshipped goods are technically still in transit until

they deliver them elsewhere.”

“With the cargo broken up and dribbled out in patterns that

don’t make patterns.”

“Brilliant. You must have gotten deviousness fromhis side.”

“The hell I did. What are you goingto do about it?”

“Just take a few pictures.” Marie lifted the camera that

probably, he thought, had a close-up function that meant

business. And a couple ofCorinthian crewmen were looking their

direction, maybe out offrame fromwhat Marie saw. “Marie. Marie, they’re lookingat us. Let’s just walk.”

“Nerves. All right.” Marie put the camera back in herpocket

and they started away, but the men started across the dock, four

ofthem. “Damn,” Tom said. “Marie,—”

“Just keep walking.”

“We could go into a bar. It’s safer.”

“I don’t like to be in places.”

God. Marie was sane ninety-nine point nine percent ofthe

time. And then you got the schitzy tenth percent. “I don’t care, we should get o the dock…get where we’ve

got protection…”

Marie threw a look over hershoulder. Started running. He

did, casting a fast look back, and they had, and he caught up to

Marie, grabbed her arm as they were runningand tried to drag

her into the nearest bar, but Marie started ghtinghim and he

let go and put on double speed as the Corinthian crewmen came

pounding up the deck behind them. They knocked into a woman comingout ofa bar, knocked

her at, and kept going. People were shouting. Then he saw people start to run toward them from down the

dock in the other direction, and realized it was Saja in the lead. Marie started to change direction. “It’s Saja!” he yelled at her,

and grabbed her and ran foroncomingreinforcements. But Corinthian personnel weren’t giving up the chase. They

reached Saja and three ofthe cousins, and Saja had pulled a

length oflight chain from his pocket, the cousins had come up

with other contraband, and there wasn’t time to think about

anything but getting Marie out ofthere. Except Marie wouldn’t go, Marie had a piece ofchain, too,

and it whipped about and caught a Corinthian crewman across

the neck. There was a pile-up ofbodies as the man went down,

Marie went down, and the nearest bar emptied out more

Corinthians. “Security!” somebody yelled, on theirside orCorinthian’s or

the bystanders, he wasn’t sure, only a numberofpeople had

mixed into it that weren’t Corinthian or Sprite, people yelling

that the cops were coming, about the time a st came out of

nowhere and hit him in the temple. He couldn’t see. He stumbled over somebody’s legor arm and

went down, trying to fend o the attack with his uplifted arm,

hearing chains ying and people yelling—he heard somebody

yell cops, and look out, and he couldn’t nd Marie, couldn’t nd

anything but the deck-plates. He scrambled for what he

thought was a clear zone, and met what might be the frontage

wall, he wasn’t sure. Hands helped him up, held onto him as the

dark gave way to hazy sight and an orbitingcouple ofred spots. Flashing blue, then. The cops were comingin, breakingit up

with stun-sticks and bare hands. He didn’t see Marie. He didn’t

know what to do. They were haulingpeople out ofthe tangle on

the deck and arresting them and he found space to retreat at his

back, people just pushing past him to shout information, who’d

swung, who’d done what, the cops were shoutingto calm down,

they wanted o cers, and they wanted them now. He heard Saja saying he was an o cer, dammit, and

Corinthians started it, and somebody else shoutingit was Sprite

and there was a crazy woman tryingto kill theircaptain, but

Marie wasn’t anywhere in sight, Marie was loose somewhere

and she was liable to do anything…or some Corinthian could

have dragged her o , he didn’t knowand he didn’t take station

police as going to listen to a spacer quarrel. He had the chance. He just backed away, just turned and kept

walking, dizzy, his head hurting. He wasn’t aware of where he

was walking, only it turned out to be toward Corinthian, and

where they’d come from, and then he knew where Marie would

go ifshe was loose. Ifshe wasn’t crazy, she’d want the evidence

to prove to the universe Corinthian was guilty and they’d had

the motive to attack her, she’d fry Austin Bowe ifit was the last

and only thing she could do, and the evidence, ifshe couldn’t

get at Corinthian’s own data, was at an address. His head hurt. He couldn’t think ofit. It was in the twenties

on the same dock, and that was a longhike down from

Corinthian’s berth at 10, but nobody was o eringto stop him,

he was just any spacer walkingon the dock, staggeringa little,

but spacers did, on the Strip, that was why safe, moral

stationers didn’t come walkinghere, it was spacer territory,

spacer logic, even with the cops… couldn’t say they’d actually

arrest anybody ifnobody landed in hospital, just ne hell out of

both ships, you didn’t know, you couldn’t predict…

Support column came up in his face. He grabbed it, leaned

against it, head hurting, vision doingtricks again. Couldn’t blame Marie for running. She’d conned him. She’d

used him. Made Mischa think everythingwas undercontrol. She’d probably scammed Saja, too, with that trick ofstepping

back onto the transport, Saja’d had to wait for the next one. But what did you expect ofMarie?

She was what she was. She

didn’t deserve to be in any psych ward, please God. She’d pulled the same thingon Mischa twenty years ago. He

wasn’t any brighter. She’d said she had trade information, she said she was

working on Corinthian doing something illegal, at least

something borderline—she said ifshe could get some

information out ofthe trade o ce,—and she had an

appointment… everything looked good… but that wasn’t where

she’d gone. She’d come here…

Wandering the ever-night ofthe docks, the clash and crash of

loaders, the echoing ofdistant voices. He was walkingagain. He

didn’t remember since when. Abundant places to hide. Abundant places to lose oneselfin,

ifone were determined, and Marie was that. Spacers passed

him. He saw patches on sleeves but he didn’t knowthe ships. Strange to him. And he’d never been a place in his life where

that was true. Past the frontage ofa sleepover. He felt his hands sweating

despite the cold, his heart pumpingand not keepingup with

the oxygen demand. Opposite berth 18, it was. Lookingforthe

twenties, he said to himself, and sawa transport go past. Saw a sign, not a big one. Hercules Shipping. Commercial

district. And warehouses. The characterofthe zone changed

that quickly. Suddenly it was all warehouses, some with open

doors, cans standing inside in the light, most with doors shut. Transshippers, Marie had said. Couldn’t rememberthe name

or the number, until he saw the sign. Miller. Miller Transshipping. The doors weren’t open. Looked closed, except shippers

didn’t ever close. No neon about the sign, easy to miss, on the

frontage like that, with no lights. But Millerwas the name, he

was sure ofit. He tried the personnel entry, heavy doorwith no window. It

was supposed to work on hydraulics, but it didn’t, you had to

shove it after the electric motortook it halfway, and it wasn’t

illegal to walk into an o ce and ask directions to some place: he

could pretend he didn’t knowwhere Hercules Shippingwas, he

had his story all ready. But nobody was in the o ce. The side doorwasn’t locked,

either, and that led into the lighted warehouse. Going there was a little chancier, but he could still say he was

lost and looking for somebody…please God the vacancy in the

o ce wasn’t because Marie had done something, like killing

somebody. He was lost, he’d tell them, ifhe ran into workers inside. He’d

gotten separated from his crewmates in the transport crush, he

didn’t know where he was. He walked among tall shippingcanisters, cold-haulerstu ,

up in racks, like a ship’s hold, only more brightly lit. The cans

drank up heat from the air, made the whole warehouse bitter

cold. They were covered in frost. The rack-loader had stopped with a can aboard. It was

frosted as the rest. He undipped his ID, used the edge to scrape

the plate to nd out what was listed in it… Marie wanted to

know, and he wanted to be able to tell her. Prove he was on her

side. It said the origin was Pell. It said…he couldn’t make out the

contents, the label was faint and the plate kept frostingover

again while he scraped thick greyed peels ofice o it, but it said

it was cold-hold stu , it said it was biologic, that was a check-

box. It said food-stu s. He was freezingwhere he stood, hadn’t

realized it was cold-hold goods llingthe warehouse. He needed

more than the insulated coveralls you used on the docks. Needed gloves, because his ngers were burningjust peelingthe

frost o , and the can drank the heat out ofhis exposed skin, out

ofhis eyes, so he didn’t dare go on lookingat it. Deep cold was

treacherous: ifyou felt it do that and you didn’t have a face-

mask, you needed to get out. A door opened behind him. His heart thumped. He heard

voices, decided he’d bettergo ahead with his charade. So he

clipped his ID back to his pocket and walked out to see who’d

come in, to give his story about beinglost. Personnel came in wearing heavy coats, in gloves; then a

handful ofspacers in no more protection than he stood in—in

the same green he’d seen on Corinthian crew. He decided to blu it through, giddy and shiveringas he was. “There you are,” he declared. “I was wonderingifthere was

someone in charge.”

“What in hell are you doing in here?”

“Door was open,” he said, walkingtoward them, scared as

hell and trying not to show it. “Sorry. I thought there’d be

somebody in the warehouse, ifnothingelse.” He didn’t want

Corinthian crew to see the patch on his sleeve, please God, he

just wanted to deal with the warehouse owners. “Lost my

mates, got o at the wrong stop…I was supposed to go down to

Hercules Shipping, I forgot the damn number…”

“He was with her,” one ofthe spacers said. Shit, he thought, desperate, and made a throwaway gesture,

measuring the distance to the door. “I was with my crew, except

I got o too soon. Sorry ifI’ve inconvenienced anybody, I was

just looking for a number…”

His legs were sti from the cold. He wasn’t sure he could run

with any speed. The spacers came closer, the warehouse

workers saying things about the dangers ofcold cans, about not

wanting any trouble on theirpremises. Fine, he thought, he’d go through them, not the spacers. And

he bolted for the door. But the warehousers grabbed him, all the same, and swung

him around to face the spacers. Six ofthem. “Sprite crew,” one ofthem said, and the youngman who

looked like an o cer ofsome sort said, “Lookingfor an address,

are you?” The young man walked up and undipped the ID from

his pocket. Looked at it. Clean-cut young o cer. Stripes on his sleeve. Didn’t look like

as much trouble as the crew might be. Looked at the ID. Looked

at him. “Thomas Bowe-Hawkins.”

Bowe, the pocket tab on the o cersaid. C. Bowe. Cousin of

his, he thought, and didn’t welcome the acquaintance. “Well, well, well,” the youngman said. “Marie Hawkins’

darling o spring. Search the place.”

“She’s not here.”

The Corinthian clipped the tab back to his pocket, one-

handed. Straightened his collar, a familiarity he didn’t like. “Thomas. Or Tom?”

“Suit yourself,” he muttered. He was scared. He’d been in

cousin-traps a hundred times. But there were a dozen ways to

get killed in this one. “Tommy Hawkins. I’m Christian Bowe. Papa’s other son.”

Other son. More than possible. He hadn’t known, he hadn’t guessed, and

he looked at this Christian Bowe, wonderingwhetherkinship

was going to get him out of this or see him dead. “Where’s your mama?” Christian Bowe asked him. “Hmmn?”

“I don’t know. She’s not here.”

“So you just went walkingin the warehouses, did you?

Looking for something in particular?”

“I know Miller’s handling yourstu. I thought she might

have come here. But she didn’t.”

“Come here for what?”

He didn’t answer. One ofthe men came back from a circuit of

the area. “He was scrapingat the labels,” that man said. “Or

somebody was.”

“Marie Hawkins?” Christian shouted at the empty air. The

voice echoed around the vast, cold warehouse, up amongthe

racks. “You want your kid back?”

Marie didn’t, Tom thought. Not that much. Or maybe not at all. Echoes died into silence. He stood there,

with two men holding on to his arms, and hands and face numb

with the cold. Eyes were frostingaround the edges, the sti ness

ofice. “He knows too much,” somebody said, at his back. “Don’t know a thing,” he said. “The hell,” Christian said, and turned his shoulder, hand

rubbing the back ofhis neck, while he thought overwhat to do,

Tom supposed, while all of them froze, but he was gettingthere

faster. “Put him out,” Christian said then. He thought he meant out

ofthe warehouse, and hoped, when the man holdinghis right

arm quit twisting it. But that man’s hand came around and under his jaw, then. He knew the hold, tried to break it before it cut the blood to his

brain, but he didn’t have the leverage, they did, and the white

suns in the overhead dimmed and faded out, quite painlessly. —v—

DIDN’T KNOW WHERE HE WAS, then, except face down on the icy deck

with a knee in his back, pressinghis forehead against the

burning cold ofthe decking. They taped his hands and ankles

together. He yelled for help, and somebody ripped o some

more tape and taped his mouth with it—afterwhich, they

threw some kind ofcold blanket overhim and rolled him in it,

until he was a cocoon. He tried to kick and tried to yell out,

guring their beating him unconscious was no worse than

smothering to death or freezingto death in the warehouse, if

there was anybody to know. But they picked him up, then, head and feet, and earned him

a distance, through a doorway, he thought, before they dumped

him on the deck. It was the o ce, he gradually decided, because

he could feel the warmth in the air that got through the blanket,

which was a source ofcold, now, instead ofwarmth. He heard them walking around him, talkingabout the

transport rolling, how it had been down; he heard them cursing

somebody named Je and wishinghe’d hurry, but he hoped for

maybe one ofthe company owners ora customerto come in,

who’d be willing to call the cops and canny enough to get out

the door. Now and again he gathered his forces to try to make

noise in case somebody was in earshot, and they’d kick him

half-heartedly, not with any force through the blanket, and

once they told him they’d beat hell out ofhim ifhe didn’t lie

still. Somebody did come in, just after that; he heard the door

open and close; but it was the guy named Je , who said he’d got

the stu , that was all. He didn’t knowwhat they were talking

about; but abruptly they grabbed him, unwrapped the blanket,

unfastened his collar and shot him with a hypo in the back of

the shoulder. Damn you all, he wanted to say. He didn’t knowwhere he’d

wake up—or ifhe’d wake. He’d met a brother he didn’t knowhe had. That wasn’t a

dream. He’d lost Marie. He hoped they hadn’t caught her. He didn’t

know ifshe could survive ifthey took heraboard Corinthian, if

Bowe wanted a personal revenge. He didn’t know but what they were goingto dump him in a

can and put the lid on and ship him to Fargone or somewhere,

where they’d nd an unexplained frozen corpse. He stared up at

the circle ofinterested faces. He was very, very scared, but he

was losing it again…

The room dimmed. He could hear his own pulse, provinghe

was alive. That was all. Chapter Three

—i—

A BROTHER HE’D RATHER NOT HAVE met lying like a heap oflaundry on

the bunk in the brig, and, Christian said to himself, Austin was

very possibly going to kill him, when Austin nished sorting

out the nes and the penalties… none ofwhich was his fault;

but that didn’t mean whoever approached Austin with a minor

problem wasn’t going to catch hell. “I wouldn’t go in there,” Beatrice said, in the vicinity of

Austin’s o ce. As a mother, Beatrice wasn’t the historic

model… she’d dropped herkid between jumps, left him to

cousin Saby’s ten-year-old mercy, and nowadays abdicated him

to Capella’s, God help him. Right nowBeatrice showed the

ravages ofa night on the docks, red eyes, hair trailingout ofits

usual tight twist—the glitz-paint was worn on one bare

shoulder, saying Beatrice had been in bed when the search team

found her or the beeper on the pocket-corn nally blasted her

out ofwhatever lair she’d intended for the next several days. So they’d all had cancelled plans. Capella was in a funk. Beatrice looked mildly sedated, just a little strange about the

edges when she grabbed himand hugged him in the corridor,

not Beatrice’s maternal habit. Then she got a stful ofhis hair

and looked him closely in the eyes with, “You’ve given us a

problem. You’ve given Austin one.”

“What was I to do?

He’d been lookingat the cans. And

pardonnez-moi, maman, I didn’t pick this particular problem. He’s Austin’s.”

“He won’t thank you.”

“Pity.”

He started to leave. Beatrice didn’t let go her stful ofhair. “Christian. Keep your mouth shut. It will die down. We can leave

this fool at Pell… send him to Earth, for that matter, and he

won’t nd his way back.”

“It won’t die down. There’s too broad a trail, and there’s that

woman…”

“Shit on that woman!”

“Shit on the whole situation, I—”

The door ofAustin’s o ce whisked aside. Austin loomed in

the doorway. “Get in here!”

“Who, me?” He honestly wasn’t sure, and mimed it. Austin

grabbed him by the arm, jerked him through the door, and

backhanded him hard into the wall, which left him nursinga

sore ear and a personal indignation. “It’s not my damn fault!”

“Why could somebody just walk into the warehouse?

Where

in hell was the guard?”

“Millers’ had people on duty, but they had to have somebody

sign the damn repair order, I didn’t knowthey were goingto

leave the o ce unlocked…”

Austin took a glancing swipe at him, total disgust. “All you

had to do was have a guard on that door.”

“I know that.”

“You know that, sir, damn your impudence!

You look to

inherit Corinthian?

You’re a long way from it, at the rate you’re

going!

We’ll be lucky not to lose this port, and Miller, and all

they do for us, you understand that?

Does that remotely a ect

your social interests?”

“I was busting my ass, sir, getting Miller moving. I got us

turned around, we just can’t use any damn deckhand that

comes along. We’re loading, we’re goingas fast as the loadercan

roll, I’ve sent out the board-call. The only thingI didn’t predict

was Miller’s man deciding to take a walk and leave the damn

door unlocked—”

“Try predicting what we’re goingto do when the cops show

up wanting Thomas Hawkins!

Does that t in your crystal ball?

Sprite crew is all over the damn dock out there!”

“Looking for Marie, by my sources. Not interested in calling

the cops, no more than we are. They’re askingup and down the

row, every bar, showing herpicture. They probably think he’s

with her.”

“Damn lucky they didn’t arrest halfthe crew.”

“I hear luck had nothing to do with it.”

“Expensive luck. I’m not in a damned good mood, boy. Nobody’s coming through those access doors ornear ourlock. Damned elusive woman. Damned persistent—and you snatch

her kid?

Thanks. Thanks a whole lot. It’s just the luck we

needed.”

“Dump him in space. It’s no di erent than leavinghim lie in

a warehouse full ofcold cans. He was takinga tour ofMiller’s

premises, for God’s sake, it wasn’t my doing, I don’t know what

more I could do than I did…ifI’d left a body behind, you

wouldn’t be happy with me either, especially seeinghe’s your

own o spring,—sir. I wouldn’t want you to get the idea I

wanted him dead.”

“You’re real close to annoyingme, Christian.”

“I did what seemed to me to be less liability.”

“After you nally deigned to return a com call. After you gave

that ship that much extra time to let Marie Hawkins loose on

the dock.”

“It’s not my fault the transport broke down. It’s not my fault

everything on this God-forsaken station depends on some

separate labor union—I could have xed that damn transport

with a screwdriver, Miller could have xed the transport, we

didn’t know we had an emergency, and I wasn’t that hard to

track down, sir, I’d told Millerwhere I was and what general

direction I was going. You could have called Miller.”

“Miller isn’t an o cer on this ship. Damned right I called

Miller, once Bianco saw t to tell me the o oadingwas stalled.”

“You tell Bianco what you thought about it?”

“Bianco’d told you. You were the o cer ofthe watch, boy, and

ifyou have any desire to stay an o ceron this ship, I suggest

you establish clear understandings with the duty o cerofeach

watch, that you take threats against this ship damned seriously,

that you don’t screw with the guard I’ve put on our accesses,

because I don’t take for granted that woman won’t try to slip us

a bomb in one ofthe cans or walk onto this ship armed, do you

hear me?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“As long as they’re searchingfor her…she hasn’t gone to the

cops or reported in. Just keep those cans moving. And let me tell

you something—” Austin went to the door and opened it again. “Beatrice?

Beatrice, I want you to hear this, too.”

Beatrice came in… subdued, for Beatrice. She folded herarms

and stood there glumly. “I don’t know how seriously you take the threat Marie

Hawkins poses,” Austin said. “But twenty years ofthreats and

her skulking around out there don’t add up empty in my book. She’s got this kid—by her own letters, she’s primed this kid of

hers to get us, meaning the crew, and particularly anybody

attached to me. That kid stays in the brig. Nobody takes chances

with him. I’m damned serious, Beatrice.”

“What do you intend to do with him?”

“Take him as far away from Sprite schedules as we can.”

“No paternal interest.”

“Filed right behind your maternal instincts, Beatrice, don’t

push me. Tell your o springuse his head. I am tired. I am hung

over… Beatrice, this wasn’t the best wake-up I’ve had in a year.”

Beatrice moved in for aid and comfort. It seemed a good

moment to excuse oneselfout the door. Christian slid in that

direction, opened the door—Austin had it set on fast, and auto-

dose—and walked—

“Boy. Don’t screw up.”

—out. The door whisked shut in his face, leavinghim blank

surface instead ofthe pair that were ultimately responsible—

leaving words in his mouth, and nowhere to spit them. He didn’t hit the door. Or open it. He dropped the st and

walked the curving deck, headed for the lift. He’d ordered the dockside crewto keep an eye out, see ifthey

could spot this Hawkins woman—keep hero Austin’s neck. No

damn thanks from Austin, Austin never asked, Austin never

looked to see who did what, it was just yourfault ifsomething

went wrong. Never Austin’s fault. Never Austin’s damned fault. Austin

never made mistakes. —ii—

CANS WERE OFFLOADING. You could hear the hydraulics working,

distant, a comfortable, all’s-well sort ofsound. Couldn’t gure. What station?

When had he gotten back to

the ship?

One spectacular blow-out in a bar, maybe, drunk till

he couldn’t gure…

Except he was face down on a bed that didn’t feel like his

own, and it didn’t have sheets, and his mouth felt like fuzz

inside while the outside felt skinned. A moment offright came back to him, shadows around him

while he lay on a freezingdeck tryingto ght them o. He

grabbed the edge ofthe bed and sat up in a hurry, legs o the

edge, and a cold plastic line draggingfromhis wrist. Hell, he thought, scared. Blurred eyes made out an

unfamiliar room, green, not white, an unfamiliar blurofmetal

grid in front ofhim, and a spinningofhis head and a queasiness

in his stomach said it hadn’t been a good experience that put

him in this unfamiliar place. The station brig, maybe. Maybe the

cops had come and arrested everybody, and Marie…

Marie was still out there. Maybe she’d gotten away, but he

hadn’t, and he couldn’t remembereverythingabout how he’d

come here, just the warehouse and the cold, and people around

him. People. Corinthian crew. And there was a cold metal bracelet around his right wrist,

and a plastic-sheeted cable goingup to where the wall met the

ceiling, which he couldn’t make out the sense of, except the

metal grid where the front wall ought to be, and the rest was

any crewman’s ordinary accommodation, without sheets,

without personal items, without anythingon the walls, orany

internal com unit—just a patch on the wall where one might

have been taken out, and nobody’d cared to paint it, oranything

else people had scratched up…skuzzy walls, skuzzy panels,

where previous occupants had scratched initials and

obscenities. He didn’t remember any station cops. It wasn’t Viking’s brig. It wasn’t the legal systemthat ran this

gra ti-scarred cell. It was Corinthian. He’d become a hostage

for something, or a prisonerCorinthian had some reason to

keep, or God knew what else. He staggered up, shaky in the knees and immediately aware

the cell wasn’t precisely on the main axis ofthe ship. He

grabbed the cable that trailed fromhis wrist and gave it a jerk

that burned his palms—but it didn’t give. It went out a little

aperture at the join ofwall and ceiling, and it was securely

anchored somewhere the otherside ofthe wall. His breath came short. It might be the anesthetic they’d shot

him with. It might be the exertion. It might be the beginnings

ofpanic, but he couldn’t get enough air to keep the room from

going around as he stumbled to the metal grid and tried to slide

it one way and the other. It didn’t give, either, not even so much as to showwhat way

it could move when it opened. There was, at the other end ofthe narrowspace, the ribbed

panel that, aboard Sprite, rolled back to give access to the

bathroom, and there was a trigger-plate. He leaned against the

wall there and pressed it, and the panel rolled back, making

itselfthe side wall ofthe bath. There was a sink, a toilet, a vaporcloset for a shower, same

facilities his own cabin had. He punched the cold water. It gave

a meager amount and shut itselfo. He punched the hot, and it

wasn’t, but it shut itselfo. Not the ritz, he thought distractedly. He felt betterthat the

bath worked. At least it wasn’t deliberately bad treatment—they

hadn’t left him to freeze, they hadn’t beaten him unconscious:

they must have sent to the ship for what they’d dosed him with;

and, aside from a slight nausea and a frost-burn on his ngers

and the side ofhis face, he wasn’t exactly hurt… but the cable

crossed his legs every time he took a step orreached for

anything, telling him he wasn’t free, he wasn’t all right, they

didn’t intend him to get loose, and they weren’t doingwhat

they’d done for his convenience. More… he didn’t know what might be goingon outside, or

whether they’d also caught Marie, or what his crew might be

doing. Not much, he thought, tryingto be pragmatic. A, Mischa

didn’t give the proverbial damn, B, ifMischa did give a damn,

Marie would still be Sprite’s rst worry for very practical

reasons, and, C, ifMischa did decide to do somethingabout it,

Sprite didn’t hold an outstandingly high hand. Unless Marie had come up with the evidence Marie had said

she was looking for. Marie lied without a conscience. But Marie had brought a camera, Marie had committed every

subterfuge she’d committed with the simple, predictable notion

ofgetting to Corinthian’s dock—but whether the camera was an

excuse to do it or the reason for doingit, he didn’t know. She’d

said there were things she wanted to ask the station trade o ce,

and maybe she’d wanted to gatherevidence enough to be

allowed to get at station records, orto make someone else take a

look…

He didn’t know. He couldn’t knowfrom here. But ifMarie

was in fact on to something, he knew what motive Corinthian

could have for taking him and holdingon to him, at least until

they were ready to leave port, oruntil it was clear Marie couldn’t

prove anything. Only hope they hadn’t caught Marie. Only hope Marie hadn’t

done something to lose whatever leverage she had with Mischa

or with Viking station authorities, or whoevercould get him

out ofhere. He found himselfwalking the length and width ofthe cell,

staggering as he was, tellinghimselfhe was all right, Marie

wouldn’t let him stay here, Marie would move whatevershe had

to move to get him out—tellinghimselfthey couldn’t have

caught her, Marie was slippery as hell, that was howhe’d gotten

into this in the rst place, and somethingwas goingto get him

out, Corinthian couldn’t just kidnap somebody and get away

with it, and they couldn’t have the motives with him they’d had

with Marie. Surely not. Please God, that wasn’t even a

reasonable thought. He heard someone walkingin the corridor, heard someone

come near the cell. He went to the bars ofthe grid, leaned

against them to try to see. A young man. Blond hair, sullen expression, a face and a

body language that jolted into recognition…the warehouse. Corinthian. Christian. Brother. “Alive, after all,” Christian said. “So happy to be here. I can

tell.”

“Happier to be out ofhere. What’re my chances?”

“Hey. You’re already lucky. Pump drugs into a body, you don’t

know, you woke up. I don’t knowwhat’s your bitch.”

He didn’t think he liked Christian Bowe. But there was some

cause, he could see that, for Corinthian not to like the situation. Christian Bowe said it—he was alive: point on Corinthian’s side. He looked his half-brother up and down. Pretty boy, he

thought. Papa had good genes. “So why’d you bring me here?”

“Hell ifI know.”

It was more and less answer than he expected. A

disconcerting answer. “So what do you want for me to get out of

here?”

“Idea ofthe moment, bringingyou here. Don’t ask me. I don’t

do long-range planning.”

“Am I the only one?”

“The only what?”

Temper ared. “The only one, the only one you brought

aboard, you know damned well what I mean.”

Pretty-boy made a motion ofhis ngers. “No. I don’t know. What do you mean?”

“Screw you.” It wasn’t gettinganywhere. This wasn’t a

friend. He walked back to his bed and sat down. “You mean your mama?” Christian asked fromthe otherside

ofthe bars. He meant Marie. He was scared. And mad. He tucked his foot

up into the circle ofhis arms and the cable dragged across his

shins. He didn’t look at Christian Bowe. He didn’t expect any

help, or any honest answer. But ifthey’d caught Marie, he thought Christian would be

happy to tell him so. Machinery whined, sharply, suddenly. The cable jerked tight,

jerked him o the bed and up against the wall, his arm drawn

up and up. The whine stopped. His arm did, the bracelet cuttinginto his

wrist, his feet all but o the deck. It hurt, fromhis chest to his

wrist. It scared him, what they could do, what his half-brother

could do. “Want down?”

“Son ofa—”

The cable yanked him halfhis height up the wall. It made

him think, at that point ofrest, what the winch could do to his

wrist once it hit the exit point. “Want down?” Christian asked. He had a choice. He knew he had a choice. He’d never backed

down in his life. He couldn’t manage to say I give. Couldn’t nd

it. The winch took up another spurt. There wasn’t anotherinch

left. “Want down?”

He couldn’t get the wit to talk. He couldn’t frame an appeal to

reason. Or kinship. “Good day,” Christian said, “good luck, good bye.”

“Christian!”

“Please?”

“Damn you!”

Christian walked o. He hungthere, against the spin ofthe

whole ofViking station, tellinghimselfhe’d been a fool, he had

nothing to win, he’d nothingto lose, he just wanted down

before his arm broke or his hand went dead, which could

happen, and he didn’t knowhowlongit could take. “Christian, damn you!”

He’d been a fool. But he wasn’t sorry. Hell, he wasn’t sorry. He’d seen more ofCorinthian already than he hoped to see in his

lifetime, he didn’t like it, he hoped for papa’s curiosity, if

nothing else, to draw him down to wherever his prison was, and

he hoped to hell they hadn’t caught Marie. God, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think ofanythingbut

that his wrist or his shoulderwas goingto give. He heard Christian’s footsteps goingaway. “Help!” he yelled, “help!

dammit!” and couldn’t get the breath

to call out, after. Christian didn’t come back. Not right away. Eventually—he measured the time in the clunk and thump

ofthe loader hydraulics—Christian’s shadowdarkened the bars

again, and Christian hung a casual forearm through the grid. “Want down?”

Damn you, was what he wanted to say. He’d said it to his

cousins. But his cousins wouldn’t kill him, and somethingsaid

Christian might, given the right moment. “Yes,” he said through his teeth. “Pity,” Christian said. And left him. “Son ofa bitch!” he yelled, and ran out ofbreath. “H’lo, Chrissy,” came from the corridor. Someone female met

Christian. He kicked the wall and tried to grab the cable with his

left hand, the bracelet was pressingbone in his right one. “Mmm,” female-person said, “and aren’t we cheerful. Told

Austin yet?”

He couldn’t hear what Christian said. He got the second hand

on the cable. He kicked the wall, tryingto get a bettergrip, and

slammed back into the panel. Female-person came to stand at the grid, forearms through

the bars, staring at him… an apparition ofglitz-paint, exposed

skin in shimmer cloth, and a shock ofpale, shave-sided hair. Bar-bunny, he thought. Travelingentertainment. “Pretty, pretty, pretty,” she said. “Austin does good work.”

“You stay the hell away from him, Capella, you hear me?”

“Aww.”

The cable was cutting into his ngers. Breath was short. He

shut his eyes, to time out, but Capella said, “Let him down,

Chrissy. He’s going to turn blue.”

“Don’t call me Chrissy.”

“Christian. Chretien Perrault-Bowe. Be nice.”

He didn’t know what happened or who did what. But the

cable spun loose ofa sudden and dumped him onto his feet,

hard. His arm swung down and life tingled back into a hand

with the mark ofthe bracelet blazoned white. Capella stuck her hand through the bars. “H’lo. I’m Capella. You’re Thomas Hawkins. How-do.”

“Capella.” Christian wasn’t pleased. “Jealous?”

The hand stayed. He’d thought space-brain. But he didn’t

now. He saw the bracelet ofstars tattooed around the woman’s

wrist, and felt his blood run a little colder. He’d heard about that

mark. Never seen one. Navigator’s mark, but one no merchanter

needed—navigator o a damned Maziannipirate, nearas made

no di erence. The sort that raided shippingduringthe War, the

sort that the Trade still ducked in mortal terror. Surely, even time-lagged as hell, she was too youngto wear

that mark. He walked up and reached out to the o ered handshake. Whine ofa motor. The cable took up, jerked him backward

and, o balance, down to one knee. “Chris-sy,” Capella said. “Damn you!” It hurt his pride, his wrist and his knee; and it

was Christian’s doing, his Corinthian half-brother. “Hands o ,” Christian told Capella. “Don’t screw with him,

you hear me?”

“Sounds like fun,” Capella said, leaningon the bars, ashed

him a feral grin. “How are you in bed, Christian’s olderbrother?”

He got up from where the cable had jerked him, dusted

himselfwith the hand that wasn’t pulled in the direction ofthe

wall. He didn’t think Capella was any prospect ofhelp. But he

swallowed the Screw Yourselfthat leapt up rst in his mind,

and shot Capella a not-hostile look. “Is he always this tense?”

It tickled Capella. It didn’t amuse Christian. “Just leave him alone,” Christian said. “Haven’t you got a duty

assignment?”

“Not in your c-oh-c, darlin’.

But probably. Don’t break his

wrist. It just annoys Medical.”

Christian still wasn’t amused. Capella sauntered o. He

expected another jerk ofthe cable, except Christian’s hands

were both in sight. Control that temperofyours, Mischa had

said, and much as he wanted to get his hands on Christian’s

neck, he was in a bad situation. He didn’t like what he’d seen, he

didn’t like the company, but, painful as the wrist was, and mad

and scared as he was, he was in no position to carry on an

argument. “Look,” he said. “Christian. I don’t want any ght with you. All I want is to get my mother o the docks… she lied to us, she

got away from us. That’s all. I just want to nd herand get her

back to the ship.”

“Expected to nd her in a shippingcan, huh?”

No answer for that one. The whole line ofMarie’s thinking

was evident in where they’d caught him, scrapingice o a can

label. He was no help to Marie, tippingthem to more than he

had. “What’s going on outside?”

“We’re loading.”

It wasn’t the answer he wanted and Christian knew it. Pretty-boy had a tilt ofthe head and a smug expression that

made him want to pound pretty-boy to pulp, but he couldn’t

come closer to the bars than he was. He couldn’t do anything. He had only to hope they’d let him go and by where they’d

caught him… he didn’t think they would. He just couldn’t gure where Marie was, orwhat might be

happening out there. Mischa talking sense to Austin Bowe, ifhe had his choice. Maybe o ering a pledge not to get eitherofthem involved in

station law. No ship wanted that kind ofentanglement. We get

our lunatic o the docks, you give herherboy back, and neither

ofus les station charges…

“Have fun,” Christian said, evidently decidingthe

amusement value was nil here, and shoved away fromthe bars. “You want to release that cable?”

“Please?”

“Please. Politely.”

Christian ipped some sort ofswitch beside the door. He

tugged at the cable and it ran free, take-up gear disengaged. He

went as far as the grid and tried to see where Christian went,

but it was around the cornerofthe block where the cell was—

tried to see the control panel for the cable, and it was out of

reach, and no damn good, since the only thingyou could do

with it was free the gear or take the cable up, and he didn’t want

to turn the winch on. Nothing like this on Sprite. Nothing like this on any honest ship. It wasn’t lower-main

corridor, at least: o the axis but not much o , you could feel

the slant in the deck. It was for keepingsomeone locked up

while the ship was docked: halfthe heated, pressurized deck

space a ship owned became vertical while the ringwas de-spun

and locked to some station’s orientation. You didn’t give up a

centimeter ofdownside deck space to a facility that wasn’t

manned during dock, and that meant this was one important

facility to Corinthian, and prisoners weren’t unusual—or let o

to station jurisdiction, where you’d think a hired-crew ship

would be glad to dump its problems for good and all. You did get the skuz ofthe spacer trade amonghire-ons, they

had that universal reputation. A Family ship very rarely took

one or accepted a passenger, and that only aftercareful

background checks and an oath fromGod that the individual

was trustworthy. But this…this place, occupyingvaluable

dock-positive space, was built to contain people the ship didn’t

intend to turn over to station authorities, people who could try

to break out and take overthe ship. The cable arrangement

meant you couldn’t get furtheracross the cell than they wanted

you to go. The bracelet had a kind oflock he’d never seen before,

a lever that shut, that had no wobble in it, no hint ofhow it

opened. He went back and sat down on the bunk, and worked and

worked at the lock in frightened silence. There wasn’t anything else to do. Wasn’t any otherhope. He

didn’t know ifthey’d caught Marie or ifthey were still looking

for her. Ifhe was held hostage—that was a joke. He wasn’t sure at this point that Marie wanted him back. Justi ably. —iii—

THE LOADING OPERATION WAS A steady ow ofdata on Austin’s o ce

monitor, a steady stream ofcanisters thumpingthrough the

cargo access port, contiguous at the moment with the

passenger ring, so it sounded through Corinthian’s ring

structure like some monstrous heartbeat. Machine parts was the principal load they were taking; also

radioactives, medical and industrial, transshipped; chemicals,

organic and otherwise; minicans ofrejuv, lately legal, tapes,

transshipped; minicans ofpersonal goods and small

commercial freight, transshipped and some originated at

Viking—no mail: they hadn’t a bond for that, and he didn’t

want the background check. But this was the payout cargo, this

was the one where Miller bought on spec and they rebought,

and sold at their destination; this was the one that paid the bills

and kept them running. It was an eclectic load, and a few

minicans went up the lift and into the ring, where they’d jury-

rigged passenger accommodations into warm-cargo space. The further you got from Earth the pricierEarth goods got,

simple proposition, but the furtheryou got fromcivilization,

the pricier, too, the sweet taste ofthe motherworld. And pay

they would, in credit and in various ways. If—

Com beeped. “Excuse me, sir,” the voice said, from the bridge. “Marie Hawkins. On the com. For you. Do you want to take the

call?”

Damn the woman!

Tell her go to hell?

Let her have the frustration?

Better hear the threats, he thought. Bettergive the woman

the satisfaction. Five got ten she wasn’t calling with Mischa

Hawkins’ blessing and go-ahead. The woman was still on the

docks somewhere. Corinthian had gone on the boards as

Departure: 1400h. And ifshe was out there—and he’d bet she

was—she knew. “Quillan?”

“Sir?”

“She’s at a phone. Probably within sight ofourdockside. Get a

team looking.”

Not a damned word from Mischa Hawkins. The cops hadn’t

arrested anybody after the set-to, just tagged the ships involved

and a judge had slapped both Corinthian and Sprite with

thousand credit nes, with a warning. Damned right a warning. “You keep yourpeople clear,” he’d

phoned Sprite to say. “And we will.”

“Aye,” Quillan said. “Put her through, sir?”

“Put her through,” he said, and heard the click. “Marie

Hawkins?”

“You son of a bitch,” Marie Hawkins said. “How are you,

Austin?”

“Oh, getting along. How have you been?”

“Just ne. Alive. Saner than you’d like. I just wanted to call and

thank you.”

“That’s nice.” You wondered where she’d planted the bomb. Or ifshe knew they had her kid. “Did you have somethingmore

in mind?

It’s been a few years, Marie. Things got a little out of

hand. I apologize for that.”

“You’re senior captain now. Congratulations. And a—is she

your wife?”

“Nothing o cial. It’s just not ourstyle.”

“Beatrice Perrault.”

What in hell was the woman after?

Beatrice at least was safe, on duty. Christian was below,

inside the ship. “Beatrice, yes. I hear you’ve moved up to cargo o cer. Congratulations. How do you like the work?”

“Love it. I owe you so much. My start in life. My son.”

Did she know?

He had no idea. “Would you like to come aboard, Hawkins?

Have a drink,

discuss mutual interests?” He didn’t think so. Possibly she was

taping the call, for playback to authorities. He didn’t expect an

acceptance. “There’s time before undock. You’ve noticed we are

pulling out.”

“I’ve noticed,” Marie Hawkins said. “So what about the drink?

Apologies?”

“I don’t think so.”

She hung up. He shouldn’t have pushed. “Captain, we—”

“—didn’t have time. Damn it, watch the frontage!

Ifshe’s

calling from one ofthe bars, we can still catch her. Haul herin,

ifyou can do it without a fuss. Relay that.”

“We’re looking.”

Damned crazy woman. Mischa Hawkins probably didn’t

know where she was, or they’d cheerfully reel herin. Sprite was

on warning with station authorities, and Hawkins had sent one

terse message: Call us if you have any contact with any Sprite

crew. Neither of us can a ord this. Nobody’d raised hell with station o ces yet about the

missing son—so they hadn’t gured where Thomas Hawkins

was, yet. Probably they thought he was keepingcompany with

Marie. Which meant ifthey didn’t nd Marie, they couldn’t know to

the contrary; Marie probably thought herkid was with the

group the cops had turned back to Sprite and told stay o the

docks—Marie wasn’t interested in beingfound, and so longas

Marie stayed out ofSprite’s reach, nobody was going to know

Thomas was missing. Ifthey couldn’t catch her—she was still doingCorinthian a

favor, just staying out there. Best hope they had ofgettingout of

here. —iv—

“CHRISTIAN.”

Christian cut his eyes toward the overhead and leaned his

back against the wall. Where it guratively was, already, with

Austin. “Sir.”

“You stay inside the ship. That’s an order, boy.”

“I was just going…”

“Maxie’s seeing to it. I want a double-check on the warm-hold

count. Get on it.”

“That’s Maxie’s job!”

“See to it, damn you!

I’m fall up with your excuses!”

“Yes, sir,” he said, and when he heard the comclick out,

pounded the paneling with his st. Saby put her head out ofops and stared. “What?”

“What, what, Austin’s what, he’s on my case, is what.” He

stalked to the o ce, shoved past Saby and sat down at the

console. Punched keys. Not his favorite job. Maxie’s job, and, thanks to

brother Thomas and his crazy mother, no last tour on dock-

side, no chance to slip back to the shop for the earrings Capella

had lusted after, no chance to go back to the vid shop forthe

tapes he’d eyed… you didn’t load up on stu while you were on

liberty, you waited till the last minute, ifyou didn’t want to pay

delivery. Cheap cost, on this occasion. Saby shot him a feed fromherterminal. Lots and lots of

boring serial numbers and clearances. “So is anybody asking about this kid?” Saby asked. “How would I know?

Austin’s not talking. Beatrice is hung

over as hell and on station. Damned Family-ship prig.”

“I’d be scared,” Saby said. “In his place, I’d be damned scared.”

“He’s a Family Boy. Ship-share, all the best, don’t you know. I

wish I’d left him. Say he must’ve hid out afterthe ght, we

wouldn’t have this problem.” He set the computerto scan for

WH’s and location, the sole intellectual function the job needed

for the pass. “His mother’s out there lookingfor Austin, Austin’s

hiding aboard, hauls the whole damn crewin, it’s damned

ridiculous. Now my half-brother’s gone pokingabout in Miller’s

and we’ve got ourselves a problem.”

“What was he doing in Miller’s?”

“Looking for his mama, what else?”

“I’d like to know what mama was lookingfor. It wasn’t

Austin.”

Cousin Sabrina had a brain. Cousin Sabrina was usingit. He

shoved back from the console, turned the chair and looked at

her, rethinking, absent temper, what Thomas Bowe-Hawkins

had been doing scraping labels. “What’s her source?” he asked Saby. “Since you know so

much.”

“I don’t know what her source is. He might.”

Saby’d wiped his nose when he was a brat—till he got older

and Saby had justly told him go to hell. Nowhe ran with

Capella, Saby supered the computertechs, handled Hires,

trouble-shot cargo functions at need, and took herlovers on

dock-side. With all the dockside willies to choose from, she

hadn’t hired or slept with a psych-case yet. Better than Austin could claim. Austin listened, when Saby

said who was crazy and who wasn’t. So where did she always see that far ahead ofhim, damn her?

The computer came up with a Warm-Hold headed forthe

wrong hold, and beeped. Damn, damn, and damn. “Who in hell checked that through?

Can anybody in our crew read, or just maybe use the laser, God!

don’t believe this.” He punched through to the dock chief. “—

Connie, Connie, do you hear?

I want a numberpulled o the list,

fast, 987-7.

Get that motherupside into warm 2 before they

load it in, that’s not for deep cold.”

Connie took his time writingit down. Connie said they’d look

for the number. Christian ran his hand through his hairand

wondered how long it had been since he’d slept. Half-brother. With a mother out there lookingfor Austin’s

hide. And a real interest in the cans. Yeah. Tom Hawkins knew. “Ifthe program nds anothermis-route, handle it, will you?”

“Where are you going?—You betternot go out there.”

“I’m not going any damned where. It’s a good question.” He

put in a call for Austin’s o ce, the direct link. “Austin?”

“What’s the problem?” came back, not patiently. “Austin?

My half-brother down here?

Saby’s got a real

interesting idea. Marie Hawkins beingonto something…half-

brother knows how, and who, and ifthere’s cops mixed up in it.”

Silence from the o ce. “So we should ask him,” he said, since Austin didn’t draw the

conclusion. “Are you nally guring that out?”

“I’m not fucking stupid, sir!”

Which wasn’t the brightest thingto do with Austin when

Austin was looking for a fault. He heard the com cut out. He

tried the re-call. Ignored. Ignored, ignored and ignored. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled, at no one accessible, and slammed

his st onto the console. Connie came back on with, “I think it already went in, Chris. We got to reverse the loader to get it back.”

“Get it out,” he said. And when Connie came back on with,

Can we wait till we’re nished loading?

he checked the contents,

only about 50,000 credits worth offancy liquorthat didn’t like

freezing, and said, kindly, nicely, “No, you get the sod that

passed this list, have him nd two volunteers, and you have him

hand-carry that mother topside through the lift.”

“That’s against union—”

“You carry it, Connie, or you get it carried!

Those are your

choices!

Hear me?”

“Yessir.”

He cut the connection. He sat glaringat the computerscreen,

and felt Saby staring at him, a rational, too-damned-superior

presence prickling at his shoulder-blades. So he wasn’t reasonable. So was Austin?

So was Beatrice?

was anybody in the upper end c-oh-c, reasonable?

It wasn’t a job

requirement. —v—

ANESTHETIC AFTEREFFECTS DIDN’T make a body feel at all good, Tom

decided. He’d never had anesthetic before, assumingit was

something medical and not outright illicit—but once he’d

decided that he couldn’t get the bracelet o , that he couldn’t

reach any useful switch panel and he couldn’t do anything, in

general, except wait, sweat, and nurse his headache, he gured

he could just as well do that at on his back on the bunk. There

was a white-diamond patch on a let-down on the wall overthe

bunk—universal symbol for deep-space emergency supplies. He

ipped it in idle curiosity and it was stocked with trank and

nutri-paks. He was tempted, about the trank—just time-out and

let the hours pass. But you didn’t abuse the stu. And the packs

were for emergency—you left them for that. You toughed it out,

that was all, though, please God, he wasn’t goingto need them,

they’d get him out ofhere. His stomach was upset, his head hurt more than the wrist

did—that he was outright scared might account for a good part

ofthe upset, but he kept tryingto keep a reasonable attitude. Corinthian, in his best theory, was hangingon to him as

insurance for Marie’s good behavior. Corinthian didn’t want

him. It was going to be all right. Somehowthe captains would

sort it out and get Marie back and him back and Corinthian

would leave Viking port before anybody got hurt. Or Marie would gure the game, notify the cops, call the

lawyers and get him out ofthis herself. Beat out Austin Bowe

for good and all, and maybe afterthat, please God, get herlife

turned around. Make her peace with him, and Mischa, and the universe in

general. Yeah. And Viking would reverse its spin and the sun would

burn black. He couldn’t even recognize the Marie that scenario

would ask to exist. Meanwhile the thump in the guts ofCorinthian kept up,

regular as a heartbeat. Nobody interrupted the loading, no

contingent ofpolice came looking. Wherever Marie was, she

couldn’t or wouldn’t stop the owofgoods into Corinthian. A man passed the cell and stopped. Tomlifted his head,

stared at the man between his feet, the man looked at him as if

he was a museum exhibit, and walked on. Skuzzy-looking

bastard, Tom thought with a pricklingofdefensive instincts. Wouldn’t like to meet that one on dockside, and that was

walking the corridors out there. That was the rst. Then others, not much better—older guys, a few in green

coveralls: the rest in the skintights that were gettingto be

popular, earrings, glitz-stripes on the skin, jewelry…not a real

tidy lot, he said to himself, a few ofthem worse than others—

and with no front wall and no privacy in the cell he was sitting

there for all ofthem to stare at. Most did. Some laughed, as ifit was funny he was there. He

didn’t get the point. “Well, well, well, who’s this pretty thing?” a

guy asked—a guy with his hair in braids, a tattoo around his

neck, and so many tattoos on his bare arms he was green and

purple, all snakes. Tom stared. He would have stared on dockside. He’d not seen

that many tattoos. “You want a chocolate?” the tattooed man

said. He was drunk. Extremely. Others grabbed him away. He didn’t know what to think. He got to his feet and went to

the bars to look after the group and see what was goingon in

the corridor, wondering whetherthat was an authorized entry

or were dock-crawlers takinga drunken tourofthe ship while

the cargo ports were open. He heard shouts in the corridors, the

usual noises ofmeetings and comparisons ofstories, aftera

liberty. Crew, he decided. Suddenly the noises weren’t friendly. He heard angry shouts,

guessed from chance words he could pick up that two ofthe

crew had had a prior set-to on dockside, and heard othervoices

trying to break it up, some woman yellingthere were goingto

be o cers. “He’s got a knife!” somebody yelled. Somebody hit the

paneled walls, he heard the thump. And someone yelled, “Get

him, get him, get him!”

Another thump, a lot ofshouting. He couldn’t see anything. Then:

“Damn, it’s Michaels,” he heard, and by everythinghe heard,

some o cer had come in on it, was askingquestions, who’d

started it, who’d ashed a weapon. A man got hauled o to

in rmary on this Michaels’ orders, and then…

Then a deal ofcursing, a thump again against the paneling,

and a measured, meaty thud, ofsomethingmeeting esh, not

just the once or twice he thought might be justi ed, but it went

on, and on, and on, until the screamingstopped, and something

heavy hit the deck. “Get him out ofhere,” somebody said. The voices afterthat

were all quiet. He found himselfwith a death-grip on the bars, shiveringin

a cold more inside than out, and more than ever wantingout of

this cell. Not a Family ship. He’d just had a demonstration what the

penalties were, and how they were dealt out. No word with the

captain, nothing ofthe sort. He’d thought he’d had a hard life. NowSprite seemed a

sheltered, protected existence, where Mischa’s frown was a

reprimand, where crew didn’t carry knives against their

shipmates. He’d never heard the sounds he’d just heard, out of

any human being, sounds that had gone straight to his nerves,

and brought a quiet over the whole ship. He heard other tra c in the corridorand retreated from the

gridwork, went back to his bunk and sat down with his back to

the face ofthe cell, so he wouldn’t have to deal with anybody. Wherever he went the cable trailed, and reminded him that

even ifthe door opened he hadn’t a chance at escaping…or

putting up damn much ofa ght against anybody with a key

and access to the cable switch. Ransom wouldn’t work. He’d been in a place he shouldn’t

have been and they knew he knew, and ifthe station cops came

asking, he didn’t know what Corinthian might do, but he didn’t

think they were going to turn him loose to tell the police orthe

merchant trade at large what he’d been doingor what he’d seen

and not seen. Not ifgossip was right about Corinthian’s business. Tra c came and went outside. And it had to be board-call, Corinthian calling in its crew,

even while the loading was still goingon. You didn’t ordinarily

crowd up the ship with crewunderfoot until they had

something to do—unless they’d for some reason had to get o

the docks. Unless they were shorteningtheirdock time and planningto

pull out. In which case he didn’t see a thingMischa or Marie could do

about it. Station police could say Stop, and demand to search the

ship, but only ifthey could come up with plausible evidence: a

merchanter deck was the same as foreign territory, merchanters

didn’t allow boarders as a matter ofprinciple, while stations

depended so much on ship tra c they just wouldn’t push that

point unless they had very clear evidence ofa customs crime. That left him nothing to do but sit and worry at the lock. He

searched the bath for anythinghe could use for a pick, but he

couldn’t nd anything—there weren’t any drawers, and he tried

bashing it with the butt ofthe wall-mounted razor. But it didn’t do any good. Just after that spate ofnoise-making, the loadingstopped. The whole ship sat in silence, except the rush ofair in the

vents. He went to the bars again, tryingto see something, anything

to tell him what was going on. Then came the unmistakable thump as the hatch sealed. A

moment later the louder thump as the lines closed down and

detached, and a siren sounded throughout the ship, no word

from the captain, just that lonely, warningsound that said

hazard, hazard, take stations, the ship is moving. It was a nightmare. The misjudgment. The mistakes he’d

made, that led this direction, step by step. Thinkingthat he’d

win Marie’s… acceptance, ifno more than that. He’d gambled

his safety. Thought he might win Marie’s acceptance—and her

sanity. And he’d lost. He hoped Marie was free, and safe. He hoped nobody had

gotten hurt on his account. But it was decidedly time to sit down and take hold. Which

he did, with a lump gatheringin his throat. He located the

safety restraints on the bunk and sat down, cross-legged, not

expecting but a short zero g, and a gentle shove, not worth

belting in for. It was far more than a gentle shove. He grabbed the frame of

the bunk and the safety hold on the wall, and braced his feet,

one on the deck and one on the mattress—thinkinghe’d just

made a serious mistake. He didn’t know how long the acceleration was goingto last. He dared not let go the handholds he had to get the safety

restraints fastened. His heart was goingdoubletime. He didn’t like the ship putting out like that. He didn’t like a

pilot who skirted the regs and a bridge that didn’t warn people

when they were moving. It struck him then that there couldn’t be kids or seniors

aboard. It just wasn’t, wasn’t, wasn’t a Family ship, never

mistake it again, and ifhe didn’t lose his grip and break his neck

during launch, he’d be luckierthan he deserved fortrusting

anything about it. They went inertial then, a moment of oat, and he snatched

the restraints across and jammed the rst and the second clip

shut with shaking hands. After that he lay at on his back and felt the stomach-jolting

g-shifts ofmaneuver ofa ship that didn’t care about crew

comfort, and didn’t engage the ringfor crewsafety, orwarn

anyone beyond sounding the siren. In a hurry to leave and doinga show-o bit ofmaneuvering,

he could read it—screw you all, the pilot was sayingto Sprite,

and to Viking, and maybe to all civilized places, maybe just

because Austin Bowe was pissed, who knew?

Chapter Four

—i—

“MARIE.”

Depend on it. Saja found her. Turned up at herelbowin the

Trade Bureau o ces, all concern, all indignation. Marie keyed up another le in the Financial Access section,

downloaded it… they said a ship at VikingFree Port had open

access to the trade records. Translation: they let you look. Ifyou

understood the software and knew what les might be

signi cant, good luck, you had a chance, but the too-damned-

helpful system wanted to pre-digest the reports for you ifyou

got into the market area, not give you access to the raw data,

and that was a piece ofcomputer cheek. So Corinthian had pulled out. Spooked out, left, maybe to

change its whole pattern, her worst fear, and she was not in a

mood to be lectured to by Family. Maybe, with luck, and substantial evidence, she could get the

cops into Miller’s warehouse. “Marie.”

“I’m not deaf.” The station les were in database and

wouldn’t be accessed from Sprite’s ops boards, the Rules were

against it. Unfortunately so was the barriersystem. So one

trekked in and asked questions, and even load-splicingcouldn’t

t the total DB onto any data storage medium that the casual

questioner might carry into the Trade Bureau. “Mischa’s been worried.”

“I don’t know why.” Another splice. Anothercapture. Hours

to reconstruct the bastard when she got it home. “He’s not happy about the nes, Marie.”

“I imagine not. Sorry about that. We’ll make it up.”

“You’re due back to handle o oading.”

“Charles can do it. He’s perfectly competent.”

“What are you doing?”

“Trade information. Data. What else is the Trade Bureau

for?”

“Fine. Fine. I’ll tell him.—Tell Tomget his rear back on duty. You don’t need him here.”

Saja was Tom’s o cer, on the bridge. Saja had reason to ask. Saja had actual need-to-knowwhere Tomwas. And should,

by now. She turned away fromthe monitorand looked at him

straight-on, with the least disturbed inklingofthings not quite

in order. “He’s not with me,” she said. “Have the cops got him?”

“The cops didn’t arrest anybody, eitherside. He’s not with

you. He’s not on the ship. I called them ve minutes ago, max.”

Wandering around the docks lookingfor her. “The damned

fool,” she said. “That ship’s out ofdock, Marie. It’s outbound.”

She knew where the ship was. She looked at the clock on the

wall ofthe Trade Bureau. Hours out. Computers ate up human

time—you lost track between keystrokes and duringprocessing. And Saja was saying Tom could be with that ship?

She didn’t think so. “He’s not that stupid. He’s searchingthe

bars, is where he is.”

“We’ve got people all overthe bars. We’re looking. Foryou. And for Tom. You’re accounted for. Where’s Tom?”

“Wherever he thinks I’d go. Bars. Sleepovers.—Miller

Transship.” She didn’t want to suggest that last name. She

didn’t want them forewarned. But—”Corinthian’s broker. Miller

Transship. Warehouses. Phone Sprite-com, get them to inquire

at Miller’s, just down the row fromCorinthian’s berth.”

“Miller’s,” Saja said, and went, she supposed, for a phone. They just weren’t searching right. Tomwas goingto duck

them. The kid was no fool. But the more they stamped around searchingfor the damn

kid, disturbing evidence…

Most urgently, they needed to nd the damn kid and quit

stirring things up, before he or they did do somethingstupid. She was uneasy. Couldn’t really rememberwhere she was in

the data problem. Damn the brat, he’d always had a knack for

disturbing her concentration. And Tom probably was staying out ofreach and deliberately

out oftouch with Sprite simplybecause he thought she was

staying out oftouch (true, until now) and he was lookingfor

her. It could take a while to reel him in. Though you’d think once Corinthian had gone on the board

for Departure, the kid would catch a notion that the game was

up at that point, retreat, call Sprite and report in… since she, at

that point, had no more reason to stay under-surface. Damn. He would show up. He had to show up. She didn’t want to

leave her search looking foran erratic, jump-at-shadows brat

who was old enough to take care ofhimself. She jabbed a key, dumped the current operation, pocketed

her data-cards on the way to the door, and swore to kill the kid

when she found him. —ii—

TOM STARED AT THE CEILING, feeling the push on the ship and

thinking how ifhe’d had the presence ofmind to have counted

when the shove started he could have told somethingabout the

actual v, based on the undock pattern. But what did it matter?

Corinthian was going and he was

going with it. No way Sprite could throw over that government contract to

chase after him. Not even Marie could talk them into it. Only hope to God that Mischa’s fears were exaggerated and

Corinthian wasn’t going to lay for Sprite out in the dark. Out in the same dark, a body could go out the airlock and

never be reported, ifhis own biological fatherwanted to get rid

ofhim. And what paternal interest had Austin Bowe ever

needed in the o spring he’d probably…spacer-fashion…

scattered on God-knew-what ships?

Men didn’t generally keep

up with their own. They had theirown ship-board nieces and

nephews, ifthey had sisters. And always they had cousins. Men

didn’t have to give a damn. And Bowe hadn’t a reputation for

fatherly concern. The Bowe he’d heard about could throw a man

out the airlock. Better than some ways to go, he thought in morbid self-

persuasion, while the ship ripped alongtoward that deep cold. The absolute zero was supposed to get you before you felt much. You froze solid before you could get a breath ofvacuum. You

frosted your lungs. Your eyes froze and yourblood froze and

you’d be oating with the dust, exactly the way your outbound

breath had left you—until some starnear enough went nova

and you got shoved along on the wavefront and included in the

infall ofa next-generation star. Or none might be near enough and you’d just drift there till

entropy slowed down the stars for good. A permanent sort ofhalf-life, as it were. Permanent as the galaxy. No damn fathers to deal with. Father, hell!

There had to be a word for a guy with as little

invested as Austin Bowe. Rapist talked about his relations with the motherin

question. Society hadn’t made a word for his relations with the

kid that resulted. Hadn’t made a word for the situation between them orgiven

him a word he wanted to say to Austin Bowe. Thanks for screwing my mother?

Thanks for not showingup

till now. Screw you, sir, for a damned self-centered son ofa

bitch. Acceleration was steady at +2 or thereabouts. The straps

would hold against ve and six times that. He’d no fearofthem

giving way. But Corinthian spent energy like it was handed out

free, and he measured his breaths, feelingthe angerofa ship

forced out ofport, maybe out ofcivilization altogether. Or—remotely possible, ifMarie had found herevidence—and

his heart picked up a beat—they could have the military on

their tail. Which wasn’t good news, to think ofit. Go up in a reball,

they would, then, and good-bye TomHawkins. It was a nightmare. He didn’t knowwhere it had started,

whether he’d been in it all his life and this turn ofthings was

someone else’s doing, or whetherhe was that abysmally stupid

he’d let himselfin for it, goinginto that warehouse and caring

about Marie. He didn’t want to think about reasons. He’d never got it

straight about caring for people. His aunt Lydia who’d studied

psych had told him when he was ve he was emotionally

deprived and he never would be normal. So he gured he had to

copy, because he was di erent enough, and he gured he’d

better pick good people to copy, like his nursery-mates,

sometimes, like Marie sometimes, when he was livingwith her. Like Saja, again, when he got to knowSaja. Mischa…

De nitely not Mischa. Saja was all right. People liked Saja. But Saja wasn’t stupid. Saja wouldn’t have gotten into it. Even ifhe cared what

happened to Marie. And he didn’t think it was Marie’s fault, him

being in the warehouse, he couldn’t blame that on her. He couldn’t tell why things happened, most ofthe time. He

certainly couldn’t gure this one. He didn’t knowas much as

most people. He’d always gured in the scales ofthe universe

he’d somehow come a little short ofwhat ordinary people got,

and not known a lot ofthings ordinary people knew. It wasn’t

not knowing his father. A lot ofpeople didn’t knowthat. It was

not knowing other things. It was like so damn many contrary

signals from Marie and from aunt Lydia and Mischa and them

changing their stories all the time, and the fact nobody else

liked him much, ofhis agemates. There was just something

wrong, there was somethinghe’d missed, and gettingsnatched

away from Sprite like that, and never seeinganybody again, it

was just one more ripping away ofinformation he couldn’t get

now. He wasn’t going back, nobody could get back to theirship

unless they were on the same route…he’d accumulate station-

debt waiting, even ifBowe let him go nally back at Viking; and

he wasn’t honestly sure Mischa would spend the ship-account

to get him out ofhock. Marie would. Marie was rich in ship-account. But maybe Marie wouldn’t want him at all, then, except to

get information about Bowe. Maybe she’d call him a fool and say

she didn’t know why she’d bought him back…he could hearher

tone ofvoice, as ifshe were talkingto him right now. But when he imagined Marie yellingat him about beinga

fool, about going in the warehouse, it sort ofput things in

perspective, as ifnow he knew what he’d done, and where he’d

been stupid, trying to intervene in Marie’s business. The law of

the universe was, Marie knew what she was doing, and you

didn’t put your hands into it or you risked your ngers. That

was the mistake he’d made. So he did understand. And the universe had a little more

solid shape around him. But he decided then, calmly, that he did want to meet Austin

Bowe after all—at least to see the man and knowwhetherthey

looked alike, or what Marie had seen staringback at herall these

years. That would tell him something, too, about the way of

things. And that information was on this ship. That was

something he could learn about himself. He could listen to

Bowe. He could nd out the man’s habits and gure out ifthere

was anything genetic that just somehowhe’d gotten, in the way

oftemperament, or whateverelse could get through the sieve of

genetic code. Marie said… your father’s temper. Marie said…your father’s

manners. Your father’s behavior…And he tried to cure it in

himself, he tried not to lose his temperand he tried not to be

rude, and all the other things Marie attributed to his genes. Aunt Lydia said most people could pattern themselves o

positives. He learned to avoid negatives. Aunt Lydia said he had

to de ne himself, by himself. And most ofall… not do things that pushed Marie’s buttons. But maybe—it was a dangerous, underminingthought, and

he worked all around it fora moment—maybe, even remotely

possibly… there might even be anotherside to Austin Bowe. Maybe Marie’d pushed his buttons, the way she had other

people’s, and things had just blown up. Not to excuse what happened. Nothingcould do that. But maybe what she’d told Mischa and what Mischa had told

her might have confused the facts. And he didn’t know why Marie should have gotten the entire

truth from Mischa. He never had. And… more and more dangerous a thought… ifthere was

another side, considering the position he was in, it did make

sense to ask Bowe’s side ofthings. And even ifit was bad…and

even if he couldn’t accept it…consideringhe was stuck here,

considering he had somehow to get alongwith this crew…

Such as they were. … he’d learned what happened when you (Lydia’s saying)

poisoned the water you had to drink from. He didn’t know where this ship went. The rumor-mongering

They who ran rampant on Sprite said it didn’t stay on the charts,

that it found Mazianniports somewhere in the great dark

Forever. He could handle that, he supposed. Ifall Corinthian did was

trade with them, he could justify that…after all, nobody had a

guarantee the goods that Sprite brought to port didn’t end up

being cheated over and run through illegal channels. They

weren’t responsible. It wasn’t immoral. Illegal, highly, but it

wasn’t like they were doinganythingthat cost any lives…

He began to sink slowly into the mattress surface. That was

the passenger ring engagingas Corinthian went inertial at its

outbound velocity. A v far more than most merchanters handled. Light-mass

cargo, he thought, staringbleakly at the sound-ba ing

overhead. Had to be light mass, relative to the engine cap. You

wondered what they were hauling. Luxuries was the commonest low-mass article. Food-stu s

that wouldn’t compress. But generally, Vikingexported high-

mass items, so you hauled heavy, and took the light stu for—

A siren blew three short bursts. Disaster?

he wondered,

taking a grip. His heart had skipped a beat. His thoughts went

skittering over every horizon, leavingnothingbut the wide

dark, and the cosmic chance ofa high-energy rock in theirpath. Then over com, a woman’s voice, accented with a ship-speak

he didn’t recognize. “We are inertial for the duration, in count for departure. Count

now is… sixty seconds, mark.”

His heart found the missed beat, thudded alongin heavy

anticipation. It was real. They were going. He reached forthe

panel with the white diamond, got the drug out, the needle-

pack—shivering-scared, until he had that in his st. Ifyou

didn’t have that you didn’t come out ofjump whole, you left

pieces ofyourself… that was what the universal They also said,

and ifyou were curious on that topic…they had wards on

certain stations where they sent the kids that experimented

with hyperspace, and the unlucky workingspacers that for

some emergency or anotherhadn’t had a pack in reach. “… count is twenty and running.”

He had it. He had it. He was all right, as all right ran, on this

ship. “… fteen.”

He thought about Marie. He thought he loved her. (He didn’t, really, but Lydia said he wasn’t goingto be capable

ofit, yet. Like the prince in the fairy story, he was goingto be

crazy until somebody loved him…)

But ifhe had loved anybody it was Marie, and he hadn’t loved

anybody, ifnot her, and right nowthe place where Marie ought

to t—felt like a twisty hollowspot, lled up with angerand

hurt where she’d lied to him and ducked out on him, and

absolute terror that he’d never see heragain and neverknow

what had happened to her. Because Marie was the edges ofthe universe. Marie was right

and wrong. Marie was the place to go to for the answers and he

didn’t have a map without her. Lydia’d say that wasn’t normal either. But it was all he had. And nobody else was going to get him out ofthis. Nobody else

gave a damn. Lydia didn’t. Lydia said he was a mis t and a time bomb on

the ship. Lydia’d said he’d go o the edge someday, and they

ought to nd him a nice safe berth on a station, where he could

get adopted. He had nightmares about Lydia ndingways to leave him. Like Lydia convincing Mischa, who didn’t like him anyway. And

when Marie would send him back to the nursery because she

was sick ofhim, and when the nursery would complain that he

was too old, he hurt the youngerkids and he wouldn’t take their

sleep cycle, because all the otherkids and all the mothers except

Marie were on mainday…

And the nursery workers all wanted to watch vids while the

kids were asleep, but they wouldn’t let him watch the ones they

did, they said go to bed, go to sleep, ifhe just behaved himself

Marie might take him back…

The siren sounded again. Warningofjump imminent. “Count is ve… four…”

He squeezed the pack. Felt the stingofthe needle. “…three… two…”

Marie wasn’t coming, wasn’t ever comingto get him, where

he was going. —iii—

THE WAVEFRONT OF CORINTHIAN’S passage was still coming at them

when the clock on Sprite’s bridge said to anybody who knew

anything that Corinthian had just left the system. That information hit Marie in the gut—for God knew what

reason, because, dammit, she didn’t owe the kid. It was the

other way around. Highly, the otherway around. She’d searched

up and down the frontage where she’d left him, she’d gone back

to Sprite to pursue matters as far as she dared with the police,

almost to the point ofgettingswept up and detained herself. It

hadn’t been a good experience, and meanwhile Sprite crew

wholesale was still out searchingevery nook in every barand

shop they could think offor a damned elusive twenty-three-

year-old o spring who ought occasionally to read the schedule

boards. Miller Transship claimed to knownothing. The station police

called station Central, and Central called the stationmaster, who

called Corinthian long-distance, himself, bigdeal, while

Corinthian was outbound. Surprise: Corinthian denied all knowledge ofHawkins

personnel aboard. Then Corinthian said, which they needn’t have said…that if

they should turn out to have a stowaway, they’d drop him at

their next port. The stationmaster said, all mealy-mouthed, Do that, and

signed o. Injustice… there wasn’t a choice about it. There wasn’t a ship

in hell or Viking system that could chase that bastard down

once they’d nally roused the stationmaster with word

something could be wrong…even Sprite, mostly empty. Couldn’t, with the head start he’d have had, and theirtanks still

drawing… and for a station to call an outbound ship to dump v

and limp back the long slow days it would take to reach station

from where they were, plus buck the outbound tra c, against

all regulation… meant big lawsuits ifstation couldn’t prove

their case; and catch-me-if-you-can ifthe merchanterin

question wanted to claim they were in progress for jump and

missed the transmission. By the time they got back again,

witnesses had scattered and it was, again, betterhave good

evidence and a good reason. So they had to watch the son ofa bitch become a blip on

station scopes. And that last, that unnecessary bit ofinformation about

stowaways, was a clear message from Bowe, damn his smug

face—she knew. They could just as well pull in the search teams,

Tom was on that ship, Bowe had taken away the only thingshe

had ofhis, and the remark about droppingTom‘at theirnext

port’ was a threat, not a reassurance. God knew what their‘next

port’ was, ifit wasn’t some Maziannicarrierin want of

personnel. Ifthere’d just been proofto give the police, ifthere’d been any

concrete evidence ofa kidnapping…

But what could they have done?

Ifshe got the evidence now,

the station administration could bar Corinthian from coming

back—supposing the evidence was iron-clad. But it wouldn’t be. It was all circumstantial. If the station needed theircommerce

more than they needed justice done…

But Viking was just newly a free port. Vikingdidn’t want any

dirty, unfathomable merchanter quarrel on its shiny new trade

treaty. Sprite was from one side ofthe Line. Corinthian was from

another. The next time Corinthian docked, was Viking going to

search Corinthian for personnel Corinthian had plainly just told

the stationmaster wasn’t goingto be aboard next time?

“It’s gone,” Mischa said with a shrug ofhis shoulders. “Nothing we can do.”

Nothing we can do. Nothing we can bloody do. A sanctimonious shrug from Mischa, who’d been watching

the clock—and was damned well satis ed to wash his hands of

Tom Bowe-Hawkins. “Nothing we can do,” she echoed him. “You son ofa bitch,

you mealy-mouthed, self-servingson ofa bitch, you know he’s

on that ship!”

“That’s far from certain, Marie.”

“Oh, nothing’s ever absolute with you, nothing’s everjust

quite clear, is it?”

“Marie. This is the bridge. You’re on the bridge. Control it, can

we?”

“‘Control it, can we?’ ‘Control it?’ ‘Just shut up, Marie?

know you’re not quite stable, Marie?

Too bad about yourkid,

Marie, you can get anotherone?

Why don’t you go get laid,

Marie, and cure your Problem while you’re at it, Marie!”

“Reel it in, Marie, you never gave a damn about that boy!”

“I never gave a damn?

Oh, let’s talk about givinga damn,

Mischa, excuse me, captain Hawkins. They could sell him to the

Fleet for all we know—they’re always short ofpersonnel, he’s a

good-looking kid, and we knowwhat happens to good-looking

kids they get their hands on, don’t we, captain Hawkins?”

“We don’t even know he’s not on dockside. Let’s talk about

ducking orders, let’s talk about kitingo on your own, why

don’t we?

The kid had orders to keep up with you and keep in

touch. He violated those orders orwe wouldn’t be askingwhere

he is right now.”

“Oh, now it’s his fault!

Everything’s someone else’s fault.”

“Fault never lands in your lap, does it?

You ditched yourtag,

Marie. I’d have thought you’d have learned your lesson twenty

years ago.”

“Damn your interference!

IfI hadn’t had to dodge you, I’d

have the evidence on that son ofa bitch, we’d have him screwed

with the port authority and Tomwouldn’t be in Bowe’s ship

right now!”

“There is nothing we can do, Marie.”

“There was nothing you could do on Mariner, either, was

there?

I know what it feels like, Mischa, I know, and I don’t take

‘nothing we can do.’ That son ofa bitch is laughingat us, he’s

laughing at us, do you hear?

Or do you give a damn?”

“Marie,—”

“Marie, Marie, Marie!

We knowhis vector, I knowthat ship, I

know what his elapsed-time is like, he’s goingfor Tripoint, and

on to Pell, and we can catch him there. He won’t be expecting

it.”

“Out ofthe question.”

“Hell with you!”

“Marie, let’s talk sanity. He may not be goingon to Pell. You

may not know his schedule as well as you think you do. We’re

not going o in the dark with that ship. We’re not equipped for

that. No way in hell, Marie. No way in hell!”

She looked at the clock, jawclenched, arms folded, as the

minutes kept going. Let Mischa think he’d won. Let Mischa

think he’d made his point. “I can make the credit at Pell, Mischa. You load us for Pell and

I can turn a pro t.” She lifted herhand. “Swearto God.”

“Out ofthe bloody question.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“For God’s sake, that’s across the Line, they’d charge us

through the nose for a berth, we’ve no account there, and if

you’re right about Bowe, the kid will never see Pell…”

“The kid, the kid, the boy’s got a name.”

“Thomas Bowe-Hawkins.”

Tried to make her blow hercomposure. But she knew what

she was going to do, now. She knew. And when she knew, she

smiled at him, cold and immovable as a lawofphysics. “Pell,” she said, “and we make a pro t on the run. Orget

yourselfa new cargo chief.”

“It’s no bet.”

“I’m not betting. I’m telling you. Ifit’s not Pell—get yourself

another cargo chief. I quit. I’ll nd a way to Pell.”

“You’re out ofyour mind, Marie.”

“So you’ve said. To everyone in the Family. But you know

how this ship was doing before, and howit’s doingnow. Cold,

hard numbers, captain, sir. I know what I’m worth. I’ve got the

numbers for Pell. No question I can make ourdock charges and

come up in the black. Swearto God I can. OrI kiss you all good-

bye, right here.”

“Marie, this isn’t even worth talkingabout. Go cool down.”

“Cold as deep space, darling brother, and dead serious.”

“That ship could be meetingsome Maziannicarrierright out

there at Tripoint in two weeks. We could run right into it.”

“For what?

Bowe told them he’d have a kid to trade them?

They do those deals in the deep dark. Mazian’s ships don’t come

in this far.”

“We have rendezvous with ourregulars, we have people’s

lives you’re proposing to disrupt, appointments—”

“We’ll get back on schedule. We’ll all survive a little sexual

deprivation.”

“Try a sex life!

It’ll improve your mental health!”

“Mon-ey, Mischa. Mon-ey. Orpoverty. Skimpingto make ends

meet, the way we did when dear Robert was runningthe cargo

section. Because he will be, again. Make your choice.”

“You don’t sit on this ship and not work.”

“You weren’t listening, Mischa, dear, I said I was leavingthe

ship. I’ll nd a way. I’m damned good. And good ships anywhere

it wants to.”

“As hired crew. You think you’d like your shipmates on a

hired-crew ship. Earn your way in bed, why don’t you?”

“Because I don’t have to. I can have passage on a Pell-bound

ship infour hours, captain Hawkins, you watch me, because the

numbers are in my head, and I’ll use ’em, you’d betterbet I will. I’m crazy Marie, aren’t I?”

“You’re talking like it.”

“Fine!

I’ll put it to a vote in the Family, captain, sir, which of

us this ship wants to have makingthe decisions. I’ll tell you

even Robert A. will vote to keep me, because he doesn’t want the

job back, he doesn’t want to lose his creature comforts. Neither

do any ofthe seniors, and the juniors can’t touch me!

Let all the

Hawkinses decide. I’ll challenge you for the captaincy ifI have

to. And I have the right to call a vote.”

“And make a fool ofyourself!

Everybody knows—”

“I’m sure you’ve told them often enough. PoorMarie. Poor

crazy Marie. Poor crazy Marie who’s the reason this ship runs in

the black—”

“Poor crazy Marie who’s the reason we lost Marinerfor fteen

years!

Poor crazy Marie who lost hernerve the only time she

ever snagged a man, and started a riot that damn nearruined

us!

Anything you make forus is payback, sister, for what you

cost us in the rst place.”

“Any trouble you had is because you sat on your ass forforty-

eight hours. Ifyou’d had the balls to do somethingbefore they

got stupid drunk, I could have gotten out ofthere. But

physicality just isn’t your job, is it?”

“Maybe ifyou’d had a sex drive you could have handled what

you asked for, damn you—duck out on us, ignore every piece of

advice, no, you had to have yourown pick, didn’t you, and now

he’s got your kid?

It’s not my problem.”

“Ask a vote, Mischa. Or I will.”

Mischa didn’t want it. That was clear. He stood there. And

nally walked o across the bridge and stood staringat nothing

in particular. There were advantages to owningnothing, havingnothing,

wanting nothing in your life, except one man’s hide. And he couldn’t have her kid. Couldn’t dispose ofher kid. Orkeep him. That added something to the equation. She wasn’t sure what,

hadn’t expected that reaction in herself, was still tryingto

understand why she gave a damn. Because, she decided, ifshe’d had to hand one individual

aboard Sprite over to Bowe for a hostage, it wouldn’t be poor,

people-stupid Tom, who was the rst Hawkins to try to take her

side in twenty some years. Even ifhe had screwed it beyond all imagination. Damn him. —iv—

DREAM OF THE DARK AND NOWHERE, a lonely and terrifying no-thing,

abhorring the fabric ofthe ship, and the ship almost…almost

violating the interface. The ship lived a day or so while the universe ran on for

weeks, while the ship’s phase envelope was the only barrier

between you and that di erent space. You rode it tranked down,

ever so vaguely aware ofyourown essence. When you were a

kid the grownups admitted that the monsters you dreamed in

transit were real, but (they said) the captain could scare the

monsters o , because a kid believed in his imaginings, and a kid

believed in adults just as devoutly. But kid or adult, the mind painted its own images on the

chaos—

Marie had told him pointedly there wasn’t anythingto meet

out there but a body’s own guilty conscience: ifhe minded what

he was told he’d be ne and ifhe didn’t he’d go crazy and be all

alone with his misdeeds forever. He’d told that to the otherkids

and scared them. Aunt Lydia had said he was too smart forhis

own good. Aunt Lydia had said captain Mischa should have a

talk with him, but Mischa had just said don’t carry tales and

don’t talk about the dreams and don’t make trouble, boy. He dreamed about Marie sometimes. He’d dreamed about

Mariner and the bar and the drunken men before he was twelve,

then—it was between Fargone and Paradise, and he’d felt

di erent things about Marie, sometimes scary, sometimes

erotic, weaving back and forth in unpredictable ways, about all

the things he’d heard happened, and about the things he’d read

in tapes he wasn’t supposed to have. But he stole them, all the kids did, and they’d all tangled up…

That was only normal, aunt Lydia had said, when she’d

found out. It was the rst time she’d ever used that word about

anything he’d done, and in spite ofthat, he didn’t feel normal. You didn’t have dreams like that about yourmotherand feel

normal. But Marie had said, with rare (for Marie) calm, that he was

growing up and he was confusingthings, which was, foronce, a

better explanation than aunt Lydia gave. Marie gave him tapes,

too, deep-tape, the same quality you used for school. Only the tape gave him dreams and for a longtime he

dreamed about a robot, a wire-diagramwoman who wasn’t

anybody in particular. She had a metal face, and he used to want

her to sit on the end ofhis bunk and talk to him, not about sex,

nally, just about stu and about things he liked to do and

where they traveled. She was a friendly sort ofcraziness, that

lived in Marie’s apartment and in his own quarters. Sometimes

she had sex with him. And sometimes she just talked, sleeping

by him, about ports they might go to someday. But the metal-faced dream had died when he’d slept with his

Polly crewwoman. Or she’d gotten Sheila’s face and become

Sheila Barr, because the metal girl didn’t evercome back again. He could just see her sort ofstandingforlornly behind Sheila’s

shoulder, looking a little curious and a little like the expression

he saw in mirrors…

So maybe his wire-woman had become him, in some strange

way. But he’d damned sure nevertold Sheila who he dreamed she

was, and never admitted it to aunt Lydia, who was so rmly,

devoutly, desperately attached to otherpeople’s sanity. Marie might have said, on the otherhand, Hell, at least she

won’t get pregnant, and probably wished his wire-woman good

morning at the breakfast table and asked did she want tea. That was the way Marie had dealt with his childish fancies,

made fun ofthem and sometimes fallen in with them. She said

they were all right, she’d introduce them to hers sometime, and

that had scared him, because he didn’t think he wanted to meet

Marie’s dreams, in this space or any other. But sometimes—often—you felt a sexual dream coming

when you were falling into jump. Psychs like aunt Lydia always

said, Don’t do it,—particularly ifyou aimed at beingoperational

crew, because ifyou ever got into that habit, it happened too

easily and you might not come back in time to handle

operations… addictive, they said. Nothing about the experiences was real, ofcourse, except

your own side ofthe experience, and that felt very real—when

you were coming out ofhyperspace, every representation the

senses made, the brain had to nd some symbol for, so things

would always appear chaotic. And it could be sex. It could be very good sex. Or, forno

reason at all, it could become a very disturbingnightmare, out

ofsymbols a brain started callingup from some closet ofthe

half-awake mind. Though sex was the most common. So ofcourse ifyou were a stupid kid who’d heard from his

peers about fantastic trips, you tried yingthat way a couple

times, getting yourselfo by the time-tested methods until you

scared hell out ofyourselfat least once, ended up on deep trank

for maybe the next two trips, and learned to do math problems

instead while you went null. Didn’t want to go into jump seeingthe brigaround him. Didn’t want to think about piracy and ships gettingblown. Didn’t want to wonder about Marie. That was a deep, deep

mental pit he didn’t want to excavate on this trip. He tried

equations, tried programmingproblems, and he kept losing

them, kept nding fantastical bits ofnonsense running

through his head… childhood rhymes and Rodman’s poetry,

Tommy’s a Corinthian, Tommy’s a Corinthian, lock him up with

iron bars, iron bars, iron bars, then throwaway the keys…

London’s bridge is falling down, so leave them alone and

they’ll come home, pretty maids, pretty maids all in a row…

Pack ofholo sex cards turned up in his study cubicle. Aunt

Pat found them. Marie said, So?

What’s new?

But nobody

believed he hadn’t put them there. He wasn’t stupid. Ifhe had them, he wouldn’t have left them

there, in the study cubicle, for Roberta R. to nd, next session. Roberta cried and said he was a pervert. Pervert, pervert, pervert, Roberta said to him when they met

in the corridors, and somebody wrote it in ink on the cubicle

desk, where he’d nd it…

Incest, aunt Lydia informed him severely, isn’t a nice word,

Tommy. Do you understand incest?

He hadn’t. He didn’t. Aunt Lydia explained it. Sex isn’t a thing we think about on-ship, ever, ever, ever,

Tommy, we don’t tease ourcousins that way. We don’t think

thoughts like that, now do we understand, Tommy?

He understood, all right: he went and bloodied Rodman’s

nose for what he understood, which settled one bit of business,

and got him tagged as a bully, this time, but he still hadn’t got it. He understood some ofthe pictures, when aunt Pat showed

them to him and accused him ofputtingthem there, but he’d

been so stunned by the images that his guilty curiosity couldn’t

muster a defense… he couldn’t quite identify some ofthe

images as body parts until he was older, but he could still play

back that memory like a tape in his head, and after that, just to

gure it out, he told himself, he kept sneakinglooks at books he

wasn’t supposed to have and tapes he wasn’t supposed to see,

trying to resolve what he’d only half-guessed, and getting

feelings aunt Lydia said he wasn’t supposed to have. It was what

That Man had done with Marie. It was his beginnings. And the

feelings became his, not That Man’s, and he couldn’t leave it

alone, and couldn’t stop thinkingabout it, until he was doing it

in jump, and the nightmares and Marie’s stories all tangled

together. He came out screaming and aunt Lydia said he’d betterhave

deep trank next time. Marie said somebody’d betterwatch him

and he couldn’t come home like she’d planned, she had to be on

duty. Kids went through that sometimes, Lydia said, meaning

nightmares in jump. They got overit oryou had to leave them

on some station—he wasn’t supposed to hear that part, and

Marie got mad and said ifhe had a few less ofLydia’s theories

he’d be saner. So he resolved to keep his mouth shut and not to have the

nightmares again, because beingleft on station was the worst

one… he only had Marie, and Marie wouldn’t leave him, Marie

had told aunt Lydia go to hell and keep heradvice to herself. He’d been terribly proud of Marie, then, and told himselfMarie

did really want him, she just wasn’t good at showingit. So he

did calculations the way the seniors told him to, next time. It didn’t work, quite, but he kept his mouth shut about it. He lived. You didn’t die from dreams. Ship was going up… You could feel it, a strange feeling, like

everything was spreading wider and standingstill when there

wasn’t any referent for still…

Think about Sheila, she was his safety-valve when his mind

started free-wheeling and the ship went strange, think about

meeting Sheila… he could see herdown the dockside at

Mariner, silver- ash coveralls, small gure in the distance, near

the huge gantries, the way he’d rst seen her, his Polly spacer,

who never talked about him, never listened if he did,

sometimes, slip. She told jokes, she made fun, she said she liked

him, never would love him, forget that crap, that was too

serious, and most ofall she taught him to calm down, laugh a

little, and let her do some ofthe instigating, that was what she

said. She was older, Sheila Barr was, and she’d told him once how

she occasionally thought about havinga kid, and kept changing

her mind. She didn’t want that commitment, but she wanted

the immortality. He’d never thought about either. He’d been

busy surviving his own childhood when he took up with Sheila

Barr, hadn’t been ready in the least for immortality, just

desperately—a little vindication with the guys…

She won’t look at you, Rodman had said. But she did. She had. She waltzed him into a sleepoverfor

fourteen straight days and darks and showed him things he’d

never gotten out oftapes orholocards—he came back knowing

things the cousins didn’t, he quickly found that out, and set

Rodman’s nose mightily out ofjoint when the youngers listened

to him as one who Knew. So he got a reputation, such as it was. And proved he could

still beat hell out ofRodman, one on one. But he still froze up,

getting dates when Polly wasn’t in port, which, God, he didn’t

want Rodman or anybody else to nd out…he managed. Looks

helped, he had that over Rodman, by some, and brains, but it

didn’t cover everything, and on some liberties he just hungout,

disappeared a night or so, claiminghe was missingSheila,

which was true, for di erent reasons. Silver gure turned dark in his dream. Wasn’t Sheila he was

meeting, then, on that dock. For a moment he was scared it was

Rodman. The whole image started comingapart on him, and

Sheila’s dark-haired, lanky selfwent strange, inde nite,

separated from him by a gridwork ofsteel bars…

Pale, then. Capella’s blonde, brazen ash and try-me attitude,

Capella standing there with herbare arms restingthrough bars

he recalled he wasn’t dreaming, with the bracelet ofstars

evident on her wrist. It wasn’t the freedomofthe docks he was

in, he was in a box he couldn’t get out of, and an exposure that

let the whole ship come and stare at him ifthey liked. Capella gave him an I-don’t-give-a-damn rake ofthe eyes,

leaned there, enigma like the fatal holocards. Her hands were

death and life together, the serpent and the equation that

cracked the light barrier, the bracelet no honest spacer wore…

“Get up,” she said, this apparition. “You can do it. Take a

walk.”

Nobody could. Not really. But in his dream he unbuckled the

restraints and got up, and walked part ofthe way. The bars weren’t there. “Well, well,” she said, “Christian’s older brother. How are

you?”

Colors washed to right and left ofhim, red and blue and into

infrareds and ultraviolets, a tunnel at the black peripheries of

his vision. He daren’t come any further. Christian wasn’t his

friend. This woman wasn’t. This dream was destructive. He

could make it go away. But Capella came to him, a series ofadvances without

movement, Capella’s arms came around his neck, and Capella’s

mouth was on his. They weren’t standing. They were on the

bed. A voice spoke faintly, or he remembered it, about waves

being everywhere, or particles beingthe same, all the while he

was feeling waves ofanotherkind and carried alonga

wavefront ofmindless, endless sensation. (Don’t do it in jump, the senior cousins said, oryou’ll go

crazy.)

He was shivering again. Was livingit again, a physical spasm

that climaxed and quit, leavinghim cold. Didn’t want it. Did. He

was paralyzed in the between ofchoices. Wasn’t sure he could

get that high again, it was like a drug, that was what they said,

wasn’t it?

You’d never be able to do it realtime, you’d freeze up?

Everything spun, a whirlpool ofprimal urges, a comingand

going ofsound so deep it hit the base ofthe brain and the base

ofthe spine. “It’s all right,” Capella said, out ofthat sound. “You can’t fall.”

Liar, he thought, gasping forbreath, feelingthe abyss behind

his head, as ifhe could just, ifhe shut his eyes, pourhimself

through the bottom ofhis own brain and fall forever. He felt

himselfsliding, sensations owingone afterthe otheracross

his skin… colors that crawled across the room, splashes ofcolor

that whipped away into the dark and withered and slipped

away, in laughter, in a crashinggreat energy that broke in waves

ofgrating, murmurous sounds. Hard, slim body against his, ridingthe waves ofcompressing

subspace, then spiraling violently, overand around and down,

voices echoing in his ears, louder and louder, bodies involved

with his, multiplying with the voices that were the music, the

erotic and the horri c tangled and snarled into each other. He

gained a moment ofescape and it wasn’t Capella, it was Marie

clawing at him, it was a band ofdrunken spacers, it was the

spacer with the snakes, halfpurple and green, hands he

couldn’t escape, violence and need twistingthrough him and

around him until the waves offorce ooded up into his brain,

twice a hundred hands and twice again the arms and legs that

closed about him, one layeronto anotherin a mathematical,

sequential blur. Until he was inside the livinguniverse, endless interlace of

rhythmic laments that were living esh and human minds,

thunderous sound, violence over with now,—until he realized

the waves were his own heartbeat and space became one

screaming edge inside him, that fall through the back ofhis

head…

It was his body in the dark, or all the ship hurtlinginto an

annihilating spin, tearing his hands fromgrips and tearingthe

ship apart, bolt groaning away fromplate, and everything

rushing away from center…

—v—

RED DREAM, COASTING THE INTERFACE, dream ofred violence and dark,

anger that had no destination until now. Until now it had

always just been, and carried its own energies, destruction and

creation, tearing apart a life and makinga new one. But this time it had a place to go and somethingto reach for. Sprite was running fteen days behind him, with a full hold,

headed for a sink ofdark matter, three points that danced a

complex pass around a common center, a pit in space-time into

which all realspace matter that passed this way was damned to

fall. System offailed stars, potential unachieved, radiating

masses forever tagging each other, like Sprite with Corinthian. But the numbers added right this time. Cosmic rendezvous. Union. Consummation. He was there in the space where all space touched. Marie

dreamed his ship brushed hyperspace at this very instant,

occupying the same space-time. He was that close. He had to

feel her breathing, had to feel herangerand the high and the

power it gave her… the energy ofthe ship became one hollow,

drunken roar, I am, I am, I am, against a universe otherwise

void. She reached orgasm with it, multiple times, with the

thought that he didn’t consent to herbeingthere, he didn’t

consent to her knowing about him what he’d thought was

secret… he didn’t consent to hertrackinghim and making

herselfan inseparable, inescapable part ofhis life every day,

every hour since their meeting…

Dear Austin. I love you the way you loved me. Look over your shoulder now, you son ofa bitch. —vi—

THEY WERE ALIVE. THEY EXISTED again. That was always the rst

assessment when the ship dropped into Einsteinian space and

linear time. But it wasn’t right. He shouldn’t be lyingon his side, face

against the wall. On the deck. The tiles were cold under his arm and his hip

and his knee. Cold air traveled over bare skin. He was halfout of

his clothes. His skin stung, rawwith scratches. He moved, panicked at the queasy sensation ofcomingout of

jump, and knew he shouldn’t be loose like this…a ship exiting

jump might have to take emergency action, he wasn’t belted, he

could break his neck… he didn’t knowwhere he was, room was

a meter too wide as he rolled over, but he scrambled on his

knees, saw the bunk and the restraints and scrambled in, breath

hissing between his teeth as he struggled to get the rst belts

fastened, instinct in a spacer-brat as sure as the fear of falling. Snap. Lock fastened, upper legs, snap, the one across his

chest, snap. He was all right then, hard-breathing, at least

telling himselfhe’d beaten disaster ifit came. Except it wasn’t Sprite. Except it wasn’t his quarters he was

in. Bars beyond his feet. Walls he remembered, now, in dismay. Corinthian. Heart started a dull, leaden panic, tellinghim that his danger

wasn’t past. And he didn’t knowwhat could have happened to

put him where he waked, against the wall, except maybe they’d

exited subspace before this and he’d unbelted too soon…he still

felt the last racketing ofsex through his blood and brain, last

echoes ofa bad trip and a nightmare to end all. His skin felt raw,

coveralls mostly unzipped, he didn’t knowhowhe’d done that,

either, but he’d gotten up, maybe started to go to the shower

and fallen. Hell ofa dream. He lifted his head to look at himselfand saw

red scratches all over his chest, his pale blue coveralls had

bloody specks, from a subspace hallucination. Healed and half-healed scratches, and lately-made ones?

Not

all recent. Scratched himself, was what he’d done. He felt embarrassed

as hell, and hoped to God there wasn’t an optic spy somewhere,

or a tape record. He couldn’t face it, ifthere were. He let his head fall back, just

to let his blood ow back to his brain and let the walls stop

rippling in his vision. He’d exerted too much just nowin getting

back to his bunk. He’d broken into a clammy sweat, and the air

circulation felt cold, stinging salt in the scratches. Worse, he felt a wave ofnausea and told himselfhe’d been a

double fool, rst exerting himselfto get back in his bunk and

then not getting to the nutri-packs on priority, because

sneaking up his veins right nowwas the grandfatherofall sick

headaches. He triggered the e-panel one-handed. He clawed the packs

out ofthe wall-storage onto the mattress and ripped one open,

hands shaking, fumbled out the sippingtube, valved so you

didn’t have to raise your head to use it, thank God. By the small

time it took to do that much, the pain that wasn’t quite pain yet

was building up as pressure in his temples and behind his eyes,

an old, old acquaintance. And to keep it company, his stomach

was behaving under its own precarious rhythm, as ifsome

bone-deep jolt out ofhyperspace hadn’t left his consciousness,

or quit running over his skin in waves offever heat and clammy

sweat. Sweat had soaked his clothes. Sometimes you got the brain

stem confused, pushing too much, too fast. Sometimes the

confusion could go into arrhythmia, breathingdisorders,

serious business ifyou were by yourselfand you didn’t get

medicals, which he was, and wouldn’t get, and nobody was

going to be walking down the corridorout there lookingto take

care of anybody until the ship had dumped down to system

speed—wholly unlike a Hawkins fool he could name who’d

unbelted, thinking he was in his own cabin, got up and fallen on

his ass. Thing to do until help was available was calm down,

breathe deep, drink the uids and keep it down. Ship wasn’t his

friend. But they didn’t want him dead. Three swallows. Long period ofdeep breathing. Three more

swallows. Somebody would eventually check on him. Just hold

on. The ship skimmed the interface again. Major pulse,

momentary grey-out. Then red, red, red, and red, dammit!

then green ashes…

splashes ofsound and vibration…

The stomach tried to turn itselfinside out. Terror…did that

to you. Capella. Guy with the snakes. Green and purple snakes. Crawling all over him. Capella and the snakes, climbing up his

legs, holding him down, the bars weren’t there anymore. Sensation that wasn’t part ofany subspace dreamhe’d ever

had…

Sexual high, and raw terror. Then down again. Skuzzy, scarred walls. Mattress underhis

back. Nice, safe bars, between him and the nightmares. Breathe. Drink the uids. Don’t throwup. Please, God. He didn’t want theirmedics. Didn’t want their

crew in here, didn’t want that grid opened…

Next sip. Didn’t see any snakes, didn’t feel them slithering

around him. Couldn’t remember what it felt like now. It had been vivid,

before. He was coming out ofit. Winningagainst the pulses that

sent him back to illusions, and physiological…

Shit. Shit…

God. God, God, God…

Calm. Quiet. Breathe. Easier ifyou had the output ofinstruments in front ofyou. Lying here scared sti and with the sweat chillingin the

current from the air ducts…you didn’t knowwhere the ship

was… you didn’t have any information what was goingon, they

didn’t even signal you…

He wasn’t used to that kind ofsloppiness. Wasn’t the way

Sprite did business. Made him mad. Wasn’t used to the signals when they did give them. Damn

sirens. No human word out ofanybody. Wasn’t a way to run a

ship. His biological father was in charge up on this bridge. Marie

wasn’t down in cargo. The condition ofthe universe had done a

total reverse. He wasn’t goingback. Ever. He didn’t know where

he wasgoing. His head was startingto ache, right between the

eyes. Second… or was it third…?

skip at the interface. Long, long skip. Erotic feelings ran up and down his body,

found center… God, he couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stop it. Scratches healed and otherwise…both?

Howdid you do that

to yourself?

He shut his eyes, pressed ngers against the sinuses. Kept

feeling the scrapes on his skin, stingingwith the sweat,

aftermath ofpure stupidity. He tried to be mad. Mad was the

way to get through things. Marie said. Stupid thing to do. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Hell ofa

nightmare. Jerk o in jump-space and you were lucky you didn’t

do worse… deserved everythinghe got, absolutely, he’d learned

better, ifhe could just stop the physiological reactions…

Maybe the trank was a brand he hadn’t used, and he was

having a drug reaction, he didn’t know. He damned sure meant

to ask, ifhe could nd anybody on this ship disposed to care

about details like that. Long quiet, then. But you couldn’t trust they weren’t goingto

dump down again, you couldn’t trust anything. Just try to make

the feelings go away. The siren blew two blasts, then. God, howwas he supposed

to know what it was?

Impendingevasive action?

Impending

impact with a rock?

Consideringthe headache, he wasn’t sure

he gave an e ective damn. But after the echoes died, he heard that inde nable stirring

oflife in the ship’s guts that meant de nitive all-clear, distant,

ordinary sounds, con rmingthe ship was about its routines,

safe, and crew was moving about. Safe as this ship ever was. Safe as the crew could make this

ship. Not for him, maybe. But at least they were alive together. At least it was down to human motives and human reasons. His father’s ship. His father’s say-so and his father’s set oflaws, amen. He lay there and drank the nutri-packs, two ofthem, before

his stomach decided it wasn’t goingto heave everythingup, and

before his head decided it wasn’t goingto explode. He let the

belts go when he’d come to that conclusion, lay still with one

knee up and an arm underhis head, ndingno reason to

venture more than that. The noises in the ship nowwere noises

he understood, mostly, somebody bangingaround with a

service panel, checking on lters or plumbing. Somebody was

shouting at somebody else about schedules, except you didn’t

shout obscenities like that down Sprite’s corridors. It occurred

to him he’d never heard a stream ofprofanity like that in his

life, and Marie was no prude when she was pissed. It actually

attained meter and art. Another voice then, jolted him…familiar voice, voice he

wasn’t going to forget—alongwith the beatinghe’d heard

before they left port. “Get your ass out ofthere!” came nearand

clear, and he thought he’d move, ifthat voice was yellingat him. Memory ofsomething hitting esh and bone. Vivid as the

other side ofjump. Wasn’t sure the guy had lived through it. Ifthey cycled the

airlock while they were out here in the dark between stars…

that might tell. Body trade, he said to himself. Marie thought so. The cousins

did. Live merchandise and dead spacers, you couldn’t depend

there’d be a great deal ofcare which, on certain ships, on ships

that didn’t mind selling out othermerchanters: whole ships

blown because somebody’d spilled the numbers and set

somebody up, back in the War; and they said, the hunters were

still picking targets, little ships that just might not make port

again—ships with irregular routes, minimal crew, no great

atrocities, no known Names, like a Family ship. Just the little,

marginal haulers… easy to pick o. A rattle sounded in the corridor, then, somethingmetal

bumped the wall just outside, where someone was walking, and

in sudden fright, he remembered the cable and didn’t wait to be

snatched o his bunk by the wrist. He got up to one knee on the

bunk as the noise-maker showed up with a hand-carrierand a

stack ofcovered food trays. The guy with the snakes. The drunk with the chocolates. He

watched apprehensively as the guy shoved a tray through an

opening in the gridwork, clearly expectinghim to come into his

reach and take it from his hand. “You actually the captain’s kid?” the guy asked when he did

venture over to the bars. “Tom Hawkins,” he admitted, and took the tray, not willing

to give the man any provocation—the tattooed arms were as

thick as most men’s legs, the ngers that gave up the tray were

thick with muscle and callus. “Tink,” the snake-man said. “Tink?”

“Name’s Tink. Cook’s mate. How-do.”

“Glad to meet you.” He wasn’t, not even halfway. But what

did you say?

And the guy didn’t act crazy. “You must’ve pissed the captain o real bad.”

“I guess.” What could you say to that, either?

The guy when

he wasn’t scowling had a rough, but downright gentle kind of

face. And still scared hell out ofhim. “Tell you, kid, you got to do what he says. He don’t nevertake

no. Shoot you rst. I seen himdo it.”

“For what?”

A couple ofblinks as Tink sized him up. “Guy carried a knife

topside. You don’t ever do that. That’ll get you dead.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“You bridge?”

“Cargo.” Quick lie. He didn’t want them to know he was

computers. “You sign on?”

“Is there any other way to get onto this ship?”

Tink thought that was funny. He had an infectious grin. One

canine was a brighter white than the rest ofhis teeth. “Is there?”

“Yeah. Happens.”

“They do much ofthat?”

Tink’s face went slowly sober. He looked one way and the

other down the corridor as ifto see whetheranyone was

listening. And there was people-noise fromthe left-hand

direction. “Sometimes. But listen, however you got here, you

don’t skip ship. Work here’s permanent. No matter how you

come. Hear?

You don’t skip.”

“What do they do ifyou try?”

Tink’s face screwed up as ifhe was short ofdescription. Then

Tink looked down the corridorand straightened away from the

bars. “Food’s not bad, though,” Tink said, a little louder. “They give

you a big allowance dockside. Can’t fault the pay at all.”

“Glad ofthat.” He was standingwith the tray in his hands. Tink went away and talked to somebody down the corridor, and

he went back to his bunk, kicked the cable out ofhis way and sat

down to his after-jump snack—which was a sandwich-roll and

a cup ofsomething he couldn’t identify, but the sandwich-roll

wasn’t at all bad. Tink wasn’t so bad, either, he decided. No matter ifhe ashed

on Tink’s tattoos in bad dreams, it was a good sandwich and the

drink really wasn’t halfbad, either, afteryou got the rst

swallows down and got used to the avor. That was the only good part ofbeinghere, except the ship

was in one piece and he was. Barely. Jump space was an unsettlingexperience, no matterhow

many times you’d done it and howyou’d acclimated, you were

always a heartbeat away fromcrazy and-or dead, and, God,

people could do odd things, comingout ofit. Had to have been on the down-slide, when they were making

drop. Medics said you couldn’t move, duringjump, something

about long motor nerves beingjust too slowto coordinate in the

feedback to the brain and innerear, orsome such crap that

probably made sense to the physics people and the medics, but

there was still a lot the medics didn’t know, accordingto the

folklore, or couldn’t make clear, even to people who didn’t want

to believe the fools. The science people were still arguing

whether brains could rememberanythinghappeningduring

jump. Or whether events could happen in hyperspace that

a ected realspace matter. Consensus said ifanythingseemed to

have had an e ect on somethingthat belonged in realspace,

namely human brains, it was nothingbut a sequential memory

screwup, like in a witness situation, where nobody could agree

on what happened rst, or what colors somebody was wearing. Further you got from it, the less certain the memory was. Meaning you only thought you’d done it, oryou’d done it

before or after jump and only deceived yourselfhowand when

it was in relation to other things. But myth regularly took overwhere medics left o , and

probably all over human space, they told about Grandiosa and

the night-walker, how this crewman had gone crazy during

jump and could move, and went out and bloodily murdered his

shipmates until Grandiosa got crazier and crazier and people

wouldn’t trank down and went crazierand crazier…

Then the night-walker changed the jump coordinates and

screwed up the navigation and ate all the rest, that he’d hungin

the ship’s food locker. Bogeymen. Ghost stories. Kids’ lofts were full ofthem. They

were all stupid stories, probably told them about water-ships on

old Earth, or on the old sublighters, and there was no Grandiosa

on record anywhere, older cousins said so. The fact was, in jump you were always naked to forces that

you didn’t understand and that physicists couldn’t measure

because physicists couldn’t measure without instruments and

instruments didn’t work there, or at least didn’t produce

consistent results. You couldn’t stay awake and aware through

it no matter what, and it was too much like dying, crossingthat

boundary, which a long-haulerspacer did, six, seven, eight

times a ship-year. He didn’t want to think about it. He heard Tink’s voice, down

the corridor, talking with several somebodys. He’d nished his

snack and he was sweaty and cold, now, he wanted a showerif

they’d just stay stable. Supposing the shower worked, which he couldn’t expect,

considering the bars and the cable and all—nobody was

interested in his comfort. Then he looked at the cable on his wrist and realized he

couldn’t get his clothes o. “Damn!” he said, and wanted to throwthe tray against the

bars. In the self-same moment he was aware ofa shadowagainst

the grid. A woman stood there, the way Capella had, in his dream. Not Capella. Dark-haired, the same stance…but not the

same. And not a dream. He got o the bunk. His visitorwas wearingthe same green

coveralls he’d seen on Corinthian crew dockside… professional

woman, he thought, cool, businesslike. Had to be an o cer. Maybe medical, come to check on him. “Are you all right?” she asked, with the kind ofaccent he

dreamed he’d heard before, somewhere, maybe the intercom, he

wasn’t sure. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and hermouth quirked. A pretty

mouth. He was respectful, but he wasn’t dead…he felt this

strange, sandpapered-raw sense ofnerves with her, a

consciousness ofhis own skin, scratch-scored and sensitive in

intimate places, and didn’t even knowwhat about her

demanded his attention. He just…

… reacted. And stood there embarrassed as hell. “Christian’s brother, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She seemed amused. “I’m not ma’am.”

On some ships there was only one, senior-most, matriarch. And she clearly wasn’t. “Sabrina Perrault. Sabrina Perrault-Cadiz. Saby, for short. Tink says you’re Cargo.”

“Yes, ma’am.” It was his lie. He had to stick by it. At least it

was something he knew. He was goingto ask about the trank,

before somebody forgot…

“Thomas. Is that what you go by?”

“Tom.”

“Tom Bowe-Hawkins. I’m sorry you got snatched. I really

am.”

“Thanks.—I take it you’re Medical?”

“Not me. No. Cargo.”

His lie caught up with him. Called his blu. He knew stu

from Marie, but that was all he knew. “It’s not a bad ship,” Saby Perrault said. He didn’t know what to say to that. Couldn’t argue. Any ship

you were born on, he guessed, wasn’t an unbearably bad ship, if

it was the only one you ever knew. “I guess,” he said. “You could tell the captain I’m not a fool. You could let me loose. I’m on this ship, I assure you I don’t

want to sabotage anything.”

“Not my say,” she said, with a lift ofthe shoulder. “But I’ll

pass it along.”

“You ever talk to the captain direct?”

“Sure. You want me to tell him something?”

He was sorry he’d asked. He didn’t want to. He didn’t know

why he’d opened his mouth. But Saby was the least threatening

human he’d met aboard and he wanted to knowwhere the

chain ofcommunication was. “Yeah.” He tried to think. “Say hi. Love the food. Tink’s a human being. The bunk’s lousy.”

Saby laughed. “I’ll do that. Anything you particularly need?”

“Change ofclothes. Shower. Shave.”

“Shower works. There’s a shaver on the panel.”

He held up the cable. “Key.”

“Not authorized. Sorry.”

“I’m stuck in these clothes. I don’t have my kit. I don’t have

anything but what I’m in. They didn’t encourage me to pack.”

“Do what I can. Has to be cleared.”

“You mean the captain has to clear it.”

“Do what I can,” she repeated, and gave a shrug, and started

away. “Sera,—”

“Ms,” she said. “Ms. Perrault.” She’d stopped, just in view. Looked at him. He looked at her, with the disturbed feeling…

maybe it was the dream…that he desperately wanted herto

come back, he wanted her to talk, and ll the silence and be

reasonable… because she did seem humanly sympathetic. Sane. Somebody who might believe he wasn’t crazy, orexplain to him

that his father wasn’t. She knew his father. Even sounded easy in the relationship. Friendly. A whole several breaths she stood there, and he couldn’t

think what to say to keep hertalking, and she didn’t nd

anything. Then she walked o with all the promises ofhelp he’d

had since he’d come aboard this ship…promises that suddenly,

on a friendly voice and an infectious grin, suddenly had him

weak in the knees and wantingherto stay for one more look,

one more assurance he wasn’t alone down here, she was going

to appeal to the captain on his behalfand get the man who’d,

after all other considerations, fathered him…to come down

here and become a face and a presence and listen to his side of

things. And pigs will go to space, he told to himself, without any

knowledge what pigs were, beyond creatures that built imsy

houses. He’d no more knowledge what was the matterwith

him, beyond shot nerves and jangled hormones, or whatever

had made him scratch himselfbloody in an erotic dream that

had gotten wholly out ofhand. He didn’t have any miraculous

truth to communicate to Austin Bowe, he didn’t have any just

cause to trust Tink or Saby Perrault-Cadiz-whoever-she-was,

and damned sure not his so-claimed half-brother, who clearly

didn’t like him on sight. He’d been set up before in his life—

earliest education he’d gotten, not to pin hopes on a cousin

suddenly just too damned friendly, and too unreasonably on his

side. He wobbled back to his bunk, vengefully jerked the cable out

ofhis way, sat down in despair and punched the mattress with

his hand, there being nothingelse in reach. He hated them, he hated them one and all, Tink and Saby and

Christian and Capella and every othername he knew alongwith

his father’s. And along with that hate, he was scared, scared, and messed-

with, and pushed-at. The scratches stung, he was soaked with

sweat at the armpits and around the waist, he wanted a shower,

he wanted a shave, he wanted free ofthe damned cable. At which he gave a two-handed and useless jerk, pure t of

temper. “Mmm-mm,” someone said from the grid in front, and there,

straight out ofhis dream, was Capella, sleeveless, bare arms on

the bars, star-bracelet in plain evidence. “Just doesn’t do any

good, Christian’s-brother.”

“Go to hell!”

“Been.” The star-tattooed hand made a casual loop. “Bored

with hell. Corinthian’s more fun. How’s the stomach?”

He was suddenly, erotically, acutely, conscious ofthe

scratches his clothes concealed, before he gured she didn’t

mean that. “Jump’s no novelty.”

“Yeah. You and me, merchanter-son. Jump’s still a bitch. I’m

sincerely regretful ofthe circumstances, and I do hope you stay

here where’s much safer, ifyou get my drift.”

The stars on her wrist meant Fleet. Meant a special fraternity

ofthe breed, the ones that smelled theirway through

hyperspace, and felt the presence ofships they preyed on. That

was the folklore, at least. “Where’s the next port?”

“Pell, right now. Ifyou’re real nice, who knows, they could let

you o there. But—there’s else, pretty lad. And you don’t truly

want to go there.”

“Mazian.”

“Did I say that name?

That is a son ofa bitch, Christian’s

brother, and I’d never say that name to a stranger, myself. I’d not

say a thing more, where you are.”

He felt cold and colder. “That’s the trade this ship keeps.”

“There’s trade and there’s trade, Christian’s elder brother.”

Someone was coming, and Capella straightened up, throwinga

glance in that direction. “Be smarter.”

Christian walked up, took a stance, arms folded. “Newtourist

attraction?”

“Hey. He’s decorative. Scenery, Chrissy. Do you mind?”

They argued. He sat where he was, on his bunk, wantingto

stay out ofit entirely. Christian grabbed Capella by the arm, lost

it when Capella jerked away, and the two ofthem ended up

withdrawing down the corridor, not out ofearshot. His mind was on one word. Mazian. He’d wanted to believe…

he didn’t know logically why he’d even care about his biological

father’s honesty as a merchanter, when he’d had information to

the contrary all his life. He didn’t knowwhat he had possibly

invested in the question that Austin Bowe might not be the

villain Marie portrayed him to be…

Except his personal survival hungon that point. Except he

didn’t know what was goingto happen to him, or where he

might end up. Mazian’s Fleet, as a destination…he didn’t even

want to contemplate. As for Capella’s bracelet. It was, just lately, a fashion, in some

wild quarters, just a fad… like the starand daggerofthe elite

marines—some rimrunners had supposedly taken to wearingit,

the ones still legal, the ones the cops couldn’t necessarily arrest

on speci c charges, but this woman hadn’t a glove overit orany

shame. Far too young to have fought in the War…but you

couldn’t rely on that, amongspacers. Sometimes young

meant… experienced. Sometimes youngmeant a deal more

jumps, a deal more time in hyperspace, and you couldn’t tell,

except, somehow, the myth said, the look in the eyes. That, the bracelet and the fact Bok’s equation went with it,

which wouldn’t be the case with some fad-followingbar-bunny

or a fringe-spacer wannabee. Navigator, engineer…rumors

weren’t certain what the wearer was, except a Fleet that couldn’t

use the stations any more still survived, still turned up to give

merchanters’ nightmares and nobody knew how, unless they’d

found jump-points the regular military couldn’t nd orcouldn’t

reach. And the wearers ofthat bracelet had, legendarily, something

to do with that ability. All sorts ofstories had come out, since

the War. He’d grown up on them. That was the discrepancy in

their ages. Closest thing to a night-walker you’d ever meet in real life. And regularly in bed with his half-brother, was what he was

hearing in the argument in progress. In bed, more than one

sense. Obligated, by what Christian said. “Screw you,” Capella said, a little down the corridor, but clear

as clear. “I don’t owe you, Chrissy, don’t try to pull that string. You won’t like what comes up with it.”

He held his breath. He didn’t knowwhy. There was violence

in the air. Christian said, then, “You let him alone, Pella. That’s the

bottom line. You keep your hands to yourself.”

“Sure,” Capella said. “Sure.”

That left him chilled, that did. He didn’t want to be the focus

ofa feud—let alone on this ship, with his half-brother, and that

woman. We were just talking, he wanted to yell, the age-old

protestation. But he didn’t think the pairdown there gave a

damn for his opinion. —vii—

NO MECHANICALS. NO PROBLEMS since they’d dropped into Tripoint. They had to take the v down all the way to system-inertial, with

the load they had, which was a shame, because there was a real

reason, in Austin’s opinion, to make a little haste through the

jump-point, in this dark navigation sink between the stars;

reason, but not reason enough that they shouldn’t take time to

run the checks and catch theirbreaths. A good few days, he gured, before Sprite could get itself

tanked and loaded—which was some respite before they had to

worry about Sprite being on their tail. But they well might be, by now. He didn’t put it past Marie

Hawkins. And he didn’t bet the cargo o cercouldn’t move

Sprite in her own directions. Knock on his o ce door. He was on a costingcalculation, on

various options. Inputting. He didn’t want interruption. But the knocker also had the private key-code; the door

opened without him keying it fromthe desk. “‘Scuse,” Saby said, easing in against the wall. “Minute?”

He held up two ngers. Generosity. “Thomas Hawkins?” Saby began. One nger. Well-chosen. “Talked to him,” Saby said. “You said.”

“Minute and a half,” he said. “Not attitudinal. Smart. Scared. Says the bunk’s lousy but he

likes the food.”

“Fine. He won’t starve.”

“I really think you should talk to him. At least once. You’ll

always wonder.”

“Damn your dockside psych. No, I won’t always wonder.”

“He’s not what you think.”

“That’s twice. Fifteen seconds.”

“Scared ofhim?”

“Five.”

“Ignorance killed the cat, sir, curiosity was framed.”

“Time’s up.”

“Yes, sir,” Saby said. And slid out the door and shut it. Kid had an uncanny knack: she said a hire was trouble, and

trouble was what happened. She said an unlikely guy was all

right and got them the best cargo pusherthey’d had. She said

take this woman, and he hadn’t listened, and the guy that they

had taken instead, they’d been especially sorry of, down to

nding him a permanent situation. Now Saby went and stuck heryoungnose in a damned

sensitive problem. Who set Saby to evaluatingthat personnel

acquisition?

Who assigned herdownside, anyway?

Saby wasn’t

even on-shift. Spare time occupation. And he could live without seeing

Marie Hawkins’ kid. He could sleep at night without it. He could sleep at night seeingthe kid to the same permanent

occupation the last machinist’s mate had found. The universe

had nooks to put things in. Slamthe door shut and the hell with

the problem. Marie Hawkins had contributed genes to the kid. Maybe arranged for him to get aboard, put him up to it, who

knew?

One determined fool could do a lot ofdamage to a ship

before they caught him at it. Com beeped. “Austin,” he said. “You’re not afraid of him,” Saby’s voice said. “You’re on double watch, damn you!”

“Yes, sir,” Saby said. And cut the com connection. Chapter Five

—i—

“CHRISSY-SWEET,” THE ARGUMENT in the corridor wound up, “ifI want

to go I go. IfI want to stay I stay. You want me to go is not the

question here. It is never the question. Not here. Not dockside. Capish?”

“I understand. I understand damned well. Go to hell!”

Things had gotten very farfromreason. Tomsat still on his

bunk and let the re ght go on without his input. But Capella lingered, strayed to the brigfrontage to lean on

the cross-bars and smile sweetly. “Tommy-person, don’t piss o your brother. I suspect he’s

jealous.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t say a thingas Christian turned up in

his barred view ofthe ship. Didn’t say a thingas he watched

Capella pass out-of- eld and on down the corridor. “You’re a pain in the ass,” Christian said, he thought to him. “You know that?”

“Not by choice,” he said. Suddenly the cable took up and snaked around his leg,

dumping him rst on the deck and then past the end ofthe

bunk, slamming him against the wall. “Dammit!” he yelled. “Son ofa bitch,” Christian said. “You keep yourselfout of

Corinthian business, you keep yourselfaway from Corinthian

crew, you don’t ask questions, and you don’t listen to the

answers ifsomebody hands them to you, you fuckin’ stay out of

our business, you hear me?”

He got up. In the meantime somebody else had turned up in

the area outside, with a wave ofa shirted arm and a: “What in

hell is this?

I think you’ve got duties, mister. Ifyou don’t, nd

some.”

“Sir,” Christian said, scowling, and got out ofthe way as the

gridwork shot open and the new arrival walked into the cell—

Blond like Christian, tall—o cer, you hadn’t any doubt about

it, and that wasn’t by a longshot by reason ofthe black

skintights, or the shirt, an o tone ofshimmerred-purple. “Hawkins, are you?” the newcomerasked, hands on hips,

occupying the way out, and he hadn’t any doubt who he was

dealing with. He stood his ground and glared, tight-jawed,

seeing no need whatever to answer. “So are you Marie Hawkins’ little present,” Bowe asked, “or

what?”

“I don’t know what you think I saw. I don’t knowwhat there

was to see. I don’t care about your business.”

“Stupid must be her genes. Not mine.”

“Yeah, real damn bright, the stu at Mariner, you son ofa

bitch!

You left a hell ofa reputation on my ship!”

Bowe came closer, between him and an exit that wouldn’t

help him, with the cable on his wrist. He understood the game. He stood and glared, and Bowe glared back. Tallerthan he was. As big. And with the home advantage. Bowe stared at him. Finally: “This isn’t Sprite, boy. And

there’s a wide universe out there that doesn’t give a damn what

you want or whose mistake you are. You keep out ofmy way. You don’t cause any trouble. And I might let you out on some

civilized dockside…”

“Yeah. And otherwise?”

“You watch that mouth, son.”

“Go to hell. I’m not your son.”

A hand exploded against his head. He hit the wall, rebounded

and hit Bowe with all the force he had. Or tried to. The cable snagged. Bowe cu ed the otherear, he

hit the wall again and slid down it onto a tucked and trapped

leg, halfdeaf. He went for Bowe’s knees and hit the wall a third

time. Freed the knee. He came up yelling, “You son ofa bitch, I’ll

kill you!”

Bowe got him in an arm lock and shoved him at the wall,

face- rst. “Will you, now?”

“Damn you!” He had one hand linked to the cable. He twisted

halfabout, got the other st wound in Bowe’s shirt, and Bowe

rammed a stful ofcoveralls up against his throat and shoved

him at the wall again, hard head, yieldingpanel…

“I don’t think so,” Bowe said. “Call it quits, boy?”

“No!”

Another bounce ofhis skull against the panel. Blood wasn’t

getting to his brain. He was goingout. He brought a knee up,

tried for Bowe’s throat, and his skull met the panel again. “You’re being stupid, boy.”

“You don’t win,” he said. Everythingwas grey. “You don’t

win.”

Bowe dropped him. Legs buckled every which way, and the

boot soles resisted on the tiles, pinninghim against the wall and

the bunk as he fell. He tried to grab the bunk with his free hand,

and couldn’t get purchase to get up. Bowe walked out. Gave orders to someone. He had a poundingheadache and a

shortness ofbreath, and he got an elbowonto the bunk, enough

to lever himselfout ofthe angle he’d wedged himselfinto. He

rested there getting his breath, tryinghis hardest not to throw

up. Shadow loomed over him. He rolled over to protect himself,

saw Tink and another guy about the same size. “Tried to tell you,” Tink said with a sorrowful shake ofhis

head. By which he gured Tink wasn’t there to kick him while he

was down. The opposite. “You need Medical, kid?” Tink asked, patting

his shoulder. He didn’t think so. His ears were ringing, his head hurt and

the legs still wouldn’t work predictably, but he shook his head to

the question and tried to get all the way up. Legs buckled. Tink caught him. “Get a cold towel,” Tink said, and, “No, they ain’t got ’em in

here, down in the galley.”

“I’m all right,” he insisted, but Tink looked at his eyes one

after the other, said he should get at and wait for the towel. Didn’t want to. Wanted to be let the hell alone. But Tink

didn’t give him that option. Bowe’s orders. Son ofa bitch, he kept thinking, son of a bitch

who’d hurt Marie—Marie’d told him, told him details he didn’t

want to know—before he knew what sex was, he’d known all

about rape, and after that, sex and Marie and Bowe were all

crosswired, the way it wasn’t in normal people, he understood

that. And now this huge guy with the snakes, and Capella, and

Christian, and the damned holocards and subspace and the

scratches, and Bowe… it felt as ifsomethinghad exploded in

the middle of him, right in the gut, pain Bowe had handed out,

or Marie had, or whatever in himselfhad deserved to be in the

mess he was in. He sat there halfon the oorand started

shaking, and the big guy, Tink, just gathered him up and hauled

him onto the bunk and covered him up. “Shock,” Tink called it. “You’ll be all right, just breathe deep.”

Might be. Might well be, an accumulation ofimages, an

overdose ofreality. But deep breaths didn’t cure it. No matter

where he looked, he was still where he was, he was still who he

was, nothing cured that. —ii—

YOU COULD FIGURE, YOU COULD damned well gure, Christian

thought, with the echo of Austin’s steps still recent past his

vantage point. He folded his hands tightly under his armpits—

he’d learned, at fourteen, the pain ofbashingone’s st at

Corinthian’s walls, or his personal preferences against Austin’s

whim ofthe moment. He’d gotten the orders, the same as Tink

had: Thomas Bowe-Hawkins was goingon galley duty, Austin

wasn’t talking, Austin had just had every button he owned

danced over and hopped on by Thomas Hawkins, and it didn’t

take a gold-plated genius to knowAustin wasn’t in a mood to

discuss the Hawkins case, Austin wouldn’t be in a mood to

discuss the Hawkins case in a thousand years, with him, ever,

end report. Austin was headed back to his lordly o ce, Capella

was on bridge duty, runningcalc, Saby was on report and on

duty—everybody who’d taken a hand in the brother-napping

asco was on report or on duty. “Christian,” came the call over his pocket-corn. Correction. Everybody but Beatrice. Maman wanted to talk to

him, bless her conniving soul, maman had just heard the news,

and he’d right now as gladly have taken a bare-ass swim in the

cold ofthe jump-point as go discuss half-brotherwith Beatrice. “Christian, immediament, au cabinet.”

Now, Beatrice wanted to see him, in hersanctum sanctorum,

her o ce, down the corridor and around the rim fromAustin’s

precincts. Beatrice was evidently turningCorinthian’s helm and

Capella’s course-plotting overto Travis an hourand a halfearly

for the purpose—one supposed they weren’t runningblind and

autoed at the moment. So he took the lift topside, to the innerring, soft-footed it

past Austin’s shut door, to Beatrice’s o ce. He took a deep

breath, raked his hair into order, and presented himself,

perforce, to maman,—who got up and poured two drinks. Sti. He took his. He sat down. Beatrice sat down. He took a drink. Beatrice took a drink and stared at him. Life had left few marks

on Beatrice, except about the eyes, and right nowthey were

sleep deprived and furious. “This Hawkins,” Beatrice said as ifit was a bad taste, “this

Hawkins. What do you know about it?”

“What should I know about it?

I brought him aboard because

I hadn’t any choice…”

“You could see this coming, with that ship inbound. You had

to take every action to make this Hawkins a problem—”

“I hadn’t any instructions that said leave a man to freeze!”

“We’re not talking about that. You’re in a position to make

judgments, you’re in a position to observe—I’m tellingyou use

your head. That boy is a threat to you, do you understand?

Austin won’t see him, no, ofcourse Austin won’t so much as

look at him—does this say to you he’s not interested?

This boy’s

had nothing but Hate Austin poured into his veins. And does

this deter him?

No. Altogetherthe opposite. Does a man tell

Austin no?

Does he?”

“Not damned often.”

“And this boy?”

“This boy is older than I am.”

“Bravo. You notice the point. This woman. This boy.—Austin

does not take kindly to ‘no.’ It’s a major weakness in him.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Use your wits. This is not our friend. And there are degrees

ofrebellion that won’t amuse, do you see?

Find them. Make

them. Deprive this Hawkins ofany reasonable attraction in this

business. We have too much at stake here for self-indulgence, of

his fancies or ofyours.”

He didn’t ask how he was to do this. Beatrice wasn’t longon

details. Beatrice wasn’t longon sleep right now, clearly, and

about time Travis took over out there. Bad jump. He saw the

signs ofit. He took down halfhis drink. Beatrice took all ofhers. He set his glass down and got up and went for the door. “Damn Saby,” Beatrice said, having, apparently belatedly,

remembered another o ender on heragenda. He stopped, his hand on the switch. “She’s involved?”

“Saby’s character judgments. Ouí.

Certainement. What else

but my sister’s child?

Saby the judge ofcharacter. Chut!”

Beatrice took up his glass, lifted it, silently wished him out the

door and out ofher thoughts. The air was clearer outside. Ideas weren’t. Maman’s perfume

was still in his nostrils, alongwith the scent ofbrandy. It clung

to a man that dealt with her. Corinthian’s alterday pilot. Perrault and not Bowe. And tenacious ofher position. Maman never wanted a kid, that was sure. Probably Austin

hadn’t been thrilled, in so many words. But maman when she

came aboard and knew Austin in the carnal and the ambitious

senses, had made the professional sacri ce…

Beatrice always did know Austin betterthan Austin knew

himself. Gave Austin a new experience, laid out ofsex maybe

imminently before birth, shoved him o on ten-year-old Saby

and put a fresh coat ofgloss on hernails. So Beatrice was worried. Never ask whose ass was

threatened. With Beatrice it wasn’t a question. Beatrice was

worried and Beatrice was pissed at him for not freezinghis

Hawkins half-brother into a police puzzle. And he didn’t know why he hadn’t, except the whole

business had caught him o guard, and he’d made a fast

decision, a decision he’d stuck by when it got complicated, and

when, in Corinthian’s predeparture hours, it had looked less

than sensible. But nobody’d told him to kill anybody. Nobody’d told him it

was a requirement. And, dammit, Austin had shot a couple of

fools, but not on dockside—he’d seen Austin be scarily patient

with guys who’d crossed him in bars and on the docks, when

he’d thought Austin wouldn’t take it… that was the example

he’d had, and where did everybody get so damned know-

everything when he’d played it by the rules he’d been handed?

It was the way with every damn piece ofhell he caught, he

was supposed to have read it in the air, in amingletters,

di erent than anybody else on the ship. Don’t get involved with the cops or with customs. Don’t do

anything to get hauled into legal messes. Wasn’t murder?

Wasn’t killing Austin’s own bastard kid just a little nuisance

to the ship?

Wasn’t giving Marie Hawkins grounds to call the cops and

name names just a little slight possibility oftrouble, ifherown

kid turned up as an icicle in the warehouse Corinthian was

using?

Nobody ever considered that. They didn’t have to considerit,

now. He’d handled that part. He’d removed that possibility and

kept their record clean. And nowBeatrice as much as called him

a fool. While Hawkins did the only damned thingthat would have

stopped Austin from dumpinghim on some Sol-bound ship at

Pell. Hawkins had said no. Hawkins had all but spat in Austin’s

eye doing it, and now Austin wouldn’t dispose ofhim anywhere

until he’d won. Count on it, the way you counted on a star

keeping its course, or a mass-point beingin the space you

launched for. Austin would win. Austin would win, on whatever terms the

contest took. Seeing to it what those terms were…

Hawkins wanted o the ship. Well and good. He wanted

Hawkins o. Fair exchange. —iii—

IT WAS GALLEY SCUT. NOTHING IN the least technical, just a lot of

scrubbing to get the galley’s contribution to the electrostatic

lters down as close to zero as possible, which meant scrubbing

the oors and cabinets afterevery meal on every shift,

polishing the surfaces, sortingthe recyclables, includingthe

slop that went to the bio-tanks to feed the cultures, ofwhich

you didn’t want closer knowledge—but the product was salable. And you cleaned the waterout ow lters, more crud forthe

tanks to digest, and ifyou didn’t have a cable attached between

your wrist and the wall, you went down the corridorand did all

the recycling lters, too, but Tink did those. Except the cable, he was glad to have the duty, anythingbut

lie in a cell with nothing to do but think about his problems,

and Tink said, joking, Be careful, ifCook found out how clean

things could be, he could get stuck on permanent scrub. He decided Tink probably looked like he’d cut yourthroat

because really he’d rather not have to. Tink turned out to be a

nice guy, a genuinely nice and overall kind individual—he

didn’t recall anybody he’d ever run into who just gave things

away like Tink… the chocolates-o erwhen Tink was drunk he

decided hadn’t been a come-on, at all. He’d been stuck in a cell,

Tink had a bag ofrare imported extravagance, and Tink would

have probably given him three or fourjust because he looked

sad, that was the way Tink seemed to operate. No systems

engineer, for sure, but ifTink had thought he’d screwed up

something in installing the lters, Tink would have xed it

himselfand never told the cook. So he took Tink’s advice and didn’t scrub so hard, forfear

Cook would demand the same out ofTink…and it couldn’t be

Tink’s favorite job. Tink’s favorite, in fact, seemed to be doingthe pastry stu ,

making ripples and curls and sugar- owers that probably

nobody in this crew was goingto appreciate. But Tink made

them anyway. He said it made the food look good and ifthe food

looked good the ship got alongbetter. He said ifyou hired on

crew it was important they felt like they got quality food and

quality o -shift entertainment and quality perks on dock-side. That way you got them back aboard with no trouble. “This ship treat you all right?” he asked Tink. The cable that

linked him to a safety-line bolt didn’t inspire beliefin the

system. “Real good,” Tink said, makinganothersugar- ower. “Big

allowance dockside. I tell you, there’s guys didn’t appreciate the

captain when they started, but they knowwhere that allowance

comes from. You stay on his right side and you don’t hearfrom

him; and I tell you, he give a few guys a chance or two, that’s not

bad. Never cut their allowance. Just put a tagon ’em. That’s

pretty good, anywhere you look for work.”

Didn’t say what happened ifthey got altogetheron his bad

side. Or ifyou were his unwanted son. “They beat this guy. I

heard it.”

“Yeah, well, Michaels.”

“He’s the o cer.”

“He’s the round-up man. Gets the crew in. Guy pulled a knife,

he knew better.”

“He live?”

“Oh, yeah. Busted ribs, busted hand, guy name ofTolliver. I

tell you ifhe don’t come about and do right afterthis, crew’ll

kill him.”

“Seriously kill him?”

“Out the lock,” Tink said, and a owerhappened, and a

curlicue. “This crew got no need for a guy who don’t appreciate

what we got here.” Tink pursed his lips and concentrated on

embellishments for the moment, so he was scared Tink didn’t

take to the question. Tink added, frowning, “Suppose a Family

ship’s got better. Some ofus ain’t got that option, you know?”

“I don’t know. IfSprite got a look at that cake, they’d steal you

fast.”

Tink grinned and laughed. “Ain’t so sure.”

“So it really is pretty good here.”

“Best deal us hard-ass hired-crew’s goingto get.” Tink shot

him an under-the-brows look. “Captain’s your papa. You should

make o cer real easy.”

“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” He gave the cable a shake. But he

didn’t want to turn bitter with Tink, who clearly didn’t know. “Maybe.” He laughed, to throwTink o the track. “Maybe out

the lock next, who knows?”

Tink was quiet a bit, startinganotherfrosted pastry,

thoughtful-looking, his lip caught in his teeth. “Didn’t know my

father or my mother. Don’t knowwhat ship I was. Ship was

blew to hell, there was pockets, you know, and they got some of

us out. That ship passed me on, I don’t rememberthe name.”

Tink’s brow knit. “Don’t remembereithername. I remember

standing in the airlock. I rememberthe crossoverwhen we

come aboard. But I can’t rememberthe names. And then there

was another ship, and then Mariner, till she blew. Some things I

remember. I remember Marinerall right. But not the ships. Don’t know why that is.”

He could guess. Thousands ofpeople blown to cold space, a

handful ofsurvivors, most ofthem kids… even stationers put

the kids inmost and protected fromhull breach. “I hear,” he said cautiously, because he wasn’t sure Tink had

ever been through school in the sense a Family kid had, “I heara

lot ofthe Mariner kids don’t remember.”

“Yeah. Funny thing, I rememberthat part, rememberthe

sirens and the smoke and all.” Tink lled a pastry cone with

blue, and made a part ofa design. “Remember’em coming

through in suits, with lights, lookingfor survivors.” The design

became a star. And another, smaller. “Bounced around a bit,

couldn’t do any damn thing, but I didn’t want to sit on any

station after that.” Star afterstar, little and big. “So I started out

with galley scut, same’s any kid. Graduated to advanced scut

and general maintenance. Studied di-e-tary science, and got a

couple good posts…” A series more ofstars and a whimsical

sprinkle ofsilver beads. “The guy who taught me to do this, he

was real old, hospitaled o at Pell, he used to let me do a lot of

stu , illegal, you know, no station permit, but he didn’t pay me. I watched him do it, I spent my whole leave learningthe basics. Next time I got a leave there, the old guy’d died, so I taught

myselfthe rest.”

“That’s beautiful.”

“Huh.” Tink looked at him as ifto see was he kidding. Grinned. “Most guys say, hell, that’s stupid. Then they argue

over who got what piece.”

“You could get a job anywhere. Station chef’d hire you.”

“No station. I ain’t getting blowed to hell, not Tink.”

“Can’t blame you for that.”

“No damn way.”

“How long have you been with Corinthian?”

“Fifteen years. Fifteen years.” He looked at the pastry. “That

do it?”

“That’s real pretty.”

“I seen roses on Pell,” Tink said then. “That’s what the owers

are, is roses. They got this biggreenhouse, you can take a guided

tour. Cost you ve c. It’s worth it.”

“Pell’s where we’re going?”

“Yeah. Ifyou get dock time, ifyou want to go, you can come

with me. It’s an hour tour.”

“I don’t think they’re going to let me.”

“More’n you just backtalked the captain, isn’t it?”

Tink wasn’t so slow. “Yeah,” he said. “Don’t think he’s ever

wanted me alive, let alone on his ship.”

“Huh,” Tink said. That was all. And his estimate of Tink’s

common sense went way up. —iv—

THE LIGHTS DID THAT BRIEF DIMMING and rebrightening that was

maindawn and alterdark, that ancient re-set ofbiological clocks

for the two main shifts together, that odd time that two entire

crews who shared the same ship should meet and cross and

exchange duties. One shift’s rst teamwas eatingbreakfast, one

shift’s rst team was eating supper, while the seconds ofone

shift were making ready forswitchoverand the seconds ofthe

other were at supper ifthey liked, or rec, or sims or whatever…

it was a great deal the same as on Sprite, a great deal, Tom

supposed, the same on every ship in space, a lot the same on

stations, so it must say somethingabout what Earth did orhad

done… he’d never gured, but he supposed so. O cers’ mess was elsewhere… Tink put pans on a cart, no

di erent at all went into it than the general crewgot, by his

observation. One pastry went to the o cers, one to the crew, set

out on the sideboard, on display, and on the breakfast-dinner

line you could have whatever appealed to you, Cook said, just

dish up what they wanted, no quotas, no fuss. Meanwhile they

had their own meal, himselfand cook, whose proper name was

Jamal. Cook was all right, seemed to like him. Jamal had what

looked like knife scars on his arms and down the right side of

his face, and he’d never seen anybody carry scars like that. But

he guessed Jamal hadn’t been where he could get to meds, or

didn’t want to, or some reason he’d never met in his life. Jamal wasn’t the only one. The crewthat drifted in…just

wasn’t like the people he associated with, which meant like

Hawkinses, and the safe bars and the high-class sleepovers of

Fargone and places Sprite went. Men and women had missing

ngers, marks ofburns here and there, what he took forold

cuts, stu , God, a surgeon could still x, alongwith guys clearly

over-mass, and one woman blind in one eye. He sawtattoos,

and shaved heads or long hair—he looked at the rst arrivals

with the panic feeling he’d walked into the wrongbar. But he

stood his ground, behind the forti cation ofthe hot line. “Well, well, well,” the comments ran, fromfemale and male,

“look at you, pretty.”

Or: “Reluctant sign-up, looks like.”

Or: “Hey, cook, something new on the menu?”

“Name’s Tom Bowe-Hawkins,” Jamal said. “Bowe,” the murmur went around. He just dished up the meatloafand gave a tight-lipped smile

at the o ender. After that it was quieter, with him dishingout main items

while cook handled the pastry-cutting—Tink was right, the

boundaries among the owers and vines were as disputatious

as trade negotiations. He could relax after that. The crewlooked like dockside

hustlers, but the humor wasn’t anywhere totally out ofline. He

snatched a bite himself, the meatloaf, havingcounted what

drew the most second helpings. It was good. He managed to

have a mostly uninterrupted supper, give or take the late

arrivals who came trailing in. Pastry was as good as it looked,

real cake, which meant our, which wasn’t easy come by or

cheap—you usually got it on special occasions orin stations’

fancier restaurants, at ferocious prices. Lot ofmoney. Or—he revised the thought—just nearness to

the source—and Pell, where they were bound, was a source. You

couldn’t prove anything against Corinthian by the sweets and

the cake. He didn’t have to think it was stolen. It wasn’t, overall, too damn bad a situation. The crew ragged

him, but he’d had that everywhere. He just kept his head down,

kept his panic reaction in check, and did his work and didn’t

bother anybody… didn’t look for anotherrun-in with Austin

Bowe down here in crew territory, and that made him easier

with the company he did have. He nished the cleanup and helped set up mid-shift snacks,

the sort that got delivered out. And it was scrub down the galley

and the lters again… not a bigjob, because Jamal wanted it

done every meal, and a rinse with detergent would do it. The galley’s standards didn’t speak ofa sloppy ship, at all. “Guys don’t look real regulation,” he remarked to Tink, when

he and Tink were working side by side; and he’d gotten so used

to Tink’s appearance he forgot he was sayingthat to a guy

whose arms were solid tattoos ofsnakes and dragons. “Hey. You stick with me, I knowa good artist on Pell. Glow in

the dark.”

He couldn’t imagine. Couldn’t imagine goingback to Sprite

with a tattoo. And then he recalled where they were, traversingthe dark of

Tripoint, on their way to places Sprite wouldn’t nd them,

didn’t care to nd them, and he got a lump in his throat and

asked himselfwhat he was goingto do—except Tink had had

things a hell ofa lot worse, and he told himselfsomehow he

could survive, and there was a future. “You worried about the crew?” Tink asked him. “No,” he said. “Not really.”

“A lot ofthese guys, like me,” Tink said, and shoved a lter

into its slot, “you knock around a lot, you know. Play hob

getting work. You get a real solid berth, you damn sure

appreciate it. Some’s dockers, however. You may have detected.”

“Its own dockers, this ship?” That wasn’t usual. You hired

your o -ship workers. You had to, far as he’d everheard Marie

deal with cargo. But maybe ifa ship really didn’t want outsiders

handling its cargo…

Tink didn’t answer right o. Maybe it was somethingTink

wasn’t supposed to say. Maybe it was a question he wasn’t

supposed to ask. “Hey, the unions want to insist, all right, our

guys handle it to the gateway, they take it after. And most of

these guys are all right. Just ever’ nowand again you gure they

got a little stash they’re hitting…the long, deep dark’s the place

they get spooky. They don’t got enough to do. They start hitting

the stash, you know, four, ve days…that don’t improve their

personality a bit.”

“I wouldn’t think.” Maybe he really shouldn’t have asked. It

dawned on him—ifthere were trades in the deep, and that was

Corinthian’s business—even there, somebody had to handle

cargo, and umbilicals, and all the mate-ups, in an exchange of

cargo, or whatever. Dockers…were what you needed in that

operation, dockers and cargo monkeys, not your tech crew. Tink got up and dusted his hands. “I got to get a new

overhead lter. This indicator’s turned.”

De nitely shouldn’t have asked, he thought to himself. “Yeah,” he said, “all right.” As ifhis approval meant anything. Tink terminated the conversation, went o to storage to look

for the right lter—Tink wasn’t lyingabout that, he was sure. Tink stayed gone a bit. Possibly, he thought, there wasn’t a

lter instock where it ought to be…ifthat happened, you had

to check other lists, because usually you could sub something,

but you also chewed out Supply, and asked why the computer

hadn’t reported it. Ifit hadn’t, he could x it, instead ofscrubbingtables—ifhe

wanted to admit he knew enough to be a dangerto the ship. Which he didn’t intend to do, not without knowingmore than

he did, not without some sort ofpeace between him and

Corinthian, that maybe seemed a little nearer since he’d dealt

with Tink, but far from certain, since there were clearly right

questions and wrong questions and things Tink didn’t want to

discuss on his own. A good thing, was it, for hired crew?

Maybe the best berth

any ofthem could ever hope for?

The ship paid…damned well,

evidently. Evidently the ship could a ord it without a blink. In

either case one had to ask—

Latecomers arrived, a noisy six, seven crewmen who’d

missed the serving hour, who saw the food line taken down and

weren’t happy. “Jamal?” one called out, and got no answer. Guys who thought they might not get supper weren’t a

happy lot, and he was uneasy beingout front instead ofbehind

the counter, in the galley-proper, where only galley personnel

belonged, according to the sign. He went overto the gap in the

counter, eased past a guy standingin his way. “Tink’s here,” he said, “he just stepped out. He’ll be back—”

The man behind him stepped on the cable, jerked his arm. “Who are you?”

“Tom Hawkins. Tom Bowe-Hawkins.” That name had never

been an asset in his life, but it seemed that way now. “Excuse

me.” He closed his hand on the cable to pull it free, lookingat

the man dead on. The trouble warningwas ashingthrough his

nervous system. It doubled when the guy didn’t move his foot. “I pay favors,” he said. “Well, what about some favors?” the clown said. “You

handing it out, boy?”

“You want meals o -schedule, you ask and say please, oryou

talk to Cook about—”

The guy jerked the cable. He was ready for it, but the guy

outweighed him. He had the counter cornerbetween them. He

used that for a brake, but the pull put his arm in hostile

territory and hurt a wrist gettingsorer by every pull on it—hurt

it considerably, and the guy grabbed his arm to jerk him around

the counter and into the galley. Another jerked on him and he got him—threw all the weight

he owned at the target he found clear—the guy’s throat, that

being what he exposed, and grabbed the guy’s sleeve as he slid

across the counter and the others closed in. He had one hand

free, the other was tangled with the cable, and he couldn’t

swing, but he tried to grab the cable and get it around a neck,

any neck, he wasn’t particular. He got part-way up when he

landed, got hits in anywhere he sawopen, between e orts to

keep them from doing a complete take-down, the way they

were trying, not just the one, all ofthem. “Get him, get him, get

him,” someone yelled, and as the sheerweight shoved him

down, his head hit the cabinet handle, boomed o the doors, his

shoulders hit the oor and ve orsix guys were pilingon him,

weighing his legs down, hangingonto his arms. A blow caught

his temple and knocked him blind, a knee landed in his gut, and

he kept trying to swing, but he couldn’t get the one hand clear,

couldn’t get out ofthe vee they’d jammed him into, and couldn’t

fend the next blow or the next or the next…

“What in hell are you doing?” somebody yelled, and he kept

trying to swing—caught one with his elbow. “Break it up. Now,

damn it!

Break it up!”

Somebody waded in and pulled the guys o him, told them

to get the hell out—didn’t sound like Jamal, didn’t sound like

Tink… he still hadn’t gotten his sight back, but whoeverhad

gotten them o ordered themout, said he wouldn’t put them on

report, just get the hell out. “This is my brother,” somebody

yelled next his ear, the same somebody holdinghim on his feet. “You lay a hand on him again and I’ll kill you.”

Christian?

He didn’t believe it—but somebody who called

him brother was holding himup, arm around his bruised ribs. His knees weren’t working at all well, he couldn’t get his breath. One ofthem had hit him in the gut, and he couldn’t keep his

feet when his rescuer let him down to the deck against the

cabinet and lifted his eyelids one afteranother. “‘m all right,” he said, tryingto get his wind back. “Can’t see

—they caught me one in the head.”

“Goes away,” Christian said, and it was, to the extent he could

make out lights and darks, the white ofthe oor, the dark of

Christian’s knee. He was preoccupied gettinghis breath and still

didn’t comprehend why Christian who’d given him, hell till now

was holding him from fallingon his face—his Polly girl’d hold

him like that, defend him like that, but, di erent, he thought

dimly, di erent, never had anybody pull him out ofa ght who

hadn’t likewise lit into him, and him beingclose to fallingon his

face, and the rescue being somebody he didn’t otherwise trust…

he didn’t know what he thought orfelt… whetherhe resented it

or didn’t when Christian shouldered his weight, ran a hand

through his hair and called him a damned ass in a tone gentler

than Marie ever used with the same endearment. Stupid to trust the guy who’d jerked him up a wall on a cable. But Christian dug a key-card out ofhis pocket, and used it on

the cable lock, just took it o , and rubbed his wrist and pulled at

him. “I’ll give your regrets to Cook. Come on. Up. Up.”

He didn’t know what he thought. Didn’t understand the

game, but he hurt, he couldn’t see, and up on his feet was where

he wanted to be, except the whole room was tilted. Christian

kept him upright—kept him from fallingon his face—he was

seeing blurry tables in a vacant galley, now. And Tink came back. “What’s going on?” Tink asked. “I just stepped out to storage,

sir, I was with him all the time—”

“Six, seven fools,” Christian said. “I got him, Tink. He’s all

right. I’ll x him up.”

He wasn’t sure about that proposal. He wasn’t sure he

wanted Christian taking him anywhere, and he wanted Tink to

stick with him, but Tink didn’t raise any objection as Christian

steered him past the tables and out the door—what could Tink

do anyway?

Christian was an o ceron this ship. It was up to him, then. He made a try at walkingon his own,

but he still couldn’t see anythingbut shapes, and he wasn’t, it

turned out, walking straight. Christian threw an arm around

him, hauled him away from impact with the wall. “Don’t be an ass,” Christian said, “di cult as that may be for

you.”

“Go to hell.”

Christian jerked him hard enough his head snapped. “I can

beat up on you. They can’t. That’s the rules.”

Seemed perfectly clear. He got a breath as they walked. “Where’re we going?”

“My cabin.”

He planted his feet. Tried to. He wasn’t at all stable, even

standing, and Christian dragged him alonganyway. By now his

vision was clearing, but a headache arrived with it, and he

thought a bone in his forearm might be cracked, where

Christian was pulling on it. Another jerk. “Don’t give me trouble.”

Hurt, being hauled on like that. Didn’t have the brain

operative enough to argue otherwise, and he thought fora

moment he was going to throwup, right there in the corridor. He didn’t want to do that. Wanted a bathroom, wanted to sit

down, and ifChristian had a place closerthan he could

otherwise get to, ghting wasn’t worth it yet, wait-see…hope

the rescue was a rescue and not an ambush in itself. Christian steered him for a blurry door, opened it, on a wide

cabin with real carpet. Chairs. Bunk. Lot ofpillows. “Don’t bleed on the bed.” Christian dropped him onto it. “You

hear me?”

He wasn’t trying to. He was lookingfor somewhere to lean

his hand, but it was bleedingorbloody, his nose was bubbling,

and Christian went back to the bath and ran waterwhile he

considered whether he was or wasn’t goingto heave his gut up. Not, he decided after several breaths and a wait-see. He

propped himselfwith his hand on his knee, mildly tilted, on the

edge ofthe bed, while Christian brought him a wet towel and

insisted on going at his face with it, moppinghis nose and his

mouth, his eye. He was shaky. The cold towel obscured his

vision and he wasn’t sure where up was. The tilt warned him. Christian shoved him backward, at, and said catch his

breath. Good idea, he thought. But it rode his thoughts consistently

that Christian wasn’t his friend, the captain ofthe ship had

ordered him to be in the galley, and ifthere was a set-up for

blame possible, Christian wasn’t necessarily the one goingto

catch hell—he just couldn’t think through the haze and the

headache to gure out what the game was. “Listen,” Christian said, settling, a weight on the mattress

edge beside him. “The guys made a mistake. I don’t want it

blown up into an incident that can sourthis trip, you read me

clear?

Mad crew can make a lot oftrouble.”

It sounded like an actual honest reason. A serious reason. He

wasn’t brought up a total fool—a ship in space was wholly

vulnerable. This ship in particular was vulnerable to its hire-

ons or any total crazy they happened to get aboard. Was

Christian saying they were already runningscared ofthe crew,

or what, for God’s sake?

And was Christian in some kind of

personal bind about what had happened?

His head hurt too much to gure it out. Christian meanwhile

got up and rummaged through his clothes locker, after

something, he didn’t gure what, orwant to know. He just

wanted back in the galley orback in the brigwithout beingused

or manipulated into somethingthat could bringtheirmutual

father to bounce his already achingbody o the bulkhead again,

that was his chiefconcern. He’d just had it fairly good where he

was, today, and he didn’t want a set-to with anybody right now. Except—

Christian came back, threw some clothes onto the end ofthe

bed. “You concussed?

Anythingbroken?”

He ran his tongue around his mouth as he lay there. Stared at

Christian down his nose. There were cuts. Teeth ached. Everything ached. “Ribs, arm, maybe cracked. I don’t know.” He

couldn’t help it, couldn’t keep his mouth shut and give up a ght

with a guy who had one due. “What’s it to you?”

“All right, all right.” Christian waved his arms. “Cancel, stop,

go back. Bad start, all right?

Bad start. My damn temper.—But I

caught hell for bringing you aboard. Austin calls me a fool. Everybody calls me a fool. But it was a judgment call. Don’t ask

me what I was supposed to do!

You’re the one went pokinginto

what didn’t involve you, and noweverything’s my fault. When

I’m wrong I catch hell for it. When I’m right I catch hell. When

I’m right and they’re wrong I catch double hell, but I didn’t plan

this, I did the best I could, all right?

I got you out ofthere. Probably Austin would’ve, ifhe was there, just the same, but it’s

my fault since I did it and he didn’t have to, you understand

me?”

Most guys wouldn’t. Not half. But he’d lived with Marie. “Yeah,” he said, and struggled to sit up, with a hand pressed

against his forehead, because his brain hurt. “So I’m sorry,” Christian said. “Bad start. Austin pounded me

against a wall. And he didn’t pass the warningto all the guys. The ones that pounded you, they won’t, twice. They’ll walk

wide ofyou, and me. I have it overthem in spades right now. They’ll do me favor points, you, too, ifyou don’t make a case. Rough guys, but they know they’re on notice.”

“I won’t be anybody’s target. Not anybody’s. Not theirs. Not

yours.”

“I said I was sorry. I’d had my own run-in with Austin, all

right?—There’s a shower. Clean clothes. Couple of days yet

before jump and then you can lie still and let it heal. You’ll be

ne. Won’t even scar.”

Christian could say that. But a showerwas attractive. Real

attractive. Clean clothes… it felt as ifthe coveralls had grown to

his skin. He’d sweated in them. He’d bled over them. He loathed

the feel ofthem. And the loan ofa showerand clean clothes…

was a bribe worth a peace treaty, far as he was concerned. He

started to get up. “You make it on your own?” Christian asked. “Yeah,” he said, and hauled himselfup, one hand on the wall. A little dizziness then. But his sight was mostly back. He got

up in the unaccustomed great space ofthe biggest junior

o cer’s cabin he’d seen, and wobbled back to the shower. Forgot the clean clothes. He turned around to trek back

again, but Christian brought them to the bath and left him

alone, afterward, to knock around the small mirrored space,

getting undressed. After that was warm water vapor, luxury detergent, the

kind-to-abused-skin sort, and he could have sunk to the bottom

ofthe shower and stayed there a year, but it had an auto-cycle

he hadn’t set right and it went to blowdry longbefore he

wanted it. He opened the door a crack and snaked an arm out forthe

clothes, such as they were. He’d never tried skintights. Never

had the budget and never wanted the cousins laughingat him. Black. Shimmer-stu. Damned little left to the imagination,

one size t all, or you de nitely shouldn’t think about it. He hadn’t a mirror inside the showerand he wasn’t at all

sure, except they were clean, dry, more comfortable than they

looked, and the shirt—blue—at least was tunic-style. Tabs at the

side that made the waist t—anotherone-size, and the loose

sleeves, anybody could wearwho didn’t have arms to their

knees. He wasn’t sure. He felt like a fool comingout ofthe

shower, and stopped in the doorway for a mistrustful glance at

the mirror. “Better,” Christian said, “A little style, Hawkins, couldn’t

hurt.”

Heat from the shower hadn’t made him steadier. He wobbled. He glared at this implied de ciency in Hawkins taste. He stuck

his foot in his boot in the doorway, and leaned on it, working

the heel on while he braced a hand against the wall. “So you want o this ship,” Christian said. Escape?

A deal with Christian?

No way in hell did he trust it. He balanced and shoved the otherfoot in the otherboot. “This is a true or false. Possible even for a Hawkins. Fifty

percent chance ofbeing right. Do you want o this ship?”

Christian might want rid ofhim. That part he could believe,

the way he couldn’t readily believe Christian’s steppinginto a

brawl only to save him. He didn’t knowhowobvious his

suspicions were, or what it could cost him to challenge

Christian with the truth. But he decided on confrontation, for

good or for ill. “Not to any Maziannicarrier, ifthat’s the trade

you’re in.”

“Yeah, yeah, we just load up the fools and Mazian pays top

price, loves to buy those fools. Use your damn head. Where are

we going?”

“Pell’s what I’ve heard.”

“Not a bad place to ship from. Civilized port. Lot ofships. Go

where you like. Can’t beat that.”

Christian left a silence in which he might be expected to say

something. He didn’t. He didn’t trust anythingabout the o er,

didn’t trust Christian’s motives—

“Look,” Christian said. “Sit down.” Christian indicated the

end ofthe bed, and reluctantly, because his knees weren’t that

steady, he went back to the bed and sat. “You may have noticed,”

Christian said, leaning against the wall near him, one booted

ankle over the other, workingthe heel back and forth, “that

Austin is a di cult sod. I said we hadn’t an auspicious

beginning. Much less so with maman, Beatrice, who doesn’t like

your presence. We are the victims oftwo ferocious women, one

ofwhom wants to kill us and the otherofwhomwants to kill

you before you kill us.”

“I’ve no desire whatever—”

“I’m perfectly certain you’re an independent and di cult

spirit, yourself, but maman, understand, Beatrice…will

absolutely not tolerate you on this deck, not as Marie Hawkins’

o spring, certainly not as Austin’s, competing, shall I say it,

with me?

Shall I say plainly that Beatrice wants you out ofhere,

you most certainly want to go…and it seems to me that you

have no evidence against us, nothingbut a merchanterquarrel,

—and we all know how quickly stations wash theirhands ofour

untidy a airs. I would never tie myselfup with station police

and lawyers, on the Alliance side ofthe Line, lawyers and court

dates and station law—you don’t like station lawyers, do you,

Hawkins?

You’re not that crazy.”

“No.”

“Not going to be that crazy.”

“No.”

“Pell has customs. But you’ve got your passport…”

God. They would have it. With his papers, that said he worked

computers. “—Found it on you. No problem. Just get you out the airlock

all legitimate and you take a walk.”

“And end up dead.”

“Hawkins. Hawkins. I had my chance in the warehouse. But

the fact that you’re, realtime, my slightly older brother, suggests

to certain members ofthis crew that you might nd a niche

aboard, that you might pose some threat to interests that have

worked a long time to secure the positions they have, do you

see?

Not that I’m immune. I could ratherlike you, as a human

being. You have certain engagingqualities, occasional ashes of

actual intellect, you don’t knowthe depth ofdimness I have to

deal with in the crew, God!

you’d be such a relief!

But I’m not

about to see you become a focus ofdissension, or nd partisans. This is a rough crew. We manage very borderline individuals. We simply can’t a ord anyone challengingan o cer’s

authority, do you see?

So for various reasons, and peace with

maman, who is our chiefpilot, far more essential than eitherof

us, and a perfect bitch when she’s taken a position, I’m perfectly

willing to have you disappear at Pell.”

“And ifsomething goes wrong?”

“Ifsomething goes wrong you end up back aboard. Orwith

the Pell cops. Choose aboard, is my advice. You wouldn’t like the

cops.”

No spacer liked the cops. This spacer didn’t like the idea ofbeingshanghaied into

another crew, either. And it scared him that Christian’s logic halfway persuaded

him. “So?” Christian said. “Deal?”

He shrugged. He’d had a lifetime ofMischa ducking

questions, apologizing his way past personnel decisions. He

didn’t like the taste it left in his mouth. Didn’t like what this

maneuver implied about Christian’s style ofcommand. ‘We

can’t a ord anybody challengingan o cer’s authority.’ Hell. So Christian helped him escape?

“Yeah,” he said, not daring, not wantingto say anythingthat

could change Christian’s mind. It wasn’t for him to critique

whatever got him back to Sprite. Christian got up. “Better get you back,” Christian said. So the deal seemed

done. —v—

OLDER BROTHER WAS THINKING ON the way back to the brig. Older

brother was limping, too—the guys had exceeded suggestions,

and that was a problem. “Tell anybody that asks,” Christian said,

“that it was me that gave you the black eye.”

“Is it black?”

“It will be.”

Damned odd, Christian thought, everythingwas so placid of

a sudden. They came to the brig, and he gured then that all the

rules still applied, in Austin’s book, and therefore in his, no

matter that older brotherwasn’t in ghtingform. “Cable,”

Christian said, and Hawkins went inside, picked it up o the

oor and locked the bracelet on his own wrist. “Let me see it.”

He shut the grid. Hawkins came to the bars and let him

inspect the bracelet. The wrist and hand were bruised dark,

ugly and painful looking. And the lock was solid. “Yeah,” he said, thought about o eringto change hands with

the lock, but, hell, they weren’t a charity. He started o down

the corridor, to leave older brotherto his own amusement, orto

get to sleep, or whatever, but it occurred to him then that there

were reasons security might lock down tight after the rumors

got topside, lock down in ways that would screw everything. Besides, older brother might do somethingentirely stupid if

Austin came down in Austin’s morningto check on the rumors

that were bound to get started—he didn’t trust Jamal’s

discretion or Tink’s to hold them o ve minutes longerthan it

took a casual mention to get up to the bridge. So he went back to the bars, leaned there. Hawkins had sat

down on his bunk. “Hawkins. A warning. Ifourmutual papa says you’re scum,

say yes, sir, thank you, sir. That’s all. No matter what.”

Hawkins’ jaw set. You could see the muscle clench. “Man’s an

ass.”

“Hawkins. A small touch ofsanity. You’re already on scrub. You want to nd yourself workingfourshifts on scrub?

sleep?

That’s your choice. You keep your mouth under control.”

A moment ofsurly silence. “Son ofa fool bitch,” he said, “I’m tryingto get you out of

here. I’m trying to save your ass. Can we have a yes out ofthe

savee?

Can we have a thank you, just a trial run?”

Hawkins kept glaring at him. Didn’t trust him, and properly

so. But then Hawkins said, “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Mouth, Hawkins-brother?”

“Yeah.” Hawkins dropped his stare, at least. Tucked a foot up

under the other leg and winced. “I hear. I understand you.”

“Easy to pronounce, please and yessir. Get you out ofa lot of

situations.”

Hawkins didn’t say a thing. “Damned fool,” Christian said with a shake ofhis head, but

he knew the look, he saw it on Austin, he sawit in mirrors when

he’d had a run-in with authority. He withdrewhis arms from

the bars and went on down the corridorwith his own blood

pressure up, and with an intense urge to do bodily harm to

Hawkins before he got o this ship. So it didn’t make sense that the bloody mess the guys had left

Hawkins in should turn his stomach queasy, or make sense that

the bruises he’d left had touched the same nerves. He’d seen

worse. He’d probably done worse, he didn’t keep count. Didn’t know why, when he got up to the bridge and went

through his initial shift-change checks—an hourlate—he kept

ashing on that parting argument and Hawkins’ bruises—his

fault—and how, just quite strangely, in a ship full ofhire-ons

you couldn’t trust and a handful you knew you could rely on to

guard your back, he had an instant expectation ofTom

Hawkins’ behavior, the body language, the way he worked, an

expectation what he was thinkingand what it took to get him

o a point he wanted to hold…

But, dammit, he had no choice. He walked the aisles, monitored theircourse. They’d been

lazing along for a full run ofthe clock in the dark ofTripoint,

eating, sleeping, checking and xingand maintaining. Midway

through his watch they’d do a longburn, no tra c problems

here, get up to speed on their outbound vector toward Pell. After which it was Austin’s watch, and Beatrice would take

them through. He managed the shift, when the numberone

crew was o … he set up the numbers and the numberone crew

ran them. Routine, this place, this nearest mass that was

nothing but a radiating black lump in the starry dark. The techs

were hewing to a long-established procedures list, forthis

precise place. “Got it. Thanks.” He signed a check-sheet, meaningthe

bridge hadn’t blown up an hour-thirty into the watch. The techs around him were in dangeroffallingasleep of

boredom—a contagious condition. Mainday shift on an alter-

day ship only punched buttons and checked readout. And

stayed ready for the instant ofabsolute terror that could be an

inbound rock. It did happen. Oran inbound and oncomingship. With Marie Hawkins possibly on theirtail—who knew what

was a possibility?

The further he got from the moment the more it seemed

crazy to have taken Hawkins into his own quarters, behind

locked doors. Hell ifhe’d have done that with hired crew. Austin

would skin him ifthe guy didn’t stick a knife in him forhis

trouble. Stupid, what he’d done. Gave him cold chills just

thinking about it. But he had read Hawkins. He’d been absolutely con dent. He’d known and he’d guessed right—the way he’d gone from

gut-level irritation to body-sense understandingwhat Hawkins

was doing. Next was guessingwhat the son ofa bitch was going

to—

Hands touched his back. He yelled and spun around with an elbowfor the o ender. Capella was faster than that, and a centimeter out ofrange. “Don’t walk up on me!

This is the bridge, not a—”

“Not what?”

Capella had logical business on the bridge, the mainday chief

having every right to be where she was. Meanwhile, among the techs, Bowe, Perrault, and eclectic,

not a head had turned. Everybody on the bridge knew the

situation between the captain’s-son-mainday-chief-o cerand

the lend-lease navigator. He grabbed Capella’s wrist and got her

started in the o ceward direction—and let go once she was

launched. Hold onto Capella when you weren’t jokingand you

were asking for a broken arm. Which he wasn’t. He led the way o to the central corridor,

back to his o ce, and near enough to Austin’s quarters and

Beatrice’s that he signaled quiet until he’d triggered the door. “Need a favor,” he said. “You knowwhere they put older

brother’s e ects, in downside Ops.”

“Yeah. The safe.”

“You know the combination.”

“You want his stu ?”

“Yeah. But I can’t get down there as easily.”

Capella gave him a suspicious stare. “Yeah?”

“Dockside’s on me this trip. And older brother’s takinga walk

while we just can’t be responsible.”

“Wait, wait, brake it, mister.”

“Passport. Papers. ID. I want it.”

“Christian-person. Walk like…cold, or walk like… o ?”

“I mean I’m letting him go, shovinghim o at Pell.”

Capella’s brows went together. Bang. “Straight to the cops. If

Sprite’s on our tail… ifthat ship comes in while we’re there—”

“They had their full o oad and load yet to do and we’re

wasting no time here. We’ll be o oaded, loaded and out before

they make a ripple at Pell.”

“You’re betting the ship. You’re bettingthe whole fucking

ship.”

“I’m protecting our asses. He’s trouble. He’s major trouble on

board.”

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Hell you aren’t.”

“Crew’s complicated enough.”

Family was complicated enough. That was the truth. Austin

never listened. Zeroed in on this Hawkins. Never once saw he’d

done the best he could, bringingHawkins aboard, neverwanted

to talk about the solution—oh, no, that wasn’t Christian’s

business. “You know,” Capella said, “there are places Hawkins could be

besides Pell.”

He glumly shook his head, to all Capella’s…associations. And

to all the other places Hawkins could end up. Including the deep-cold dark, stabbed in some crew ght. He

didn’t know why he couldn’t have arranged that option—he

could have put it o on some sumbitch like EdgarHogan, or

Tolliver, who could probably be arranged to do it, and to pay for

it—except there was suddenly a line between him and Capella

there hadn’t been a moment ago, and a caution there’d never

needed be before. Ifhe’d crossed that line himself, somewhere,

he’d not known it had happened—in that warehouse, maybe, or

down in the galley just now. Because Capella would kill—and he discovered he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He didn’t know whetherthat was a fault ora virtue,

when their collective lives depended on it; or whetherit was

strength or weakness, when he knew the universe he lived in

wasn’t neat, or clean, or inclined to give anythingforfree the

way it was in those damn books Capella read. He did everything Austin wanted. He worked his butt o to

get one well done out ofAustin all his fuckinglife. But, oh,

Hawkins got Austin’s attention—got Austin’s complete

attention, cheap, on the goingmarket. And the guy was everything…intelligent, reasonable, easy to

like… that he fucking wasn’t. “Chrissy, Christian-sweet. You want advice?

Don’t—don’t do

this. It’s too risky to let him out. The cops, that’s one. And

Austin, ifhe nds out you had anythingto do with it—”

“You give me advice,” he said, “on somethingyou know

about. I’m telling you. We want him o this ship, we want him

the hell invisible, to us and to the cops. For the ship’s sake.”

“Marie Hawkins is not to ignore. Ifshe comes spreadingtales

—and a witness climbs out ofsome drainpipe—”

“Not a shred ofevidence. None. Nothingthey can use. She’ll

look the fool. What will Sprite have?

One oftheir own crewmen?

Back where he belongs, with his maman?

What a crime!

What a

disaster!

His mother claims kidnapping. But with what

evidence?

His word?

No, I want the stu , Pella, dear. You’ve got

the access. Use it on my behalfand I won’t tell about the

brandy.”

“You son ofa bitch.”

“Fils de Beatrice, absolument.” He caught Capella’s arms as

they came about him, as Capella’s teeth came very nearthe

sensitive spots ofhis neck. “Does it occur to you that Austin’s

preferences run in a pattern?”

“Absolutely.” Capella’s hands, freed, wandered to his lower

back, arms pulled him close. Hips moved. Teeth grazed his ear. “Like father like son. Take ten, Chris-tian, duty can spare it. A

whole boring month in hyperspace…”

Austin would skin him, the higherbrain said. Lowerbrain

was taking over rapidly, nowwas nowand the couch in his

o ce was a convenient immediate destination. Himselfon the bottom this time, Capella takingover—while

he was thinking, distractedly, ofolder brotherstuck in that cell,

older, easy-to-like brother—and he came back to here and now

with Capella shoving his hands out ofplay above his head and

trailing kisses progressively belowhis neck. The risk ofrunning

toward jump without him on duty, the risk ofviolatingorders,

saying screw-you to Austin and knowinghis own judgment

about Corinthian was as valid—not that Austin would consult

him. That was what sent him toward a dark, suicidal high, half-

wishing physical harm was a real risk at Capella’s hands. Never fucking listened to him…

—vi—

AT ABOUT MAINDARK, MAINDAY SHIFT change on this alterday ship, the

lights brie y faded, tribute to a lately hostile sun, and a voice

that might be Christian’s came on overthe general com, saying,

Take hold. They were startingacceleration toward a jump at

0448: 32h, shift to alterday crew slightly before that. A more formal warning and certainly more information than

they’d gotten with Austin Bowe on watch, Tomthought,

deciding that, over all, Christian seemed more reasonable than

his father by a wide margin. Immediately after that announcement, the siren sounded,

and ifa spacer was conscious, semiconscious, orsane, he

grabbed after the belts and fastened them. Then he tugged the blanket up against the chill that seemed

a permanent part ofjump, and snugged down for a secure rest. Acceleration began, with an initial slamthat hit all the oating

organs, and then a steady pressure—familiar as a sense of

moving, getting up to speed, toward Pell, he told himself, and

maybe toward freedom. He began to turn that promise of

Christian’s over and over in his mind, yes, it could be true,

Christian might have the reasons he cited; or, no, it wasn’t true,

it was a set-up and he ought to tell somebody who could get

word to the captain somethingwas goingon that he wouldn’t

approve—

But then, third side… he couldn’t get away by stayingon the

ship, and, fourth, even ifit turned out to be a set-up, he might

still turn the tables on whoever set him up (likely Christian) and

get to the police. Except— fth—Christian was absolutely right about goingto

station police, it scared him, the way Lydia, damn herscrewed-

up meddling, had once had him terri ed ofbeingleft on

station; but there was a reasonable adult fear in it, too—

depending on the seriousness ofwhat Corinthian was involved

in, it was a way to get tangled up in Pell’s Legal A airs o ce, in

a cross-border incident, called in at least as a witness in some

God-only-knew court case that could drag on and involve drugs

he didn’t want to take, when all he remotely wanted to do was

get a ship to Viking and have a reasonable chance ofmeeting

Sprite on a port call, give or take a year. Vikingwas an

immediate port for Pell, there had to be numbers ofships going

and coming, all the time. IfeverythingChristian said was true

and he had his papers, he could be out ofthere maybe in hours

from the time he hit Pell docks, and have all ofit behind him. But—six—he could talk his way into free passage, maybe; but

a year’s wait, on Viking, even eatingout ofvendingmachines,

was, God, he didn’t know, 15000c, at sleepoverrates, ifhe

starved himselfand stayed in the cheapest places he could nd. That was the next worry. EitherChristian would keep his word

and bid him farewell on Pell’s dock, scenario a, and he was on

his own, to get transport… or, scenario b, back to the set-up…

Christian might have somethingin mind else. Like double-

cross. Like…

Like setting him up to be killed, so nobody would ask

questions. Could Christian do a thinglike that?

It was the most logical

thing for Christian to do, if he didn’t come with a conscience, if

Austin didn’t intend to let himgo, ever, if…

God, he’d lost count. But scenario three, or eight, or whatever

—ifChristian was right, and Austin might try to work him into

crew, beat hell out ofhim until he learned to say yessirto Austin

the way Christian did—

But after that, Austin wouldn’t let him go, either, he’d just be

on better terms with Austin. Which he by no means wanted. Christian and Christian’s motherdamn sure didn’t. So they agreed on something. The question was what they

actually intended for a solution to the tangle. He just wanted to go to sleep. God, he desperately wanted not

to think. But then he had a colder, more awful thought, and pulled

open the panel beside the bunk. No trank to keep him sane. No packets. He’d used them all. Nobody’d resupplied the locker. On Sprite, they checked and

rechecked them, made sure every one was re lled. Christian was in charge, on mainday. Christian was running

things and Austin wasn’t on duty. Now he really couldn’t sleep. Accel was hell enough and most

times you could sleep through it, ifyou didn’t mind feelingin

two directions at once, but right nowthe knowledge ofthat

empty panel and the lack ofa com in the brigcombined to upset

his stomach. He kept rollingChristian’s motives overand over,

told himself, one, it was a longtime until 0448h, and the

minute someone started stirringabout he could get attention to

the problem. And, two, maybe ifChristian was tryingto scare

him, he could get other attention at shift change…

Maybe the dark-haired girl would come back. Even Capella. It

was no good lying and sweating, there’d be a chance to talk to

someone, surely, they weren’t goingto go without a nal check. This, in the ship that didn’t sound but cursory warnings

when it moved. It was an hour before they went inertial. He got up then,

risking his neck, God, sti and sore, every movement he made—

maybe the ribs were cracked from the ght, maybe not, but that

was minor compared to the chance ofbeingleft with no

supplies down here. He yelled. He banged the walls, he yelled

again at every remote sound he heard, hopingsomeone would

hear. Eventually he heard someone walkingin the corridor, and

screamed to anyone out there that he hadn’t any trank, dammit,

he needed help, he needed somebody to tell the captain…

Tink came walking up, with a tray—with trank and the

nutri-packs on it, along with breakfast, orsupper, orsomething,

and one ofTink’s decorated pastries. Relief ooded through him and left a utter like electric

shock. “We weren’t going to forget you,” Tink said. “We weren’t

going to forget you, no time we ever forgot the brig.”

“I didn’t know you were in charge. God, I’m glad to see you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Galley always sees to stations. Always a snack

rst— rst class stu , here.”

“It’s wonderful.” He tried to make light ofit, feelingfoolish. “Thanks, Tink.” But he was shakingso when he took the tray

through the opening in the bars that the liquid shook in the cup. “Sugar- owers. That’s real pretty.”

“Made it special. I’m real sorry I left you alone yesterday. I

am. Wouldn’t’ve happened ifI hadn’t left.”

“Not your fault. It’s all right, Tink.”

Tink looked troubled… beyond ‘it’s all right.’ “Scuttlebutt

was… there was an order.”

“On what?”

Tink evaded his eyes. Found an interestingspot on the oor

to the far side ofthe bars. “Like, it was just an order.”

An order. And Tink just happened to need to change a lter?

“Tink?”

Tink still didn’t look at him, quite. He felt a twinge ofregret. Ofdisappointment. Ofanger, for

Tink’s sake… and his own. “Yeah,” he said, “I copy. Thanks. Thanks, Tink. Really,

thanks.”

“I didn’t know they was goingto do that!”

“You didn’t know my brotherwas goingto do that. I

should’ve gured it.”

“He ain’t a bad o cer,” Tink said. “He’s a layo , but things get

done.—And he’s fair, most times. The captain’s got him

bothered.”

“About what?

What’s enough, to go to that trouble?

Tink,

Tink, he’s saying… he’s sayinghe’ll get me o at Pell. That I can

go free. Is he lying?”

Tink looked at him then. A long, troubled look. “What’s the truth, Tink?

I swear…I swearI won’t say where I

heard it, just tell me, and I’ll believe you.”

“The junior’s a nice guy,” Tink said. “He really is. Tries to take

the crew’s side. Stood between the hire-ons and the senior. Michaels. Michaels is who you don’t cross. But the junior’ll

always hear you, ifthere’s a side you got, you understand me?

don’t gure what he did, it ain’t like him to set somebody up like

that, except he’s got some notion you’re a problem—on account

ofyour mama. I hear she’s got a grudge with the captain.”

“You could say.”

“So maybe that’s it.” Tink cast a nervous glance down the

corridor. “Tom, I got other places to get to, I got to hurry. We got

jump at Oh Five, just short. Can’t collect the tray, just kind of

dump it in the shower when you’re through, all right?

And latch

the door?

I got a lot ofstations to get to, before. But I come here

rst.”

“Yeah,” he said, “yeah, thanks, Tink. Sincerely, thanks.”

He took the tray back to his bunk, sat down, dugin to the

synth eggs-’n-ham, which wasn’t bad, but peculiar. It had leafy

stu in it, that wasn’t algae. Strong- avored stu. Maybe it was

another thing they got o a livingworld, like a real spice. He’d

had a few—just a few. But he gured it had to be all right—Jamal kept the galley so

clean, ifgreen stu turned up it was legit, and safe, and

probably expensive. And once you thought that, it began to

taste fairly good. Not surprising, he told himself, what Tink had said. He’d had

a halfway instinct about it, that he couldn’t trust Christian’s

motives. So Christian had him beaten to hell so he could get him to

believe what he was going to say. So he’d been a fool when, for about a dozen heartbeats, he’d

leaned on Christian Bowe, believed he’d found someone in the

universe who gave a damn slightly more than Marie gave. Stupid, he said, to himself. He was ashamed, outright angry

that he’d given serious credence to Christian’s persuasions. But hell ifhe’d let on. He’d be farmore foolish to let on to

Christian that he knew what he did know—and he had

con dence in what Tink had told him. Tink didn’t have any

motive to lie to him. Christian did. Tink hadn’t looked at all

comfortable telling him what he’d told him—Christian had

been so, so smooth, not a icker ofconscience in his delivery. All ofwhich argued that he had an ally in Tink, ifhe wanted

to put it on Tink’s shoulders, but he could get Tink in a helluva

lot oftrouble on that account, too, and he didn’t damn want to,

for Tink’s sake. He ate the pastry, thinkingabout that. It was as good as it

looked, dark, with a rough, smoky avor di erent than any

chocolate he’d ever had. He thought it might just be real, and he

wasn’t sure ifeverybody got it, or just people Tink wanted to do

it for. Whatever—it was good. Whatever—Tink didn’t need to

apologize for being absent. Whatever—Tink had no reason to

tell him what he’d told him, except some sense of fairness,

except maybe everything he thought he read in the man was

true—because Tink didn’t read out to him as vengeful, ora

habitual or purposeful liar. He’d do a lot for Tink. He hadn’t met

anybody like Tink, on Sprite or on the docks, and Tink had a

piece ofhis priorities, ifTink eversomehowneeded something

he could do. But he could think ofa thousand reasons for Christian to lie,

and to want him o the ship—ifonly for the reasons that

Christian had plainly admitted to him as his reasons. It made… not quite a lump in his throat, but at least welling

up offeeling he hadn’t expected to apply, on this ship. Didn’t

know why he should be surprised. Even Marie’d double-crossed

him, in her way—played him for a fool, ditchinghim on the

docks the way she had. The truly embarrassing thingwas, he couldn’t learn. Cousins

had caught him in sucker-games, and you’d think he’d get

cleverer—he had, give himcredit, grown more reserved with

them. But the harder Marie had shoved him away the more

desperate he was to get close to her—

Kid mentality. Panic instinct. Once, in a corridordownside

she’d told him she wasn’t speakingto him, and walked o -he’d

followed, gotten slapped in the face, and kept it up, and gotten

slapped… he’d been, maybe, ve, six, he wasn’t sure, but it came

back to him sometimes with particular clarity, the smothered

feeling, the feeling he had to hold on to Marie, and he’d known

he was making her madder, he’d known she was goingto hit

him every time he caught her, but he kept doingit, and

grabbing at her clothes and screaminghis head o —she kept

hitting him, until Marie got a bettergrip on herpanic than he

had on his—it was panic, he’d gured that out somewhere years

later, panic on her side, panic on his. God knew. They did it to each other, simply existing. He’d

gone to that warehouse in some confused sense of

responsibility for Marie he would have thought he’d learned not

to have. She’d kept him, Mischa had said, for reasons that had scared

him—that ought to scare anybody with a conscience and a

responsibility—but had Mischa done anythingto protect him’

Not one solitary thing. A half-brother who wanted rid ofhim. A fatherwho wished

he’d never existed. He wasn’t anybody Sprite expected anything from, either,—

hadn’t Mischa said so?

He’d screwed up. Everybody expected it. Why in hell shouldn’t he deliver?

Only major time he’d ever

helped Marie, he’d screwed up. And why spare Christian, or his father?

Why cooperate with

anyone at all, except to spite the powers that created him?

Try

helping them, maybe. Worst thinghe could think ofto do to

anybody. Didn’t want to hurt Tink, though, really didn’t want to hurt

Tink, or get him arrested, orlose his license—he didn’t even

know the guy but a couple ofdays, but Tink didn’t deserve it. Wasn’t fair that he couldn’t think about Corinthian anymore

without remembering speci c faces, guys like Tink, guys like

those sons ofbitches he’d like to nd when he didn’t have a

cable on his wrist, but he didn’t want to kill them, just…

Wasn’t damned fair. Corinthian hadn’t been faces to him. Hadn’t been people like Tink, at all. Which meant he should disappearfast when he got to Pell,

just out the lock and out ofport, no note to the cops, nothing

that could screw his father the way he deserved. Chapter Six

—i—

NUMBERS WERE SPIELING OUT TOWARD jump, arbitrary destination at

this point, but crew ofboth shifts on last-minute errands

needed the time to reach secure places. The bridge was all shift-

changed. The last, the pilot switchover, was quick, exchange of

a couple ofwords ofreport, and Beatrice settled into herpost,

still mildly pissed, you could tell it in the set ofherjaw. Mildly pissed was more worrisome than raginghell in

Beatrice’s case, and Austin kept an eye on the aristocratic, pale-

skinned arrogance that was one damned ne pilot smilingwith

perfect friendliness at her outgoingshift-mate. Mildly pissed meant that some event had made la belle

Beatrice a little happier about the cause célèbre Beatrice wasn’t

talking about, namely Hawkinses. She wasn’t givinghim

advice, he had had all the advice he wanted, and he strongly

suspected the meeting between Beatrice and Christian, that he

was sure he wasn’t supposed to knowabout, had had

something to do with a handful ofdockers tryingthe new boy

on board, something to do with Christian’s pullingsaid new boy

aside—for a talk, presumably. From which, exit Tom Hawkins with new clothes—expensive

clothes. Christian’s. They were about the same size. “On target,” Beatrice said, without lookingat anyone. “Five

minutes, mark.”

Beatrice was, face it, jealous—jealous ofherposition, which

never was threatened except by her damnable moods. So her

personal e ort had produced a shipboard Bowe o spring. It

hadn’t been his idea. Ten years ofimmature brat whose

whereabouts had to be assured before the ship moved, thank

God for Saby or the O springwould have gone smack against

the bulkhead for sure. Ten more years ofjuvie phobias,

psychoses, and damn-his-ass attitudes before the brat was

supposed to turn into an adult with basic common sense. Which meant knowing when to take a wide decision and

when to realize he didn’t have all the information and he should

ask before he did somethingirrevocable. But, oh, no, Christian wouldn’t ask. Christian knew

everything. Christian was full ofbullshit. Christian had been tormentingHawkins, probably from the

time he came aboard, right down to the instant he caught him

at it, and now Christian was a sudden source ofwardrobe and

brotherly sympathy?

Don’t mind papa, he beats up on all ofus?

Double bullshit. Christian had gotten Hawkins’ temperup in the encounter

they’d just had… and he’d gone on to try that temper, quite

deliberately—only prudent, consideringHawkins had had that

particular mother for a moral and mental guide, Marie Hawkins

whispering her own sweet obsession into youngHawkins’ ear,

guiding his steps, maybe right onto Corinthian’s deck, who but

Hawkins could possibly know?

Hawkins’ back had hit the wall and he’d come up yellingI’ll

kill you. Which was the truth. Maybe only for that moment, and

maybe only in extremity, it was the unequivocated truth—but

extremities occurred, moments did happen, desired ornot, and

Hawkins was a bomb waitingall his life to nd such a moment. It made him unaccountably angry, that Marie Hawkins had

done that to the boy. He couldn’t be sure, ofcourse, that he

could write the whole ofHawkins’ reactions down to Marie

Hawkins’ account, but when Hawkins had come away from the

wall shouting what he had, his own nerves had reacted o the

scale, just… bang. Kill him. Grab him and beat his head against

the wall until he yells quit. And afterward, reverberations in himselffar out of

proportion to the quarrel, shaky-kneed reaction that hadn’t let

up for halfa damned hour after he’d walked out ofthat cell and

back to the territory where the captain ruled as lord and master

ofCorinthian. He didn’t know why. He wasn’t accustomed to react like that

to a confrontation, not with crew, not with Beatrice, not with

Christian. So he didn’t know why he felt a personal hurt for Hawkins’

reaction. Maybe that Marie Hawkins had done somethingo the

scale ofhis personal (ifmore rational) morality, doingthat to

the esh ofher own esh—couldn’t say he was surprised. Marie

Hawkins hadn’t become a lunatic after they’d spent forty-eight

hours barricaded… she’d been crazy before they’d evershared a

bed, and it might be, to his observation, a genetically

transmitted imbalance. So why did Marie Hawkins’ unfair action get him in the gut?

What did he fucking care about Marie Hawkins or herkid?

Most spacer-men never met theiro spring. And vice-versa. Which seemed, from where he sat, now, an eminently

sensible idea. He hadn’t had a sister. Not even a female cousin. He’d have been spared shipboard o springin the lateral or the

vertical sense—ifBeatrice hadn’t double-crossed him and

tossed her contraceptive. Damn the woman. She’d had no right, no bloody right, to do

that in the rst place, and none at all, now, to play the jealous

fool with him over a woman he cared absolutely nothingabout

and the o spring he’d never remotely planned to deal with. “Mark. Three to jump,” came fromBeatrice. Go on dockside separately, they did, he and Beatrice, that was

the agreement. They didn’t account to each otherfortheir

bedmates, they trusted each otherfor basic good taste—and

suddenly Beatrice went green-eyed jealous overa cold-natured

Family bitch whose primary interest the rst and only night

they’d slept together was in seeinghim fried?

He had an uncomfortable idea precisely on what inspiration

Beatrice’s birth control had failed, nowthat he thought ofit. And why Corinthian’s chiefpilot had inconvenienced herselfat

least long enough to deliverthat statistically rare failure into

the universe, Beatrice talking, like a fool, about personal

curiosity, and biological investment, and primal urges…

Bullshit ifBeatrice had primal urges that didn’t involve

Beatrice’s immediate and personal convenience. He’d been disinterested, then intrigued by the birth process,

and subsequently bemazed by the unique life they’d generated

—which he didn’t think ofthen as a powergame. But that life unfortunately didn’t springto full-blown

intelligence, rather languished in fetal helplessness, doddering

inconvenience, juvenile silliness, juvenile rebellion, and nally

juvenile half-assed con dence in its own damned ability. Hawkins was a shade olderthan Christian. A shade more

deliberate (Christian planned by the second), a shade more

reluctant to open his mouth (Christian had no brake on his), a

damned sight more apt to studied ambush (Christian was

subtle as an oncoming rock), and, to an unanswered degree,

capable ofdeceit. Get the truth out ofHawkins. That was essential. The boy’d

lied about his license, knew a comp tech was persona non grata

on a hostile ship. He’d thought that through, at least. Get Hawkins to gure out the rules ofthe real universe, and

that included the basic folly ofbuckinga ship’s captain. The kid

needed an understanding ofpracticalities. “Mark one,” came from Beatrice. Kid. Hell. Christian was a kid. Hawkins…wasn’t. By what degree not a kid and with what intention currently

in his mind remained to be seen, but it wasn’t a juvie temper t

that had sent Hawkins away fromthat wall headed forhis

throat, it was a man pushed to the limit he was willingto be

pushed, and he knew to a fairdegree, now, where the ash point

was with Hawkins. Hawkins himselfdidn’t know. But Hawkins would discover

it. Hawkins would learn, in the process, what his options were—

because—he himselfhad realized it at an instinctive level in the

moment when he’d sent Hawkins to the galley—you couldn’t

turn Hawkins loose and expect him not to come back at you. You learned, running hired-crew, who would and who wouldn’t

be safe under what conditions. You bet yourlife on your

decisions in that department, your life, your livelihood, and the

ship and everyone in it on your understandingofhuman

nature. You learned to assess who had brains and who was just

fucking mean, and how they’d move when they moved—you

knew it even ifthe man himselfdidn’t know. And this Hawkins could maybe forget an ongoingpersonal

grievance for maybe a day, a week, however longit took things

to sort out around him. But this Hawkins, when he’d made you

a serious case, didn’t forget, didn’t give up, once he had his feet

under him. Never give Tom Hawkins roomto lay plans. Never

give Tom Hawkins the idea you were goingto do harm where he

had an allegiance. “Mark ten seconds to jump. Eight… seven…”

Son ofa bitch. Hawkins was. “… six… ve… four… three…two…one…”

Gone. Bad luck to you, Marie Hawkins. —ii—

SPRITE DROPPED IN… electronic impulses probed the dark. Found no echoes, no substance but the nearest radiating

mass. Which didn’t surprise Marie. Didn’t have a hope Bowe was here. She knew his habits. Knew the way he thought. He wouldn’t take the chance. Hadn’t

tracked the man for twenty years without understandinghow

he worked and what his tactics were. So he was out ofTripoint, maybe spendinga day or two he

knew he could a ord, but he wouldn’t cut the margin ne

enough to compromise the gap between them. He wanted all

the loading time at Pell he could get. He’d run through Tripoint

fast enough to make him comfortable, not fast enough, of

course, that it could possibly seem to his crew that he was

running from a confrontation with little, unarmed Sprite, and

with Marie Hawkins. But he’d struck at her—personally. Spitefully. She was

supposed to lose her composure—possibly make bad decisions. Push the Family into a dry run?

Lose money, maybe fatally for Sprite and its operations?

The

Family wasn’t crazy and Sprite’s cargo o cer knew the Pell

market, though she’d neverbeen there. She knew it because it

was part ofthe web, she knew it the way she’d known the

speci c gures ofadjacent markets for twenty years, always

holding herselfready to divert Sprite on short notice ifshe

found Bowe in reach. Planned ahead, damned right. Sorry, Austin. I’m not a fool. And I’ve got the votes in Sprite crew. Mischa didn’t want an

election called. “He’s not here,” Mischa called down to say. Bravo, Mischa, late again. I knowthat. “Marie?”

“I hear that.” She bit her tongue short ofthe acid remark she

wanted to make. She left Mischa nothing, nothingto take hold

of. It drove him crazy. “We’re transiting the point as fast as we can. Exit as soon as we

run the checks.”

That was the prior agreement. Mischa needed to call her,

early on in their arrival at Tripoint?

Mischa surely had a point to

make. “Maybe Tom’s worked right in, do you think?”

Oh, Mischa was bitter. Rubbed salt into it. “You always said,” Mischa purred into the silence ofthe ship,

insidious as the systems-sounds, “like father, like son.”

“Did I?

Maybe he will. Maybe he’ll use the gures I taught

him.”

“What gures?”

“Mischa, Mischa, what do I deal with?

In and out ofmy o ce

all the time… why do you think Saja put Tom on main crew?”

Electronic pop. The com had been bridge-wide until then. She’d bet on it. “I’ve had about enough, Marie.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Only this time we’re doingsomething.”

“Don’t push me, Marie.”

“Don’t put me on broadcast again.”

Click. Straight out ofjump and into a personal argument. Marie

sipped the nutri-pack and shut hereyes, alone in the cargo

o ce. Jump-point entry didn’t need cargo o cers but one, in

case something went egregiously wrongand they had to blow

the holds and shed mass. But nowentry was a fact, the rest of

Cargo main shift came strayingin, to start checkingreadout

from the warm-cans, and the otherspeci c-conditions cans in

the hold, checking the computerrecords, makingsure nothing

had changed in data and nothinghad screwed in programs…

big excitement. She was tryingto recovera train ofthought

from before jump, she always insisted to do that. She’d been thinking about Tom, on that ship. Askingherself

ifBowe would go so far as harmingTom. Askingherselfifshe

cared, except in so far as she hated like hell Bowe gettingany

point against her. Didn’t know ifthat was a normal way to feel. Damned sure

not the way the ballads and the books had it. Not the soppy way

the child-besotted declared they felt it. Ifthere was mother-love

then there was a shadow-side ofthat instinct, a dark side the

ballads and the books also had: the imperative to give birth and

the imperative to destroy the life, in the wrongseason, the ill

season, the winter, the drought, the feud, the war—she’d

studied the question, read prehistory and psych and civ. And

understood what she’d done when she’d kept Bowe’s o ering

inside herself, and sometime rejected it and sometime tried to

deal with it until it became a him, then Tom, and lastly, God

help her and him, poor, damned, disaster-bound fool. She’d mistrusted instinct. Mistrusted it and alternately

ridden it in violent reverses ofpersonal direction throughout

her life. This time she was followingit, from moment to

moment scared to death, and from moment to moment wildly

willing to take the risk, life or death, win or lose. Getting Tom back… she wasn’t so sure. She wasn’t so sure

she wanted back anyone who’d had to do with Bowe. Unless Tom took up her cause and settled accounts himself,

which, on the one hand, she’d wanted once, and then felt

di erently—because it wouldn’t be herdoing. Because Tom

wasn’t, as she’d thought once, simply herdoing. Tombelonged

to Tom, and you couldn’t everquite predict what he’d do. What he’d do would probably be stupid. No, foolish. Tom wasn’t stupid. Ignorant. And ignorant people

trusted people, or assumed they knew. She knew how to see

through the illusions ofhuman behavior, but Tomdidn’t. He’d

proved that, persisting in a kind ofloyalty to her, blind, gut-

level, helpless. She’d tried to reason with it, kill it, drive it out of

his head, but he could neversee she didn’t have what he was

looking for. He couldn’t understand the impulse she had when

he screamed his baby screams to inghim out ofherarms and

against the wall, he couldn’t understand the violence she felt

when he looked at her and said, Marie, why?

or Marie, why not?

and he wouldn’t take the answers when she gave them. She’d

taken him home and stood the questions and the demands as

long as she could and she always took him back to the kids’ loft

when she started wantingto hurt him, when she started to

dream at night and fantasize by day about doingterrible, cruel

things to him. The Family couldn’t stop her. Ifshe chopped him

in small pieces, the Family wouldn’t do anything: she was too

important to the ship. The Family wouldn’t do anythingbut

keep the other kids out ofherpath, and that suited her ne, she

hated kids, hated their noise and disorder. Most ofall she despised Tom, when he looked at herin

stupid, hateful need, expectingherto give him what she’d gone

out on Mariner dock lookingfor in herown blind juvenile

instinct, the expectation ofa ection Bowe had betrayed and

Mischa had, because nobody cared. So now the kid wanted her to validate the worst lie she’d ever

learned the truth of?

The kid wanted to run the cycle all over

again, and she wanted to kill him or detach him or beat the

expectation out ofhis eyes—the way she wanted to kill him

now for being where he was, and for changingthe equation that

was her and Bowe… Tom couldn’t stay out ofherlife, one

thought ran, couldn’t stop screwingthings up, and making

what should be simple into a muddled, fucked-up mess; and

meanwhile another thought ran, He didn’t deserve having

happen to him what had happened to her, didn’t deserve where

Bowe could send him, onto some damned Fleet dark-runner—

the initiation stupid kids got into the Fleet was what she’d

gotten at Mariner, what she’d learned too late to save herself. She’d known then what Bowe was and understood the fuck-you

gesture he’d made at Sprite even when he’d turned her back to

them, all full ofviolence, full ofhate…she was a bottle full of

demons, the sort ofdemons that existed in everyone, but Bowe

had let her meet his, and she’d waked herown, that was the way

she imaged it. The whole universe went ignorant oftheirown

demons and denied they had them. But she knew. And Bowe

knew. They’d been intimate with them for forty-eight hours. And sometimes, sometimes when she dreamed in the deep

between points ofrealspace, she made love with Bowe, real,

sharp-edged, bitter love, not rape, except as she made things

happen in her dream, and he didn’t have any say about it. It was

love, and it wasn’t. It was sex, and it wasn’t. It was a power-trip,

and it wasn’t. It was screw-you and damn-you. It was the only

place she could feel the sensations she’d looked to him to make

her feel, and she only felt that when she let go hergrip on the

solid universe. Bowe was the only human she knew who

understood the absolutes ofthe demons. The only one who

could understand. Certainly not safe, clutch-on-reality Mischa. Not Saja. Not any Hawkins. The whole Family was delusional. The whole premise oftheir existence was desperately tied to a

morality that earned them comforts they wanted. They lived in

the grip oftheir demons without ever seeingthe raw, real dark

that drove them. But she had. Mischa talked about morality and necessity and

respectability. But she saw how all that worked, and howthey kept a careful

shield up and how they didn’t look too longinto mirrors, too

deeply into their own eyes. She did. And maybe, she thought, in that deep dark behind her

eyelids, maybe Bowe had been equally desperate. Maybe Bowe’d

gone looking, too, that day on the docks, and maybe he’d let

loose his demons and loosed hers and they’d always be bound…

maybe it tied him and her in such a way they went on screwing

each other in a non-biological sense, creative only when they

were joined, locked in a reality that nobody else could see. Sometimes she desperately needed to knowBowe was out

there. Sometimes she wondered ifhe needed herin the same

way. And he took Tom to himself. Why?

What did he want?

What did he need?

Ofall his demons,

which one was in the ascendant at that moment?

Or had Tom sought him out?

Don’t hurt the kid, she wished Bowe, in the way she

sometimes talked to him in absentia…he was a farbetter

conversationalist than the Family o ered. He’s mine to kill, and

I didn’t. Don’t you presume, you bastard. You haven’t paid for

him. I did. Hurt him and I’ll have your balls, you son ofa bitch. Until then, we can go on havingthese little talks. We can go

on meeting in the dark. Or I can turn up on your dockside. I can meet you at Pell, with

my ship. Or I can track you across the universe, solo. You’re my

obsession. My life. My reason for living. Thank God you exist. Otherwise I’d be stuck with Mischa,

ghting on his scale. And I’d strangle for want ofoxygen. —iii—

DREAM OF A SPIRAL TO NOWHERE. Sometimes it had colors and

sometimes not. Sometimes it had sound, like a humming

machine, deep and powerful. Sometimes it was the brig, but the walls and the bars came

and went, tilted into polyhedrons and dimensional oddity. Sometimes shadows passed very fast. He thought ofnursery

rhymes and the man that wasn’t there. He’d been that man, that

boy, not there. Cousins had taught him that rhyme and now it

wouldn’t leave his head. He’d gone to sleep with it, and with the

shadows, that twisted and turned one into a shadow, a presence

he felt more than saw, a breath ofchange in the air about him. He wasn’t afraid, in this visitation—aroused, more than

anything, but not acutely so, more a languid half-aware state, in

which something brushed against him, made a dizzyingslow

incline in the surface underhim, shadowed the air above him. He dreamed a textureless voice, for a subjective longwhile. It

told him in an idle, distracted way, about the War, about the

hazards and the solitude ofthe fringes ofthe ghting, about

space deeper and more silent than any merchanter would know

—and qualities in hyperspace that proved it had events linked

to Einsteinian space by the deformations ofspacetime a star

made. One could trade temporality for position and vectorfor

event potential. Meaning, the voice said out ofempty air, and with a touch of

wicked mirth, you do damn well hope you potentiate toward

the next star. But there are places you don’t do that. You can feel

them in the numbers, in the interface. That’s howwe found

them. He’d the strangest notion someone had come to visit him,

just to pass the tedious no-time, and sat pouringthis strange

conversation into his ear. He hadn’t the least notion who’d

found ‘them’ or what ‘they’ were. He’d missed that part. But he

found himselfoddly safe and comfortable lyingstill and

listening, feeling or dreaming, he wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t in

danger. Wasn’t in danger when the shadowleaned down and kissed

him on the mouth, saying, Sweet boy, I’ve traveled more

lightyears than you. I’m everso old, ifwe should compare notes. Can you open your eyes?

Can you look the dark in the face?

He didn’t see things clearly. He wasn’t sure what he saw. “You have to get used to it,” the voice said, in its no-time,

distorted way—like it was playingback a second or so out of

synch with his heartbeat, but that didn’t make sense, it was just

the way the brain heard it, or that was what the voice told him

he was hearing, simultaneously, or rst, he just couldn’t get

hold ofwhen things were happeningto him, or howhe’d ended

up skin to skin with his visitor. Sequential memory was

nowhere. It was a mental end-over-end tumble, out ofcontrol. Physical sensations cascaded out oforder. He was out ofbreath

and not getting air, then spinningfaster and faster as his heart

speeded up and the sensual and sensory traded places in rapid

succession. Was it sensuality traded forspatiality, vector for potential?

He couldn’t remember the answer to his question, or why he’d

asked it. He hadn’t any breath. He couldn’t get another. Then he

found a way through the interface, came spinningthrough the

dark into white space, and the sickeningconviction offalling

that came at system-drop. Was out for a moment or two. Came back, gaspingfora

single breath, like a newborn. “Don’t believe Christian,” someone said. “Nothing’s free.”

He wasalone, then, couldn’t put reality with where he was or

where he’d been, until the next pulse at the interface dropped

his stomach through in nity and sent his heart and lungs

struggling after the demands ofhis body. Lying naked on his bunk, beneath the blankets. Clothes

neatly folded on his feet…

Shit, he thought, in language he reserved for jump-drop. Marie’s language. That’s a stupid thing to do. That’s just abysmally stupid. Why

did I do that?

Must have done it. Tranked to the eyeballs and on autopilot. Way to break your neck. Damn shtank, this place…get up, get dressed, before the

crew starts stirring, can’t trust this crewwon’t go forany skin

they can get, please and thank you or not…

Jump-dreams like he’d neverhad in his life. Sex the way it

couldn’t be in real life. He’d real memories. He’d the jump-

dream still more vivid, still felt the heat and the arousal ofa

second body, real as realspace, real as Einstein’s laws and Bok’s

famous loophole. Where had a comp-tech junior crewman gotten to dreaming

about physics he’d never had make sense to him even in deep-

tape?

Where had he come out ofjump with understandings he

hadn’t gotten, with numbers and Greek letters oatingin the

dark inside his brain?

The wobbles hit his stomach. Hard. He made a grab at the

panel beside him, where he’d disposed the nutri-packs. They fell

out onto the mattress. He took one in a shakinghand, seeingat

the same time that the bruises around his wrist had healed,

feeling the damn cable as it dragged across his body,

underneath the blanket. But he hadn’t a stitch on. He stopped with the pull-tab in his ngers, lifted his head to

see the rest ofthe cell, his heart pounding, helpless to feed the

oxygen fast enough. Couldn’t get his shirt o without the bracelet beingo. But

his clothes, including the shirt, were neatly folded, lyingon the

blanket on his feet. Christian’s face, Christian holdinghim up…down the hall. Christian’s clothes… skintights, and a sensual feelingin clothes

he wasn’t used to…

Christian being so damned nice…

God!

It was too damn much. He couldn’t hold his head up, he was

getting sick, and breaking into a sweat, thinkingback into that

pit ofdark he’d come through, and past it, to the Tripoint jump,

and the scratches he’d waked with there. He felt a rising nausea. He could scarcely coordinate his

ngers to pull the tab on the nutri-pack. He tried to calm down

and think about that, only that, just gettinghis stomach settled. Wholly absorbing problemfor the moment. He sipped,

counted his breaths, told himselfsomebody’d messed with his

trank, and he’d hallucinated. But hallucinations didn’t get that shirt o without the

bracelet. Hallucinations hadn’t left him lyingon the oorlast jump

with scratches all over his body. Something had happened. Someone had been walkingabout. When the brain and the body were in some kind of profound

slowdown, tranked-out. You didn’t dare skip trank…doingthat

was stu for the vids, for people who paid money to get scared

out oftheir wits. It was forfools who believed the stories, that

Mazian’s navigators and engineers could think through jump…

But, God, they did, they had a night-walker aboard. Somebody who didn’t trank was wanderingthe corridors fora

Godforsaken month ofno-time, comingin and out oflocked

doors, whispering in your ear, ngeringwhatever and whoever

she pleased, while everybody was lyinghelpless as pieces of

meat. And that bracelet ofstars…

He didn’t want to think about it. He lay still and, ndingthe

one packet would stay on his stomach, ventured another,

ghastly lemon-synth. He had to talk to Tink about lemon. Didn’t

want lemon in the next batch. Please God. Not anotherone. Another v-dump, pulse against the interface. He came to

with the mingled taste oflemon and copperin his mouth, and

seemed to have bitten his tongue. Then the all-clear sounded. At least he surmised that was the

reason ofthe siren blast, this time, and a woman’s voice said,

velvet soft and razor steel, “This is Perrault. Free to move about. We have Pell’s signal.”

He undid the safety restraints, unghis legs out ofbed, sat

the edge, wobbly and aimingfor the showerin his next e ort. Not a damn stitch on. The scratches…had healed. Like the

bruises. He braced an arm against the otherwall and staggered along

it to the bath and the shower, hell with any voyeurpassingin

the corridor… he got the door seal mostly made in spite ofthe

trailing cable, enough that the lock would engage and the vapor

jets would work. He shaved, with the razor connected to the

console—and scrubbed and scrubbed, while the detergent vapor

blasted out at him and made clouds he breathed with the air. Spooked, he decided. He felt… as ifthe craziness about this

ship had crept into his bed while he slept, as if, ifhe scrubbed

hard enough, he could stop smellinga musky, spicy scent he

dreamed he’d smelled in jump, and stop feelingas ifsomething

had done things with him, to him, he didn’t remember. Paranoia and a streak ofkink he’d never gured, he kept

telling himself. Whatever brand oftrank it was, it wasn’t the

dosage he was used to, it wasn’t workingright, he was

hallucinating, and he had to talk to the meds about it and get

the dosage adjusted before he did come out in mid-jump…

But underdosing couldn’t explain the cable on his arm and

the clothes folded on his bunk, no more than it explained the

equations running around the edges ofhis brain. Maybe, he

thought desperately, maybe he’d understood the deep-tape

better than he thought. Maybe information he’d picked up had

clicked in and it all surfaced in his subconscious and made him

think about tape he hadn’t had for ten years. Bok’s equation… and snakes… and Christian…

Hell ifit had. It hit him then… a t ofshakinghe couldn’t control. He

wasn’t even sure it was fear—or exhaustion, orsickness, orjust

the overwhelming heat ofthe driercycle. He sank down where

it was private and safe and let the hot airblast around him, hair

on end, knees and elbows knockingtogether, teeth clickingin

sporadic shivers the air didn’t warm. So why give a damn ifsomebody got o for a month at his

expense?

He wasn’t hurt. Didn’t matter what somebody had

done to him that he didn’t halfknowabout. Didn’t matterwhat

he’d done, asleep…

He jerked, swung his hands back to catch the walls beside

him, half-twisted a knee…it was that violent, that vivid an

illusion offalling. Sexual arousal. Pain. Terror. He was back in

jump-space. Held his eyes open, even fromblinking, while the surfaces

dried inthe vortex ofwarmair. He couldn’t see the showerwall. He knew it was white. He couldn’t rememberwhite. He tried,

desperately, and got somethinglike UV. Glaring. Burninginto

his open eyes. White, then, nally, white. Ordinary, cheap, gold- ecked

paneling. The roar ofthe fans. He had to get out ofCorinthian. Christian had promised to let

him go, he remembered Christian’s quarters, the clothes, the

talk… and he knew he couldn’t trust the o er…nothing’s for

free, echoed in the back ofhis skull. Nothing’s free. He shivered, quick spasm ofphysical revulsion, not sure

what he remembered. Couldn’t be safe on this ship. Someone was wandering the

corridors playing grotesque pranks, God knew what. A voice

patiently telling him how hyperspace was con gured, the

equations running through his head like a nuisance piece of

music, along with lying half-awake in a chaos ofsequence,

everything out oforder, every sensation pilingup with the last

one—she’d said… she’d said…only the numbers were true. His body reacted—quick, physical arousal. Another spasm ofshiveringhit, then. And anger, this time—

overriding everything but the common sense that said that if

there was such a creature as a night-walker and ifit was

Capella, as he suspected…

He rested his forehead on his arms, he stared at the shower

oor between his feet, and the snakingtrail ofthe cable, the

governing reality ofhis situation on Corinthian. He’d not liked

the people he was with on Sprite… but he’d never been other

than part ofSprite. He’d never had this sense ofbeingstalked,

never had to feel he hadn’t any resource whatsoeverto protect

himself. He was, point offact, terri ed—not so much ofthe

night-walker whoever it was: that grotesque, strange episode

wasn’t so bad as the notion he couldn’t do anythingabout what

these people decided to do to him, no matter what they decided

to do to him…

And somebody was telling him don’t believe Christian?

Don’t

believe in a way o this ship?

He had to. He fucking had to. He didn’t knowwhat the next

joke might be. And the captain knew—the captain had to know

what was going on, knew there was such a thingas a walker, he

knew who it was, and he sat smug while Christian and Capella

played their dominance games, one against the other, and both

ofthem with him—so, so damned funny, it had to be, to them…

Another shiver hit him, diminished in force. He felt sick at

his stomach. “Mr. Hawkins,” he heard, fromoutside. Male voice, stranger. Harsh. It sent him scramblingfor his feet, and he heard the

motor move the grid on its track. The next might yank the cable

and him through the showerdoorand across the brig. He

caught his balance on the wall, scraped his back on the water-

vents doing it, and nipped the showerdoor latch. Buck naked, confronted an o cerhe didn’t know, who gave

him a stare as ifhe was a sale itemin the bargain bin. The pocket tab said Michaels. He remembered the thump ofblows falling, in the corridor,

the man Tink called trouble. The presence turned out middle-

aged, greying hair down to his shoulders and face set in an

inbuilt scowl. “Sir,” he said. “Galley, mister. You’re on duty.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir. Two seconds. Gettingmy clothes.”

He inched past Michaels in haste, grabbed his clothes o his

bunk, pulled on underwear, skintights,—he couldn’t put on the

shirt, and Michaels came and keyed open the bracelet, indicated

he should get the boots on and get moving. Which he did, pulling his shirt on as they left, no questions,

no uninvited word ofconversation or question with this man—

Michaels might nd some excuse to use that springbaton he

carried clipped to his belt; and he was vastly glad that they went

straight down to the galley, with no detours and not a word

exchanged. Except Michaels said, when he delivered him to Jamal, at the

galley section counter—“Kid’s shaky. Light duty.”

Shook him as badly as a curse. The dreaded Michaels

personally braceleted his left wrist to the cable coiled up on the

counter and walked out, all the while the cold traveled a

meandering course to the nerve centers and started a tremorin

the gut, in the knees, in the chest. Oh, God, he thought in

disgust, but he couldn’t stop it, he couldn’t walk away and

pretend it wasn’t going on—it went to all-over shakes. Reality

was coming apart on him, in red and blue ashes, right overthe

white galley walls. “Hey.” Jamal pried him loose from the counter and about that

time Tink arrived in the galley—“Kid sick?” Tink asked, grabbed

his other arm, and between his shakingand his attempts to

walk on his own, the two ofthem got him into a chair at a mess

table. They hovered over him, debated callingsomebody—“No!”

he said, and somehow they materialized a cup ofreal fruit juice,

a cup ofthe nutri-pack stu , an o erofco ee or tea…he just

sat there like a fool and shook, tryingto drink the fruit juice…it

was real, and rare, and he wasn’t about to waste it… with Tink

patting him on the shoulderand sayinghowhe should just sit

there until he felt like moving, it was all right. Damned near shook the cup out ofhis hand when Tink said

that. He tried to gure why it made the shakes worse, and

couldn’t, but somewhere in the back ofhis mind was the lonely

feeling he not only couldn’t leave Tink, he didn’t want to leave

Tink… don’t trust Christian, kept ringingin his head, but he

didn’t know ifthat was any truer than Christian’s o er. Crazy, he told himself nally, when he could set the cup

down without slopping it, when he could glance up at the

mundane white and blues and chrome ofthe galley and realized

he’d been seeing something darkerand less organized, some

place with black patches and some place that was Sprite’s

corridors, and cousins, and Marie’s o ce, and the muted beiges

ofMarie’s apartment. He was suddenly close to tears. He didn’t

know why. He didn’t understand himself. He didn’t need to understand. He needed out ofthis ship. On

any terms. Any at all. He got up, tossed the cups, got a sponge and set to work on

the counters with a vengeance. Didn’t know, didn’t know, didn’t

know, there was a lump in his chest where certainties had used

to be. Pell system was where they were now, but its docks were a

foreign place, and the rules were foreign—he didn’t know what

Christian was going to do. A voice in his head still kept saying, Don’t trust him. Had to be Capella. Why, for God’s sake, did Capella get o on tormentinghim?

Because he was there?

Because she sensed he’d crack?

Because

he was the new guy and the rest ofthe crew knew hertricks?

It was as crazy-patchwork as all the rest ofhis thinking. Nothing made sense. Capella’s little joke, maybe…but he wasn’t to play games

with. His father took him seriously. Christian at least seemed to

consider him a threat. He didn’t knowwhy Capella shouldn’t. Point ofvanity, maybe. But he deserved more precaution

than that. He deserved more respect than that. Dammit!

—iv—

LONG APPROACH, THREE WHOLE days to dock—Pell was a huge, busy

system: outlying shipyards, auxiliary stations forheavy

industry, and re ning—local tra c, but in the ecliptic, which

an inbound long-hauler scorned. In at solar zenith, a quick

slow-down and a lazy plowingalongthrough the solarwind

toward the inner system. You gured on an easy on board

schedule ifnothing had gone fritz—did your routines, pursued

your hobbies, ifany. And made reservations for liberty dockside, where needed. Inner system, nearest Pell’s Star, was primarily cloudy Down-

below, sole habited planet, rst alien life and rst alien sapience

humanity had found. Those were the facts every kid learned in

primer tapes. Which hadn’t done either the Downers or humanity a whole

lot ofgood, for what anybody could tell. The discovery ofthe

Downers had spooked Earth’s earthbound religions and helped

start the War, that was so—no great achievement for humanity,

except the whole ofspace-faringhumanity wasn’t underEarth’s

thumb any longer. Wasn’t Christian’s generation, personally. He didn’t see any

particular value in the War. Orin Earth. Orin planets in general,

except as places to anchorstations, fromwhich one could do

nice safe dives into hazard and get back to civilization. He didn’t

personally plan to take a dive like that, but it was nice some

could, and bring up re ned ourand condensed fruit juice. And as for the famous eetees, Downers and humans didn’t

breathe the same oxy-ratio, humans didn’t tolerate the high

CO2 on Downbelow and most ofall didn’t tolerate the molds

and fungirife on the planet. Downers needed the CO2, one

supposed, and had to wear breathingassists in human

atmosphere. So Downers carved theirlarge-eyed statues to

watch the heavens no di erent than they ever had, as ifthey

were looking for some other, betteranswer. Downers worked on Pell Station, for reasons no one evidently

understood, but most ofall, one supposed, because Downers

liked the idea ofspace. Downers worshipped theirsun, they

served a time on the station and went back again to their

mating and their birthing and burrowingand whateverelse

they did—he’d been fascinated by them when he was a kid,

knew every Downer stat there was, useless hobby, right up

there with Earth’s dinosaurs and Cyteen’s platytheres. Humans

lived on Pell Station, the sole Alliance Station, poised between

the Beyond and Earth’s native space. Regularly, the science

people descend to their carefully insulated environments, to

pursue their carefully monitored projects, and, irregularly, and

depending on the season, ordinary tourists could do a tour

onplanet—which he’d been hot to do when he was a kid, but

there was a waiting list longerthan a ship’s docktime, and now

he’d grown out ofhis interest in eetees, human orotherwise. You saw Downers on the station, skulkingalongnearthe

maintenance area… little furred creatures with—one had to

take it on faith—big dark eyes and pleasant faces behind the

breathing masks. Even so, you weren’t supposed to talk to them, trade with

them, touch them or impede them ‘in any way whatsoever,

under penalty oflaw and a substantial ne…’ Which was

probably for everybody’s protection, humans as well as the

eetees. One wondered if, things beingotherwise, he could trade the

furry bastards a slightly used brother. On o -shift, he paged through the current o erings in the

Pell Station Guide, the vids, the books, the imports… rich list,

from local produce to Earth imports. Embassies: Earth and Union. Financial Institutions… a longlist. Government o ces… anotherlist. Institute for Foreign Studies, Pell Branch. John Adams Pell University. Oxford University Special

Extension: Earth Studies. Angelo Konstantin Research Institute, tours available. New Alexandrine Library, reproduction paper texts available. Museums. Cultural exhibits. Local artifacts. Botanical

gardens. Religious Institutions… the list was a page long. Restaurants, from fast food to cultural, ethnic, and scenic,

entertainment live and otherwise. Stores, Ship Suppliers, General, Special Listings. Sleepovers, various classes. Technical centers. Special training. Recreational courses. Trade Organizations. And so on, and so on, pages ofads for suppliers, out tters,

services, importers, exporters, manufacturers, associations,

lawyers, specialist medical services, reproductive services…a

trading ship was self-contained for almost any necessity: but

the choices on a major station were legion. Two hundred eighty- ve restaurants. Name your ethnicity. Sleepovers that made you think you were campingon Down-

below surface. With virtual rainstorms. Walk-through theater. Venus Hotel. Adults-only tape links. Experience your partner. Luxury accommodations. Restaurant class A pass. 200c and up. On-premises security. Ship registration and age ID required. >

He Captured that address..

1 It wouldn’t look as ifhe didn’t

want to be found. And if, orwhen—Austin did come asking…

He pushed another button, got the ship list back. He’d hoped for somebody like Emilia. No such luck. Christophe Martin and Mississip, both Earth-bound, were the

best of a chancy lot. He put his bet on Martin, with a departure

listed for 36 hours; and on the fteen thousand hard-won

credits he had in Alliance Bank. Five thousand might tempt

Martin’s recruitment o cer. But ‘might’ was too chancy a word. Ten. It hurt, it really hurt, but ten was a sure thing. The closer he got to the decision, the closerCorinthian drew

to Pell and dock, the scarierit got. Not that elder brotherhad a

shred ofevidence against them, not even ID, ifhe didn’t give it

back, and he didn’t intend to. In point offact he was scared sti. Austin might not have

gured out yet that Hawkins was a threat. But he had. Too

damned clean. Give brotherpriss a year ortwo to get an eyeful

and an earful ofCorinthian’s business. Family Boy that he was,

he’d start to pull back, just too, too clean for Corinthian, just too

by-the-book. He’d leave them, sooneror laterhe’d leave them or

he’d slip the evidence to somebody about the trade Corinthian

ran. He saw the problem coming. Think ahead, Austin kept

saying. So he did. Sometimes, dammit, you did things you knew you’d pay for

—because you could see far enough to knowwhere doing

nothing was going to leave you. Sometimes you did what was

good for the ship. Wasn’t that what Austin used to say to him?

Didn’t mean Austin wouldn’t have him in the brigwhen they

left port. But he could get out ofthat. He could survive that. He

couldn’t survive Austin ndingout older brotherwas everso

much more spit ’n polish and ever so much more yessir, johnny

on the spot, sir, than Christian. Older brothermight even have

trade gures in his head that Austin might very much like to

know. Older brother could get himselfworked into Corinthian if

they didn’t watch out, worked in so deep that youngerbrother

Christian just didn’t knowanythinganymore—point in fact,

he’d seemed to know less and less the harderhe worked to get

Austin to admit he knew anythingat all. Point in fact, Corinthian couldn’t survive Hawkins’ attack of

law-abiding conscience when it came. He sawit. He even

halfway liked Hawkins, for the same straight-up mentality that

attracted and infuriated Austin, he saw that, too. But Austin had

illusions he was righteous, Beatrice had that pegged. Trouble was, Austin wasn’t damned righteous with the

authorities in Hawkins’ case. It was the righteous sons of

bitches who didn’t have any doubts when they did you in, and

Hawkins was so straight you could feel honesty drippingo

him—feel it in the way Austin went slightly crazy dealingwith

him. Hawkins being more right than Austin…got Austin dead

center, and to prove he was God, Austin was just goingto suck

older brother deeper and deeperinto Corinthian, never

understanding what stupid youngerbrotherunderstood as a

fact oflife: that wars between two righteous asses ended up in

double-crosses and a wide devastation. Righteous had never described him, at least. On Corinthian

there could only be one, clearly Austin, and the rest ofthem

slunk around the edges ofAustin’s principles and Austin’s

absolute yesses and absolute noes—and kept the ship out of

hock. —v—

“THAT’S WELCOME, CORINTHIAN, you’re in queue as you bear. Pretty

entry, compliments to yourpilot and your navigators. Market

quotes packet will accompany, trade band. Mark one minute.”

“Flattery, attery, Pell Control. Can it get us a berth near

green 12?

Acknowledge receipt nav pack. Stand by for

Corinthian information packet, band 3.

Transmittingin thirty

seconds. Please signify receipt and action on signal.”

Light-lag still bound conversation. Compressed com was an

artform. You jumped from topic to topic and had to remember

several threads ofconversation at once, with youranswerand

more oftheir conversation cominga large numberofminutes

later. As well as trusting the comtechs to snatch the hard

compression data when it came, a squeal the computers read. Beatrice was preening, most likely. Austin propped one heel on

the other ankle and sighed, hopingfor that berth. They could always breathe easierat Pell. Wholly di erent

rules… a completely independent station with a bias toward

instead ofagainst ship-law, ship-speak, and captain’s rights. Run by a council only part ofwhich station elected, at least two

ofwhich were always merchanters ormerchanters’ legal

representatives… nothing got done, in fact, that merchanters

didn’t want done. Corinthian wasn’t an Alliance merchanter—couldn’t get that

clearance and didn’t try. There were too many hard feelings, and

there were records Corinthian didn’t want to produce. But they

didn’t need the certi cation to trade here. They did get the

protections ofships’ rights that the merchanters’ Alliance had

written into their contract with Pell. They got the bene ts of

Pell banking, which kept ships’ accounts at a very favorable

interest, and backed themwith a guarantee ofservices to the

ship out ofan emergency fund: Corinthian was signatory to it

and Corinthian paid into it—ifyou ever got into trouble that let

you limp anywhere, you made for Pell and its shipyards in

preference to Viking or Fargone ifyou could possibly make it. Which Corinthian had done on one notable occasion. But mostly… the law Unionside (and never mind Viking’s

new status, he personally counted Vikingas Union law)

couldn’t run inquiries here. Pell didn’t cooperate. Matterof

principle. Sovereign government—mostly consistingofships. Matter

ofprinciple indeed. You could get trade gures, the same as

everywhere. But the internal records couldn’t be probed. Damned nice port to be registered to. And ifyou were Pell registry, you got a priority on the berths

you wanted, the docking services, all sorts ofamenities. So

Corinthian wasn’t Alliance, but she was Pell-registered, and that

made it home, much as Corinthian owned one. “Number twelve is free, Corinthian,” Pell Central said. “How

long will you require dock?

You have personal messages

accumulated. That transmission will follow, in one minute. Mark.”

“Thank you, thank you, Pell-com, for the accommodation. Request you schedule us for a ten-day. I’ll turn you back to

Corinth-com, now, Pell, thank you. Helm’s in charge.”

Beatrice shot him a look. He smiled, unbelted, Corinthian

running stable as she was, and went overto Helm. Squeezed

Beatrice’s shoulder. “Shift change. Twenty minutes. See you.”

“Yeah,” Beatrice said, not cheerfully. Berth 12, opposite the warehouse, easy transport. Ifit ofany

trouble that could possibly catch up with them. There was, however, Hawkins. He’d a few places he personally liked to go at Pell, and he was

ready to go mind-numb and forget his problems. There were

times he and Beatrice worked admirably well together, and

there were times not. This run was one ofthe times not. He was

anxious to have breathing room. But there was Hawkins. Still might be smarter to ship Hawkins out from here. He

didn’t want to. He didn’t knowwhy. Curiosity, maybe, what

Hawkins was. Maybe the thought that Hawkins was a

bargaining piece ifMarie Hawkins did at some point show. Maybe, deep down, the thought that the boy wasn’t all

Hawkins. That he had some investment in the boy, and that

might make the boy worth something, ifhe could get past

twenty years ofMarie Hawkins’ brainwashing. Had to deal with the kid. Had to do something, he supposed,

Ifhe packed him o to Earth or parts elsewhere, he’d ask

himselfwhat he’d given up, what the kid had become…he

didn’t know why in hell he should care. But he’d worry, among otherthings, that the kid’s path might

cross his again, in the way ofships comingand going, and he

might have an older, cannierenemy by then. That was the reasoning that had been nagginghis

subconscious. He usually discovered good, sane reasons for

what, seemed instinct in himself. He’d stayed alive and kept his

ship alive. He’d made his mistakes before he took overthe ship. Since, he’d been far more careful. Sober responsibility, mature judgment and all that. In that light, he probably ought to have the kid up to his

o ce and nd out ifscrub duty and anotherjump had

mellowed him. But probably it wasn’t a good idea to do it now, when he had a

mild headache and the kid might have the same. He’d satis ed

his curiosity back at Tripoint. He was goingo -duty, he needed

to stretch out and let the kinks out ofhis back…hell, afterdock

was soon enough. Let the kid see all the crew get liberty, while

he was stuck aboard, let him ferment a while in absolute

boredom. But Hawkins was going to mean keepingextra security

aboard. And somebody wasn’t goingto be happy to be in charge

ofthat. Do a split watch, bonus pay, give a couple ofthe guys an extra

ve hundred apiece and let them spend it on reduced dock time. He could nd volunteers. Hawkins was already going to cost the ship a thousand c, not

even guring the early undock at Viking. Not even guringthe

future security costs, when they made Vikingport again. It wasn’t like having a second son. It was like having

something stuck to your boot, that, try as you might, you

couldn’t shake o. Chapter Seven

—i—

THE GALLEY DIDN’T SHUT DOWN on approach to dock, no, it was up to

its elbows in business. Tink was doingspecial pastries forthe

security detail that had to remain aboard… because ofhim,

Tom thought glumly, neitherTink nor Austin beingprivy to

Christian’s plans. And the pans offood for two hundred plus crewmen during

their outbound hours… all had to be ready. They went into the

freezer. Meanwhile the mess-hall vid screens had come on, with

what might be a canned view ofDownbelow, with its perpetual

clouds, greenhoused, he understood, so you could rarely see the

continents or the oceans. The indigenes belowthat cloud cover

looked heavenward in hopes ofa glimpse oftheirlord Sun. Made

amazing large-eyed statues to do the job for them in the case

someone lapsed in duty, he supposed—divine stand-ins. When he’d been a kid he’d dreamed ofDownbelow. Never

looked to see it, seeing how the War brought a borderbetween

them. He never…

“H’lo, there,” a voice said, out ofotherdreams, the deep,

echoing dark ofhyperspace. Blond, in an o cer’s fatigues—

Capella arrived, drew a cup ofco ee. And said hello, for God’s sake. Hello didn’t mean an assault. No reason for his gut to go to jelly oruncertainty to rise right

through his knees. “Feeling better, are we, Tommy-person?” She came and

leaned elbows on the counter to sip herco ee. “H’lo, Jamal, hi,

Tink. Smells good in here. Pasta stu ?”

“Pasta,” Jamal said. “No samples.”

“Spoilsport.—Tommy-person.” She reached across the

counter and touched the back ofTom’s hand with herlittle

nger. “Tommy-person. You can come scrub my quarters

anytime. Some ofus appreciate quality.”

They were about to dock. He was about to leave the ship. And

Capella came to harass hima last time. Partinggesture. He

hadn’t seen her since system-drop. He was seeingblack from

second to second, was acutely aware ofhis own skin, and the

touch ofghostly ngers in his sleep. “Eh?” Capella asked. “What do you think, Tommy-person?”

“I don’t think the captain would approve.”

“Do you do everything he says?”

“Right now I do. Yes, ma’am.”

“Ma’am,” Capella laughed, and he remembered Saby hadn’t

liked it either. “Oh, come on, Tommy-pretty. You can call me

chief, on duty, and I’ll call you Hawkins. On my own time, and

we are on my own time, here, Capella’s just ne.” Her nger

traced down the bone above his index nger. “I bet they could

spare you for a cup ofco ee and a small sit. Especially ifI pull

rank. How about?”

“I can’t.”

“Jamal?”

“I don’t—”

Christian… arrived in the door and paused there, just the

single beat it took to say Christian hadn’t expected Capella to be

there, and he didn’t like what he was seeing. He had an instant

guilty feeling, and he didn’t immediately knowfor what; a fear

Christian might take jealous o ense, and screw the escape, ifhe

ever intended it—a fear Capella’s purpose was to screw it. It was

quiet in the galley. Jamal and Tink had stopped work, and didn’t

say a thing. “Time for older brother to go back in his box,” Christian said

cheerfully, walking up to the counter. “Put the toys away,

Cappy.”

“Aww,” Capella said, and shoved away fromthe counter—

tossed the cup into the disposal. She looked at him—she had a

wicked look, a naturally predatory look. He didn’t even think

she intended it. Or it was supposed to tell him somethinghe

didn’t know how to read. She gave him a theatrical sulk, and a

lift ofthe chin, ashed a dazzlinggrin at Christian Bowe. “I’ll

take him back.”

“Not a chance.” Christian had a key. Tomlet him unlock the

bracelet, endured Christian’s proprietary hand on his shoulder,

asking himselfwhat he should believe. “I’ll handle it. See you. The promise stands.”

“Going to cost you,” Capella said. And didn’t say a thing more as Christian nudged him into

motion. But he couldn’t go without a look at Tink and Jamal. Couldn’t

say a good-bye that wasn’t supposed to happen—that from

second to second he wasn’t sure was goingto happen, orthat he

wanted to happen. He only looked to x theirfaces in his mind,

and chanced to see a very di erent Capella standingby the

counter, a Capella all business and grim as hell’s gates. Christian swung him around abruptly, took him the familiar

route back to the brig. A quiet route. The lowerdecks crew were

doing their last minute scurryingabout, and halfthe passenger

ring would be securing for dock, crew and stations that

belonged there gathering thick in dockingstations, corridors

crowding up along the take-holds. There were lewd comments, o ers to take ‘the new boy’ onto

the docks. Christian didn’t spare a glance, just hurried him

around the turn to the brig, a corridorfull ofits own o ers and

comments… worrisome comments fromdockers at take-holds

up and down, waiting for the grapple-to and the lock to open. Rough crowd. Rude crowd. They held it down when Christian

said stow it, but Christian didn’t have to wait out the dockingin

an open-fronted cell, and it wasn’t aimed at him. Besides which, Capella had made Christian mad, and

Christian wasn’t talking to him, until Christian took him inside

the brig and to the far rear by the bath, face to face with him. “What did Capella say?”

“Didn’t. I don’t know what she wanted. She hadn’t gotten

that far.” His back was against the wall. It wasn’t a position he

wanted in a ght. At least the cable wasn’t on, this time. But Christian didn’t shove him further. Instead, he reached

inside his jacket and pulled out a dozen passports, Union red

and Alliance blue. Thumbed open the topmost, red. To his picture, his name. His passport, his papers, all the

freedom to pass customs and take hire, even to prove his

identity and origin. Everythingwas in that red folder. He

reached for it—but Christian snapped it shut and held it with

the others. Christian’s terms. Everythingwas, and Christian was smug

and smooth. “After,” Christian said. “After we walk out. Duty o cer

carries the papers on all the dockers, that’s the way we work. They go out rst. It’s going to look like you slipped through…I

was taking you to Medical, right?”

“I guess.”

“You hit your head during dock. Only on the way to Medical,

you broke and ran for it, and mixed in with outbound crew. Probably you faked the bump. Got it?

Only that’s just the story I

tell about how you got out, amI doingthis in small enough

words, slower brother?

I do things like always, take these guys

out and you just come alongwith me through customs…these

guys have zero percentage in callingme a liar. They have to deal

with me tomorrow, and they won’t notice a thingwhen papa

asks, how’s that?”

“I need my papers.”

“What I’ve got here,” Christian said, pocketed the passports,

and reached in a side pocket for a short stack ofnotes, Alliance

cash. “That’s two hundred, immediate save-your-ass cash. I can

give you a name, a ship that’ll take hire. Name’s Christophe

Martin. I’ll walk you down there, myself. Get you hired, get you

papers, Martin’s going out tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“Viking. Meet your approval?”

Breath came short. “Yeah.” He suddenly had to revise

everything. The two hundred, he hadn’t imagined—and the

recommendation to another, outbound ship, immediately,

without having to hang around Pell. It was everythinghe could

hope to get on his own, heaped up and runningover, ifhe could

get his hands on those papers. It only didn’t add on Christian’s side, on this ship—the

passport missing, on a guy who also turned up missingfrom

Christian’s escort… Christian was goingto catch hell forit, was

what it looked like. Maybe that was why Capella had wanted to talk to him,

maybe that was why the voice in his dreams kept sayingDon’t

trust Christian… and maybe because the warning had come in

hyperspace it threaded its way into his wakingmind without

any denying it… that voice was Capella, too, he was sure it was,

and he couldn’t help doubting, and couldn’t gure what

Christian was doing. An expensive favor. Clearly. He might have to revise his

opinion on Christian. Maybe Christian was payinga price for

what he did, and had to shove him out the door hard and fast

and for his own sel sh reasons, but Christian hadn’t had to give

him the money. Christian left, without puttingthe cable on—left him to the

catcalls and promises ofthe crewoutside. He’d heard the door

lock. For the rst time he was glad it was locked, and he hoped

opening it wasn’t just a button push. “Hey, pretty-boy,” someone yelled. He went to his bunk and sat down. In a moment more, the

take-hold sounded, and he took a rm grip on the inset

handhold, next to the e-panel. Interminable minutes, then, to dock. He sat and tried not to

chase those circular paths ofthought again, why, orhow, or

what the choices were. His were all made. Maybe there was a chance ofseeingMarie again. Ofhis own

quarters, on Sprite. Hell, they’d have bumped somebody into his space. There

was always a waiting list, and his cousins wouldn’t have waited

till the sheets were washed. Didn’t bloody miss them. That was the unhappy truth. Marie… Marie wasn’t an a ection, she was a bleedingwound. But she was his bleeding wound. He couldn’t but ask himself

where she was and what was happeningto her. He liked Tink. He was glad he’d met Tink. He couldn’t say that about a lot of

people. But he had to get back. Somethingabout bad pennies

always turning up. Mischa was going to be so glad to see him. Rodman was going

to die. It was a kind ofrevenge. Let them think they were rid of

him. He didn’t know what Rodman would say. He was almost

homesick to hear it. Didn’t even want to beat hell out ofhim. They were getting old for that solution. In a couple ofweeks

subjective time, he’d suddenly arrived at that point ofmaturity. Give him a couple ofweeks with Rodman, he’d recoverhis

edge. Bump and touch. It wasn’t easy to claima head injury with

that dock. No fault to nd in the station’s computers, the ship’s

engineers, or the pilot at the helm. Butter ies hit his stomach. As soon as that touch came, the

crew outside the bars left theirtake-hold points and started for

the airlock, while the echo ofthe grapples lockingwas still

ringing through the hull. The corridoremptied. Fast. Then he thought… maybe Christian won’t come. Maybe it’s

all a joke. Maybe Austin caught him with the documents. Maybe

Capella spilled the whole business. Inner lock opened, then the outer, crash-crash-thump, with

the slight rush ofair you almost always got. It smelled…of

something he’d never in his life smelled. Exotic and fresh, and

wonderful. It was Pell. Downbelow. He wanted to go. He truly wanted to. The grid started retracting. Christian showed up, outside. “Hurry up,” Christian snarked at him, and he hurried, out and

along with Christian, overtakingthe crew in the airlock. Christian yelled for quiet, ordered a line-up alongthe wall,

started calling out names and sortingthrough the passports

and papers. “Anybody I didn’t call, stay the hell aboard, go nd the chief

and tell her you need documents.”

There was one, who swore and complained he’d turned in his

fuckin’ papers, he hadn’t had them, it was a Corinthian screw-

up. “It’s a clerical, all right. Just get back there,” Christian said,

and strode along the ragged line, holdinghim by the elbow, the

stful ofpassports in the other. “Come on. Stay a damn line, for

God’s sake!

Look like business, and don’t mouth o to Pell

customs, they got a nasty habit ofdroppingyou out of

computers, screw your accounts, you don’t need that kind of

trouble, so shut up!”

There were hoots and catcalls that died fast as Christian led

the way down the access, the crew and Christian in coats,

himselfin his shirt sleeves, which he hoped to God nobody in

customs was going to question. He might be hyperventilating—

the cold made his breaths too short, and made his chest hurt. Frost whitened every surface but the heated oor. Heated

plates, too, as they came down the ramp and into the vast

echoing shadow ofthe dock, under white lights that, like stars,

glared from far aloft in the girders, lightingnothinguntil the

light reached the metal deckingand the waitingcustoms

agents, at the check-through at the bottomoftheirramp. Neon

from the bar frontages pierced through the dark and the spots,

faint traceries ofbar and shop signs, freedom, just that close

ahead. Ifbreath was short before, it was all but choked now. Don’t

look nervous, he said to himself, every spacer kid learned it,

never look nervous with customs, don’t look like you’re

carrying anything, don’t get too friendly, please God there’s no

glitch with the papers…

God, I didn’t get an entry stamp at Viking, do you get an exit

stamp at a free port?

Last I got was Mariner, fourmonths,

maybe, four months realtime…

Agents didn’t even look at the stamps. Ifyou strongly looked

like your passport picture, ifyou were approximately the right

gender, that was ne, they didn’t even run the microchecks or

ngerprints or anything… just go on, keep the line moving, and

you were through. He couldn’t believe it was that easy. Christian grabbed his elbow. “Not far,” Christian said. “Everything’s set.”

“I need my passport.” It was always the sticking-point in the

plan. Christian needed it aboard ship to support his story. He

needed it far worse. His actual license was in Sprite’s records. His les were the other side ofthe Line. He’d neverfelt his

identity, his whole claim on existence, so tenuous as it was with

that red folder in Christian’s hands. “Just keep walking. Let’s do this fast, for God’s sake, I’ve got to

get back. You’ll get your damn passport.”

“What berth?”

“We’re at 12.

Martin is 22.”

Ten berths wasn’t a pleasant hike at the tempo Christian took

it. The air felt heavy to him, givinghim more than he wanted,

but laden with scents that made it seem thick to him. Breaths

didn’t steam on this dockside, but, maybe it was the chill he’d

gotten in the tube, maybe it was the rawfear ofsomething

going wrong, that fast walkingcouldn’t break a sweat—he was

keeping up with Christian, a step behind at times, thinking

maybe it would have made sense to hop a ped-transport, it

surely would have made better sense…

But the display boards were sayingBerth 20, and 21, and that

was 22 ahead. A group offour men was standingin theirpath. “You just go

with them,” Christian said. “Everything’s set. It’s all right. Here’s

your passport, there’s your escort aboard, you don’t need

papers, they’ll x you up whatever papers you need. You’ve got

the two hundred.”

“Yes.” He took the red passport folder, tucked it into his

pocket as they walked toward the fourmen meetingthem. Couldn’t see any departure boards fromhere…he wanted to see

was the ship on schedule and he lagged a step to turn and get a

look back over his shoulder, at the section/berth display for20

through 25.

He picked out the 22 under Berth, and right beside

the reassuring digital Christophe Martin, Pell Registry, was, in

smaller letters: Sol Station One, +30: 23h. Christian grabbed his arm, jerked him around. He didn’t think. He broke the grip and bolted for the dock-

side wall, into the thickest tra c he could nd. “Hawkins!” Christian yelled afterhim. And: “Get him,

dammit!”

He dodged pedestrians, a taxi, a can transport. He ran as far

and as fast as he could. A stitch came in his side. His knees

began to go, tendons aching. Obstacles blurred. He kept missing

them, as long as he could keep going, nally jogged down to a

walk, sweat burning o in the icy dry air, throat raw, legs and

arms going increasingly to rubber. He didn’t bend over to get rid

ofthe stitch, nothing to make him obvious in the tra c. Shirt

and black skintights weren’t unusual in the crowd nearthe

heated frontage, just too recognizable. He expected Corinthian

crew at any moment to overtake him and ship him o to Sol,

where he’d never get back again, never, ever match up with

Sprite’s course, too many variables, too farfromeverythinghe

knew. Besides that, Earthers were weird, with weird, irrational

laws, and he didn’t want to go where, for all he knew, Martin

might be under agreement to dump him. Legs wobbled under him. Spacer-boys didn’t run distances. Do anything you like in null-g, maybe sprint the length of

lower main, but no races on dockside. Only thingin his favor,

Christian and the guys fromMartin didn’t have station-legs,

either. And terror was on his side. Nobody overtook him. Ifthey’d lost track ofhim somewhere,

they’d have had to factor in the chance he’d dived into a shop or

a bar, or taken a lift up to the station’s upper levels, and once

they did that, Pell was a huge station, not easy to search with

any degree ofquiet. He ought to go to the cops, he ought to, but

no way in hell was that an option. Best was the lifts, while he

was still ahead ofthe search and they hadn’t a chance to post

watch by the doors. He had the credit chits Christian had given him—a gift to

salve Christian’s conscience orjust property Martin would have

taken from him to pay his bills aboard, he didn’t intend to nd

out. He had the passport Christian had given him—maybe that

was conscience-salving, too, because Christian could have

stranded him for good and all ifhe had just handed that overto

Martin crew. He took it out ofhis pocket. It was the right o cial cover. But

it didn’t have the thumb-dent on the edge his had. He opened it

and it was just color repro inside, a good, professional forgery. The wind went out ofhim, then. He wasn’t sure where he

was walking. He ipped through the pages, dodged pedestrians,

told himselfhe was a fool, he’d seen the folder, he’d believed it—

but no customs agent was goingto pass it at close inspection. Christian had switched it on him, maybe had the real one and

the fake in his pocket, and he was on Pell without a legitimate

passport to let him go to the station o ces, or apply forwork. His license was there, all repro, nothinghe could legitimately

take to any ship’s master. He bumped into a man—excused himself. He was

lightheaded and close to panic, and, with that near-incident, he

shoved the passport into his pocket and kept walking, half-

blind, heart beating in great, heavy thumps. Stupid, he kept saying. Stupid, stupid. The only worse thing

that he’d escaped… was beingon Christophe Martin. —ii—

NOT GOOD, WAS ALL CHRISTIAN could say to himselfas he reached

Corinthian’s dockside. Not good, in the way an oncomingrock

wasn’t good. Michaels had seen to the details—had the cargo crewtaking

care ofbusiness, setting up with Pell transport. A glance around

told him at what stage routine was at the moment and Austin

couldn’t fault him for that—Michaels was on his job and it

wasn’t as ifhe’d kited o with things undone. What he had done was a trouble he couldn’t even graph. It

wasn’t supposed to have happened that way. Things weren’t

supposed to have skewed o like that, they had no right not to

have gone the way they should. “Chris-tian.”

Capella’s voice. He waited. Capella overtook him at the edge

ofthe ramp. “Well?” Capella said. “Son ofa bitch,” he said. Capella didn’t even start with: What happened?

She dived

straight to: “Where is he?”

“I don’t know!

How should I know?

The damn fool bolted,

kited o , I don’t know where he is!”

“Fine. Fine. With the passport?”

“He thinks.” He patted the pocket where he had the real one. “He’s not going anywhere without this. He’d be a fool to go to

the cops. He knows it.”

“Yeah,” Capella said, implying, to his ears, that people had

been fools before. That she was lookingat one. “He wasn’t in any danger, Martin’s a fair ship—he just—took

o when he saw the guys waiting, I don’t knowwhat got into

his head. We’ve got to nd him.”

“We’ve got to nd him,” Capella echoed. “Yeah.”

He wanted to hit her. He knew better. That bracelet wasn’t a

forgery. “Pella, we’ve got a problem. We’ve got a majorproblem

out there. Yeah, it’s mine, but it’s the ship’s problem ifwe don’t

get him before the cops do. We can’t go out ofhere and leave

him loose—God knows what he’d do. We’ve got to use this port.”

“Well, maybe we should stand here, I mean, ifhe wants

Corinthians, he can just walk right up to the ramp and ask.”

“Don’t be an ass!”

“I’m not the ass, Chris-baby.”

“Chris-tian.”

That was Austin. He’d left the pocket-comon. “You told him!”

“Not this spacer,” Capella said. “Was your trail that

immaculate?”

“Chris-tian.”

He thumbed the com up. “Yessir, I hear you.”

“Do you want to come aboard, Christian?”

No shouting. No cursing. Panic hit him. He wanted Austin to

yell at him, swear at him, just simply bash him against a

bulkhead and beat hell out ofhim. He’d never heard Austin so

calm about something he’d done. No, he didn’t want to come aboard. He wanted to take a bare-

ass walk in deep space ratherthan come aboard. “Yessir,” he said past the obstruction in his throat. He threw a

condemned man’s look at Capella, an appeal to the living. “Organize a search. Find him. Get him back.”

“With what promises?” Capella hissed. “A pay raise?

Promotion to tech chief?”

He couldn’t stay to argue. Capella was his only hope. He

mounted the long ramp, got his wave-through fromcustoms,

and walked the tube to the airlock. Austin didn’t meet him there. The innerlock was shut—

optional, and Corinthian generally opted, not relyingwholly on

station security. He coded through into lowermain. Austin was

standing down by ops, waitingwith arms folded. “Sir,” Christian said when they were face to face. He still

expected Austin to hit him. “Where’s your brother?” Austin asked him. “I don’t have a—” The answerfell out, faster than he wanted. He shut up. Austin waited. And waited. “He was trouble,” he said to Austin’s steady stare. “He’d be

trouble. He’s too scrubbed-clean, he’d nd out we’re not and he’d

go straight to the cops, some time we’d never knowit.”

“So?” Austin said. And waited. “I set it up with Martin, down the row. Trip to Sol. They’d

leave him there. He’d stay gone.”

Another silence, the longest ofhis life. “I have a question,”

Austin said nally. “Sir?”

“Who appointed you captain?”

“Nobody. Sir.”

“Who told you your judgment was more important than

mine?”

“Nobody, sir.”

Another silence. He’d neverdealt with Austin in this mode. He’d never seen it in his life. He didn’t want to see it again. “This ship doesn’t agree with your judgment, then.”

“Nossir.” He saw himselfbusted to galley scrub. For years. He

saw Austin selling him to the Fleet. Beatrice wouldn’t like it. But

Beatrice herselfmight be on the slippery slope with Austin

right now. “I have a suggestion,” Austin said. “Sir.” He asked what Austin wanted, he did what Austin

wanted. He only hoped to stay alive. Hittinghim would have

blown o Austin’s temper. He prayed for Austin to hit him and

call it quits. This… didn’t promise forgiveness. Ever. No

con dence in him. Ever again. “I want you to go out and nd him,” Austin said softly. “I

want you to get him back here without trippingany alarm. What are we agreed to with Martin?”

“Ten thousand c.”

“You paid it?”

“Yes, sir.” It was the only defense he could claim. “My

money.”

Austin only nodded. “You’d betterget out there.”

“Yessir,” he said, paralyzed. “So why are you standing there?”

“Yessir,” he said, and backed o a pace before he dared turn

and make for the lock, feelingAustin’s stare on his back all the

way. Chapter Eight

—i—

AUSTIN WAS ASKING HIMSELF BY NOW whether he needed a son. Asking

himselfmaybe what Beatrice had had to do with the older

brother a air. Or what Capella had done. Guilt was a contagion. That was what Christian discovered. No one ofhis associates was goingto thank him for what he’d

involved them in. He couldn’t even nd most ofthem. He walked the docks with no notion in this starsystemorthe

next where it made sense to look, or where a fool with a forged

passport was going to run. He hadn’t caught up with Capella,

who, for all he knew, was lodged in some sleepoverwith a

stranger she’d yanked o the docks, the hell with him, Tom

Hawkins, and the mess he’d made…she’d raided the safe for

him, she’d told him he was out ofhis mind, and ifCapella

caught hell from Austin, she knew howto pass it along. No

Capella. No Michaels. Nobody answered his pages. He’d thought

at least he could rely on Martin’s crew to join the search. Martin’s captain having ten thousand ofhis money, it ought to

buy something. But Martin was pulling out ofdock on schedule. The same

reason he’d picked Martin was taking that resource out ofreach. He couldn’t go to the police. He thought ofexcuses…he

could say he’d forgotten to give his brotherhis passport and if

the fool would just go along with it… but you couldn’t rely on

Hawkins taking the cue and keepinghis mouth shut. Hawkins

wouldn’t bene t from endingup in the hands ofthe police, but

Corinthian would bene t far less, and Austin would skin him

alive. With salt and alcohol. He didn’t want the cops. God, he

didn’t want the cops—or the customs authorities. He’d searched every bar in runningdistance. He’d checked

public records. He’d checked sleepoverregisters. He’d put a page

on the message system: Tom, call home to Corinthian. We have a

deal. But the son ofa Hawkins bitch wasn’t buying. He didn’t want to call a general alarm with Corinthian crew,

over what was bound to be scuttlebutted as his fault. The rumor

had to be going around. There hadn’t been any witnesses to that

scene in lower main, but somethingwas goingto get out, and

the whispers were going to run behind him for years, he knew

they were. Bad enough as it was, ifhe somehowcould retrieve

the situation—and Hawkins. But it looked grimmer and grimmer. Then he did spot a familiar backside. A shock ofblond,

spiked hair. A familiar swing to the walk. “Capella!”

Said swinging walk neverinterrupted at all. He sprinted,

overtook, grabbed an elbow. Gingerly. “Not a sign,” Capella said darkly. “Not a perishingsign. And

I’ve called in favors.”

Favors where Capella knew them might involve cages they

didn’t want to rattle. Very dark places indeed. “I’ve been out for two fuckingdays, Pella, I’ve been top to

bottom ofthe station, I’ve been through records, I’ve been in the

bars, I’ve been through computerservices, I’ve put messages on

the station system. I’ve looked in station employment and the

spacer exchange. I’m out ofplaces to look.”

“You look like hell.”

He rubbed an unshaven face with a hand that felt like ice. Tried to imagine what he was goingto do orsay ifhe didn’t nd

Tom Hawkins at all. Or ifhe couldn’t claimto be in command of

the crew that did. “When’d you eat last?” Capella asked. He didn’t know. He shook his head. Remembered bar chips. A

drink. God knew when. He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t showered. Hadn’t shaved. Hadn’t stopped walkingin hours. “Come on,” Capella said, and steered him for the frontages. “We haven’t time. Pella, ifwe don’t nd him…”

“Yeah, your ass is had. You just did us all such a favor. Come

on.”

“Austin’s going to kill me.”

“Chrissy-sweet, I’m going to kill you, ifcaptain-sirtosses us

both o the ship, damned right I am.” Capella didn’t give up his

arm. She steered him into the dark ofone ofPell’s ’round the

clock bars, into a vibrational wall ofbeat and light and music. He all but turned and walked out, confused by the input, except

for Capella’s governing hand on his arm. Capella walked him up

to the bar, tapped the counter in front ofthe barkeep with a

black ngernail. The bracelet ofstars glowed green. And the

barkeep looked up with a stark, hard stare. “Man wants something edible,” Capella said, “before he falls

over. Can do?”

“Done,” the barman said, and shoved crackers at them. “Stew

coming. What are you drinking?”

“Vodka and juice for him,” Capella said. “Rumforme. Scanlon’s.”

“You got it,” the barkeep said. His knees made it to the table next the bar. He sat down. Good thing there was a chairunder him. Capella settled opposite. Folded herarms. Stared at him

dead-on. “We have got to nd that son,” Capella said. “Think, dammit!

Where would he go?

Is he religious?

Has he got a kink?

A vice?

Has he got friends here?”

“No.—Hell, I don’t know. How would I know?”

“Sprite ever trade here?”

“No. I’m sure ofthat.”

“No business contacts. No companies with o ces in places

they do trade. Banks. Out tters. Insurance companies. Religious

organizations.”

“I don’t know!

How could I know?”

“You could have asked him. You might have been curious. You might have wondered before you chucked him o to

Martin.”

“Don’t accuse me!”

The barman brought the drinks. Capella handed overher

crew-card. “Put standard on it. I do math. Thanks.”

“He’s got two hundred,” Christian said. “Two hundred what?” Capella asked. “Two hundred in chits!

I wasn’t goingto turn him out broke!

He’s got two hundred in hand. A fake passport.” He got a breath. The air was cold, sullen cold, all the way to the centerofhis

bones. He could admit, at least, the rest ofhis disgrace. “Martin’s

got ten thousand.”

Capella hadn’t expected that. Clearly. She sat for a moment,

then shook her head and gave a whispered whistle. “Shit-all. What’ve you got left here?”

“Five. Five to my name, Pella. I didn’t want to kill him!”

You never knew, with Capella, howanythingplayed, or

whether she thought you were sane orcrazy. She sat staringfor

a moment and nally shook herhead, lookingaway from him

as ifthat much insanity was too much for her. In her universe. In his. In Beatrice’s. In Austin’s. He didn’t

know. He just never understood the rules. He never had. He got

one set from implication and anotherset fromAustin’s

expectations, and Beatrice’s, and anotherstill fromCapella’s,

and he just never understood the way to t them together. “Christian,” Capella said, then, and took his hand in hers, on

which the bracelet ofstars glowed as independent objects. “We’ll look. All we can do. We’ll look, and I’ll call in a couple

more favors. I don’t know what more we can do.”

“Austin’s going to kill me.”

“Yeah. I do wish you’d thought about that. But in realspace

we play with real numbers, don’t we?”

Chapter Nine

—i—

PEOPLE CAME AND WENT, tens and twenties the hour, and there

wasn’t a place to sleep, except the public restroom, as longas

nobody came in. He had the 200c… but he didn’t dare go

outside the area or use up his cash. He didn’t knowthe station,

didn’t know the rules, didn’t knowthe laws or what he could get

into or where the record might be reporting. When you ran

computers for a livelihood you thought ofthings like that sure

as instinct, and Tom personally didn’t trust anythinghe had to

sign for. You didn’t, ifyou wanted to avoid station computers,

use anything but cash. At least Christian’s money wasn’t counterfeit. At least

Corinthian hadn’t reported him to the cops. And he’d gone for

the one place on Pell he knew he might nd a friend… straight

to the botanical gardens Tink said was on his must-do list every

time he got to Pell. The gardens, moreover, were a twenty-fourhouroperation…

tours ran every two hours, with the lights on high oron the

actinic night cycle, even in the dark, by hand-held glow-lights. Hour into hour into shift-change and shift again, he watched

the tour groups form up and go through the glass doors. He

watched people go through the garden shop, and come away

with small potted plants. He shopped, himself, without buying. He knew what ferns were. There were violets and geraniums

aboard Sprite, people traded them about for a bit ofgreen; and

Sprite’s cook raised mushrooms and tomatoes and peppers in a

special dedicated small cabin, so he understood plants and

fungiand spices. He had more than enough time to sneak a read ofsample

slide-sets and even paper picture books on the shop stands and

to listen to the public information vids. He learned about oaks

and elms, and woolwood; and howbuds made owers and how

trees lifted water to their tops. It kept him fromthinkingabout

the police, and the ache in his feet. But every time new people arrived through the outerdoors,

he dropped whatever he was doingand went furtively to look

over the new group, dreadingsearchers from Corinthian and

hoping anew for Tink, scared to death that duringsome ve

minutes he had his eye o that doorway he was goingto miss

Tink entirely. So supper was a bag ofchips froma vendingmachine and

breakfast the next day was a sandwich roll from the garden

shop cafeteria, because by then he was starved, and he’d held

out as long as he could. He skipped lunch. He gured he’d betterbudget his two

hundred, as far as he could, against the hourthe director’s o ce

or the ticket-sellers or gardeners or somebody noticed him

hanging around and began to suspect he was up to no good. Meanwhile he tried to look ordinary. He didn’t spend more

than an hour at a time in the shop. He walked fromplace to

place, browsing the displays, the shop, the free vid show. He

lingered over morning tea in the cafeteria, where he could

watch the outside door through its glass walls, and drank

enough sugared tea, while he could get it, that the restroom was

no arbitrary choice afterward. He constantly changed his

pattern in sitting or standing. He didn’t approach people. Ifthey

spoke to him he was willingto talk, only he had to say he was

waiting for a group, and claim the truth, that he hadn’t had the

tour, but, yes, he’d heard it was worth it. Once a ticketerdid ask

him could he help him, with the implied suggestion that he

might move along, now, the anticipated crack ofdoom—but his

mind jolted into inventive function, then, and he said he’d made

a date and forgotten when and he didn’t want to admit it to the

girl. So he meant to stand there until she showed. He was

desperate. He was in love. The ticketer decided, evidently, that

he was another kind ofcrazy, not a pickpocket or a psych case,

and shot him tolerant looks when he’d look toward newcomers

through the doors. He’d mime disappointment, then, and

dejection and walk away, playingthe part he’d assigned himself

without much need for pretense. That bought him o for a while, he gured. But he also took

it for a warning, that ifit went on too longthe ticketerwas

going to ask him again, and maybe put somebody o cial onto

him. So he embroidered the story while he waited. He was

desperately in love. He’d had a spat with the girl—hername was

Mary. He couldn’t call her ship. She was the chiefnavigator’s

daughter and her mother didn’t like him, and nowhe couldn’t

nd her. But he thought she might be sorry, too, about the ght. He thought she might show up here, to make up. He borrowed

shamelessly from books he’d read and vids he’d seen. She had

two brothers who didn’t like him either. He thought they’d told

her something that wasn’t true, that started the ght… well, he

had missed their date, but that was because he’d gotten a call-

back to his ship and he couldn’t help it, and he’d tried to call her,

but he thought her motherhadn’t passed on the message. “No word yet?” the ticketer would ask him. And once, “Son, you ever think ofsleep?”

He looked woebegone and shook his head. It didn’t take

acting. He was so tired. He was so hungry. He watched the tour

groups gathering and going in, he watched the younglovers

and the parents with kids and the spacers on holiday and the

old couples who came to do the eveningtour. He saw the

amazing green and felt the moist coolness from the gardens

when the doors would open, cool airthat wafted in with

strange, and wonderful scents. You could do a little ofit by

computer. You could walk in a place like that. You could even

get cues for the smells and hear the steps you made, on tape. But the brochure—he’d read every one, now, in his waiting,

from the selection they had in the rack—said that it was unique,

every time, that it changed with seasons, that it could put you

in touch with the rhythms ofEarth’s moon and seas. He stood outside the vast clear doors, and turned back again

when they shut, and went back to his waiting, guringmaybe

Tink had business to do rst, and wouldn’t come here until

maybe tomorrow. He didn’t know. He was hungry and he was desperate. He

thought (thinking back into his made-up alibi) that he might

pretend to be some total chance-met strangercallingin after

Tink, and maybe get a call through Corinthian’s boards and out

to him through the com system, but maybe they’d suspect,

maybe they had a voice-type on him and they’d gure he might

try to contact Tink and they’d come up here and haul him away

with no chance ofmaking a deal. Hunger, on the other hand, he still had the funds to do

something about. He splurged a whole 5c on a soup and salad, I

which was astonishingly cheap on Pell, especially here, where

green salad was a specialty ofthe restaurant. It looked good when they set it in front ofhim. He didn’t get

it often enough. The soup smelled wonderful. He’d only just had a spoonful ofthe soup when he saw, the

other side ofthe glass, comingin the doors, a dark-haired

woman in Corinthian coveralls. He let the spoon down. He ducked his head. His elbowhit the

knife and knocked it o the table. On instinct he dived afterit,

as a place ofinvisibility. He straightened up and didn’t see her. Presumably she’d gone

to the gathering area, just past the corner. He turned around to

get up. Stared straight at Corinthian coveralls. At dark hair. At a face

he knew. “Ma’am,” he said, compoundingthe earliest mistake he’d

made with Saby. “Mind ifI join you?”

He was rattled. He stumbled out ofhis chair, on his way to

outright running, and ended up makinga sit-down-please

gesture. He fell back into his seat, thinkingshe was surely

stalling. She’d probably phoned Corinthian. “Have you called them?” he asked. Saby didn’t look like a fool. He could be desperate enough to

do anything, she couldn’t know. He sawcalculations go through

her eyes, then come up negative, she wouldn’t panic, she knew

he might be dangerous. “Not yet,” she said. It had to be the truth. It left him room to

run. “I hear you didn’t like Christian’s arrangements.”

“I don’t trust him,” he said. “Less, now.”

“The captain wasn’t in on it.”

“I never thought so,” he said. “Christian’s in deep trouble,” Saby said. “Have your soup.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Listen. The captain wants you to come back. The passport’s

a fake. There’s just all kinds oftrouble. There’s some real nice

people who could get hurt.”

The waiter came over, o ered a menu. “Just co ee,” Saby said. “Black.”

The waiter left. Tom stirred his tea with no purpose,

thinking desperately what kind ofbargain he could make, and

thinking how it was a ploy, ofcourse it was. But a captain had a

ship at risk because ofhim, a ship, his trade, his license, all sorts

ofthings. Which meant once Saby made that phone call, all hell was

going to break loose, and they’d take him back, they’d take him

back, come hell or station authorities. Couldn’t blame anyone

for that. Any spacer would. “He’d really like it ifyou’d come back,” Saby said. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess he would.”

“I don’t think he’d have you on scrub anymore.”

“I like scrub ne. It’s good company.”

“We don’t want trouble.”

“I know you don’t. I don’t. Just give me my passport and you

won’t hear a thing from me.”

Saby looked at the table. The waiter brought the co ee. She

sipped it, evidently satis ed. “So why did you come here?” she

asked him, then. “I heard about the gardens. It was a place I knew to go.”

“I didn’t plan to nd you. I just happened here.—But ifI

called the ship, you know, ifI told them you were comingback, I

think it would make them rethink everything. I don’t think

you’d end up in the brig again. I really don’t.”

“I get to be junior pilot, right?”

“I don’t think that.”

“It’s not a damned good o er.”

“What do you want?”

He didn’t know. He didn’t think any ofit was true. He shook

his head. Took a spoonful ofcoolingsoup. “Well,” Tink said out ofnowhere. Torn looked up. “They’re

looking for you,” Tink said. Last hope. A ball of re and smoke. “Did you tell her?”

“Tell her what?” Tink asked. “That I’d be here.”

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” Tink said, soundinghonestly

puzzled. It was too much. He shook his head. He had a lump in his

throat that almost prevented the soup goingdown. “Tink was going to the gardens,” Saby said. “He always does. I

said I’d meet him here.”

“Not like a date or anything,” Tink said, sounding

embarrassed. “She’s an o cer.”

“Tink’s a nice date,” Saby said. “Knows everythingthere is

about owers.”

“I don’t,” Tink said. He’d been caught by an accident. By the unlikeliest pairon

Corinthian. Nothing dramatic. Tink and Saby liked owers. What was his life or what were his plans against somethingso

absolutely unintended?

“Call the ship,” he said. Tink clinched it. He didn’t want the

cops. He didn’t want station law. “Tell them…hell, tell them

you found me. Say it was clever work. Collect points ifyou can

get ’em.”

“You seen the gardens?” Saby asked. He shook his head. “You like to?” Saby asked. Ofcourse he would. He just didn’t think she was serious. “You got to,” Tink said. And to Saby: “He’s got to.”

“You want to?” Saby asked. “Yeah,” he said. “You through?” Saby asked, and waved a hand. “Finish the

salad. We’ve got time.”

“Good stu here,” Tink said. “We’re takingon a load offresh

greens. Tomatoes. Potatoes. Earcorn. Good stu …”

He’d only gotten potatoes and corn in frozens. He thought

about the galley. About Jamal. Ahead ofAustin Bowe, damned

right, about Jamal, and Tink. A homierplace than the

accommodation his father assigned him. The pride Tink had in

his work… he envied that. He wanted that. There were things

about Corinthian not so bad. Ifone had no choice. “You want to go the tour, then?” he asked Saby. “I swearI

won’t bolt. I promise. I don’t want you guys in trouble.”

“No problem,” Saby said. “I give everybody one chance.”

He shoved the bowl back. Halfsoup. Halfsalad. He hated to

waste good food, especially around Tink. But he didn’t trust

more Corinthians wouldn’t just happen in, on somebody’s

phone call, and it had gotten important to him, nally, to see

the place’ he’d seen beyond the doors, the path with the

nodding giants he thought were trees. He’d heard about Pell all

his life, some terrible things, some as strange as myth. He’d not

seen a Downer yet. But he imagined he’d seen trees, in his view

through the doors. And ifhe’d only a little taste ofPell…he wanted to remember

it as the storehouse oflivingtreasures he’d heard about as a kid. He wanted the tour the kid would have wanted. Didn’t want to admit that to his Corinthian watch, ofcourse. He thought Tink was honest, completely. But he wasn’t sure

Saby wasn’t just going alongwith anythinghe wanted until

reinforcements arrived. “I got a phone call to make rst,” Saby said. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess you do.”

He was surprised she was out in the open about it. It raised

his estimation ofSaby, and made him wonder ifshe had after

all come here, like Tink, with Tink, just to see the trees. He watched her walk away and outside the restaurant. He

went to the check-out and paid the tab, in cash. He went out

with Tink, toward the ticket counter, nally. “Let me get the tickets,” he said to Tink. “It’s on my brother. He gave me funds.”

Tink didn’t seem to understand that. Tink seemed to suspect

something mysterious and maybe not savory, but he agreed. Tink looked utterly reputable this mainday evening, which was

Tink’s crack ofdawn morning—wearingCorinthian-green

coveralls that hid the tattoos except on his hands. His short-

clipped forelock was brushed with a semblance ofa part. He had

one discreet braid at the nape. Most men lookinglike that were

looking for a spacer-femme who was also looking. Not Tink. And he understood that. At twenty-three, he began to see things

more important than the endless search afterencounters and

meaning in some-one. Some-thingbegan to be the goal. Some-

thing: some credit for one’s self, some achievement ofone’s

ambitions, some accommodation with the illusions ofone’s

misspent childhood. Saby came back from her phone call, all cheerful, herdark

hair a-bounce, mirth tuggingat the corners ofhermouth. “The

captain says about time you reported in. I told him you were

waiting to take the tour. He said take it, behave ourselves, and

we’re clear.”

“He said that?” He didn’t believe it. But Saby didn’t look to be

lying. She was too pleased with herself. “Come on. Let’s get tickets.”

“Got ’em,” Tink said. “Christian’s compliments,” he couldn’t resist saying. “His

money.”

Saby outright grinned. And pulled him and Tink, an elbow

apiece, toward the staging area. —ii—

IT WAS ROSES TINK FAVORED. But trees and the concept oftrees

loomed in his mind and foreverwould, palms and oaks and

elms and banyans and ironhearts, ebony and gegypa and

sarinat. They whispered in the fan-driven winds, they shed a

living feeling into the air, they dominated the space overhead

and rained bits and pieces oftheirsubstance onto the paths. “Ifa leaf’s fallen,” the guide told them, “you can keep it. Fruits and owers and otheredibles are harvested daily forsale

in the garden market.”

Leaves were at a premium. Tourists pounced on them. But

one drifted into his reach, virtually into his hand, gold and

green. “You can dry it,” Tink said. “I got two. And a frozen-dried

rose.”

“The hardwoods come fromEarth,” the tourguide said, and

went on to explain the di erence between tropics and colder

climates, and how solar radiation fallingon tilted planets made

seasons—the latter with reference to visual aids from a tour

station. First time the proposition had ever made sense to him. Then came the owers, in the evolution ofthings, the wild-

owers and nally the ones humans had had a hand in

making… like Tink’s roses, hundreds and hundreds ofcolors. Individual perfumes, di erent as the colors. The reality ofthe

sugar owers. The absolute, sense-overwhelmingprofusion of

petals. It smelled… unidenti able. There was somethingthe scent

and the assault ofcolor did that the human body needed. There

was something the whole garden did that the human body

couldn’t ignore. He forgot fora minute ortwo that he was going

back onto Corinthian, and that ifthings had gone di erently he

might have had a hope ofhis own ship. But that might come around again. There might be a chance. There might be…

Fool’s thought, he told himself, and felt Saby’s hand on his

arm, and listened to Saby talk about the roses, and the jonquils

and iris and the tulips and hyacinths. Figure that the corn elds

and the potatoes were much more important, yieldingup their

secrets to the labs as well as supplyingstations and spacers

direct…

Interesting statistics about the value they were to

humankind. About human civilizations ridingbotanical

adaptations to ascendancy. But less inspiring than the sensory level…and he was glad

that the tour wended its nal course back to the whisperingof

the tall trees, back to that sweet-breathingshadow. His legs

ached from walking. Felt as ifthey’d made the entire circuit of

the station. Maybe they had. But he took the invitation the guide o ered,

to linger a moment on the path. He didn’t want to go out, where,

he’d been thinking the last halfhour, a whole contingent of

Corinthian crew must be waiting for him. Maybe Christian, too. Probably Christian—madder than hell. But a ship was a place. A station wasn’t, in his book. He’d had

his taste ofdodging the station authorities just tryingto evade

questions from the botanical gardens sta. He didn’t want to do

it dockside and in and out ofhiringo ces, tryingto stay out of

station-debt, which, ifhe got into that infamous System…no. Which meant a return to Corinthian was rescue, in a way,

and he was willing to go. But he didn’t want to lose the souvenir

leaf—the garden was a place he wanted to rememberand wasn’t

sure he’d see again. So, fearinga little over-enthusiasm on the

part ofthe arresting party he was sure was waiting, he asked

Saby to keep the leafsafe forhim. “Sure,” she said, and slipped it

into her sleeve-pocket. So the tour was done, and he walked out with Tink and Saby. Didn’t nd the reception party—and he was so sure it existed

he stopped and stood in the doorway, lookingfor it. “She’s a pretty one,” the ticketerat the door said—to him, he

realized then, and then, in the racingofhis bewildered wits,

remembered the lie he’d told, about waitingfor a girlfriend. “Yeah,” he said, and only wanted to get out ofthere before

some other remark started trouble, but Saby laughed, took the

cue and hooked her arm into his, steeringhim away and on,

toward the doors. “Tink,” she said, “it’s all right. You don’t knowwhere we are. Right?

We’ll make board call. Captain’s orders.”

Tink didn’t look certain about that. He wasn’t certain about

this ‘don’t know where we are’ and ‘captain’s orders’…not that

Saby was likely to use physical force. But Saby clearly had the

upper hand in the information division, and he could be in deep

trouble, for all he knew, headed for one more ship like

Christophe Martin. Tink said, looking straight at him. “Tom,—ifshe says it’s so,

it’s so. Ifshe says do, you do it. All right?

Is that all right?”

Tink meant it. Tink meant it a hundred percent, like a

nervous mama turning herkid over to a strangershe almost

trusted, and he had it clearwho was in what role in Tink’s book:

ifhe did anything Saby could complain of, Tink was goingto

nd him, he had no question. “Yeah,” he said, and meant it. “No problems. I want to go back

to the ship. I’m willing to go.” It nally occurred to him to say

that, and he thought at least Tink would believe him. “Come on,” Saby said, tuggingon the arm still linked with

hers, and he had the momentary, panicked thought that if

anything happened to Saby, ifany remote, unpredictable

accident happened to Saby Perrault, he was a dead man, not

alone in Tink’s book, but with the rest ofCorinthian, the same

law that, had brought Sprite’s crew to Marie’s defense, however

belated, the same that defended every merchanter on dockside

and made, stations skittish ofany challenge to ship-law, iftwo

ships decided to settle a problem, or if, however rarely, a spacer

disappeared o a dockside. Saby could call down all of

Corinthian, hire-ons the same as born-crew, he got that clear

and clean from Tink. And he was, on those grounds, as much a prisonerin Saby’s

light, cheerful grip as he would have been in the hands ofthe

delegation he’d expected. He didn’t see where Tink went. Maybe to the shops, maybe to

another lift. But Saby coded Blue 9/20 on the lift pad where

they stopped. The car took a moment or two arriving. “That was nice,” Saby said, hugginghis arm tight. “It’s always

di erent, the gardens. I try to go at least once. I don’t want to be

on a planet. I really don’t like the thought ofinfalling. The

gardens are really just close enough for me. They do weather

sometimes. I think that’s just on the morningtour. They say you

can plan on getting wet.”

“I’m not going to run away,” he said. “You can let go.”

She didn’t let go. She kept it physical—meaningknock her

down ifhe wanted to run. And you could die for that, ifTink got

hold of you. “I’ll take you back to the ship,” she said, “ifyou

really want.”

“What’s my choice?”

“The Aldebaran. I talked to Austin. He’s just really pissed at

Christian. He said it’s my call. The Aldebaran’s a really nice

place. Good food. Class One. You tell me you won’t do anything

stupid and you can stay there and we can have rst-class food

and soak up the latest vids. No sex in the o er, understand, just

a place to be for a few days.”

He was relieved at the no-sex part. Wasn’t a mach’ thingto be

relieved at. Or maybe it was. Human dignity. Ifyou reckoned

that. He didn’t like beingshoved, ordered, ultimatumed, or

kidnapped. He’d grown very touchy about kidnapped. “Why?” he asked. But the car came, and they got in, with two otherriders

aboard. Saby smiled. He smiled. Acted easy. The other

passengers did, clearly romantically inclined, hand in hand. Everybody smiled at everybody. Saby hungon to his arm and

his nerves were strung tight as wire, the whole short distance

out to Blue 9/20, where they got o and the otherspacers

stayed. “What’s the deal?” he asked, then, in the briefprivacy they

had as they walked. “The o er?”

“The sleepover. The fancy food. You.”

“I told you. I don’t come with the room.”

“Yeah, that’s ne. I don’t, either. But why?”

“Because you’re not a fool. Because Christian’s got it coming,

and Austin’s pissed. That’s enough.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Do you dance?”

“Do I dance?”

“I know this restaurant. They’ve got a view, this huge real

view ofthe stars from the dance oor. I can teach you.”

He’d never. He’d never imagined. He’d never, in his life. Saby

was a tumbling infall ofpropositions and changes ofvectorhe’d

never, ever, expected to deal with. Dance?

Stationers danced. Spacers… did, but not on Sprite, they

didn’t. He couldn’t imagine. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess.” He was thinkingmore

about the food. He’d lately been hungry. He’d no assurance he

might not be again. And they walked the dockside, to a frontage with the very

small, gold-and-silver sign that said Aldebaran. Any spacer would say, high-class, expensive, and ask, being

prudent, Who’s really nancingthis?

Saby?

Austin?

Or somebody else?

Like anothership…with

proprietary ideas. Saby input an access code and showed him through the

doors into a very beige, very pricey-lookingreception area. Amenities were listed on the walls, with code numbers. Display

cases lined the room. He saw, at one pass ofthe eye, directions

to a gym, to a barber/stylist shop…to a jewelry store,

restaurants, one breakfast, brunch, lunch, one dinner. He drew

in a breath, shook his head, reckoninghimselffarout ofhis

credit budget—you could feel the money in yourpocket ebb just

in looking at the case-displays. “Anything you need urgently,” Saby said. “Personals?

They

have those in the bath, in every room. That’s all right.”

“I’ve got a hundred eighty seven cee,” he said. “Actually it’s

Christian’s.”

“Oh, good,” Saby said cheerfully. “Buy whatever you like. I’ve

a phone call to make.”

“To the captain?

Or to him?”

“The captain,—naturally. Be good. We’ll eat here, tonight. Are

you hungry?”

“Hungry. Sleepy. Tired. Mostly tired.”

“Dancing when you’re rested,” Saby said, and went to the

desk, to make her phone call…afterwhich there might be God

knew what. He hoped just for a chance to sit down. But he’d

gotten to the slightly crazed, half-giddy stage ofsleep

deprivation, and he wandered around the room and looked at

the displays, that was all, mentally blank. He was aware ofSaby

on the phone, at the desk. He was aware as she crossed the room

toward him. Entirely cheerful. “Captain says ne, it’s all right, anything

you need—in reason. Have you found anythingyou have to

have?”

“Just a bed, just sleep.” That was the honest answer. It was all

he could think ofnow, now a room and a bed were that close. So

Saby coded them through furtherdoors. It was down the

corridor to number 17, and inside, to a private room with two

beds. He went straightway and fell face-down on one, not eagerfor

conversation, his legs tired from walkingand standing, his eyes

stinging from sleeplessness. He said to himselfthat ifSaby

wanted to call the cops or Corinthian or anybody, he didn’t care,

so long as he could get a little rest that wasn’t hidingout in a

restroom or sitting on a waiting-area bench. A blanket settled over him. IfSaby was the source ofthe

blanket, he was grateful—the room was chill, and he hadn’t the

self-awareness left to gure out what to do about it. Pleasant, he thought about Saby. Nice. Tink said she was all

right. But clearly reporting to his father. That wasn’t a

recommendation. But it was opposite sides of the room, Saby didn’t botherhim,

the blanket made him comfortable as he was, and the lights

went out. He hadn’t even the interest to open his eyes as he

heard Saby settle into the otherbed. Stark naked orin the

sexiest gown he could imagine…couldn’t muster a shred of

interest. Face-down and going, gone. —iii—

THE MUSIC IN JACO’S made the glasses shake. The walls were all

screens, on which old vids played endlessly. It was a horror-

show to the left, a riot scene to the right, a murder-thriller

straight ahead. In the immediate vicinity, it was impendingapocalypse, one

day before board-call and no brother. Not one sight, sound, clue ofTom Hawkins, and no call from

the station police o ce. Thanks very likely to 200c ofhis money. 10200c, correction. Correction again, 14750c, after he’d paid the computertime,

the records searches, the bar tabs, the working-time ofvarious

crew who had to be put on duty-time to nd the son ofa bitch,

and he couldn’t ask Austin to foot the bill. Clock on the wall said 0448m/1548a, meaningapproaching

suppertime on Corinthian’s main-crew schedule, meaning

Austin was awake and he was having supper an hourand a half

before alterday dawn. On one wall a giant spiny monsterwas

attening an ancestral Terran city and on the opposite, one guy

was choking another while some dimbrain woman stood and

watched and screamed. “There you are.” Capella pulled a chair back and dropped into

the seat with a clatter ofbracelets. “God, 0500?”

“Found anything?”

“Not a damned thing.” She slumped back and, the waiter

being instantly on them, “Sandwich. Cheese. Rumand juice. I

need vitamins.”

“ID.”

She pulled her card from hersleeve-pocket and the waiter

ran the mag-strip through his handheld, logged the charge and

handed back the card. “14756 50c,” Christian said glumly, and had a sip. “My

guess… just my remotest guess is ourbigchance is tomorrow. Board-call starts at 1500 and ends at 1830, and I’m bettinghe’ll

be watching from somewhere, eitherright at the rst orright

toward the end.”

“What makes you think it?”

“Genes. Can Austin turn hold ofa question?

Older brother

won’t be satis ed until he sees the ports close and the lights go

out and he sees our departure telemetry on the boards—until

then it’s not enough. He won’t believe it until he sees our

outbound wavefront, but that’s outside ourparameters. I want

to be on that dock tomorrowright down to the last, I want to

have your eyes and mine where we can see anybody watching

us. Because he will come down to watch.”

“Best hope we’ve got, I guess. Guy’s nice-looking. My notion

is he’s snagged a free stay with somebody—no knowinghe even

knows what day it is.”

“Oh, he knows,” Christian said. “I’d bet anythinghe knows to

the second when that board-call is. And ifwe do spot him—”

“Going to be interesting haulinghim past the customs

check.”

“Ship-debt. We’ve got his papers. We’ve got his sign-on at

Viking.”

“He really sign on?”

He hadn’t, ofcourse. “The papers I’ve got say he did.”

“Be careful how long you ash those. Pell cops aren’t blind. They know their local artists.”

“What the hell else am I goingto do?

This is expensive paper,

Pella.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not making any headway.”

“Christian, I have called in debts you would not want to

know about. I have talked to people I never wanted to talk to, at

expenses you don’t reckon in any bank account. Don’t talk to me

about e ort in this not noble cause, dearfriend. These are

people I never wanted to see, and they don’t come cheap.”

His heart sank. “How much?”

“Those that ask for cash—2400, at current.”

“I haven’t got it, God, Austin’s going to leave me in station-

debt.”

“Cash, Chrissy-sweet, cash is the only way. My ID has smoked

from the withdrawals. It smells ofbrimstone. Youraccount isn’t

dead, but it’s on life-support, and we are eatingsandwiches till

we clear this port, that much I do know, oryou don’t want to see

the hell we’ll be in. Austin does not want me to access these

people, Chrissy, Austin will have my hide for the places I’ve

looked, which won’t report to Austin, so there. Just don’t you tell

him, and you cover that tab, Chrissy. You coverit.”

“That’s three quarters ofeverythingI own but ship-share,

dammit!”

“As I recall, Christian-love, this was not originally my idea. I

would have predicted elder-brotherwouldn’t have liked the trip

to Tokyo and London. I just really didn’t think it was his artistic

preference.”

“Shut up!

God!

give me a little understanding!

Where was

your advice when it could have done some good?”

“I don’t recall I was consulted. Cajoled, entreated, asked for

illegal acts, but consulted…”

“How is he in bed?”

“Who?”

“My half-brother, dammit. Howgood?”

“We are suspicious, aren’t we?”

“He’s dangerous as hell. A Family Boy?

All full ofconscience?

All full ofprinciples?

My father’s o his head. I’m not!

I’ve

nothing against Hawkins personally. But nobody sees, nobody

sees a damned thing dangerous in him!”

“And we can’t nd him,” Capella said. “I don’t see Austin

disturbed. I see the captain quite, quite calm—consideringthe

gravity ofthe circumstances. Possibly because he’s not speaking

to you. Or—possibly—”

That veer sideways took a second to think about. Two

seconds. “The son ofa bitch ran for the ship?

And Austin didn’t

say?”

“It is a place we haven’t searched,” Capella said. The sandwich

and rum arrived, which meant a briefdistraction to sign the

tab. “He wouldn’t,” Christian said. The waiter left. Capella took a bite ofsandwich and

swallowed. “I don’t know. It’d be the smartest thingelder

brother could do, in his situation—supposinghe’s noticed the

passport’s fake.”

“No. Surely not.”

“We are down to surely nots. Aren’t we?”

“Point.”

“Doesn’t cost anything.” Anotherbite. Then Capella’s eye

strayed. She swallowed, belatedly. He looked, in the chance the

distraction was named Hawkins. Negative. He saw nothing to attract Capella’s attention. Bar

tra c, nothing but. But Capella took the papernapkin and wrapped the

sandwich. Tossed o halfthe drink at two gulps. “What is it?” he asked. “Somebody I don’t want to meet. Just sit still. Don’t attract

attention.”

“What somebody?”

“Chrissy. Just listen. Stay calm. In a moment I’m goingto get

up and go, and you sit here longenough to see ifanybody

follows me. Then you get up at your leisure and go left outside,

go left, just keep traveling. I’ll watch for you and intercept.”

“What in hell’s going on?

Pella?

Is it cops?”

“Just do it, dammit. Man in a grey shirt, blue glitz, dark hair,

can’t miss him.” Capella’s eyes tracked somethingpast his

shoulder, cold as deep ice. “Ifhe follows, don’t let on, just keep

walking. I’ll be watching. Just wait till I’m clear plus some. Ifhe

follows me… still, you follow. We steer this to a venue we like. Got it?”

He didn’t. Hadn’t. Not the ne details ofwhat Capella

proposed to do about it. But Capella slid out ofher seat and walked, quietly, forthe

door, while he tried to pick out the newcomershe’d described,

and did. He was giving an order at the bar, meaninghe planned

to stay; or asking a question, which might send him to their

table: Capella wasn’t exactly inconspicuous in an

establishment. At least the guy didn’t look in his direction. Until the bartender pointed at his table. Immediately the guy and two others started over. It wasn’t in

the instructions. Neither was this guy bringinghelp with him. He sat still. Hell, he was a Corinthian o cer, not open to

hassle or harassment without involvingmore ante than any

other ship might want. So he looked them up and down like

germs and stayed his position. “Looking for Capella,” the rst guy said, him in grey and blue;

and leaned a knuckle on the table-surface. “Where’d she go?”

“I dunno. Back to the ship.” That was a right-hand turn from

here. “She was going to check something. Why?”

Blue-and-grey made a ip ofthe hand at the muscle behind

him. One left, presumably on Capella’s track. That tore it. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Just a personal matter,” blue-and-grey said. “With my wife?”

Blue-and-grey stepped back, lookingshocked, and laughed

outright. It was an unpleasant face. Somebody a woman might

have been interested in, maybe, but this was a man that’d knife

you, this was a man who still wore open shirts when the

waistline was getting a little much for skintights. This was a man he didn’t like, on instant instinct. “You?” blue-and-grey asked, still laughing. And started to

walk out. The trouble was, he was still guringhowthis t with

Capella’s safety, which occupied all circuits and input a wait-

count while the sumbitch with the mouth was walkingto the

door on him, while his gut level reaction, to grab that sumbitch

by the throat, had adrenaline oodinghis systemand doingno

good at all for the brain. He carried a knife in his boot. So, he gured, did the two

leaving, and so would theirfriend, the one he’d misdirected

down the dock. Meanwhile, ifblue-and-grey and his friend were thinkingat

all, they’d guess he’d misdirected them, and head the otherway

out ofhere, on Capella’s track, ifthey hadn’t had a man outside

to catch an escapee in the rst place. It went against the grain to call for help. But he took the com

out—this close to the ship, he didn’t need the phonelink—and

punched in, on his deliberate way to the door. “Corinth-com, this

is Christian, in Jaco’s, we got a code six trackingone ofours

spinward out ofhere, guy in blue and grey, extreme bad

manners, relay and get me immediate help here.”

Cops routinely monitored the coms as well as the ship-to-

station links, and that was too damn bad. Trouble was headed

at Capella’s back and he was on the way—it wasn’t so much

what blue-and-grey might do to Capella that scared him…it

was the ruckus bound to explode ifsomebody pulled a knife ora

piece ofmacho argument on Corinthian’s chiefspook—

Corinthian didn’t want any more legal trouble, and bodies were

so hard to—

Something hit his head—dropped him to one knee with stars

ashing red in his brain, and he came up at the target, straight-

armed somebody he couldn’t even see, approximately at the

throat, impacted a face with the heel ofhis hand, surprise to

him. But the guy went down anyway, and papa hadn’t taught him

to turn his back on any attacker. He sawa shadow-someone in

the red ashes and grey, tryingto come up o the deck, and he

rammed his hands down and his knee up. Bang. Guy went

backwards, at. Then he whirled around and ran leftward up the dockside, on

what he was sure was blue-and-grey’s trail. Red ashes were

still oating across his wateringvision, it was still grey around

the edges, and balance consequently wasn’t a hundred percent,

but he was dead on course, with blue-and-grey and one other

some distance ahead ofhim. He didn’t see Capella. He kept going, double-fast, guringon

giving Mr. Sumbitch anotherquarrel to take his mind o her,

guring on his Corinthian backup to be coming, and hoping

some Corinthian would have the basic sense to drag the sod he’d

left behind him into the bar. Cops might ignore bar-business

until it spilled onto the docks, but bodies in doorways were a

guarantee ofnotice. Just, ifCapella had come out, too, and run into a trap…

“You!” he yelled, at blue-and-grey, with a stitch comingin his

side and his head going around—he was too dizzy to chase the

guys at a dead run. But run was what they did, then, damn the

luck, just took out, both ofthem. He ran, his head poundinglike hell, vision fuzzingand

tearing. He knocked shoulders with somebody in a bettermood

than he was—caught-step, recovered, chased the two until he

knew he didn’t know where they’d gone—then leaned against a

friendly support girder neara pharmacy frontage, sweatingand

aching for breath. Pocket-com was beeping, when things got quiet. He fumbled

after it and thumbed it on. “Christian. Yeah. Lost the guy. Got a

x?”

“What in hell’s going on?”

God. Corinth-com had rousted Austin out. Wasn’t what he

wanted. “Dunno, sir, I was walkingout ofJaco’s—” He gasped for air. “—and some damnfool hit me overthe head.”

“Thieves?”

“I—” It was better than any lie he could think of. He didn’t

know what Capella was into. He didn’t spill Capella’s

con dences—and he thought in the best functioningofhis

battered brain that an urgent request to cover herrearwas at

least inthe neighborhood ofa con dence. “Yes, sir, maybe. I

dropped a guy in Jaco’s doorway. They nd him?”

There was a delay while, one presumed, Corinthian asked on

another channel. “Travis says negative. Phone if you’ve got detail.”

Get o the com, Austin meant. Travis was mainday

Engineering, and he’d been that for years, no green fool. “Yessir. Working on it.—Sir. Have you seen my brother?”

A pause. “Negative.”

As ifAustin wouldn’t lie. Damn!

Austin clicked out on him. And where Capella was…

“Chrissy!”

His heart did a ip. He turned around. Capella was there in

the ambient noise ofthe docks, ghostlike, not a warning. “Shit!” He got a breath. “Guy clipped me on the head. I was

scared they’d got you…”

“You get him?”

“Got away. Who were those guys?”

“Them, I don’t know. Not a ship-patch in the lot, but they’re

no station-slime.”

“Blue-and-grey. You knew him.”

“Yeah, I knew him.”

He didn’t like the tone or the faraway look Capella sent in

that direction. Capella didn’t talk about times past. Orthe Fleet. That was the deal. “Pella. Need-to-know, here. Just—is it

personal?

Or what?”

Capella could have a real bar-crawlerlook, type you’d pick up

for a fast one and maybe cheap, till she went all business and

gave you that down-the-gun-barrel stare. “I want to know what

ship he’s on. I want to know who just came into port. “Capella.” He had his business track, too, when he had to. And he knew what he had a right to ask. “The one question. Personal?

Or not?”

Capella didn’t answer for a moment. Then: “You remember

those doors I said I rattled lookingfor elder brother?”

“Yeah?”

“Bad stu. Real bad stu. This is not a friend and it has a

ship, apparently, I can’t think howelse it got here. I’d sincerely

like to lie in port until this leaves. It has to leave. Eventually.”

They’d seen port-scum. They’d dealt with it. Corinthian had

had encroachers on their territory, in port, and in space. He’d

never seen Capella spooked into sobriety by any opposition. She

just got crazier. She wasn’t now. Cold sober. Not laughing. “Pella. We’ve got that Hawkins ship…”

“Screw the Hawkinses. This is Mazianni, you understand

me.”

Capella didn’t use that word. Not about herself. Capella said

Fleet. The Fleet, as ifthere wasn’t any other. As ifthey still

served something besides survival. “No,” he said. “Pella. Tell me the truth. I swear—it doesn’t go

past me.”

Long silence. Then: “Worth yourlife. Mine. Yours. The ship. Yeah, I know we’ve got Hawkins troubles. But screw ’em. Blow

’em. Ships have got lost before nowin the deep dark. But we

can’t go out with this guy on our tail, and he will be, he can feel

us in the dark.”

“We can’t not!”

“IfPatrick’s in port, this isn’t the time I’d have sent shock-

waves through the informational ambient here, you know what

I mean?

You seriously understand?”

“Patrick-who?”

“Patrick’s enough. Used to be Europe.”

“Mazian himself?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s alive.”

“Oh, yeah. Stu I can’t say, Christian-person.”

“Christian, dammit. I have a name.”

“Yeah. So did I. But names are little things. Winner. Loser. Right. Wrong. This side, that side. All that shit. On old Earth—

they used to be superstitious about names. Like ifyou could call

somebody the right one, you could catch theirsoul. And you

don’t want to engage on that level, you truly don’t, Chrissy-love. You don’t want that karma with me.”

“Don’t play me for a fool, dammit, I don’t knowyour words.”

“I like you. Like you too much.”

“Is that why you’re sleepingwith my brother?”

“Chrissy… Christian. Is that a matter?

Is that sincerely a

matter?

We are talking about survival. We are talkingabout

something…”

Capella didn’t nish. “Yeah?” he said, not dismissing the matter ofolder-brother

and Capella and what he thought had been goingon. “Christian. Not all ofus trade with you. Some have theirown

notions. I need to talk with the captain.”

“Yeah,” he said. It was all he knew to do. —iv—

SABY WAS RIGHT. THE RESTAURANT view was spectacular, a real

viewport (forti ed, the sign at the doorassured the patrons:

even the Battle ofPell hadn’t compromised it) that reached from

polished black oor to mirror- nish ceiling, a revolvingview of

the stars and the planet that spacers themselves rarely saw so

directly. To either side, makingsilhouettes ofthe tables,

dwar ng human dancers, the walls were high-rez screens, with

magni ed, ltered views, that spun and whirled in a camera-

construct, a montage ofimages that a spacer’s body reacted to

in expectation ofaccel and vector shifts that didn’t, ofcourse,

happen. Meaning a spacer could get motion-sickness walkingacross

the oor, ifhe was a cabin-dwellingmerchanter whose well-

loaded ship didn’t regularly do the maneuvers those shots

described, but whose stomach knew when a g-shift ought to

happen. Tom kept his eyes on the level surface where the oor

was real as the waiter captain led them to theirtable. A

stationers’ revenge on spacers, that tape was, that produced

those images… or the stationers that produced it had no

remotest idea they’d made an amusement ride for a spacer’s

force-trained body. Dance, did the woman want?

Damned show-o spacer-

femme. He was going to fall on his ass before he reached the

table. Tripped over his own feet, but the chair saved him. Grace under pressure. They sat. They had cocktails. The food was good, ifscant by

his reckoning, small vegetable things he hadn’t seen on the tour,

and a good sauteed sh with, they advertised, genuine herbs

(not di cult) and genuine citrus sauce, an expensive and

tongue-puzzling treat. But not an extravagance at Pell. He’d seen

oranges growing. He’d got himselfa leaf—well, Saby had it, but

he’d caught it in mid- ight. He’d seen sh swimmingin a man-

made brook, almost enough to put him o eatingthis one. But

not quite. It was good. The lights came and went and whirled

about the polished oor. And against the light, shadows came, once, that he took for

children, until a handful ofspacer-diners near them stopped,

and stared. He looked, too, and saw the glint ofbreathing-masks with a

little increase ofheart rate. Downers, a handful ofthem, and the

sight richocheted o the study he’d done as a boy—o all the

sense ofthe strange and unfathomable that a boy could

romanticize. Alien intelligence, ifeccentric and even childlike to

human estimation. “Look,” he whispered to Saby, not to be rude, because they

were quite near. “Local sun’s sacred to them,” Saby said. “They can come here. It’s the law.”

“Law, hell. They’re people. It’s theirworld.” He’d thought he

almost liked Saby tonight. Not with that attitude. “Yeah,” Saby said. “But good there’s a law. Damned shame we

have to make a law. What I hear…we had to explain crime to

them.”

“They have deviants.”

“Not criminals.”

He was discussing criminality with a Corinthian

crewwoman. “No kidnappers?”

“No reason, I guess.” Saby refused the bait. “But I wouldn’t be

a Downer. I’d rather have ourfaults… since we can’t gure

theirs. Seems safer.”

The waiter came. Saby ordered a drink. He did. The band had

started. He saw the Downer-shadows bobbingto the music,

knees bending ever so slightly, to tunes light, classic, rather

than current. Couples were walkingonto the oor. Going to fall on my ass, he thought. They had the cocktails. His was lime and vodka, hers was

import Scotch. The music was slowand soft, and the Downers

had led away to the edges ofthe dark. They lived in the arteries

and veins ofPell Station, where theiroxy-ratio was law. They

maintained, they worked, they asked no pay but the sight ofthe

Sun ofDownbelow, Pell’s Star. They worked a season ortwo and

then went down again to the world, in the springtime oftheir

main continents, when, the brochures said, Pell had to take to

human resources, and make do without its small and

industrious helpers. No Downerwould work in springtime. Mating consumed them. Females left theirburrows and took to

walking, simply walking, wherever theirfancy took them; and

males followed them, far, as far as theirresolve and their

interest could drive them, until the last gave up, lost interest,

resigned the Downer lass to his last rival, who had still to nd a

place, and dig a nest, and satisfy the far-walkingadventuress of

his craft and his passion and his worth. What need ofnations or

boundaries, or such territorial notions?

The object oftheir

desires went where she pleased. Not likely they’d form a government. Not likely they’d ght a

war. Not likely they’d have achieved theirdearest dream, to see

their Sun, except as human guests. But they traded their agriculture for human goods, they

maintained complex machinery they had no innate impulse to

invent themselves. Ask what they might become, or

understand, or do, in centuries to come. “Penny for your thoughts.”

“Huh?”

“They say that, this side ofthe Line. Penny for your thoughts. What are you thinking?”

“About the Downers. About gettinginto things you don’t

understand. About fools that go wanderingin warehouses. Why

haven’t they hauled me back to the ship?”

Saby lifted a bare and shapely shoulder. Pretty. A distraction

to clear thinking. You could get to lookingin hereyes and

missing the thoughts entirely. Saby didn’t answer his question. Never had. They’d sat in the

room for most ofthree days, shopped via the vid system, used

the Aldebaran’s restaurant, the Aldebaran’s gym, the Aldebaran’s

hair salon, swum in the pool, baked in the sauna… had no

personal conversation, just a Race you to the otherside, and a,

What’s your favorite color?

kind ofdealingwith each other,

shallow, safe. Saby liked green, loved to dance, preferred co ee

to tea, liked the skintight craze and bought him some for

evening as well as day. Saby could take an hourin the bath and

run a chain of gures in herhead instantly. Those things he’d

learned about Saby. But talk about the ship, Christian, the

captain, even Tink,—no. Dead cuto. “What could I have seen in that warehouse?”

“I don’t know. What were you lookingfor?”

“You could be a lawyer. Was it something1 could have seen

or just a chance to get at my mother’s son?”

“That’s then. Now’s now.” She sipped herwhiskey. “They’ve a

marvelous dessert. Orange creme cake.”

He wasn’t even tempted. “You,” he said. “No thanks.”

“Board-call’s tomorrow. Are you goingto go?”

“Have I got a choice?”

“Oh, you could raise a fuss right now. Yell for the cops, all

sorts ofthings.”

“I could end up stuck here. Legaled to death. I’d as soon be

dead.”

“So you’ll go back without a fuss?”

“Sure.” His turn to shrug. They’d been through it before. He

didn’t know why she’d started down this track. “No passport. No choice.” He dreamed of answeringthat board-call, showing

up and having Corinthian hand him to the cops, claimthey

never knew him. He didn’t understand Saby. They’d spent a lot

ofmoney. Saby had spent it…on heraccount, Saby said. Orhe’d

spent Christian’s cash. But he could get to that customs gate only to discoverit was

his account she was accessing and the ship wasn’t paying. In

that case, he had that station-debt, and he had to pay it, ifthe

ship wouldn’t. No passport, no ID, no ship willingto pay for

him. That was the scenario he’d slowly put together—Saby

swearing to customs that he’d lied to her, they were his charges,

not hers, with a whole ship to back herstory and damn him to a

spacer’s hell. “You’re worried about something,” Saby said. “I can’t imagine why.”

“I don’t know what. Whetheryou can trust me?

Is that it?”

“It’s an obvious question.”

“You’re a nice guy. You are. I told the captain that.”

“Thanks. Did you tell himnot to knock me into walls?

I’d

appreciate that.”

“I really like you,” Saby said. His heart went thump. Brain cut out ofthe loop. Why?

was

the last logical thought. “You want to dance?” Saby asked, and reached out herhand

on the tabletop. “Come on. Slow-dancing. Nothingfancy.”

He really didn’t want to. A, he didn’t want to make a fool of

himself. B, he didn’t know where the conversation had taken the

turn it did or why Saby suddenly got personal. He’d a drink to

nish, but the mouth wasn’t workingand the brain was on

shut-down. He tossed o the rest ofthe drink to calm his

stomach, hooked ngers with Saby—let Saby tughim to his feet

and walk him out into the dreadful tiltingvisions of the walls

and the re ections on the oor. The alcohol hit, and he was

right infront ofthe big viewport, where the stars were moving

and small and far, behind the silhouetted dancers. They were

potentially in people’s way, but others managed not to bump

them, and Saby turned him toward her, holdingboth his hands

—kept one, drew one behind herwaist, at the curve ofa—he

wasn’t dead—satin-clad hip. “Relax,” she said, and laughed, and bumped his foot with

hers. “Step, step, step, turn—”

The room spun. He managed to breathe and move, step, step,

step, turn, with Saby, and they hadn’t knocked into anybody. They moved with the tra c, joined the movement around the

swirling oor, the sweeping walls. “Isn’t that easy?”

She made him lose where he was. The dreadful face ofthe

planet was coming into view—he got the count back,

desperately, and took Saby’s lead for a giddy turn, abandoned

hope ofequilibrium, and began to gure Saby wasn’t goingto

steer him into collision, he just had to stay with it, feel when

she moved, listen to the music…

“There,” Saby said, “now you’re gettingit.”

It was more commitment to Saby’s guidance than he wanted,

period. He’d held back. He’d maintained a stolid non-

involvement and non-interest in Saby Perrault—he’d read a

book, sat on his bed, they’d discussed colors and herharmless

preference for co ee over tea. But he was occupied in keeping

up, now, and, he guessed, by Saby’s mercy, not makingtoo

much ofa fool ofhimself—nobody was staring, and Saby

seemed happy. The alcohol buzz made the images fuzz, and his

heart that thumped in panic at the grand sweep ofthe planet,

the deadly gulfofinfall, found a sustainable level ofadrenaline

and kept time, thump, thump, thump to the music and the

dizzy turns. Silence came like a stop in the universe. He stood, hard-

breathing, dizzy, with one hand where not-dancingmade it too

familiar, and the other sweatingin Saby’s grasp. Everybody

applauded, the band got a second wind, and while some drifted

back to the tables, Saby said it was a slowtune and she’d teach

him that step, too. It wasn’t so organized as the fast step, just kind ofwandering

back and forth, no way for anybody to be conspicuous, the stars

there beyond the shadows ofothercouples, Saby’s body

brushing his on a regular sort ofmovement that he…didn’t

really mind. Much. Often. He was wary. He asked himselfifhe

was being seduced, or ifshe was—takinga stupid chance, ifthat

was what was happening. But ifSaby wanted to end this up

with bed, he could agree with that, he’d been clever as longas

he could, and stupid was takingoverwith a vengeance. Wasn’t his fault. Wasn’t any way out ofthe trap he was in. Might as well enjoy anythingthat came before. There was,

tomorrow, inevitably the day after. And Austin. The dance ended. “Want to sit?” Saby asked. “What do you want?”

“Want to dance,” Saby said. So they did, a fast one this time. He remembered. Saby oated in his arms, threw changes and

embellishments into the steps and the turns he couldn’t match

—she was gorgeous. The light ofmagni ed stars sparked on

cut-away sleeves that uttered against herand away again, her

hair eclipsed the light like a swirl ofshadow—he kept up with

her, he took her cues, and when the music was done, she

laughed, breathless, and applauded, dragged him back to the

table when the music was done. Two fresh drinks were sittingthere. He didn’t think that was

a good idea. He sipped at his, out ofbreath, himself, with farless

work, and she sipped at hers, the same, until they’d both caught

their breaths and cured the dry mouths. The music had settled to a sanerpace. “Go again?” Saby

asked. “Sure,” he said. He hadn’t had all his drink. He wanted water,

but the waiter was invisible, and Saby was happy…a yes could

do that, it was easy, and it wasn’t with most people in his

experience—a new experience, she was, no negatives, hell, you

could get too easy, you could get to like making Saby happy. So

here he was, going out onto the oor, for one dance and then

two, slow and sane dancing, just wanderingback and forth. Saby leaned her head on his shoulder, and body moved against

body, her instigation: he didn’t want hercomplaining

tomorrow, telling her crewmates and hercaptain he’d had the

ideas and she hadn’t. Because maybe it wasn’t a come-ahead. He couldn’t gure,

and all the higher brain managed was a warn-o , a wait-see. Brain-base was on slow ignite, and feedback fromthe lower

body circuits was hitting warning, warning…

Music faded. Applause and sort-out was a reprieve. They

stared at each other in the giddy dark and… he wasn’t sure

whose initial motion it was… joined the drift back to tables and

drinks. They rested, they got at least the moisture in the drinks—he

wanted water, Saby said she did, and they tried to catch a

waiter, but the next dance was starting. They danced some

more, the drinks kept re llingevery time they got back to the

table, and by then they were immortal and impervious to

successive rounds. They danced, they drank, they danced until

the stars were blurry, until, in the endingofa slownumber,

while they moved in a slow, brain-buzzed drift, the speakers

announced shift-change, and last call. They got their breath. The waitershowed, with the

reckoning. He didn’t dare to ask. “Tab us to Corinthian,” Saby said, and showed her passport. “House percentage.—And bringsome water, please.”

They never got any water, just sips ofthe last re ll. And the

receipt and a chocolate. —v—

SO THE SECOND CHIEF NAVIGATOR wanted to board and talk. Capella

had to pass on an urgent piece ofnews. Capella had to talk to

him. Ofcourse Christian wasn’t in the vicinity. Like bloody hell, Austin thought, and it didn’t take a master

intellect, once Capella showed at the lock, to predict it had to do

with the dustup on the dock, that the dustup had a lot to do

with Christian asking extra security outside, and had a damned

lot to do with Christian’s scouringaround and makingmore

noise on the information market than Corinthian habitually

liked. Which, logic argued, might just drop a small amount offault

for the situation on the captain’s own plate, for not yanking

Christian’s authorizations and codes before they docked, but,

hell, he expected at least eighteen years worth ofmaturity out

ofthe twenty ship-years the kid had lived, he expected a degree

ofbasic sense ofconsequences, and he wouldn’t have sneaked

Hawkins out the lock, or involved Christophe Martin, which was

the start ofthe whole info-blowup. It could have racketed clear

to the stationmaster’s o ce ifhe hadn’t put a fast brake on it. Right now he could wring the youngfool’s neck, Christian knew

it, and damned right Capella came alone, soft-footingit into

lower main, trading on herconnections. You got a Fleet

navigator on quasi-permanent loan, all right, but you

consequently had to ask yourselfwhat that individual could

and would do ifyou came to cross-purposes, and you had to ask

yourselfa second time, when said individual immediately

locked on to your admittedly attractive mainday chiefo cer-

and-o spring, whether it was wholly as physical an attraction

as Christian’s young ego could assume it was. Warn him, yes. Repeated warnings. Like pouringcurrent into a non-conductor. Ofcourse Christian knew all that, Christian knew everything,

Capella was just a good time. Capella was intelligent, Capella was

good conversation. Capella screwed his brains into overload and Christian had

revelatory insights, oh, damned right he did. Heredity didn’t warn himat all. Paternal experience was

irrelevant. The wages ofsin walked down the corridorand

arrived face to face. “Sir,” Capella said. “There’s a spotterfor somebody out there. Guy named Patrick, that’s all I know.”

“The hell that’s all you know.” Worst-case became, in a single,

disastrous instant, the present case, and you didn’t know how

far it had proliferated: but Capella ifnot Christian knew why

she’d asked for a hearing—knew she’d let a situation slip over a

line past-which-not, by this unaccustomed and stark quiet of

manner. “Can we talk, sir?”

“We can talk,” he said. And maybe he should run scared of

her connections, but hell ifhe was goingto. “Do I assume

somebody’s screwed up?

Do I assume this involves your

solution to the problem?”

No blu. No inch. An arrogant stare. “IfI could have caught

him, yessir, I should’ve done, but I couldn’t account forthe four

with him and I didn’t want the cops.”

“So what’s your recommendation?”

“Lie in port. It’s not a sure bet Sprite’s coming in. It is a fact

that that something’s already here.”

“Who?

What?”

Forget getting all the truth out ofCapella. It took hera couple

ofbeats to censor. Or lie. “Renegade. Scavenger. Little stu. No threat to us. But he’ll

track us. He’ll nd the dump. He’ll kill us ifhe can…to shut me

up.”

“I can understand that motivation.”

Capella’s chin came up, eyes a clear try-me, and he gave it

back:

“You are an arrogant sumbitch. My son’s just a good lay, is he?

Good boy, a little dim, do anythingyou like on his watch?

Ordid

he scare you into this?”

Long, long silence in the corridor, and Capella’s nostrils

ared. “Didn’t think it would go this far.”

“Yeah.”

“Yes, sir, I fucked up. I considerably fucked up.”

He let the silence hang there. He’d never been sure what

captain or what interests Capella served. But it was down to

basics, now. When somethingthreatened the ship you were

on… it was suddenly damned basic; and he let that admission

hang there long enough for Capella to hear it herself. “But in some measure,” he said ever so quietly, so she would

hear it, “your friends are somethingwe can deal with outside

Pell system. In some measure, you’re up to that, aren’t you?”

He’d never challenged how she handled navigation, or herother

faculties. It was the closest pass he intended to make to that

touchy matter. He challenged hernerve. And herskill. And

waited for his answer. “I think—” she began to equivocate. It wasn’t ordinary for

her. “I know,” he said, cutting hero. “I know. Period. IfSprite gets

here, what action do you suggest, second chiefnavigator, to

prevent a search ofour records?”

“It’s our deck, sir.”

“That’s ne. We can lose dockingprivileges pendingour

release ofthose records. This isn’t the War, second chief

navigator. We may be necessary to the Fleet, but ourlittle

hauling capacity isn’t necessary to Pell Station, and ourbrother

and sister merchanters aren’t just apt to rally round Corinthian

in a quarrel with other merchanters, does that occurto you,

second chiefnavigator?”

A Fleet navigator wasn’t an entity to piss o. You agreed to

take on the inevitable Gift from the Fleet and you agreed not to

ask questions; you agreed that was grounds for very severe

action in certain quarters. In e ect, you took a tickingbomb

aboard, and you hoped to hell nothingever set it o : there was

nothing but Capella’s personal inclinations and physical

restraint to keep said navigatorfrom walkingout on that dock,

nding this Patrick, and turningcoat in ve minutes. It was a

hell ofa chance to take. But it had gotten, thanks to Capella and Christian and Marie

Hawkins, down to a similarhell ofan alternative. “Yes, sir,” Capella said, equally quietly, “it does occur to me. But ifwe don’t get Hawkins back…we’re still screwed, no

matter whether Sprite comes in here or not, which isn’t proven

they will, sir, that’s my thought.”

“I am so glad, I am so very glad we agree on that, second

chief. But take it from me that we are going to board call

tomorrow on schedule, that this is the course we’re taking, and

that, while I have thought ofspacingChristian, I expect his ass

in that airlock, safe, sober, and in your company. Afterthat, I

expect your professional talents to be on, period, capital letter,

On. Can we agree on this, second chief?”

No blink, just analysis, like the face she wore on the bridge. “Yes, sir,” she said. “Good. That’s real good. Because I appreciate the seriousness

ofwhat’s happened out there. And I value o cers who do. Ahead ofmy son, at this moment. Do you copy that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s all, then.”

Capella nodded a courtesy, turned with a touch more

precision than the habit ofthe crew, and walked…you could see

the military in the backbone, the way you could see hermove

around her station on the bridge, economy ofeverything. Damn-all worst woman in the available universe for

Christian to take to bed. Marie Hawkins was safer. Much. He’d said, just now,—he was sure Capella had heard him:

Choose a side. Get the hell to them, or take orders fromme. It remained to see, it did, how much she’d ll Christian in—

how much she’d dare ll Christian in, ifshe meant to stay on

Corinthian—because Christian wasn’t goingto be an automatic

choice to succeed to the captaincy, not now, not since Viking,

and damned well not since the stunt he’d pulled here…was still

pulling, staying clear ofhim, not comingin to report, himself. There were times to revise priorities, there were times to be sure

messages got through… you didn’t hand o to a bedmate not

even remotely connected to the crew, ifChristian had even

made the decision that brought Capella in to report what

couldn’t go over com. He didn’t take it for a given. Not now. Not any longer. And

that touched a personal investment he hadn’t thought he had in

Beatrice’s unasked-for o spring. It a ected him. It made him

personally, painfully angry. He stood there, asking himselfwhy he gave a damn, and

since when. —vi—

LONG TRIP THROUGH THE LIFT system, alone for some ofthe trip, but

they didn’t talk—too many drinks, probably, Tomdecided, a

headache coming. And an inevitable reckoning, tomorrow, the prospect of

which, now that the music had died, and Saby’s mannerhad

gone remote and still, didn’t sustain the mood for bed-sharing. He wasn’t up to intricate personal politics. He wished he was

gone enough to skip the excuses and the assurances, just to go

face-down and maybe get some sleep that might, in the face ofa

not very pleasant tomorrow, desert him all too easily. They reached the Aldebaran’s doors. Saby screwed the access

code twice, couldn’t nd hermanual key card, and swore, going

through all her pockets. “I’m sorry,” she kept saying. “Damn.”

“It’s all right,” he found himselfsaying. “Maybe we could

phone Corinthian’s board.” It could only, he told himself, mean a

shorter station stay. “Central’d have to put us through.”

“Oh, hell,” Saby said. “No. Let me think. It’s eight-six-one…”

“Five?” He’d watched her code it a dozen times. “It’s not

bottom row.”

“Eight-six-one… You’re screwingme up. Eight-six, eight-six,

eight-six—”

“Five.”

“It’s not ve.”

“Eight-six- ve-one—”

“Two-one. Eight-six-two-one-nine-nine-one.” Saby leaned on

the wall and coded it into the pad. The light turned green, the

latch opened, they were in, and the same code worked all the

way to the room. The card, gure it, was on the table. Right by the door. “Damn,” Saby said, and took it and put it in the coveralls she

probably was going to wear tomorrow. She looked tired and out

ofsorts, and went to the bath and ran one ice-water. And a

second one. “Cheers,” she said, bringing him his. He was sitting on his bed. She was standing. They drank the

ice-water they hadn’t gotten. Saby laughed, then, tired-

sounding. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Just a thought.”

“Fools that trust Corinthians?”

A frown. “No.”

Sexual tension was gone, no echoes but a remote regret it

hadn’t, couldn’t, have lasted. Maybe, he thought, that was her

rueful laughter. He asked, cool and curious, “—Were you

supposed to seduce me?”

“No. Not. Nada.” She squatted down, peered up at his face,

bleary-eyed herself, and shook at his knee, an attention-getting. “Tom, it’s going to be all right. Believe me.”

“Yeah.—Truth. Who really got the tab tonight?”

“The captain. Cross my heart.” She did. Almost fell on her

rear. She didn’t look like a conspirator. “What?

Fatherly generosity?”

“Christian shouldn’t have done what he did. That’s all.” She

patted his knee and got up, turned out the light, then, before

she wobbled over to herbed and threw back the covers,

evidently at the limits ofhersobriety. They never had gotten

undressed together—just took the boots o. Shared a room. She

sat down in the night-light and kicked her imsy shoes o , one

foot and the other—he shoved his own o and hauled back his

sheets. Horizontal for eight hours seemed very attractive right

now. So, with regret, did the woman crawlinginto covers. Pretty

backside, when he looked that direction. Pretty rest ofher. Not

highly coordinated, getting herblanket over herfully-dressed

rump. “Damn nice guy, Tom. You are. Wish you were just a little,

little bit not so nice.”

God, now, now, she invited him, when his skull had started

to fog from the inside and the rest ofhim hadn’t a desire for

anything but face down in the pillow. But, hell, Bed Manners, his Polly spacer used to say, and

taught him ways at least to see she got to sleep. So he hauled himselfup o the mattress, came overto sit on

her bed. She hadn’t left much room at the edge and she was

fading, but he’d made the trip—he took herhand in his—pretty

hand, limp hand. Fingers twitched. Eyes opened. He leaned over and kissed hermostly on the mouth. Her

ngers twitched again. He gured he’d done his bit for

politeness and told himselfbed was waitingon the otherside of

the room, but… but she was so damn pretty, she was so damn

crazy, he just sat, her hand in his, thinkinghowwith his Polly

girl you didn’t need much to gure what she was thinking. But with Saby… with Saby…

Hell, he thought. He was physically attracted, he was in the

mood and now she was zeroed out. He shifted down to the end ofthe bed, not too gently, hoping

to rouse a little attention by quasi-accident. Didn’t work. He

wanted her. Still. And worse. He grabbed herankle underthe

blanket. Shook her foot. Hard. Not a twitch. He sat there a moment, thinkingit was a hell of

a thing to do to a guy. But ifhe woke her out ofthis sound a sleep she was goingto

come out ofit mad. Which wasn’t the reaction he wanted. The bed was wide enough. It was the last night before board-

call, and he didn’t think he was goingto sleep, now, he was just

going to lie there, wide awake, and worry. But hell, too, ifhe was goingto turn up in somebody’s bed

uninvited. There was a rude word for that. So he got up and

headed for the bath and a—he glanced at the clock—an 0558

hours shower. “Tom.”

Now she was awake. She sat up on an elbow. The glitz blouse

sparked blue in the night-light. “You want to?”

“Want to, what?” He was in a mood to be di cult. Now she

wasn’t. She reached out a glitter-patterned arm, a mottlingof

shadow and light. “Do it, you know.”

“Were you asleep?”

“No,” she said, to his surge oftemper. “Curious.”

“Curious, hell!

I’m not interested!”

“I’ve got a ship to protect!”

Loose logic always threw him. He got as far as the bathroom

door. And stopped. And looked back. “From what?

From me?

I’m not the one walking the corridors

in the deep dark, thanks, I’ve been screwed, or something like it,

by one ofyour night-walkingshipmates, and nobody asked my

permission.”

“Shit,” Saby said, and sat upright. “You’re kidding.”

“It’s no damn joke. I’m not attered.—I prefer to be awake,

thank you, the same courtesy I give anybody else.”

“Shit, shit, shit.” It was dismay he heard. Saby got out ofbed.”

’Scuse me. It’s not me that did it. I knowwho. Damn her. I’m

sorry.”

That was ne. So it wasn’t Saby crawlingthe corridors. He

never had thought so. And he didn’t need the shower, now, but

he wasn’t inclined to sleep, now, any time soon, and the bath

was an excuse not to deal with Saby. “Tom.”

“I’m not in the mood, now. Forget it.”

“Tom. Wait. Talk.”

“What’s the di erence?

I’mgoingback. Nothingin hell else I

can do. You win. You’ve got all the answers.”

“It’s not going to be like it was.”

“Like what?

Shanghaied o my ship?

Is that goingto

change?”

“Other things can change. You can work into crew. The

allowances are huge, I mean, it’s not just the captain pickingup

the tab, the hired-crew lives real well. You couldn’t do betteron

Sprite.”

Some things maybe you didn’t want to question. Some things

could be real trouble to question. But he was in it, deep, and

deeper. “What’s Corinthian haul?”

“No di erent than Sprite.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

“We sell, we buy, no damn di erence—”

“Then where?

Is that the question?

Where do you haul it to?

Can we handle that one?”

Silence, the other side ofthe dark. Then: “Ask Austin.”

“Austin, is it?”

“Most ofthe time. To us. To regular crew. You could do what

you trained to do—”

“On a damn pirate?”

“Just a hauler. Nothing we’re ashamed of. We’re damn proud

ofour ship. We’ve reason to be proud.”

He wanted to believe that. He had no idea howmany dicings

oflogic it might take to believe it didn’t matter…who you

traded with, or for what, or with what blood on it. Silence again. And dark. Then: “I’ve already said more than I

should. Aboard the ship, I’ll tell you. You don’t talk in

sleepovers. Some stations bug rooms. Pell doesn’t—that we

know of. But still—”

He’d never heard that. But no station had everhad a motive

to bug Sprite crew’s rooms. And it didn’t change anything. “Yeah,” he said, “so the pay’s good. That says a lot.”

“I’m not a criminal. Austin isn’t.”

“That’s not the rumor.”

“I sleep at night.”

“Is that a testimony to your character?”

“You don’t know our business, you don’t knowa damn thing. You’re assuming.”

“I’m going back because I can’t go to the cops without get

ting stuck on this station. That’s all you need. That’s as much as

you can buy, I don’t care what else you’re selling.”

Another silence. A thunderous, longone before Saby

returned to her bed, shadow in shadow, a rustlingin the dark. She sat down. He couldn’t see detail by the night-light, it was

too close to her. He couldn’t see herface, whethershe was just

mad, or hurt. Didn’t need to have said ‘selling.’ Wrongword. Real wrong

word. He’d been on the receivingend ofwords too often not to

feel it racket through his nervous system. “Sorry,” he said. “I can believe you. Not him.”

Silence. A long time. He didn’t want the solitude ofthe bath,

now, but he didn’t think he was goingto sleep. Still, she didn’t

move. Not for as long as he waited. “Saby, dammit, I’m sorry.”

“Sure. No problem.” The voice wobbled. Unfair. “Go to bed. I

said no sex. I don’t need the damn favor, all right?”

“Saby. This is stupid.”

“Fine.”

“My father told you to get me in bed?”

“No!”

Wrong step, again. He couldn’t sleep with Saby hating his

guts. He wasn’t going to sleep. She was going to talk to him and

calm down. “I liked tonight, Saby. For God’s sake, I did. I had a

good time.” He couldn’t restrain the barb. “When papa lets me

out ofthe brig I’d like to do it again, somewhere.”

Long pause. “There’s still tonight.”

“I’m not in the damn mood!

God!”

Another watery silence. “Dammit,” he said, “I’m worried.—I’m scared, all right?

I’m

making the wrong choice, I’m doingsomethingstupid, maybe I

should stay here and deal with the cops, maybe it’s betterI get

stranded for the rest ofmy life, I don’t know!”

“Tom.”

“God,—fuck o , will you?”

He hadn’t meant to say that. He was rattled. He was

cornered. It was six in the damn morningofthe day he had to

go back or go nowhere for the rest ofhis life. He saw the shadow lie down, heard the rustle ofsheets

drawn up. “Saby.”

Silence. “Saby, dammit.” He went overto the bed. He sat down on the

edge, shook her foot. Jerk ofthat foot, out ofhis vicinity. “No favors. I’m sorry. Forget it.”

He sat there a moment, obdurate against the silence. He tried

to think how to patch it. Found the foot again and patted it, a

lump under the covers. She didn’t move. “It was an experience,” he said, unwillingto break it o in her

angry silence. “It’s been a good time.” More silence. But no jerk

away from him. “It’s just over, is all. Bills come due. Don’t know

ifI can handle this one.”

Foot moved. Second one joined it. Wiggled toes against his

leg, once, twice. He patted it, too. “Get some sleep.” He started to get up. “Tom.” Saby reached out an arm. “Tom,—”

“Don’t play games. Go to sleep.”

“It’s not games, dammit. I can’t talk to you, I can’t make

sense.”

Still upset. She’d found his arm, he found herknee. He sat

there, just glad he’d made some kind ofpeace, moved his hand,

she moved hers, a clumsy, mutual peace-makingthat wasn’t,

then, only that, he wasn’t sure ifit was him, orher, goingpast

that, but they were past that, herarm slidingup, his sliding

down, bodies shifting—

“Tom—”

He wasn’t thinking, then. Lowerbrain took over. His hand

moved, found a hip, whatever, amongthe sheets—mouth found

mouth, hands moved at liberty, knees looked for places to be,

amid a tangle ofcovers, and covers grew more tangled, bodies

more urgent, brain going lower by the second. Knew he was in

trouble. He’d never wanted sex as much as nowand he hadn’t

even solved the damn sheet-tangle. She was doingbetterwith

his shirt. He started on hers. Yes-no was out the airlock. Decompression. He was breathing, that was all he could swear

to. They were one creature, with the damn sheets somewhere

involved, but clothes went, buttons, zips, whatever was in the

way—went, until breathing itselfwas in jeopardy. Nothing logical, no cautions, no stop-waits, Saby made him

crazy and he didn’t know why it was di erent. He arrived, blind-deaf-red ashes in deep dark, no breath at

all until he sank into a sweating, gaspingtangle ofsheets and

skin, Saby’s ngers wandered up and down his neck—she didn’t

say anything, wanted more, maybe, than he could do, and it was

going to be awhile, for him, but not for her, so he made love to

her, careful, oh, so careful, afraid he’d been too rough—didn’t

want to hurt anybody, neverhad, just everybody trapped him,

everybody had their own agenda, and Saby, latest and least

involved jailer he had, just wanted more—was that news?

She didn’t say anything, the dark told him nothinghis hands

didn’t nd out, but she had a second and, quickly after, a third

trip, holding to him, saying nally, oh, God, oh, God, overand

over, didn’t know ifit was all right, but Saby was havinga good

trip out ofit, that was all he picked up, and he knew Austin had

hurt Marie, but he wasn’t hurtingSaby, she just held tighterto

him and wanted until he wondered howlongshe could go on

and whether he could do damage—but: The last night, kept

racketing through his skull, and: Last chance. ’Nuf, she said

once, and, oh, God, but her hands and herbody were still saying

something else, after which…afterwhich he hit that quick,

mind-numbing ashpoint. Lowerbrain took control again, and

the night warped around him, long, long, release—

Then nowhere for a while, oatingin that chaos-place where

time didn’t run the same, ordirectionally, oranything, hadn’t

the Voice said it to him?

He went there, every which direction,

he didn’t think what he was doing, sensation just Was, and still

echoed. Came to with a body draped overhim, that waked and stirred

when he moved a leg that had fallen asleep. Body burrowed

against him and held on, keepinghim warm against the air…

didn’t know who it was for a moment, didn’t knowwhere he

was, but he remembered, then, it was Saby, and he couldn’t see

the rest ofhis life in front ofhim. It was all dark, all blank, after

where he was. “You awake?” Saby asked him. “Yeah,” he said, and she moved overhim, payback, he

thought, sure he’d been too rough, but she wasn’t—he kept

expecting it and not admittingit, and she grew scary and

strange to him as the night-walker—or the walker wasn’t ever

who he thought. Maybe nothingon the ship was what it

seemed, nothing safe, not his life, not his freedomfrom kinship

to them, not his sanity, not since he’d gone out in that

warehouse and made jump with Corinthian. His anger wasn’t

there anymore, his fear wasn’t, Saby’d taken it all inside, left

just the no-place in front ofhim, the dark that wrapped him

around and invited him, dared him, wanted him…

Saby pulled him in, Saby held on to him, Saby said she’d

make everything all right: she was down to promises, like his

Polly crewwoman, who always said she liked him, never that

she loved, and he wouldn’t have believed that, anyway—it

wasn’t in his universe, wasn’t here, just… Saby, Saby, in the

corridor, on Sprite… Saby, pushing him away…

“What’s the matter?” Saby asked, and passed a hand overhis

shoulder, but he’d gone shivery and a little spaced, and asking

himselfwhere his mind was, that he made that jump, Saby to

Marie. Bad navigation, crazy stu she’d called up in him. It

made him ashamed, and scared again, as ifhe’d crossed some

strange space where identities and faces changed, oating

lights, like the chaos around the night-walker. He twitched, bad jump, quick intake ofbreath, couldn’t help

it, he was falling for a second. But Saby had him, Saby brought him back with a pass ofher

hand across his forehead, down his face. “You all right?” Saby asked. That was a trap. Serious trap. If

you believed she gave a damn…

Ifyou thought Marie cared…ifyou ever thought that…

“Tom?

Hey. Hey. Bad dream?”

He drew a breath, let it go, relieved Marie had retreated from

conscious level. Didn’t want to think about Marie, she got into

dreams and they turned in strange directions…Marie held him

close in the dark. He was eight, maybe nine, too old to sit on

anybody’s lap, the lights had cycled o , but Marie was in a mood

to talk, and she held him and rocked him and told him about

rape, and murder. Other kids had fairytales for bedtime, but he got this story. He felt mama’s arms hard and angry…and heard about sex and

pain…

“Tom?

For God’s sake,—”

Air was cold. He felt chilled. Sheets whispered and slid. The lights went on, dim though

they were. She just looked, that was all. He didn’t have anything

to say. He didn’t want to work himselfin deeper than he was. She reported to his father, no question. She knew he was a hazard to the ship. He could do anything

he wanted in bed, she didn’t mind, but it didn’t change him

being Hawkins. “Station’s no good place,” she said. “You don’t want to be

here.”

Jerked him back to the real choices, she did. He was that

transparent. Ifshe saw more than that, she might be scared,

herself. He brushed her arm. “I’m not crazy.” And then—beingthe

sumbitch Marie said he was, he couldn’t help it: “What’s the

report you give my father?”

Dark eyes—pretty eyes—didn’t even inch. “Space Christian. Keep you.”

“Yeah?”

She didn’t amplify. Her eyes shadowed. He’d brought the lie

into the light. He moved his hand on herarm, deliberate

distraction. Went further down, onto herbare leg, warm skin,

warm color… there were no secrets he hadn’t explored, no

promises left, no lies. Her hand settled on his. “Tink said you were all right.”

He’d forgotten the garden. The garden and Tink and Saby on

the path. It came back, with its own logic, that didn’t make

damn sense, that never had. Tink liked him. Tink said…be good

to Saby. Or Tink would break his neck. Tink knew. Tink understood he was a danger, the same as

Saby did. He liked Tink. It wasn’t damned fair, the two ofthem,

against one guy, walking him down that green path, making

him feel… welcome. Part of. With. Included. Hurt, now. Hurt was when you got your feelings involved. Hurt was what inevitably happened, when you let yourself

believe somebody wanted anythingbut theirown agenda. Christian had conned him. NowSaby had conned him, damn

her, leave Tink out ofit—Tink probably trusted her, too. She laydown with him again, leavingthe lights on. She

promised him it was all right, she rested herhead on his

shoulder. And maybe there was a guard outside. Maybe they’d

bugged the room. Maybe they’d done that days ago, and he

wouldn’t get the chance to walk to the ship. Maybe they’d just

come in after him and beat hell out ofhim rst,—but what

could he do?

—vii—

WASN’T THE LAST TIME they made love, all the same. They skipped

breakfast, slept-in, and whichever one ofthem would wake,

they agreed, had leave to wake the otherby whatever means. It was crazy. It was a way for Saby to keep his mind o the

board-call, a way he could physically, mentally, blot it out. He

knew he was using and being used, at that point, but hell, was it

new?

and neither ofthem minded. “Did I hurt you?” he got the nerve to ask, and Saby said no,

but Saby had a motive to lie, a lot ofpossible motives—maybe

she didn’t call for help because she wanted the favor points with

Austin, maybe she wanted not to need help. But he was careful

—his Polly girl had taught him a lot about what made herhappy. His other lovers had nevercomplained and never left before

their board-calls or his. He was still rattled. He couldn’t understand howin very hell

he’d ashed on Marie like that, or what had scared him so about

it, until Saby made him ash on Marie again—she cuddled up

tight with him, after, and pulled technique on him: that was

how he thought ofit—clearthat she was no novice. Saby said,

Lie still, and he drifted in such a self-destructive funk that he

told himselfWhat the hell and wondered what she could do

solo. No novice at all, Saby was, probably the one they sent out to

snag guys in. She’d tell themall she loved them, and they signed

on, signature that gave a ship legal rights to recoverstrays. But,

all right, it beat a press gang. Had to admit…

“God!”

“Easy, easy, easy.” Saby’s mouth stole the rest ofhis breath,

and their daylight-dark exploded in red and blue awhile, but as

a means to wait out the board-call, it was still…betterthan

sanity. “You could share quarters with me,” Saby murmured against

his ear. “Just clear it with Austin—” Hands did things elsewhere

that made him short ofbreath and truly not focussed on his

father and their feud. Or even remotely on logic. “God, I want

you, Tom, I never wanted anybody, I never, never found anybody

—just sleepover stu , you know, never with crew, I always said

it was bad business, relationships aboard, just stupid, but I

could, I would, this time, I really, really could, Tom, I want you.”

“Shit-all.” His language, like his morals, had gone. “You can

visit me in the brig.”

“I know you’re computers, I’m in ops, you had any

experience?”

He deliberately misunderstood. “Thought it showed.”

It won him a punch on the arm. A gentle one. Saby leaned

over him in the dark they’d kept, longafter lights had cycled to

day. Her hair brushed his face. “Don’t be an ass.”

“It’s hard.”

“Don’t be one to me, anyway, I’m serious, Tom.”

It had been fun, right down to ‘serious.’ His heart started

increasing beats. Outright fear. He didn’t knowwhat to do with

a statement like that. He didn’t knowwhere to take it, except to

agree and keep his mouth shut and showup at Corinthian’s dock

on time. Or grab the perpetrator with both arms, roll herunderand

kiss her until she wasn’t askingany more questions, because he

wasn’t good at lying—IfSaby wanted to help him, yes, he

wanted the help. Lie for it, cheat for it, all right, the coin she

dealt inwasn’t unpleasant at all. And he didn’t know, once he

thought ofthat, where that betrayal t on Marie’s scale of

things, whether he was victimor victimizer—he just didn’t

want to hurt or be hurt by anybody, didn’t want to believe

anybody. Once you did that…

Once you did that, then you just walked helplessly, stupidly

into what people did for fun or for pro t. The wake-up alarm went o , nally. Autoservice from the

front desk said, robot-idiot that it was, Time to get up, time to

get up, time to get up… until Saby reached out a hand and killed

it. Morning light came up, autoed, cold truth afterthe night

they’d had. He could envision where he was going, back to the

brig. Which he didn’t mind. He wanted Capella to let him alone. He wanted to go to the

galley every day and deal with Tink and Jamal, he didn’t want to

be opted anywhere else. He just wanted a long, rational life

where nobody would botherhim—he didn’t think that was too

much to ask ofthe man responsible for his existence, seeing

that Austin surely wanted his own life uncomplicated, too. Tink

would swear to his good behavior. Tink could do that. There

were people everybody instinctively seemed to like, and Tink

was one ofthose, the same way he was one ofthe otherkind. “Can you nd Tink?” he ventured asking, when they were

dressing; and when he knew Saby was about to make the

inevitable phone call. “You think Tink could walk in with us?

You think Tink would mind?”

Saby looked a little surprised, maybe…a little perplexed. “Tom,” she said, “everything’s goingto be all right. I promise.”

Creative no, in other words. Con job. “Yeah,” he said, “all right.”

Tink wouldn’t tolerate him gettingbeaten up, wouldn’t

tolerate any treachery, Tink was pure as his sugar owers,

uncomplicated. Corinthian folk could sell him out. Produce fake

papers. Say he had a contract with them, orscrew him in some

means—or just do the mach’ business on him, showhim not to

run, after this. All right, lesson taken: he’d been hit before, he

could survive it. They never believed you got it intellectually,

the mach’ types didn’t. And Austin was one oftheir kind. Maybe so was he. Genetics

at work. Maybe it was why he got in trouble. “Tom.—You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Sure.” But he was a rotten liar when he was rattled. And he

was rattled—and short on sleep and mildly hungover. “Sure, I

believe you.”

“Tom…” Whatever Saby was goingto say, she didn’t, then,

just took on a hurt look. He didn’t knowwhy. Not exactly. He

guessed he’d been rude, he’d burst the bubble offalse trust. “Why in hell’d you…?” she started to ask. But she didn’t nish that either, just looked upset with him,

or the situation, or somethingmaybe he’d led herto think. “I’m sorry,” he said. He meant it. Saby’d been all right. “We

don’t need Tink. It’s ne.”

“You think they’re going to pull something, don’t you?” She

sounded surprised. As ifit couldn’t possibly occur to her. “You

think this whole thing’s a set-up.”

“Hey.” He waved a hand, Stop, enough. “No problem.”

“Shit.” She jammed her hands into herbelt and looked at him

sidelong, from under a fall ofbangs, as ifshe was re-adding

everything. “I said I wouldn’t run. You didn’t have to do anything. But

thanks. It was nice.”

Her mouth opened, her head came up, she would have hit

him with the back ofher hand. Hard. Except he blocked that

one with his arm. He wasn’t moved to hit her. But she was mad,

furious with him, and he didn’t knowwhich ofseveral things

she was mad at. “Don’t hit,” he said, “I don’t like it.”

“For God’s sake…”

Another censorship. Her eyes watered. Herchin quivered. He’d made her mad, but he couldn’t read it, couldn’t react to

what didn’t make sense. He could defend himselfifshe hit him

again, he wasn’t going to take that from her, but he equally well

wasn’t going to get into personal arguments this close to the

end—he was just scared, was all, scared ofhertears, scared of

him getting mad—he wanted to like her, he wanted so much to

like her, and that was the most dangerous thing…

“Where did you get the notion,” she asked him, “that I didn’t

give a damn?

Where did you think I lied to you?

Tom,—”

He panicked, backed up when she reached, she’d gotten to

him that badly, and she just stared at him, confused, hurt, he

couldn’t tell. Maybe it was even real, but he’d thought that too

many times. It wasn’t reasonable it could be true now, when he

didn’t even know her, except she liked roses and co ee and blue

glitter-stu …

“I didn’t lie to you,” she said. “I didn’t need to lie to you. Do

you think I did?”

She hit right on it, and the lump wouldn’t go away. He was

scared ofthat little, little step she was asking, everythinghe’d

tried to give away, too long, too desperately, until he’d learned

strong people didn’t want it and weak ones drank you dry. But he’d hurt Saby. Dammit, it wasn’t fair ofherto be mad—

he was mad, and hurt, that she was mad. “I like you,” Saby said. “I want you to bunk with me. I didn’t

think, I didn’t think I was, like, pressuringyou…”

“You’re not.”

“Why Tink?

Why do you trust him?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and that was the truth. “I don’t

know.”

—viii—

FIGURE THEY’D BE FIRST IN or last in. But among the rst, it turned

out—a mortal relief, the phone call fromSaby advising

Corinthian they were leaving the Aldebaran. “Can you be there

at customs?” Saby asked, tacit reminder there was a customs

problem. Easy x, in fact. “Boy called,” Austin said to the agent at the

kiosk out front ofCorinthians ramp, and handed him the Union

passport. “Lot activity ofin and out the ship, he went out with

the group—o cer had the passports—”

The agent thumbed the passport. Ran the mag-strip forthe

visa, and it ashed Valid. “Checked through.”

“Yeah, he was supposed to get it frommy son, something

came up, he ran o on that problem…he’s twenty-three,

scatter-brain, we’d been trying to nd him to get it to him—this

morning, he panics and phones ourcom, and now it’s a

problem.”

“Yeah. Kids. I got two. Twelve and sixteen. Four-room

apartment.”

“God.”

“Kid coming in?”

“On his way.”

“I’ll have it here, no problem.” The agent put the passport

under the desk. They talked about otherthings, the economy,

both sides ofthe line, the entertainments on Pell, the free-port

situation… for a ship’s captain at board-call, he was

uncommonly leisured; forhimself, with strangers, he was

uncommonly conversational, but fromwhere he stood, talking,

he could see the whole dockside behind the customs line, a dim,

utilitarian deckage, a neon-lit frontage ofshops behind the two

girders that were part ofPell’s main structure. They talked about kids. He tried to imagine. About wives. He

censored his arrangement with Beatrice. A couple of Downers

waddled past, bound forsomewhere. Transports lumbered

along… Pell government was still talkingabout that transport

rail system, the agent said, but the transport companies and the

warehouses on Pell liked the status quo, on which they made

money, and detested the rail, in which they endlessly debated

all the share-plans the station could draft. A couple ofcrew showed up, the early ones, Michaels and

Travis, with slightly startled looks to see the captain standing

waiting. “Captain,” Michaels said. “Need a word.” And Michaels

diverted him aside from customs longenough to ask ifhe

wanted anything. Michaels had basic good sense, in the

essentials ofdiscreet trouble-handling, and he would have left

Michaels to take his watch down here, ifit were slightly less

explosive. “I’ll handle it,” he told Michaels. “Just start the count. Develop a board glitch, we don’t display until we’re on last

boarders.”

“Done,” Michaels said. A group ofeleven came in, techs, a couple ofdockers…

Corinthian’s monetary and liberty-time bonus for arrivals in the

rst hour ofboard-call got no few takers, but still, spacers were

spacers, liberty-loves were hard to leave, and expect the real

rush right down at the bottomofthat rst hour, and the last

just right before the deadline, mostly the dockers, in that group,

a few D&D’s that took some dealingwith, but ifSabrina didn’t

make it in the next quarter hour, she was goingto nd herselfat

the end ofa long, long…

A closed taxipulled up close, braked, and opened a door. No

banker, no o cial got out, just, improbably—three Corinthian

spacers, one Sabrina, in herusual fancy-business, Tink, in his

bar-crawling gear, down to the bare arms and the tattoos and

the earrings, and ofcourse his threadbare du e and the bagfuls

ofedibles. Last out, God, TomHawkins, sudden fashion queen,

blue skintights, fancy black sweater, mod haircut, and a

designer carry-bag, purple and orange—taste would out,

evidently. Saby’d said he ‘needed a few things.’

He set hands on hips and watched this apparition walk up to

customs… got a questioninglook from the agent, who surely

couldn’t do a con dent ID on Hawkins’ new side-fall haircut. He

nodded, the agent pulled out the passport, delivered a sober

lecture to Hawkins, probably about beingsure about the

passport, Hawkins nodded, seemed dutifully impressed and

sober, and the agent gave the whole group a wave-through…

you bought it at Pell, customs wasn’t interested, unless you just

radiated shady deals. And nobody could knowhowto rate this

taxi-load. Hawkins and Saby cleared customs, while Tink was still

chattering at the agent, o eringhim a candy or something,

Tink was a walking sugar- x. Meanwhile the passport headed

for Hawkins’ pocket. Austin held out his hand. Smiled tightly. Hawkins stopped so abruptly, evidently just nowseeinghim,

that Sabrina ran into him. Austin crooked a nger.—Hawkins meekly came and, to his

outheld hand, delivered the passport. “Stow your stu with Saby,” Austin said then, as they

walked, as he pocketed the passport. “Log in with ops, no word

to anybody what happened, do you copy?

And I’ll see you in my

o ce thirty minutes to undock, on the mark, Mr. Hawkins.—

Saby, you get him there.”

—ix—

IT WAS HIM, DAMMIT, WITH Saby, and Tink, Austin was waitingthe

other side ofthe barrier, and Christian had not a question in his

mind. “He knew, damn him!

He knew all along!

Damn her!

Damn

her!”

“Damnation to go around,” Capella said, leaningagainst the

store-front. “We’ve still otherstrays to watch.”

Redirection. In Capella, suspect it. “You knew. You damned well knew!” He was furious. And

Capella, having talked to Austin aboard, havinghad a chance to

ask questions… came back with a grim look, a, “He’s keepingthe

schedule,” and, to his, “Why?”—“Thinks Hawkinses are as

serious a threat, evidently.”

Capella swore she didn’t, personally, think Sprite was on a

scale with their other problem. But the taxiwas gone from the

customs area, Tom Hawkins was walkingup the ramp with

Saby, who, dammit, owed him some loyalty, beinghis cousin,

being who’d brought him up—

And it looked to him like a problem, a major problem,

Hawkins in his new clothes and his new haircut—he hadn’t

recognized him. He’d thought he was some better-class recruit

than they even usually got, somebody Saby had recommended. But, no, it was a surplus, connivingbrother, whose clothes

alone cost more than the 200c he’d been carrying—who hadn’t

had a passport, who’d had no way to lay his hands on his

without Corinthian’s complicity; who hadn’t had a credit card…

ifFamily Boy had money stashed in banks the otherside ofthe

line, he couldn’t have accessed it without ID. Somebody else’s money. Corinthian money. “Austin’s damn clearance,” he said. “Look at him!”

“Looks pretty good, actually,” Capella said. “And Saby. My, my,

my.”

“You did know!”

“I know now. Give up the quarrel, Chrissy-lad, it’s over, it’s

won, this is why papa Austin said what he said.”

“About what?”

“Just that he’d made up his mind. That Sprite was more

threat than one Mr. Hawkins. Damn right. He had this one tied

up and wrapped around his high-credit nger, just yank the

string.”

It didn’t make sense to him, except that Austin had played

him for a fool deliberately, Austin had spent whatever it took to

make him look a fool not only to Saby and Tink, who were in on

it, but in front ofCapella, who might have been under orders, in

front ofthe whole crew—people laughingbehind his back,

enjoying the joke. He looked at Capella, searchingfor any hint ofthat laughter

at his expense. He couldn’t nd any hint ofit, but Capella wasn’t

easy to catch, no expression at all. A handful ofdockers arrived, Gracie Greene and Metz, Dan

Blue, Tarash and Deecee, trouble, all ofthem, he watched them

walk up to customs, and his gut was in an upheaval, thinking…

they were going to hear about it, everybody who’d been out in

the search after his brother had to have known, at some point,

and here he stood, playing the fool, while his brotherwent into

the ship on his own terms. “Fuck it!” he said, and grabbed Capella by the sleeve, heedless

ofsafety. “It’s a couple of hours till ail-aboard, there’s a bar,

there’s a restaurant…”

“I thought we were economizing,” Capella said. “Hell!

I’ve got a k or so left, what do I fuckingcare?

Fucking

smart-ass Family Boy, on Austin’s fuckingcredit, while I spend

everything I’ve got?

Fuck it, fuck it all, let’s blowit, everything

—”

“Chrissy,—”

“I said everything!

What do I need?

A fatherwho fucking

cares what I do?

A cousin with one shred ofbasic loyalty?

partner who doesn’t go screwingmy brother?

What’s the

matter with me, Pella, what’s the matter with me?”

Capella delayed to look at him. Long. “Got all your parts,”

Capella said. “Things work.”

“Don’t be a damned ass!”

“Maybe you better work with what you got,” Capella said,

“what you stand in when you shower, hmn?

It’s all anybody’s

got.”

Philosophy wasn’t Capella’s longsuit. She threw it at him

now and again, she whispered it in his ear when the ship made

jump, she confused him when he was mad, and blew it o ,

which nobody else could do*.

“Dance,” Capella said, “is a lot nicerthan lookingforstray

brothers. Couple drinks, a few dances—longand dark after,

Chris-person. Long and deep and dark. I’d dance, myself.”

“You’re crazed!

You’re absolutely crazed!”

“It’s my calling. But there’s now, and thereafter’s such quiet,

Chris-ti-an. Hear it. Listen to it. Don’t waste time. It’s so scarce.”

“Don’t con me!

You knew, you knew what my fatherwas

doing!”

“Guessed, maybe. Didn’t know.” She hooked his arm with

hers. “Last trip ofall, maybe. There’s somethingin the dark, I

don’t know where.”

“Sprite?”

“Maybe several somethings. They may take me back, Chris-

person. I don’t know. There’s only now. This liberty’s been a

bitch. Let’s go.”

“What—take you back?” She’d met them at this station, she’d

come, with what he overheard and what he guessed, with

codewords and such she didn’t showto customs. She was their

access to a trade they had to have, that otherwise they couldn’t

nd, couldn’t access. A second, perilous grab at Capella’s arm, as

she turned away. “Have you told Austin this notion?

Have you

told him?”

“I’m not supposed to have told you. No. This is a con dence,

Christian-person.”

“Christian, dammit!

And where do you get such notions?

aren’t even near hyperspace.”

Pale eyebrow quirked. Mouth pursed. “The presence. The

spook that’s in port. Is that solid enough for you?”

“Can you feel something?”

Capella had a fey, distracted look for an instant, as ifshe

reached out at that moment, into somethinghe couldn’t,

nobody could. But the eyes ickered and Capella drew in a

sudden, unscheduled breath before she shook herhead. “You

can convince yourselfofanything. No.” She seized his arm and

tugged him toward the frontage, and the bars. “I wish we’d see

them.”

“Who?

The spook?

This Patrick?—You think they’re

boarding, now?”

“I say ifyou nd a small ship that is, you knowhis name.”

“Well, look, for God’s sake, look at the boards.” He’d been

occupied with Hawkinses and Capella wasn’t, Capella wasn’t

concerned with Sprite or Hawkinses in singular orplural, he

saw that now. “I know two names. Because one is, doesn’t mean the other

isn’t.”

“You mean there could be a back-up in port?

Tell Austin, for

God’s sake!”

“Austin knows there’s danger. Austin’s dangeris Hawkins. Was, from when you let elder-brothertake a walk.”

“The hell!”

They’d reached the frontage. Almost the door, and Capella

swung around on him, angry, astoundingly so. “Yourfault,

Christian, and mine, I should have said, and didn’t, it looked

good, what you were doing, and it wasn’t, it had aws. It had

aws in Christophe Martin, it had aws in assumingelder-

brother’s easy, it had aws all overthe place, and my lookingfor

him was very hard, and very scared, Christian-person, so scared

I made another mistake, and got attention fromthis damn

spook, who isn’t ours, do you follow me?”

Anger whited out halfofit. But ours came through, touching

on what he’d tried to understand. Ours. Theirs. Us. The Fleet. “Explain. Explain to me—ours, theirs,—who’s us?”

“Mazian’s, Mallory’s, Percy’s…the Fleet’s pieces, the pieces

that have their own partisans, theirown spooks and theirown

suppliers… you work for Mazian, that’s the truth. But not all do. Some ships are dead, Mallory turned coat, the rest…” Capella

ran out ofbreath, and didn’t nd anotherimmediately. “I’ll tell

you this. There’s two needs here. There’s Corinthian, wanting

everything the same forever, and there’s us, who can’t make that

happen, Christian, captain-papa won’t understand that, but

there’s those that want me so bad…”

“Why?

Because you can do what you do?”

“You might say. Because I knowplaces.”

“What places?”

“Places they want. Badly.—I can’t let Corinthian get boarded. It’s not in my own interest, you copy that?

Ifthe captain asks,—

make him believe it. And we’re runningwith guns live this

jump. Take my side on that, ifthere’s any argument on it.”

It was crazy. He was up to his ears in the Hawkins business,

he couldn’t think about anythingelse, but Capella was telling

him about waking up the guns they’d used once in his lifetime,

about the ordinance Michaels maintained and serviced and kept

viable, through all these ship-board years. It didn’t happen. A

chance encounter on a dockside didn’t lead to live guns, when a

crazy woman was trying to get them hauled in by port

authorities. But a spook had gone invisible…which could well mean

some other ship at Pell was in an unannounced board-call at

this very moment. Hell in a handbasket, that was what it felt like. He wanted to

break a Hawkins neck, and two orthree others, but suddenly he

was perceiving a threat that didn’t give him time forthat. Austin might not take it seriously. Austin had his mind on

Hawkinses, on Marie Hawkins in particular. That was who was

ruling Corinthian’s movements. Hawkinses had them goingout

instead oflying in port until at least they had the advantage of

not being a target. A genuine spook didn’t carry cargo. It could overjump them,

just traveling higher and faster in hyperspace. It had engines

the power ofwhich it didn’t admit, and ifit decided to beat

them out to their next stop, hell…

But Austin wasn’t thinking down that track, no, Austin was

busy with a woman who’d been threateningto kill him for

twenty plus years, and who nowwanted herson back…

But Capella had said it when she came back from talkingto

Austin, and confessing to him what she’d stirred up…that

Austin hadn’t listened, damn him. Austin had known he could

get Hawkins back, and therefore that became Austin’s

immediate problem, the one Austin daren’t be caught in port

with; and damn Austin and his whole elaborate joke… Austin

wasn’t going to listen to anythingbeyond that hazard. They

couldn’t even prove that Marie Hawkins was inbound, there

being no reasonable prospect that a merchanter should leave its

schedule for one lost crewman. Marie wasn’t in charge ofSprite,

and Austin was still running—scared, was what it amounted to,

outright embarrassing to the ship. And after Austin’s cheap little piece ofhumor at his expense,

he was the one who had to get his priorities straight, forget

personal issues with Hawkins and cousin Saby Perrault, and

listen to the ship’s second navigator, who was tryingto tell

them they could get their butts shot o. So it was up to him again, save theircollective asses by doing

what had to be done—talk to Michaels, tell theirone-time

gunner to dust o the simulator duringsystempassage, lock

himselfin with it, and ip that armament switch when they

went otherside. Michaels would listen. Michaels wasn’t the optimist Austin

was, the hell with the regs about live guns at Pell. He didn’t want to die at twenty. Didn’t want to go up in a

reball. Or, God help all ofthem, get conscripted aboard a

spook. “We’re not on duty. Screw it all. Come on.”

He was a willing abductee. Didn’t want to deal with Saby, or

Hawkins, Austin, or—least ofall, maman, until he’d cooled

down. Considerably. They’d come in at the last minute. Let somebody head-count,

and worry—ifAustin wasn’t blinded by Hawkins’ reasonable,

dutiful, likeable self. Got himselfa nice, desperate reasonable son, this time, hadn’t

he?

Watch Austin turn on the charm. Austin had it to use. Austin used it when you made him happy and Austin was

happy when you said ‘yes, sir.’

Austin had won, with Hawkins. Austin had gotten his own

way. Damned right Austin liked Hawkins. Fool, brother!

Go back. It’s a trap. —x—

“GO ON!” SABY HISSED, GIVING him a shove toward the lift

doors. They were outside downside ops, on the main axis, the

ring was still locked, the o ce the otherside ofthe corridorwas

a steady tra c ofcheck-ins, crew-cargo mass-check, stowage,

and scheduling last halfhourbefore undock…it could have

been Sprite’s ops area—it didn’t feel di erent, except the

rowdiness ofthe crew comingon. Topside ofthe ringwas where

he had to report—the area where, consideringthe proximity of

the bridge, and main ops, he was sure there was strongarm

security—wasn’t territory he wanted to visit and Saby had to

shove him again to get him into motion. “It’ll be all right,” Saby said. “Yeah,” he said. They’d taken theirtime in ops. He hadn’t

unpacked. He’d gone down to galley and reported in, he’d talked

to Jamal and Tink, and reported back to Saby before the time

was up. All right, she said. All right. He’d had his dealings with

Austin Bowe, all he ever wanted, and Saby could believe the

man, but he didn’t—didn’t trust him a moment, an instant. But he pushed the button for the lift, took a breath, told

himselfhe wasn’t going to panic at security up there orlose his

temper with whatever happened. No matter what, he was going

to control his temper, walk peacefully into Austin’s o ce, let the

man play his psychological games, and not react. Austin wasn’t

worse than Marie. He couldn’t do worse than Marie—he’d no

hooks to use, didn’t know him, didn’t own him the way Marie

had, til he was, God help him, makinglove last night and

thinking about Marie, in bed with Marie…

That was damn scary. Kinked. He had to ask himself…

“Just be calm,” Saby said, when the lift door opened. He walked in alone. Hangover and no sleep last night didn’t

help his stomach, either, as the lift shot up against Pell station

spin. Bang, clang, and it opened its door and let him out. Deserted corridor. No security. Camera, he decided uneasily;

but he couldn’t, at a glance, see where. The o ce number, Saby

had told him, was number1, in the rst transverse short ofthe

bridge. No problem nding it. The vulnerable areas ofthe bridge

were right in front ofhim, a handful ofcrewat theirstations in

the center and the near swing-sections…it gave him a giddy

feeling, being that close to Corinthians unguarded heart, as ifit

was Austin’s own challenge, Go ahead, be a fool, I’m waiting…

could have talked to you downside. Orafterundock. What’s so

damn urgent, anyway?

What’s so elaborate I have to come up

here?

Fatherly repentance?

He pushed the entry request button. The door shot open. Austin was sittingat his desk, writing

something on the autopad. And kept writing. Damn psych-out, he thought. But Austin shot him an

upward glance then. “You want to come in?” Austin asked him, “Come in. Sit

down.”

He walked in, the door whisked shut, sealingthem in, and he

ebbed into the conference chair. Austin kept writing, while he

waited. And waited—but he gave up o ence, since the civil

invitation. A ship leaving dock was administratively busy. Frantically so. And Austin had to see him right now?

Not reasonable. Maybe

it was important. Maybe somethingAustin really, honestly had

to deal with. Austin ipped the autopad o. Gave him a second, this time

direct, look. Drawled, “God, aren’t we right out ofthe fashion ads. Designer this, designer that. Expensive taste. Can we a ord

you?”

Temper blew. “I gured I was paying,” he said shortly. And

revised all charitable estimates. Austin brought him up here to

needle him and he didn’t mean to back up—wasn’t the way he’d

exist on this ship, dammit, no way in hell. “Who said you paid?”

“Stands to reason. What have I got, now?

Ship-debt?

contract I’m supposed to have signed?

My passport in the ship’s

safe?”

“Be polite. You were on my account.”

That—was a surprise. He didn’t knowwhat it meant. Austin just stared for a few heartbeats. Tapped the stylus on

the desk. “I really,” Austin said, “could have hauled you back.”

“I’ve no doubt.” He didn’t want to be in Austin’s debt. He

preferred Christian’s. Saby’d said, go to it, don’t worry. Now he

didn’t know what she’d gotten him into. “Saby said give you space,” Austin said, and leaned back. “She

said you’d come back. Funny thing, she was right.”

“She’s not stupid.” He didn’t want to think ill ofSaby. Didn’t

want to think he’d been conned. Couldn’t, in fact, believe she’d

been head-hunting. “I hadn’t a choice. You knew it.”

“She said you were shy. Nice guy.”

“Sure.”

“She wants to bunk with you. I think she’s crazy, myself.”

Silence hung there a moment, and breath came thin and

short. “Maybe.” Another oxygen-short breath. Desperate

thinking. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. She doesn’t know me. Dockside and here is di erent.”

“I’ll tell you something. Nobody much tells Saby what she’s

thinking. Makes her mad.”

He didn’t know how to read Austin. He began to preferthe

Austin who’d knocked him against a wall. Safer. Much. “Look, you don’t owe me. You don’t give a damn. You know

what my post is, you’ve got my papers, you’re not goingto put

me anywhere near ops—any ops, because I’m good, when I want

to be, and I can screw it, so let’s not kid ourselves. Galley scrub’s

all you can trust me to do, that’s all I want out ofyou, so just let

me the hell alone, and let’s not complicate anything.”

“You’re bound to be a problem.”

“Yes, I’m a problem. I’ll be a problem. I was born a problem.”

Shortness ofbreath made him light-headed, slowed things

down, numbed the nerves. “Did you ever remotely think, maybe

making a life ought to be worth at least as much thinkingas

taking one?

Did it ever botheryou?”

“You think ofthat last night?”

“I didn’t have to think; I knowI’m safe, right now, since

before Viking, and it takes two, mister. I didn’t get Saby

pregnant, except by cosmic chance, and two sets ofimplants

failing.”

“She had the same choice. Saby did. Yourmama did.”

“So did you. And, yeah, so did she. You were out there looking

for your personal immortality, she was, too, and, God save us,

you got me, and here I am. Nowwhat?

Nowwhere do we go?”

Austin was glumly sober for a moment. Then the mouth

made a tight smile, and a laugh that died. “You want an answer to that question?

Orjust an echo?”

“Is there an answer?” Ifthere was one…he hadn’t gotten it

from Marie. Not from Mischa. Not fromLydia and not from the

seniors in general. It didn’t mean he was goingto believe one

from Austin. But he waited. “You’re going to say the hell with you,” Austin said. “Still

want it?”

“That the line you handed my mother?”

Another grim laugh. “I should have. No question. You’re right

about the immortality. Ships were dying. Every time you got to

port, there were gaps in the schedules, the Fleet was goingto

hell, you couldn’t get those numbers, but we knew. We were

running supply. We had ournetwork. We sawthe wall coming.”

“Damn Maziannispotters.”

“Suppliers.”

“There’s a di erence?”

“Damn right there’s a di erence. The Fleet paid us for what

we hauled. It wasn’t even in our economicinterest to promote

raids on anybody—we knew they were conscripting, and we

knew they wouldn’t take any ofours while we were running

their cargoes; but we knewwhich ships were raiding, too, and

we didn’t like going near them, let alone give them a way not to

need us, does it take a thought?

We didn’t give them

information. But where we got them legitimate supply they

didn’t have to raid merchant tra c. Saferfor them. Faster. Left

them free for military operations. We kept them supplied—

there weren’t raids.”

It made some halfsense. Easy to say. Unprovable, that they’d

had any altruism in their trade. Unprovable, that they’d not sold

out other ships at the goingrate. Everybody said so. He didn’t

see anything to convince himotherwise. “I wanted,” Austin said aftera moment, and quietly, “myself,

to nd a post in the Fleet. That was my ambition. But that year,

ships were dying. Africa and Australia had turned to raiding

commerce. Momentum was shiftingto the otherside. I hated

Union. I still hate Union. But that was the yearI sawthe

handwriting on the proverbial wall, and, yeah, immortality

gured in it. Wanting to leave something. Didn’t know the kid

was a rst-timer, those weren’t the signals she gave o , orI

wouldn’t have asked her to my room. She was drunk, I wasn’t

sober, rst thing I knew she hit me in the face, bashed me with a

glass, I was bleeding, she got to the phone, and the station went

to hell in ve minutes. End ofstory.”

“You didn’t need to beat her up.”

“See this scar?” Austin’s ngerrested on his temple. “I was

bleeding worse than she was, your captain wasn’t returning

calls, they had the station authorities in it, my crewwas trying

to keep me out ofstation hands… yeah, some heads got cracked,

three captains and three crews were at each others’ throats—

and, yeah, I was mad, I got mine, as time hungheavy on my

hands, and since she’d told them it was rape, hell, I gured why

not give her something to bitch about. I didn’t hurt her—”

“The hell!”

“Physically. Let’s talk about whose careerwas on the line,

whose damn life was on the line, with Ms. Modesty screaming

rape. I’ll ask you who got screwed in that room, thanks.”

“You could have walked out ofthere.”

“Damn right I could, right into the hands ofthe station

police.”

“My heart aches.”

“I was eighteen. I was nihilistic. My career was shot to hell,

civilization was going down with it, nothingI did was goingto

last. Surprise, ofcourse. Marie ofcourse informed me when she

got the chance—we have somethingin common, she said. And

we do, matter offact. Tenacious. Still mad. Hell, I don’t cry foul. I respect the woman. Somebody did that to me, I’d track the

bastard down, damn right. I wouldn’t forget.”

He could all but hear his heartbeat, under what Austin was

saying. Could see his own life and his prospects in Austin’s

attitude, and Marie’s. “No forgiveness,” he said, “anywhere in the equation. No

regrets.”

Austin shrugged. “I regret it’s involved three crews who

didn’t ask for it. I regret my fatherput me in sickbay when he

got his hands on me. Broke my arm, my collarbone, and three

ribs. I am a patient man, you understand. He wasn’t, the son ofa

bitch. But he ran a rough crew.”

Austin, bidding for sympathy?

Tellinghim he’d had it rough?

Enough to turn a stomach. He wanted Austin to get up and hit

him. Threaten him, do somethingelse but bid for

understanding. He wanted to hit Austin so badly he ached with

it… but that wasn’t the role he’d come to want, in this room, one

more clenched st, one more act offorce that didn’t do

anything, didn’t prove anything, except to a mentality that

understood the st and not a damn thingelse. He gave it a second thought, in that light. Maybe it would get

him points. Maybe it was all Austin Bowe did understand. But

he didn’t hear that in the con job Austin was pulling, he didn’t

see it in the sometimes earnest look on the man’s face…there

was more to Austin Bowe than that, and hell ifhe’d give him a

ght Austin had calculated to win. “We all have hard lives,” he said, Marie’s coldest sentiment,

and got up to walk out. “No, I don’t want to bunk with Saby. She’s got her own problems. I’ve got mine. Galley’s just ne. Brig’s all right. I like the doorlocked.”

He thought Austin might pull the you’re-not-dismissed shit

on him. Might get up and knock him sideways, or lock the door. “Marie’s coming here, you know,” Austin said, before his

hand hit the switch. It stopped him cold, short ofit, and he

looked around at Austin’s expressionless smugness. “You don’t know that.”

“I know her. She’ll be here—maybe three, fourdays, maybe

on Sprite, maybe on something else. I’m surprised you’re

surprised.”

“She can’t. No way in hell.” His hands had started to shake, he

didn’t know why. He jammed them in his waistband, tryingto

hide the fact. Austin just shrugged. “We’re out ofthis port. Glad you made

it back.”

“You son ofa bitch. She’s nowhere on this track. She wouldn’t

leave Sprite, no way she’d leave Sprite.”

Another shrug. “Take L14 for a berth. It’s clear, nobody in

there. You’ll have to move some galley supplies, the bunk lets

down, probably needs linens. Waterlines need turningon. You’re competent to do that, aren’t you?”

“Probably,” he said. “You’re permitted to Saby’s cabin. The galley. The laundry. IfI

see your ass near an ops station, we’ll discuss it. But you didn’t

want that, anyway.”

“No, sir,” he said, and the door opened, lettinghim out. Marie wasn’t coming here. He hadn’t been that close to

nding her, when he was loose out there. He couldn’t have been

that close. The shakes got worse on his way to the lift. He had a knot in

his throat that didn’t go away on the ride. No guard. No surveillance. He had a cabin assignment, not

the barracks bunk he’d feared he might have, with hired-crew,

who wouldn’t go easy on a Bowe in disfavor, crewwho clearly

took orders from Christian—and not a bunk with Saby, which

he was going to have to explain, downside, when the o erdid

explain why Saby’d so cheerfully shoved him topside to talk to

Austin. Saby just didn’t know. Saby got alongwith Austin. And good

for her. But he dreaded meetingher, when the lift dooropened

—and she was right by ops. “Thanks,” he said, uneasy, not wantingto have to explain,

not comfortable meeting that clear-eyed stare ofhers. “Thanks

for taking my side. I—didn’t want to involve you. I’ve got a bunk

assignment, it’s not that I didn’t want the other—” A lie. “Just—I

don’t want you hurt.”

“It’s no problem, with me, there’s nothingto worry about…”

“I don’t want to worry.” He wasn’t doingwell with the lie. His

whole mind wasn’t on it, and then was, and he knew it wasn’t

working. “I don’t know what I think, all right?

I’m not thinking

real clearly right now. Too much input. Too many inputs. I just

c-couldn’t—”

“Tom.” Saby took his face between herhands, rose up taller

and kissed him, very sweetly, on the mouth. “Shut up. All

right?”

“I didn’t—” He wasn’t doingbetterwith his voice. Nobody’d

ever kissed him that fondly, nobody’d everforgiven him any

least thing he’d done or not done or been suspected of thinking. Ofa sudden his chest was as tight as his throat and his wits

went every which way—suddenly everythinggood around him

was Saby, Saby, Saby. Saby—who’d for some reason just kissed

him, and for some reason didn’t look like once was enough. He

didn’t know what to do. He didn’t knowwhat he was supposed

to do next, or what had just turned inside out in him, so that a

minute ago he could reason that he was in nitely bettero in

this universe without Saby and the next she was everything,

absolutely everything worth livingfor. “It’s all right, Tom. Can I possibly write?

Leave notes on your

door?

Messages through Tink, maybe.”

“Don’t do that to me!—I’m in L14, all right?”

“That’s a damn closet!”

“It’s home. It’s my home.” He snatched a retreatinghand,

held it as ifit was glass. “I want a place, Saby, I want somewhere

that’s mine, I don’t care howbigit is, orwhat it isn’t, I just want

a place. But you can come there. I want… “He couldn’t shape it. He hadn’t a chance ofthe hope he had. He wasn’t worth it. An

instant ago, losing Marie had him shakingwith panic and now

he couldn’t see anything but Saby. He told himselfno, what he’d

felt last night wasn’t real—but nowit was and Marie wasn’t. “Want what?” Saby asked, relentlessly, and squeezed his

ngers. “I’m free tonight. My bunk or yours?”

“God.—Yours.” He couldn’t possibly subject Saby to a let-

down bunk. He hadn’t any sheets. He wasn’t prioritizingclearly. “I just—”

“You’re crazed.” She stood on hertoes and gave him another

kiss. “PDA is positively against the regs, you know. Crew’s

coming in.”

“Yeah. But the hell—” He gave herone back, the kind they’d

shared in the night…

Then a hand caught his shoulder, spun him—he thought

instantly, life-long sensitivity about o cers and public display

—ofsome o cer catchingthem; then in one split-second saw

blond hair and saw Christian, before Christian’s st slammed

his jaw, Saby yelled in outrage, and his back hit the wall panels. He came o them for a grab at Christian, Christian hit him in

the gut and then he landed one solid hit and anotherbefore

Christian grabbed his shirt and they swungabout, bang!

into

the echoing panels. Saby was yelling, some otherfemale was

yelling, futile hands were tryingto drag them apart and then

both females were trying to kick them apart while he was

trying to keep a grip on Christian and get him stopped—minor

hits on his back, minor kicks in the leg, which only let Christian

get an arm free. Christian half-deafened him—

Somebody kicked him in the head, then in the ribs, kicked

Christian too, for what he could gure, and a noise ofmale

voices started yelling encouragement and layingbets. He wasn’t going to lose this one, didn’t knowwhat it was for,

but he knew the stakes. He hit, he punched, he held on and tried

to pin Christian at while blows came at his midri. He smelled

alcohol. He heard Saby yellingfor Michaels, for somebody,

anybody, to get it stopped, but the bets were yingtoo fast. Christian hit him across the temple, he hit Christian in the jaw,

then dropped an arm across Christian’s throat and tried to keep

him down, cut o his wind, end the ght, while Christian kept

trying to batter him loose. “Break it up!” somebody yelled. Male. Loud. Mad. “Damn you,

break it up!” A hand grabbed his collar, a knee came up in his

face, and from the deck, afterward, in a haze ofpain, he saw

Austin hauling Christian o the deck and up, Christian spitting

blood and bleeding from the eyebrow. “Mister,” Austin said, shook Christian and shoved him

against the wall. “Mister, you are drunk. Do you understand,

you are drunk, reporting in?”

“The whole fucking crew—” Christian objected, and there

was a crowd around them. Saby. Capella. Dockers, crew, all

gawking, all suddenly meltingaway fromthe dangerzone. “The witnesses are your problem, mister,” Austin said. “You

did it. You x it. Hear me?

Afterundock and zone clearance. My

o ce. Clean, presentable, and sober.”

After which he let Christian go and stalked back into the

open lift. The door hissed shut. The lift rose. Tom blotted his lip with a bruised knuckle, felt whether

teeth were loose. Saby touched his arm gingerly, meanwhile,

trying to move him, but he stared steadily at Christian—he’d

learned from the cousins not to turn his back. Christian stared

back, mad, white, except the blood—Capella was tryingto get

him elsewhere, saying it was no good, it didn’t matter, they had

other troubles. Finally it made sense to get away fromthe scene, let the

business cool down. He walked o with Saby, left Christian to

his own devices, went o to Saby’s cabin and Saby’s washroom,

where he could clean o the damage. He got a chance and he’d immediately done somethingto

screw it. Didn’t know all that he’d done, or why speci cally

Christian had gone for him, but he halfwished Austin had

knocked both ofthem sideways, at least not done that in front

ofthe crew… it didn’t make sense to him, except Austin didn’t

understand the impact ofhis actions—but Austin did. He’d no

doubt ofit. He saw Saby in the mirror, behind him. Sawherlooking

upset. “He’s jealous,” Saby said. “Ofyou?” Talking hurt. Would. He rationed words. “I brought him up,” Saby said. “My aunt Beatrice is his real

mama. She didn’t want him, except the politics with Austin. I

was ten. I did the best I could till I was, God, twenty-six and he

was getting ideas. And I still feel responsible.—He needed a

lesson this time, dammit, he has to get life gured—But things

—got complicated last night, and then he walked up on us like

that… I know what he thought: that I betrayed him, that I’d set

him up—because I wanted you.”

“Shit.” He leaned an arm against the wall. Sni ed back what

had been a nosebleed—thinking—no, feeling—what must have

gone through Christian’s insides. And he threw a glance at Saby,

with a leaden foreboding that his lately-ordered universe was

coming apart again. Couldn’t last. Couldn’t put togetherwhat so

many screwed-up years had torn apart. Complicated. Hell. Saby functioned for Christian as mama;

and Saby’s aunt, Christian’s maman, hadn’t wanted him?

Another ofAustin’s little no-personal-protection accidents?

Damn him. “Austin had to hit him, in front ofthe crew?

And left me

without a mark?

What forGod’s sake does Austin think he’s

doing?

The man can’t possibly be that naive.”

Saby hugged her arms across her, shook herhead, and looked

scared. “Christian screwed up. Christian knew it. Same rules—

crew and hired-crew. You don’t ght. At least—you don’t get

caught at it in lower main. Not when Austin’s mad. And

Austin… was mad.”

“How’d he know I didn’t start it?”

“A, Christian’s an o cer on this ship. It’s his say, his resort to

force. And, B, No question: he knows Christian.”

Chapter Ten

—i—

GRAPPLES RELEASED—no take-hold had sounded, easy regulations

on this non-Family ship, meaningcrew was up and about…

and, on his way from Saby’s quarters, Tomfound himself10m

short ofthe 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 ofthe hazard oflowermain

for the take-holds that lined the mess hall transverse—some in

the corridor, some the other side ofthe divider, in the galley, in

his case, far as he could get sideways, toward the galley counter,

excusing himselfpast 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 warningwhen Corinthian moved,

God help them. Jamal had already clipped secure-sheets overthe 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, fora

keypad/calculator… but the far side, the bow-side ofthe

transverse, was about to be the deck, temporarily. While his was about to become the ceiling. “Tink. I’m here.”

From two, three niches alongthe take-hold bar. “Yeah.—Looks like.” Tink made a grimace, seeinghis face. “Ouch. How you doing?”

“I’m all right.”

“You sure?

You look like hell.”

“I’m ne.” He caught a breath. “Jamal, I need in the worst

way… I need to make a call afterundock. I’ve got sheets and

such to nd—All right to do?”

“You all right, kid?”

“Fine.” Lie. Again. He was still out ofbreath, and dreadingthe

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, rollinga 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 forthe

moment, jets at momentary shutdown, and things and people

oated. “Damn her!”

Then, thank God, the passengerringengaged, and added

another component to furthershoves fromthe 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 ourass 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 fromthe 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 ofship-com, the 01 that went to the captain’s

message le. “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 breakingregs. 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 tryingto 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

tra c speed limits, for which we have a Ik ne. 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

st, thinking…

“Trouble?” Tink asked. … Christian was going to walk into Austin’s o ce, remotely

justi ed, and come out ofthere wantingto 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 guringout howand 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 ofe ort to get him shipped out,

never mind Christian could have walked him into a lot rougher

situation than a ticket out ofport and out oftheirlives. Christian was ghting forhis 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, coverme.”

Maybe Tink wanted to ask. He didn’t want to answer. He

ducked down the straightway ofthe galley back toward lower

main, where alterday crew was headed for the lifts. He looked to nd Christian anywhere in the tra c. He knew

where his cabin was. He thought about goingthere. 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 afterthe other, then jammed

into the car with the rest and stared at the level indicator

instead ofthe 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 nally 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 o ce.” 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

gured he’d just routed himselfback 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 o cer—Travis, the pocket emblem said—

turned him back to the next arrivinglift. “Right back downside,

mister. Stay to lower decks.”

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

scowling face. “Inside,” the o cer 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 ofthem 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 o ense, 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, pinningthem to

the back ofthe car. “I don’t want another ght,” he said. They were face-to-face

against the back wall ofthe lift caras 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 otherside ofthe

threshold. “Get to hell out ofmy 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 ooded in, pushinghim back against the

rail. The doors shut, the lift went down and let out downside. The other passengers got o. He did. Straight face-on into Saby. “Tink said—” Saby began, and grabbed his arm as they

worked their way outward, against the ve orsix 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 corridorwall. “No luck. Waste oftime.”

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

“Not Austin. Christian. Damn him. Attitudinal son ofa bitch.”

“Him, too.” Saby made a ustered gesture and punched the

lift button. One car had gone. The otherwas downbound. “He’s

being a fool.”

“You don’t go up there!”

Saby turned around with a furious stare. “I’m goingup 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, havingembarrassed

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 forwhat

had happened to Christian, and to him, and forthe

misunderstanding with Saby, and every damn thingelse. 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 st into the panelingas he walked. It hurt as

much as he remembered. He pounded it two, three, four, ve

times, until the corridor thundered and the pain outside

equalled the explosion inside his chest. Somebody put his head out ofops 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, countingthe 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 oftime. Waste ofe ort. Nobody listens.”

Tink raised his brows. He remembered he was supposed to be

seeing about bed-sheets. “Yeah,” Tink said, and held out a bagof

candy. “Lot ofthat going around today. Have one. Have two.”

He did. His hand was skinned. He gured the knuckles would

turn black. He ate the chocolate. Jamal had one, the three of

them alone in a galley redolent ofspices 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 whateverschedule they fancied—but

gure that the horde would hit the galley hall for supperonce

the burn cut out. Sandwiches out to the workingstations. 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 ofa k in

their zones, you got a ne. One k ain’t nothing. Pilot knows.”

“Runs in the genes,” he muttered, while that ‘ports we do’ hit

the conscious part ofhis brain, the assumptions he’d made, the

questions he’d asked himselfand 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…ifthey went

really o the charts they could reach the Hinder Stars, the old

bridge ofstars the sub-lighters had used for stepping-stones out

from Earth—shut down, now, dead. … civilized powers couldn’t keep the Mazianniout ofthem,

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, afterthe giddy speculation he’d

just made. He wasn’t even sure he’d have believed it, ifit hadn’t

come from Tink. “Where’s the Fleet connection?” he asked. It was just the

three ofthem in the galley, Tink, Jamal, himself. And a silence. Then: “Tripoint,” Tink said. That was all. The silence

outweighed curiosity, remindinghim Tink wasn’t innocent. Saby wasn’t. Nobody on this ship was. Nowhe 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—thinkingabout himself. Then

Tink. Then Saby, after which…he guessed nowhe 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 o from everythingand

everyone he’d grown up with. Fromeverythinghe’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 co ee?”

“I can learn.” He stood away fromthe wall, steady on his feet. Movement was starting down the corridor, a drift of mainday

crew past the tables… “Servingline’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 themon the counter, he opened up the

cabinet and got out the co ee and the lters, listeningall the

while. Something about a ship followingthem. 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 himselfwhat in hell was goingon, 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 hearyou whimper, or what?”

“You don’t get to hear anything,” Christian said, and sank

into the well-worn interviewchair. “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 ofvalues, captain, sir, that

would indicate to me the captain might have advised me, rather

than leave me and the second chiefnavigator outside the

information loop. I hope you enjoyed yourjoke. I hope you

enjoyed it a lot. Because thanks to ourrattlingaround back

there on Pell docks, that’s a Maziannispotterbehind us. That’s a

ship called Silver Dream, based at Fargone, ifyou haven’t noticed

before this.”

“Let me recall how, also leadingto 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 talkingabout a personal matter. If

Family Boy and cousin Saby want to screw each otherblue in

lower main, ne, that’s theirjudgment, I’m glad they had a good

time while we were turningthe 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 shockingrevelation for you. Your

discoveries ofthe 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 fatherexplained 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

st. 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

di erent faction ofthe Fleet.”

“Welcome to the real universe. Di erent factions ofthe Fleet. I’m amazed.”

“Be serious, dammit.”

“I am. Very serious. Decades ofseriousness.” Austin rocked

his chair back, crossed his leg overhis knee, folded his hands on

his stomach. “Has it everstruck you, Christian, this

fragmentation, this stupid factionalization ofthe Fleet that

should have defended civilization,—says somethingabout the

human condition?

That enemies are much more essential to our

happiness than friends?

That ourrivals shape our ethics, and

our failures de ne our goals?

Seems so, fromthe 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 talkingabout endings and

give me some ofthat experience you claimto have.”

“Scared, Mr. Bowe?”

“Screw you!”

“Ifyou can’t mate with it, eat it, or wearit, it’s no good?

thought that was your philosophy. Maybe it can do something

about the ship back there.”

“Cut it out!

You’ve made yourpoint. 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 ofMarie Hawkins

than—”

“Than that spotter?

No.”

“Then, damn you, quit joking. I don’t knowwhen you’re

listening.”

“You could ask.”

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

“Never take anyone’s listeningfor 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 somethingbut yourego!

Capella

says the other faction wants her—with the navigational data

she has in her head. She’s sayingthey’d go afterus to get her.”

“Ah. Information. Finally.”

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

Austin shrugged. “I’ll let you know.”

“What kind ofan answer is that?”

“Exactly that. Go see to your own business. I’m o duty,

you’re on, good luck, good night, stay out oftrouble. Meanwhile,

consider that the woman you’re sleepingwith might just

possibly have motives ofher 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, condescendingspite. 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 sittingat dock runningup

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 yourfriend Capella would like to stay

at dock simply because there’s a chance ofa ship comingin 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 herthat 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 goingto overjump us. I agree it’s

going to be waiting for us when we get there. It’s goingto read

our entry shock and it’s goingto re on it.”

“Yes.”

“Then what do we do?”

“Ifthey know precisely where we’re going, not damn much

we can do. We hope that’s not the case. We’ve got til ourwave

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 sittingright on our drop-

point—”

“Why would they want Capella?”

“Because she knows a lot ofFleet drop points. Not just this

one. Because they don’t want to blowup the ship she’s on.”

“Possibly. Also—possibly because she knows the Tripoint

drop and they don’t. It’s a lot ofspace to search, for something

the size ofa freighter. You can bet the dissident factions have

tried to nd it and you can hope they’ve failed. Ifthey need her,

we’ll have whatever advantage she can give us. And she’s not

anxious to die. Or fall into theirhands. 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 con g?

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 ofthis

actual emergency… we’ll hand o 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 hourorso. See you. Good luck. Don’t screw things too badly.”

“God, I hate you.”

Humor left Austin’s expression, ever so brie y. And returned,

like a mask. “You used to say that when you didn’t get yourway. 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 himselfcalm down, actually confusedly sorry about that

parting shot, for the way Austin had looked for halfa heartbeat. He’d never scored on Austin like that. Nevergotten Austin’s real

expression in an argument. In retrospect, maybe that was what

scared him. As ifAustin was somehowand for a moment wide

open to him—as if, maybe Austin wasn’t expectingto come out

ofthis mess. But, hell, Austin had been in the War, Austin had shepherded

Corinthian through re and mines and stray ordnance, only a

couple oftimes 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 swearingit was goingto be

all right, the ship was goingto 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 knowwhen it would stop,

or when it did, you didn’t knowwhy, orwhat 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 ve-year-old’s terror. For sixteen, seventeen years he’d been spooked by jump, by

the g-forces, by the whole feelingofa ship doingwhat 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 otherthan up and down and

falling. Austin was wrong about her—Capella had come to him

on the docks, not the otherway around: he hadn’t thought of

that argument against Austin’s suspicions, he always thought of

the telling ones after the doorwas shut. He could trust her. Trust herwith 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 ickeringaround her, the music

drowned in the drum-beat, the equation ofa di erent space

glowing below the bracelet, and no damn guarantee the

enemies she was avoiding weren’t goingto 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 herenemies were much more

vulnerable. Or… maybe keeping Austin guessing, whethershe’d board or

not. And making Austin knowhe might force herto board—but

work for him?

God. God, he’d been blind. Focused on the wrongproblem. 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 inthe dark, where if they didn’t make that pick-up, they

couldn’t guarantee there’d be another. And ifan 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 brotherand that matter…

didn’t matter, in that context. A non-issue, until they got to

Viking. Ifthey got to Viking. —iii—

RUMORS MULTIPLIED ON LOWER deck once mainday tech crew had hit

the galley line in numbers, and the incomingdetail gathered

form as informants from various ops posts got togetherat 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 chiefnavigator

were uneasy about it, and: Speculation, were sure it wasn’t

hauling, and when they cleared the slowzones they were going

to light out ofPell like a bat. That much, Tom picked up just passingaround the tables,

re lling table co ee and tea pots. Heads were together, the

galley was uncommonly quiet, voices were subdued and urgent. Dockers clustered apart from the techs, at theirtables at the end

ofthe galley zone… the questions in that cornerwere slightly

di erent, no less urgent: What are we goingto do, skip through

the Point?

And the answer: Can’t o oad. No way we can o oad. Somebody wondered, then, whetherthey’d still get theirpay,

in that event. The rest, apparently old hands on Corinthian, said

Shut up, don’t be a fool, beingalive to spend it was the issue,

and the captain would make it up, the captain nevershorted

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 ofcaptains ofthe

dismembered Fleet. Talk about ambushes. And a dump,

whether v-dump, meaning whether they were goingto slow

down, or supply dump… it sounded like the latter. Rendezvous,

ofsome 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 ofthem. “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 ofo duty

maintenance techs and dragooned them into cart-transport,

while he folded tables and secured safety latches, wantingnot

to think about Mazianniweapons bearingdown on them. Maziannioperating at Pell, free and open, for God’s sake?

And

following them out ofport?

Where did they get undock clearance?

Who assigned them

dockers to get them out that fast, to followCorinthian?

Nothing

t with what he knew unless it was Mallory on theirtail…but

Maziannididn’t above all describe Mallory, who did operate out

ofPell. Mallory was semi-legitimate. Had total station

cooperation—it could be some ship workingfor her, and Pell

authorities, to arrest them… orget evidence on them, but there

were warrants for that, easierto do at dock. “Tom!”

Tone ofa man who’d been tryingto get his attention. He

looked at Jamal, blank ofwhat 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 o. Ifyou

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- le,—and a furtive, stupid thought sprang

up. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he said to himself, system’s guarded,

all kinds ofpartitions. 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 stu from Medical. Jamal took the list he’d

vetted, left, with: “Stow everythingbehind doors. Don’t trust

counter-mounts. We don’t knowwhat we’re into. Turn the

water o , under the sink. Lock the drain down. You know how

to do that?”

“Yessir,” he said. Tink was still out on deliveries. He ipped

the lever to dismount the mixerand the processor, stowed them

below, secured oven latches, washers, cabinets, put the pans

behind solid doors and latched them in. Got the watershut o ,

put the anti-vacuum lock on the drain. He’d never used one, but

he’d heard about whole sections voided ofair through a pipe

breach. Cast another, longing look at the computer. Looked at the

door. Edged closer, then ipped 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 rangwith

urgency. Stupid to do. Distractingto Austin. To…God knew

who… but, dammit, things were happeningup 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, beingshot at,

keeping pans from falling out ofcabinets, gettingrumors 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

stu. He ran a delete. Flipped the switch. Killed it. Could be the militia after them. And here he was. Wrongside

ofMarie’s quarrel. Wrong side ofeverything. 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 runningup 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, faro in the ring. Somewhere, sounding sections away, a cart rattled. He made

himselfmove away from the console, get to work, the last few

table-seat units to fold up, thunderous, appallingcrashes in the

silence. Jamal came back, started runningchecks on the cabinets. “You’re L14.”

“Yes.”

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

“I… no. I didn’t.” Sheets were the farthest thingfrom 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 howto talk to hernow. “Freeze your ass o ,” 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 otherside ofit.”

Cart rattled and thumped somewhere, growingcloser. 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 furnishinghis

quarters while he was sneakingaccess 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 st. “Hey. We’re all right. Seen us sail through the damnedest stu. Pieces

rattling o 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 turningthe wateron. He

tried it and it was o. But the outbound pipe needed shutting. He got down to locate it, found the cuto labeled, and turned it. The rst ofthe acceleration warnings sounded, then. He

banged his head on the cabinet gettingout, his heart goinglike

a hammer. He heard Christian’s voice, at least he thought it was

Christian: “We’ll clear Pell slowzones 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 somethingto 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 o 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 ofthe War. They’d sat the bad times out in port. Pieces rattling o the hull. Hell. The door opened, without a by-your-leave. “Lookingfora

room-mate,” Saby said. He wasglad. He was incredibly, shakily glad ofthat o er—

welcomed Saby’s arms around him, held to heras something

solid, against the suppositions. “Yeah,” he said. “Good. Fine with me.”

—iv—

“EVERYTHING IN PARAMETERS,” Christian said, on the hand-o. Austin lowered himselfinto the chair, scanned the console,

found the routine settings. “Anythingelse?”

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 goingto 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 Vikinglike a bat out ofhell…

Certainly it was one solution. But they were loaded heavy. Hell ofa mass. “You run the calc?”

“‘Pella and I did. It’s on your numbertwo, all the options I

gured. 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 keepinghis 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 knowyou 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 betterbe right, mister. Bet ourlives

it’s right.”

Christian’s mouth went very thin. “Yes, sir,” he said, and

went forward, said a word to Beatrice, stopped for anotherto

Capella, who wasn’t standing down at shift-change. Capella listened, frowned, nodded to whatever it was. Christian bent and, de nite breach ofregulations, kissed the

second chiefnavigator on the forehead. The second chiefnavigator 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 ofshift-change was mostly

complete. “You know,” Michaels said, stoppingby his chair, to lean on

the arm and the back and deliver a quiet word to his ear, “the

boy said, hit the sims, rst thing; said, stay on ’em, said don’t

even ask you, just push the armingbutton last thingwhen we

go up.”

“Did, did he?”

“Whole list oforders, 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. IfPell wanted

you, you’d have hell gettingundocked. 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. Ifguesses

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 ofv, realspace

negligible. In terms ofposition in space-time…ahead ofthem. Waiting for them, when hyperspace abhorred theirenergy-state

out again at Tripoint. But bet they wouldn’t use nukes, not ifthey wanted to board

and take the second chiefnavigator for themselves. They’d use

inerts: simple mag- red ri e balls, in e ect—hopingto cripple

Corinthian’s jump-capacity; and they’d have to launch those

after they’d picked up the wavefront ofCorinthian’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. Howclose can you put us?”

“Sir. May I talk privately?”

“Come ahead.”

Capella left her chair, came and leaned an elbowagainst his

console. “Sir,” Capella said. “Ifyou want honestly to leave it to

me, give me leave to dump at any point, I’ll guarantee you best

oftwo alternatives.”

“What two?”

“We nd this sumbitch farenough out we can make that

dump or close enough in we take my bet and skip through to

Viking. We can dump down. Swearto you.”

You looked in Capella’s eyes when she was o duty, you

learned nothing. You looked there nowand you got the coldest,

clearest stare. “I believe you, second chiefnavigator. Are you sayingleave

that choice to you?

My priorities involve the economics ofthis

ship. Involve keeping a contract, with entities I believe you

represent. Can you set us next ourtarget, if our problem isn’t

within, say, three hours light?

Can you assure me…we can stay

emissions-neutral?”

“Hell ofan 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 gure it, second chiefnavigator.”

“You are one son ofa 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 offact, there hadn’t been a way in hell he’d

have wanted one, in his adult life, when they were losingships

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 ofthe 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 t 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 oftheirnameless navigator…

Satisfying, that he could get ‘sir’ out ofthis 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 ofhis

youth, seen nothing worth obeyingor believing, fool that he’d

been; and now his son was staringinto another

Götterdämerung, nothing of re and fury, just a niggling

increase ofregulations—he could see that fromwhere he sat,

watching anachronism on herway to the navigation console. He’d had his moral victory, maybe, maybe could slip out of

this mess… maybe escape all the rest ofthe little regulation-

generated disasters, so longas he lived, on a ship that had

thrown in its lot with what was changing. Little ships couldn’t

get the pro t margin, with the new regulations, couldn’t keep

ahead ofthe Family ships and the state-sponsored combines. So what did a small-haulerdo, but go on servingthe ports

they could, getting cargo where they could, even doingwhat

obliged them to take personnel the Fleet dictated they take?

No way to refuse the honor, ofcourse, no objection possible,

and no assurance the divisions inside the Fleet weren’t goingto

play out one day on theirown deck, for interests a mere

merchant captain didn’t guess, and against opposition said

captain might not nd out about until it was too late. Unless, say, the second chiefnavigator sawit, too, saw the

same wall coming, and the same Götterdämerung. Yes, sir, that word was, and he watched hersettle 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 con dence, too, in the Fleet’s gift—granted you knew which

faction she belonged to. —v—

ACCEL GREW HARDER, JOINTS POPPED. Fingers twined with ngers. Couldn’t think ofanything, not at this g-stress, just company. “Want the light?” Saby asked. “No. Dark’s ne. 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 ofjump. 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 ofSaby for a few breaths. Herquarters. Herbed. Her ngers 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 workingfor.”

Another twitch ofthe ngers. “But while they’re searching…we

can move cargo. They can try to nd us.”

“That’s crazed. You just dump it out there, orare we meeting

somebody, or what?”

“Just a place. Spooky place. Dead ship. I don’t like it. But

stu ’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.”

“Stu they raided?” Indignation was hard, this close to the

edge, under the heavy hand ofacceleration. “That’s yourtrade?

Stolen goods?”

“Stu from a long time back. Old stu. 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. Longas 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 thingI ever heard,” he said. “Truth,” Saby said. “I guess.” Best o er he had. “Ifyou say so—yeah, I believe it.”

Chapter Eleven

—i—

TWO HOURS TWENTY MINUTES. The whole di erence. The whole…

damned… di erence between Corinthian’s system exit and

Sprite’s entry, the height and depth ofPell Starsystemapart. Nothing to do at that point but to continue on in, with Sprite

running full-loaded as she was. Nothingto do but maintain a

quiet calm, a sweetness to the o ered sympathy ofcousins and,

ofcourse, Lydia. Less likely…sympathy fromMischa, whose

expression of regret had a certain lack ofconviction, but Mischa

had at least made the gesture. “We tried, Marie. All we could do.”

It was all they could have done, a heartbreakingly hard run

through Tripoint, everyone on longhours and short food and

sleep. Tempers had frayed, understandably so. And there had

been recriminations about missingCorinthian. Not from her. And they waited for heropinion. Maybe with

bated breath. Spirits aboard had picked up when theircargo sold during

their run-in toward station, no languishingon the trade boards

while the ship ran up dock-time, no waitingto sell this part and

that lot ofcans… Dee Biomedical bought the whole lot sight

unseen, the publishing data-feed, the biomedicals, neobiotics,

and biomaterials, with damage exceptions, which, Marie knew

from her boards, there were none: every one ofthe cans came in

registering, constantly talkingto the regulation devices. Not one can even questionable. And pro t clear—Pell had no

tari on biomedicals ofCyteen origin, when Pell could get

them. Faces started to smile. People started to be pleasant to each

other in the corridors. The seniors who’d been fumingmad

about transshipping the government contract nowthought

that, ofcourse, it had all been theiridea. But ship activity at dock?

Pell didn’t have that kind of

information available to an inbound ship. Get it at the Trade

O ce once you dock. Information on Thomas Bowe-Hawkins?

His motherwanted

to know?

Oh, there was a record ofthat. Listed with exitingcrew on

Corinthian. And listed with returning crew. Somebody using Tom’s passport, she thought, but she kept

that to herself, and kept the information to herselfuntil Sprite

docked, grappled to, and opened its ports at 10 Green, where

Dee Imports had can transports waiting. Then she was o to the Customs O ce so fast the deck

smoked. Well, yes, Tom’s passport had been used. Well, yes, there had

to be a credit record oftransactions on station, but she had to

get a court order. And, yes, they knew which agents had been

assigned at Corinthian’s dock, and, well, yes, there was no actual

regulation against an individual inquiry with the agent,

although they didn’t give out names. Her pocket-com nagged at her. She ignored it. “I’m his mother,” she said to the customs o cer. “I have

copies ofhis papers.”

“The boy is over eighteen. By Alliance law, he’s an adult.”

“Do you have kids?”

“Look, Ms. Hawkins…”

She didn’t raise her voice. She made it very quiet. “This boy

was out drinking when that ship cleared port. We’re a Family

ship. Check us out. I want to knowdoes that passport, used

exiting Corinthian, still have the right picture.”

“You’re asking ifit was stolen.”

“Yes.”

The agent vanished into innero ces. The pocket-corn kept

beeping. She thumbed it on. “Yes, dammit!”

It was Mischa, asking did she need help. “Not actually,” she said, and ipped the display on her

handheld again, to market display, mere mind- ller, something

to look at and think about before she went mad. Mischa chattered at her. “Yeah,” she said, “nice. No, I don’t need help. You’re driving

me crazy, Mischa. I’m busy here. All right?”

She thumbed the switch and cut him o. Didn’t care what he

was saying. The agent came back with a woman in a more

expensive suit. “We’re talkingabout a stolen passport?”

“This—” She laid the ID on the counter. “—is a duplicate of

my son’s ID. I want to know, does the agent rememberthis

face?”

“Come into the o ce, Ms…”

“Hawkins.” She passed the counter, she sat in a nicero ce,

she waited. She drank free co ee and entered searches on the

hand-held for low-mass goods, and sat there for forty-three

minutes before the woman in the suit brought a uniformed

customs agent into the o ce. “Ms. Hawkins. O cer Lee. O cerLee is the one that read the

passport through at board-call. O cerLee, this is the young

man’s mother.”

The o cer handed the ID to her. “I do rememberhim,” the

o cer said. “He’d forgotten his passport. The captain came

down to be sure he got ID’d. It was that boy, Ms. Hawkins, very

well dressed, in the company ofa pretty youngwoman and a

man. Came up in a taxi. I thought then, that cost them. But the

boy didn’t act upset, except about the passport. Went right to

the captain, he and the girl. They walked in together.”

“How did he get out there without a passport?”

“Happens. He went out with a group, should’ve gotten it

from the o cer, once they’d cleared customs, but he didn’t. Captain said he hadn’t missed it til the board-call, and he

panicked.”

“This man with them.”

“Rough-looking. Cheerful fellow. Drunk as a lord. Papers

perfectly in order. Cook’s mate.”

“No visible threat.”

The agent went very sober for a moment. “You mean was he

drafted back?

Didn’t look to be. The youngman spoke for

himself, apologized about the passport, had a new haircut,

clothes, brand new du e, everything rst class. Met the captain

on friendly terms.”

“Ms. Hawkins. Would you like to sit down?”

Out of nowhere a hand grabbed herarm. She didn’t need

support. She shrugged it o , took a deep breath, took out her

wallet and managed to get the ID into the slot. “Sit down,” the woman said. She did. The agent o ered to get herwater. She said yes. She

wasn’t through asking questions and they were distressed on

her account, moving to get herwhatever she wanted. “I want

the credit record. Ifmy son was on this station, I want to know

who paid, where he slept…”

The woman looked doubtful. The damn combeeped again,

and she cut it o , completely. “I have to know,” she said. “This is

my son.”

“Just a minute,” the woman said, and went somewhere. O cer Lee came back with the waterand sat and asked her

stupid questions, trying to distract her. She kept hercalm,

played the part. It was maybe thirty minutes before the woman

came back, looking grim, and said there hadn’t been any credit

record, but that the youngwoman, the passport numberhe’d

been with on customs exit, had run up bigbills at the fanciest

sleepover on Pell. Big bills at a clothingstore. At Pell’s fanciest

restaurant. Dinner for two. Lot ofdrinks. “I see,” she said, a little numb, it was true. Maybe a little grey

around the edges. But it did answer things. “You might check station mail. He might have left a

message.”

“I have, thank you, Ms…”

“Raines.”

“Ms. Raines. Thank you very much.” She shook hands. She

was polite. She thanked O cerLee. She came to herselfmaybe halfan hourlater, in front ofa

shop window, and didn’t knowwhere she was until she looked

at the dock signs opposite. She had to get out ofthis port. She had to nd that son ofa

bitch. Forget Tom. A nice-lookinggirl, fancy clothes, damned…

shallow… kid. Probably scared, probably sawa cheap way out,

just go along with it, wasn’t too uncomfortable, he had a lot of

money, Corinthian would give it to him, because Austin wanted

to get to her. Austin wasn’t goingto drop the boy in any port,

wasn’t going to sell him out to the Fleet, no need. Tomhad sold

himself, for a fancy bed and fancy clothes and the best

restaurants and a girl who’d do whatever it took to keep him

and keep his mouth shut. Damn him. You could see the boy’s point ofview. Easierto be

courted than shake his st in Austin’s face and take the hits. Easier to be let loose dockside with a pretty girl and more

money than Sprite ever allotted its junior crew. Easierto be plied

with lies and promises. Austin could be a charmingbastard. A

very charming bastard, give or take that the rough edge wasn’t a

put-on, far from it. And give or take that the man’s taste in bedmates ran to

whores. That detail wasn’t goingto impact Tom’s little bubble

too seriously. Hell!

She went to a bar. She ordered a drink, not her habit. She

ipped on the hand-held, drank, and stared at the meaningless

scroll of gures. She couldn’t leave this port until they’d

o oaded. That was happening, as fast as the cans could roll out. And that bastard on Corinthian was on his way back through

Tripoint. She’d suspected Tripoint was the dark hole where Corinthian

pursued its private business, the o -the-record trades with God

knew what agencies—it was a vast, gravitationally disturbed

space, with no station to provide an information- ow: a dozen

ships could lie there, silent, absolutely impossible to spot ifyou

didn’t know exactly where they were; ships could move, and the

place was so vast the presence-wave wouldn’t reach you for

hours… you didn’t know what might be watchingyou. But Corinthian hadn’t waited on this leg—they’d kited

through and been gone by the time they’d come through. Expecting trouble, it was clear. Time-wise, Corinthian was in hyperspace now. A ship that

followed them for the next month, real-time, would exist there

right along with them until Corinthian dropped out again, and

the vector was Tripoint. Again. Where Corinthian had business

to do. But Sprite couldn’t catch them. The gods ofphysics a orded

no chance to one freighter to overtake anotherwith Corinthian’s

head start—unless Sprite was running empty, with outright

nothing in the holds when she went into hyperspace. Tell the Family they were goingback to Vikingempty?

That,

having cleared one chancy low-mass, high-value deal at Pell, for

which they’d had to dip into bank reserves, they were goingto

throw away everything they’d just gained at enormous risk—

and run empty back to Viking-via-Tripoint?

No way. No way in hell. She could muster the votes against

Mischa on the matter ofthe Pell run, because she could threaten

the sure economic disaster ofherquitting, against the promise

ofpro t. She couldn’t get anywhere in a vote by demandinga

disaster. She swallowed a mouthful ofice-melt and vodka and did a

di erent-criteria search through the market. Pell… was the gateway to Earth. To arts. To culture. Books. Zero mass. Vids. Software. Distribution licenses. Always high-priced because ships bid on them. But ships only

bid so much, usually scoopingup what they could get without a

ght, because it was a chancy market, ridinglocal fads, and the

willingness ofsome station-side promoter to take it o your

hands where you were going…so ifyou were willingto gamble

big that you knew tastes where it was going…ordinarily you

could get it, the info-market beingquiet, low-tension, not

subject to big bids from ships that betterunderstood the market

for frozen foods and machine parts. She took out her stylus, punched the keys you couldn’t

accidentally access with bare ngers, and money moved. Data moved. Data ooded into Sprite’s black-box info-storage. Permits,

licenses. Credit. Text. Images. Patents. Two solid hours, while

she sipped fruit-juice and vodka, ofhigh-speed input—in which

the info-market accelerated, picked up interest on some items—

then hyped into a wild surge ofactivity. She traded back some books, some vids, snapped up rights

less useful to ships that didn’t reach deep in Union territory:

license to reproduce at Union ports and points further,

exclusive rights down routes reachable fromUnionside—prices

ballooned as ships bid to get a speculative commodity they

regularly dabbled in, rights they routinely bid on, ships and

stationside interests battlingeach otherfor what somebody

unknown was going for in huge quantities. The whole info-

market soared as station-side speculators and automatic

trading programs saw a risingprice and a limited availability

and went for it. Feeding frenzy set in, sent prices crazy. She sat it

out for fteen minutes and sipped herdrink while the market

computers registered a urry oftrades. Four ships and one publishinghouse released major holdings

to pro t-take on the market, she grabbed it all and resold,

bought hand and st on the panic, and the market dropped and

rose and ticked into stability as the regulators slammed the lid

on. She keyed Sprite for departure at m2330h, then, scant time

to get the Dee Imports cans o oaded and get the tanks lled. After which, she turned on herpocket-corn and told Mischa

they were in count for departure in under twenty-fourhours,

beep everybody who was out. “Marie,” Mischa said calmly, “where are you?” Less calmly: “—

Are you in some bar?”

“Noisy?

I said 24 hours, Mischa, do you copy?

We’re bought

up. We’re going. I’ve made a pro t just sittinghere and logged

us for departure. You can check the schedule board.”

“Marie. We aren’t loaded.”

“Zero-mass. Publishing rights. Tons ofpublishingrights. We’re bought and loaded. It’s in Sprite’s databanks right now,

didn’t you notice that little light icker?

Every cent we have in

credit. It’s time-critical and I suggest we pull out the second the

tanks are lled.”

“Damn you!

Get your ass back on this ship, Marie!

Dump that

infoshit back on the market, resell and get our money back!

You’re

not pulling this!”

“Mischa, sweet, we’ve made money, as stands. There’s been a

modest little trade war in the last few hours and the market’s

gone under regulatory controls, now. There’s really no way to

make anything short-term under a regulatory, you know that. Ifwe sell now, we sell at a loss. So we’d bettermake that

schedule, Mischa. Dear. It’ll work.”

“This is going to a vote, Marie. Your post is going to a vote!”

“I’ll call yours to one, too, sweet. Think about it. I’ve made us

money in this port. I’ll make us money where we’re going.”

“And where’s that?

What area’s this damn infodump valid for?”

Mischa’s grammar was going. “Marie?”

“Cyteen, via Viking, via hell, brother. It’s what we have to do. And speed counts. Trust me.”

—ii—

WAVES UPON WAVES, SCARY climb into nothing and nowhere. Hand brushed Tom’s brow. Voice, everso far, whispered to

him. His heart started beating too fast. Colors ared and ran like

dyes across his vision. It was Saby he was with. Saby’s bed. He

could feel her presence by him. Feel the hovering presence, too, then a change in pitch ofthe

surface he lay on. A nger brushed his cheek. “You hear me, Tommy?

No good shamming, I knowyou do.”

“Leave me alone,” he tried to say. “Person’s truly sorry, Tommy-lad.” For a while the touch went

away, and came back again. The universe quaked. Ran colors. Tilted. “Stop it, dammit. Saby’s. Saby’s place, here.”

“Yeah, sorry, Tommy-person. Didn’t come to devil you. Came

to be sure you were all right.” Airwhispered against his

forehead. A touch followed. “Gets lonely, in the dark. Gets cold. You know it. They don’t. You doingall right?”

“Yeah.”

“My fault you waked. Sex’ll do it sometimes.—And hell ifI

wanted Christian to ship you out to Earth—sel sh me. I tried

my best to warn you, Tommy-person, short ofall the trouble

you had. Tried to make you hear me. But you went out with him

all the same. And now look. Saby’s got you. I lost out again.”

He felt the loneliness, and the cold. Then…just felt/

smelled/saw the colors a while. And vast, terrifyingsilence. He

tried to move, then. He couldn’t feel things. Couldn’t tell up

from down. He leaned into space, inched back toward solid

limits, and thought he was falling. Arms were there. Caught him. Hands showed him where

level was. “Tommy-person,” a voice said. “Sillyass. Easy. Easy. You took the trank. It’s still in your system, and I can’t watch

you all the time. Break your silly neck, you will, or yournose. Lie

still. Lie still. Enjoy it. Go with it… like sex… you got to go with

it. You got to like it.—Deep breath. The willies will stop.”

He lay still—he thought he was lyingdown, Saby lyingnear

him, but whether it was light ordark didn’t seem relevant to his

eyes. He saw, somehow, orsomethinglike. The brain kept

shifting things around or the walls truly ran in streams ofcolor. Things just were. Couldn’t see Capella, then shivered at a

strangeness as her hand met his body. “Where were you?” he tried to ask. “Upside, mostly,” Capella said. “The bridge. Everybody’s cold,

everybody’s still. Don’t worry, I won’t touch you, just a sit-a-

while, just a voice.”

“Yeah,” he said. He thought he could see and feel her, then,

sitting on the edge ofthe bed, elbows on herknees, depressing

the mattress. “Yeah, well, once you start to, you know, be aware, the trank’s

real chancy. You’re a little disconnected. Distances go down a

tunnel, don’t they?”

“Long. Long tunnel,” he said, because it was. That very well

described it. He was astonished and relieved that someone else

could see what he thought was his own senses out ofcontrol. “Cold.” He didn’t remember walking. Didn’t knowwhere he was,

just that he was on his feet in a wildly tiltinguniverse, but

Capella’s hand found his arm. He was goingto be sick, and then

he wasn’t. Was just lying on his bed tryingto be steadily solid. “Relax. Easy. I got you. I won’t let you fall.”

Two deep breaths. “You can tell, you know. The ones that ght it. The ones that

can hear you. More can than do, ifyou understand.”

“Don’t. Understand.”

“Yeah. Easy. Don’t know why it’s cold. Metabolism, I guess. Maybe using up more ’n we take in. You’ll drop a few kilos. Dehydrate. You got to drink, Tommy. Brought you a raft ofthe

green stu. Drink up.”

Didn’t want to. Wasn’t trackingreal well. But you learned, if

somebody said drink, you drank, no matter the taste. Didn’t taste green. Tasted purple. Orange. Smelled blue. Stu

ran in front ofhis eyes. Colors made curls like water and oil in

free-fall. Made you sick awhile. But it went away. “Better?”

“Uh-huh,” he agreed. It sounded reasonable. Anythingwould

have gotten his agreement, echoingas it did, beingcolor, and

taste. It echoed on for a long, frighteningwhile. “We got a little problem out there,” Capella said, after a long

silence. He felt that sinkingofthe edge that told him most

surely Capella was there, like a depression in space itself. “I

think now there’s maybe three ofus. But the instruments are

screwed, you can’t tell, sometimes you get echoes o the

interface, you see yourself. Lot ofechoes in the sheet,

sometimes from clear to hell and gone, you never don’t know

where they come from. Maybe not even human, who knows?”

“Don’t understand.”

“Ships, Tommy-love. Ships in the same relevance of space-

time. When the Fleet would jump, several ships together, all

space’d go crazy.”

“Trouble?” He couldn’t gure what she was saying. Couldn’t

gure ifshe was asking help. Couldn’t stand up. “What do you

want?”

“Talk. Just talk to me. Give me a voice, Tommy. I’ve heard the

music too long.”

He didn’t understand about the music. But maybe that was

what he heard, too, when he thought about it, you could call it

music, a deep, deep sound, that went through the bones. He heard it deeper and deeper. It might have been another

time. When seemed irrelevant as where. Capella raked a hand

through her hair, looked distractedly, desperately at the wall,

the overhead, said, quietly, “Something’s screamingout there. Hear it?

Honest freighter passing, what it most sounds like, but

I don’t bet on it. We can fake ID, too, leastwise for a ship. So can

Patrick. Sumbitch.”

“Who?”

“Patrick. Maziannispook. One ofEdger’s skuz, and Edgeris

not our friend. Chased us out ofPell, Patrick did, and this

trading dump is lost to us, Tommy-person, no question he’ll

nd it. Everything we can leave at Tripoint is loss—ifnot to

him, to the cops: one or the other’ll get it for sure. But, problem

is, we can’t leave the systemwithout o oading—we

unquestionably got to shed mass somehow—can’t outrun this

bastard otherwise. He’s on us, and there’s this very important

little card… Shit, shit, shit!”

Shivery feeling. Like… things happened again and again,

bump, bump, against the nerves, like the same colors, the same

events, kept coming back, right through him, waves ofsound

bouncing o and coming back, o and back, heartbeat tryingto

synch with the waves, pressure in the ears, behind the eyes, in

the brain-stem. Touch came at his shoulder. Hard grip. Painful. “Serious stu. Tom. I want you to listen to me now, deadly

serious. I want you to rememberit.”

Things came and went. Covers whispered. Bed tilted. Capella

leaned close. “We dump down hard, and we’re mass-heavy to

start with. So you keep those belts on.”

“Yeah.”

“Dockers are going to earn theirpay, now, no question. Unload fast as we can. I thought maybe we could skim on

through, maybe make Viking, loaded as we are, but this sum-

bitch is good. He’s on us, not overjumping, and we can’t make it:

ifhe adds his mass to ours in hyperspace, he can push us faster

on the exit than we can brake with the mass we’re hauling,

that’s what it adds up to—send us right to Vikingand right into

hungry, hot old Ep-Eridani.”

“You sure?” Falling into a sun…wasn’t howhe wanted to go. Colors came and ran in disturbed sheets. Space warped and

twisted. “Tommy, I’ve worked it every way I can think ofand I can’t

drop us far enough out that we can do any damn thingbut fall. He can stop, but us, with all the mass, one way we end up

plasma and sunbeams and the otherwe go outbound with no

fuel. Patrick-bastard’s given me no choice.”

“Shit…”

“No, now, listen, Tom. You listen. I got to drop us in solid at

Tripoint, ifI can fake himonce. Use ourmass to throw him,

here. In one scenario, I won’t throwhim far enough and he’ll be

in our laps. In the one I want, we’ll buy that time we need to

dump mass. Depends on ifPatrick reads my intention to drop us

out, and ifPatrick-bastard knows to a navigational precision

just where that supply dump is. I do.”

Shook his head. “Can’t do.” Didn’t like what he was hearing. Didn’t know you could control anythingin hyperspace…he

knew there were things you could do right at the edge ofjump

or drop, but… this… God…

“Bet our lives I can. Have to. Patrick’s out there. And I can’t

wake Austin up to tell him howthings in the universe have

changed, you read me, Tommy-person?

You got to read me,

Tommy, pay attention.”

“I hear.”

“You got to tell Austin it’s no doublecross. He doesn’t trust

me. And this time he’s got to. This old hulk sits in the dark out

there, you follow me?

And it’s got stu inside for us to take and

it’s got loading racks we can o put stu to, real fast.”

“That’s what those cans were, at Viking.”

“Old, old cans, from the War. Salvage, legitimate salvage, ifit

didn’t come from the Fleet. And ordinarily anothership comes

to this old hulk and gets the cans we leave in trade, and takes

our cans to somewhere else. But this isn’t ordinary. Patrick’s not

our breed. You want to say Mazianni, Patrick’s Mazianni, no

question, not Fleet, Tommy. Not our friend. He’s a damn pirate,

he’ll have found our old hulk before we’re done, he’s armed a

helluva lot heavier than he looks, and there’s one way out ofthis

thing—put a certain key in that old wreck and give it the right

code and she’ll let you aboard and credit youro oad. Give her

another one and she remembers things she’s otherwise forgot. Got to have that card in the slot and that message input,

Tommy. IfPatrick comes at us, and he will, got to have that

message input. Then that old hulk’s ourfriend. Then she’ll give

us authorizations we got to have, bottomline, got to have to

survive. There’s a port we can go to, trust me on this.”

What other port?

he asked himself. Out ofTripoint there was

Mariner, or Viking, cheapest vectorout, or there was Pell,

priciest, fuel-wise. But he was following most ofit. At least… the cargo part. The

mass they had to get rid ofbefore they came in at Viking

velocity-high and fuel-short, aimed at the sun. And he believed there was somethingout there dogging

them in hyperspace: he felt something he couldn’t explain. But moral argument and promises ofdeliverance from a

person he didn’t halftrust himself?

Not so easy. He felt Capella straighten his collar. “Tommy-person. IfI say on com, we got to move, we got to

move. Tell Austin—ifI was against him—I’d have switched keys

on him. You know I could’ve, ifhe doesn’t. I can open any door

on thisship, pick any pocket right now. He’s got that key I’m

talking about. I’ll give himthe code that answers that son ofa

bitch out there, the way I said. Ifeverythinggoes wrong—he’s

got to use it. Tell him so. Understand?”

“Chance this Patrick does know…where we’re going?”

“We see in the dark, lover. But not that well. Even guring

that old hulk’s on the Pell reach and the Tripoint perimeter…

that’s a lot of space to search, for a quiet object. No. Odds are

absolutely on him not knowing, especially the way he’s riding

us. He doesn’t want to lose track ofus. And ifhe’s any

appreciable distance past us, hard-ordnance is impossible for

him. Not impossible for us. We’ll re right down his tail. That’s

what I’ll try to do, position us where we got that chance. But

Austin’s going to come out with everythingscrewed. Cargo

screwed. Extra ship in the soup. Man’s goingto be real damn

mad at me.”

“Not your fault.”

“Yeah. But, you got to understand, I’m on real short credit

with him.”

“Don’t understand.”

“Since Chrissy’s stunt at Pell?

Both ofus are on Austin’s shit-

list. I want you to know this one more detail: this little card

Austin’s got?

Austin’s got to o oad that mass, that’s one,

because we’re loaded, and Patrick isn’t; and he’s got to feed the

old wreck that keycard real fast, close as I’m droppingus. Austin

doesn’t know that. It’s not a detail he’s ever needed to know. Keeps the suppliers honest, you understand. Now he has to

know. That key-card gets the hold to open, in the lock slot. But

in the cargo console slot, with the right code, that old wreck can

write to that key-card—and he’s got to get me that

authorization, he’s got to use that codeword before we get out of

here. But ifhappens he doesn’t believe me—Tommy, ifhe won’t

input or ifhe takes me o that nav board, we are screwed. I’ve

got to be on the bridge. Beatrice has got to take the next gures I

give her. Ifthe captain orders me o the bridge, I tell you, I’m

locking-down the navigation computers.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Oh, I can do it, Tommy, I can do it, and Bianco can probably

crack my lock, given an hour or so. But Patrick’ll blowus to hell

rst. Austin will gure that part with no prompt at all.”

“God, you’re crazy.”

“I’ve been accused ofthat. But you watch me not talk,

Tommy-sweet. Austin can ask me, pretty please. Austin can do

what I say.” A hand brushed his forehead. “I just want somebody

but me to know, ifit happens. But, listen, ifAustin’s the man I

think he is, he’ll deliver that damn cargo. That card’s his proof. His credit with the Fleet. Call it old-fashioned honor. I think

they still use that word. He’ll ght to keep it.”

“How?” Consciousness came up for a moment. He saw her

shadow against the runningcolors, solid mass, when nothing

else was. Voices rang and echoed. Time might have passed. “I

don’t understand how you can do this. How. Drop us. Anywhere.”

“Not much else you can control in this space, lover, just the

power you can throw into the interface. Ordump o. Yeah,

there’s things I can do. Patrick-bastard’s tryingto hangback on

me, not using the power he’s got. It’s an old trick, ride ourwave

and try to drop in behind us. He’d like to haul me down, but it’s

dangerous as hell, and say he can’t do it without a gravity slope,

so we’re safe for the while. Besides, he knows I got to dump

down anyway—and I know where and he doesn’t. So when we

hit the Tripoint slope, he’ll expect I’ll bobble the eld and feint a

drop. Wrong. I’ll drop us for real, right out fromunder him. So if

he doesn’t read my mind, he’s potentiatingelsewhere. Same

event-packet. Puts us time-wise near simultaneous, position-

wise as far separate as I can fake him, the gods ofphysics know

where: the variables are hell, and one of’em’s Patrick. Wish I

knew ifthat ghosty freighter’s an echo. Ifit’s real, she’ll come

down, too. Just don’t know where.”

He was following it. Didn’t want to, but he was—at least the

part that said they were ridingclose with ships on entry. Military stu. They didn’t have to be boarded. Theirown navigator was the

breed an honest merchanterwas most afraid of. “Tommy-love, last warning, ifAustin balks—h-a-v-o-c is the

code he has to input to get us that authorization I need. Key-

card in the cargo console slot while you input. Two should

know that, down there. Tell him, ifhe asks, that Capella’s not

betrayed him.” Mouth covered his. Hand went down his side. Gentle touch. “You’re such an honest lad, Tommy-person. And

there are so few. Go belowwhen they ask for help. Saby’ll take

you. They’ll need every hand they’ve got down in cargo and

they damn sure won’t want you up where the computers are. Remember what I’ve said.”

“Huh?”

“Saby can get you down to cargo. I want you there. You just

insist. G’night, lover. See you. See you otherside.” Lips touched

his again, passionately, deeply, gently. “Sweet, sweet dreams,

Tommy.”

Trank was worn thin. Didn’t knowlonghe’d waked, overall. Not long. Not often. Now he couldn’t get his equilibrium. Couldn’t rest, either, after the shadowwas gone. He lay there with sounds runningthrough his brain, in the

shifting chaos. Shutting the eyes didn’t stop it. Colors kept

going o , ashes, like pressure against the eyes. Thoughts kept

going, turning back on each other, and he wanted to believe. Wanted to believe his night-walker was telling, however

selectively, the truth. Didn’t know ifit was scrambled logic, orifwhat you heard

when the brain was ashingcolors and rumblingwith thunder

that wasn’t sound… had to stick in yourhead, and you couldn’t

discriminate what was lies. Distances go down a tunnel, don’t they?

Remember what I’ve said…

—iii—

SHIP DROPPED. LONG, long sequence. Body ached. The whole ofspace seemed to bend. Supposed to be a hard one, it was all right, it was supposed to

be this way. Then… he began to think it wasn’t goingright, that the ship

was in trouble. Something boomed through the hull. Vibration began—that

experience didn’t explain. He grabbed at Saby’s hand, felt Saby’s

ngers bend around his. He tried to keep his breaths deep and even. Dreams ran and

melted color across his vision. Memories ofsound. Memories of

a lingering, deeply erotic kiss, a touch runningoverhis skin. Boom. Thump. His pulse pounded. A moment ofprofound hush, the air gone numb. Hydraulics worked, somewhere in the frame. Wasn’t cargo. Couldn’t gure…

Third loud boom. He’d neverheard a ship sound like that on

entry. “We are here.” A calm voice on com. Beatrice’s, he thought,

comforted by that icy competence. “Stay belted. We are in

docking approach. Essential movement only.”

It didn’t seem real. “Can’t,” he muttered, thinkinghe must

have passed out a while, lost some hours oftime. “Docking?

can’t be, this soon.”

“We hit real close to the target,” Saby murmured. “Pella’s

good. She always does this one.” Herhand moved. He turned his

head, making the whole universe seem to tilt. Saby had found

the nutri-packs, he thought. He heard the rustling, reached to

help her. Pilot couldn’t be better o. Tryingto dock. The shakes

crawling up a body’s gut respected no occupation and no

emergency, while Capella…

Dropping a ship straight into dockingapproach—couldn’t do

that, damn crazy woman…at Tripoint, no less, triple, unstable

mass…

Computer lockdown. Bloody hell…

Fingers were numb, on the seal ofthe packet Saby gave him. Boom. Again. Hands shook. “What is that?” he asked. “That’s us ring.” Saby’s voice was faint. Scared-sounding. “We red once as we came out. Inertial-mass ordnance goes a

major fraction oflight, then. Whoeverwe’re shootingat…for

him to re upslope, ’s too farfor his missiles, even internal

propulsions. He’s got to hope we run into it. Seen this before,

thanks. Don’t like it.”

Patrick, Capella had said—when had she said?—This Patrick,

navigator. Like her. Anotherone that saw in the dark. Saw them

—the way he’d seen—

Once you, you know, become aware…

Colors running. Sound coming at them… weaving back and

forth, through bone and brain…

Another volley. Couldn’t get the damn pack tube free. Hands trembled. Saby

was beside him, trying to get herselfcollected. They were lying

in a nest ofspent nutri-packs. Gets cold. Gets lonely. Tommy-love. —iv—

NOTE ON THE PRESSURE-SLATE: propped up and braced against

Austin’s number one monitor, in an all-too-familiar hand: I got

us here. Spook rode us all the way, entrained a third ship of some

kind, likely a light-armed freighter. Check screen. Sorry—Viking try

was screwed, mass far exceeding brake with spook and freighter in

packet. FYI: hulk is heavy armed and will re if we don’t provide

keycard in airlock slot as usual within one hour from our crossing

her perimeter, with ring in system. Always true. Now you need to

know. If, arriving in her perimeter, we move any direction but

toward her—she is not our friend. Maneuver or delay of approach

not advisable. Patrick wants the key-card. May try to cripple, not

kill. Respectfully, sir, suggest you not bet the ship on it. PS. You

want Patrick’s ass, you put card in the wreck’s cargo console slot,

input code HAVOC. Absolute necessity you do this or we don’t

leave. Meanwhile will lay course for next point. Must o oad all

cargo mass to reach. Safe port—distance 7 lights. Capella. “Bloody hell!”

He shot a look toward Capella’s station. Capella’s back was

turned. The second chiefnavigator was busy. Austin took a

swallow, forced it down, stared at the nav screen that came up

on his second monitor, rst-formed data. There wasn’t any port out ofTripoint that lay at seven lights. Not Pell. Not Viking. Loaded, they couldn’t do it. Unloaded,

even, it was a stretch for Corinthian. And where, for God’s sake?

What dark spot in the universe

was the woman calc’ing jump for?

Meanwhile the ship was trimmingup, under Beatrice’s

hands, with increasing jolts ofthe attitude jets. Hard jolt. Stomach heaved. He grabbed anothernutri-pack

from the clip, ripped the tube out, sucked down a mouthful of

copper-tasting uid as navigation data arrived suddenly on his

screen, rst re-make since the drop. Never got used to notes turningup out ofthe dark. Didn’t like unscheduled problems arrivingout ofit, either. Three ships. Corinthian, near the Object, all right, and

inbound. At distance, about 2 seconds light beyond them on

their vector, Silver Dream, and at 1 second’s remove—

Sprite. Shit. —Shit!

“Michaels!”

“Sir.”

“That’s Sprite.”

“Just saw that. Dropped in front of us. Fifteen hour climb for

their missiles. We’re still all right.”

A safe port, seven lights fuckingdistant?

O into the dark, to

some Fleet refuge their navigatorkept secret until now?

A place

no Union or Alliance optics had everjust happened to nd,

when optics had made a thorough scan ofthe edges of space?

“Nav. Why not Viking next?”

“Wouldn’t risk it, sir, if that freighter survives.”

“Nerves, nav. Plot Viking, as an in-case.”

“Yes, sir. But if that freighter gets out of here, they’ll report. They got a good position to see where we’re working. Our cargo-

site… is blown, less they and Patrick both go to hell. And, sir, the

Fleet said when they sent me… there’s a place you could go. I need

that little card validated, captain-sir, and I can take you there, safe

and sure. But I got to have the card. So does Patrick.”

Give the bastard the card, was the thought in his mind. Second chief’s refuge at seven lights could just as well be a trap. Crew taken. Ship con scated for military re t. Rumorheld it

still happened. And Capella wanted to take them o into the dark, getting

them clear ofthis faction ofthe Fleet, while the otherfaction,

Capella’s faction, was goingto reward them with some damn

secret port for protecting a key-card to a hulk that, ifthey got

out ofthis, a freighter now knew for what it was?

Dammittobloodyhell…

Not a chance, not a damn chance he’d heard all the truth

from the second chiefyet. And the Hawkins ship?

Firing was still going on, periodic boom as ordnance left

Corinthian. Corinthian had red at Silver Dream initially from a high-

energy point. Inertial-mass cannon-balls orself-propelled

nukes were equally deadly at that v. And they’d sent—were still

sending, at intervals—swarms ofinerts after that ship. Hindmost had the advantage in that regard. Their inerts might equally well hit Sprite. The freighter had

shed all relative v, and they were close enough to be in danger—

he hadn’t seen the re-path calc’ed, but both Sprite and Silver

Dream had dropped late, beyond them. Silver Dream had likewise dumped hard, then spent time on

an instant evasive maneuver, expectingthose inerts to be

traveling up their backside, no question: the ship was a

survivor, to be this old in the game. Two seconds o from their

informational wavefront. Patrick knew where they were, no

question. But even powered missiles weren’t an option for Patrick to

use, not from a retreating vectorat two light-seconds remove—

a single light-second or so past its target was worse luck fora

starship than a light-hour: Silver Dream’s stardrive couldn’t

jump short enough to close the gap, Patrick’s launch platform

was negative v relative to his target, and Patrick’s only choice

now was a hard realspace run up to meaningful speed, with

Corinthian ordnance coming right down his path. He had to reposition for his run in. Meanwhile a noisy damn Hawkins freighter was oodingits

stupid Sprite-Sprite-Sprite ID out into the EM ambient because

Sprite didn’t have a damn cut-o. And Sprite, carrying a Pell-origin drift?

God, it was surreal. What wasn’t Sprite hauling, that it could

have reached Pell and all but over-jumped them comingback

toward Viking again, until theircollective mass snagged it into

system-drop with them?

Low-mass cargo for sure. Marie Hawkins’ hate?

Marie Hawkins’ obsession?

He blinked, swallowed anothermetallic mouthful ofliquid

and a shudder raced through his gut, maybe the nutrient,

maybe the realization ofa ship full offools and a handful of

genuine innocents sitting out there noisierthan very hell, at a

single degree ofseparation from theirposition relative to the

spook, the spook maneuveringto bear down on them and

consequently on Sprite as fast as Patrick could get here, God

help the woman, and God help herwhole ship. Sprite was a registered ID, on the ship-lists. The spook could

check her out in the ick ofa key. Silver Dream could, maybe, if

Marie was lucky, decide that Sprite was a legitimate freighter,

just happening in, by some cosmic luck, and ignore it, like a

good, quiet spook. Or the spook could gure it was Corinthian faking ID, or that

it wassomething else fakingID, and factor them into its

targeting decisions. Ordnance from Corinthian should go right past Sprite, out

into the dark. The numbers showingnowwere a miss by an

absolute hair. Inerts or not, Sprite sensors should pick some

thing up when that volley went past theirbows. And Silver

Dream might not be sure which ship it came from. Figure it, Mischa Hawkins. Figure we’re not ringat you. Read the ambient. Look out at the dark, you damn fool, just

once in your life, look out there and ask yourselfthe right

question. There’s re coming the otherway. Move the damn ship. Burst from the trim jets. He snatched after anothernutri-

pack. Get the ship into mate with theirsupply dump, yeah. They’d

always dropped close. Capella was good. Always made it well inside an hour. Put the card in, that was

one thing. Always put the card in. It credited them, when they

used it again, at Viking—alongwith the cargo always waiting

for them here. Capella had never mentioned that the old hulk had a kill-

function. Not your friend, hell. But enter a code called HAVOC in that hulk, on theirFleet

navigator’s say-so, a code ofthat nature, into what she now

admitted was armed, and she didn’t tell you speci cally what it

did or where its hostile action stopped?

Not unless they had no… bloody…choice. —v—

THE EMERGENCY SIREN WAS WAILING through the ship, Duran was on

com, ordering Sprite’s kids’ loft to take immediate emergency

procedures, Paxton had been on a second ago sayingthey’d

jumped short, nobody knew what the hell had happened, or

why they’d dropped short oftheirintention, except a rough

drop and then something goingpast them, so high-mass,

meaning fast, that they couldn’t gure what it was. “Satis ed?”

Mischa spared breath to ask her. “Satis ed?”

“Change coordinates.” Marie pounded the counter above

Mischa’s console softly with a clenched st, tried to slow her

breaths. A post-jump headache and an adrenaline overload

didn’t help. “Get us down, dammit. Get us up, get us out ofthe

plane of re.”

“Somebody’s back there,” Paxton was saying, and Sully, helm,

was yelling at Mischa, o -com, “It was missiles, it’s a heave-to

order!

It could be Military, one ofthem is bound to be the

Military, chasing Corinthian—we can’t go shooting at shadows,

dammit!”

“Track point oforigin,” Marie said. “We can’t go ring—”

“Sully, just shut up!” Mischa, o -corn himself. “I heard you!

Get a point oforigin!” Mischa was sweating. “Shut that damn

siren o !

God!”

“Hindmost is Corinthian,” Marie said. “Corinthian, Corinthian, I’m sick to death ofCorinthian, I’m

sick to death ofBowe, I’m sick to death ofyou and that damn

kid!

I don’t want to hear about him, I don’t want to hearany

more ofyour damn ideas, Marie, just sit down and keep your

mouth shut!

You don’t know anythingabout missiles, you don’t

know what you’ve stirred up, you got us into this mess, now,

just get the hell back to your naglingdamn deals and leave ops

to people who know what they’re doing.”

“Mischa,—get us out of—”

Proximity klaxon went o. Marie looked up, stared at the

screens, some ofwhich ared red, winced, but it was less than

the blink ofan eye. Whatever it was, second volley, had passed them into the

dark. “Where is he?

Damn him, where is he?”

“They’re not targeting us,” Marie said. “We’re still alive.”

“They’re ring at the Military,” Sully said. “Sully, for God’s sake,—Marie,—shut up!”

“Mischa.” Marie rapped the console, got a calm word in. “Take

us out ofplane. Now. Settle who and where later.”

“Sit down!

We’re going on to Viking, we’ll meet Bowe there, if

that’s what it takes. We’ll do it where there’s police.”

“Viking’s in the direction it’s ringat, you damn fool!”

“I said sit down!

We don’t knowwhere the hell we are. We’ve

come down way out on the fringes, we have a navigational

problem we have to solve before we complicate it with any—”

She brought her st down on the console. “Shut up, Mischa,

dammit!

Saja,—Sully, plus 2 out ofplane at 5 g’s, count of ve,

now!”

“Set,” helm said. “Abort that, Sully, kill it!”

“Somebody better do something,” Sully said. Marie ung herselfonto a safety bench and grabbed the belts. Shoved the catches closed. “I’m calling a captaincy vote. Now. Saja. Sully. Do it!”

Ship moved. Hard. —vi—

“SCARED THEM,” MIKE REMARKED. Austin murmured a preoccupied

yeah, and registered Sprite’s in-progress coordinate change as

one problem down. Or up. At least not in line of re. Sprite

moved, sending its noisy ID out into the dark. Corinthian moved

in EM silence, except the minor engines, passive scan only. Figure Silver Dream was in motion, too, not in hard-scan

range, but gathering realspace speed, o which herown

missiles and inerts could be e ective. A Fleet renegade. Hope this Patrick didn’t have an approach

code that could let him dive inside the hulk’s self-de ned

perimeter. Every klick he had to maneuver, every precaution he

had to take to avoid it was an accuracy problem. And ifhe didn’t

know the hulk was armed—he knew Corinthian was; and had to

assume that Sprite was. And, mistake—but they weren’t goingto explain it—Patrick

had to assume that Sprite was on Corinthian’s side, and had just

maneuvered to re up Silver Dream’s approach path. Number two monitor had just gone live. A blinkingblue

circle framed a patch ofwhat could look exactly like every other

patch ofstarry space. The Object was out there. That was what Bianco meant by

switching him that black image, with the dot ashingin the

center. Couldn’t see it yet. Graininess ofthe image was equal to

the dusting ofstars equally dim. Meanwhile… meanwhile…ask what Sprite thought it was

going to do, with its little rail-gun, at one light-second. Fire at them or re at Silver Dream, who wouldn’t believe

protestations ofnon-combatancy. Question who was in control on that ship, orwhat it was

bidding for. And ifCapella was right…

“Nav.”

“Sir.”

“Does the Object take being red toward?”

“No, sir, it’s real pissed if that happens. Recommend not.”

Could guess that, all right. Hope the fool on Sprite didn’t try

it. And maybe Patrick knewthat, too, orsuspected it, and

planned not to re but once. One heavy hit. Blowthe hulk and

them, together, the Mazianni’s problem solved—ifsecond chief

was wrong and Patrick didn’t have herhead or that card on that

high a priority. A shadow appeared on the screen that targeted the hulk,

now, frighteningly fast growth ofa darkness against the dust. Freighter. Years dead. Gutted. As good a warehouse as you

could ask for, a cargo-handlingrigas fast as a completely zero-g

rack could a ord, just hit the release when they came o the

line and hope a rebound didn’t come back at you…hellish

enough, trying to rush the cans out. Damn lunatic Sprite trying to shoot two-credit missiles at

you the while…

But the hands were good, and that cargo o oad could be

blinding fast, ifyou weren’t worryingabout fragiles—and most

ofwhat they were hauling wasn’t, give or take the Scotch. A few real high-mass cans. Steel rods. They were to worry

about, when they were in motion. Inertial within the capacity

ofthat rack, their mass exceeded can limits. Bitchy load even on

a station dock, at their slow speeds. And a zero-g line tended to

develop oscillations—hell dealing with that mass. Hope Patrick made acquaintance ofthe inerts, head on,

before he gathered v enough for shielding e ect. It took far

longer to dock and o oad than it did to run those cans out into

space… but inside the hulk’s perimeter, with that card in, they

had, according to the second chief, somethingshe vitally

needed… provided Patrick didn’t also have codes to let him

approach. Damn lot ofvariables. And Patrick’s estimated position was shiftingconstantly

now in the numbers on his screen. Patrick had begun his run—

in longscan’s primary estimation. That estimated v was coming

up fast. Couldn’t re dead ahead while you were puttingon v like that

—you’d run into your own ordnance. Patrick had to get o a

passing or retreating shot. The EMbath that Sprite’s ID was

sending out was no help at all. It echoed o solids, just like

radar. Thank you, thank you, Marie Hawkins. “This HAVOC code, nav, just what’s it do?”

“Sir, I think it’ll respect the user. Nothing else. Damn sure

nothing shooting at it.”

“Hulk won’t do that anyway, will it?”

“Sir, I’m not need-to-know on that level.”

Shit. And the Hawkinses out there, ship full offools. Shit on them. Beatrice wasn’t talking. Not since drop. Probably was aware,

but when Beatrice was workingthis particular bitch ofan

approach, she was in her own universe. The Object had no

motion to speak of, but their two masses made one bitch ofan

impact possible, ifthey didn’t soft-touch, and the Object didn’t

talk to you. Silent as any spook, always. Cold. Very. Beatrice professed not to like it. Like she didn’t like sex. Sudden slam from the engines. The screen suddenly showed

an on-rushing dark spot. The blot on the stars rushed at the

camera. Filled the screen, total dark. Jolt. Stop. The body had—gut-level, intellectual, rational functions to

the contrary, and no matterhowmany times they’d done it—

braced for impact. “We have the Object between us and Sprite,” Beatrice

announced calmly, then, smoothly as on station approach. “Touch in ten minutes. Do we believe nav, or what?”

“Thank you, helm. Yes, we believe nav, because we have no

fucking choice.”

He punched general com. “This is the captain. We have a very

short window to o oad. Enemy is in system, proceeding

toward us from dead v at two seconds light. We will, however,

o oad to shed mass, and we are goingto o oad at all possible

speed. We cannot a ord mistakes. We have a narrowmargin. Touch and dock in less than ten minutes. When the siren

sounds, all hands, repeat, all hands, on-shift and o -, not at this

moment at ops-critical stations, suit for vacuum and start cargo

o oad. We’re going to tie down the brake levers, on both sides. We don’t care ifwe dent the walls. I want volunteers forthe

release-station in the receivinghold. Hazard pay and hazard

privilege both apply, and we hope the receivingequipment

takes it.”

—vii—

“I’M GOING,” TOM SAID, still at in bed, while trim-up went on. “Got

to be at least an e-suit or somethingI can borrow. Saby, I swear

to you. I grew up in the cargo o ce, I knowthe boards, I know

the equipment. I’ve worked the line. I swear, I swear I won’t

screw it, I don’t want to sit up here waitingto be blown.”

He expected argument. But Saby didn’t argue. “Michaels has to be on the bridge. He’s ourgunner, he won’t

suit. Use his rig. I’m runningHold Technical. Just keep the cans

o my neck.”

Michaels. He remembered a man beaten. Remembered why, then. Knew the rules, Tink said. Follow

the rules. Ship was at stake. All theirlives. Ship had its own

logic. Forget everything else. Remembered Michaels… saying, Kid’s shaky…light duty…

Contact. Easy bump. Grapples activated, banged into lock. Saby’s belts clicked on that sound. So did his, and he cleared

her path as she scrambled across—tried to help herup and

threw a supporting hand against the wall, his own equilibrium

not so reliable as he’d thought. Saby didn’t wait for amenities, opened the doorand headed

out, zipping what she’d loosed for comfort. Crew and dockers in dress and undress thumped into the

corridors at a wobbly, staggeringrun, generally in their

direction, down lower main, knockinginto walls, some ofthem,

but going as fast as they could. It was an eerie feeling, everybody runningthe same

direction, like suit drill, but not drill, nothingnowwas drill. It

was the emergency a spacerlived all his life tryingnever, everto

have. The gang-up at the end ofthe corridorsplit in two directions,

down the transverses, the mirror-image D blocks, where the suit

lockers were—locker doors already powered open, from the

bridge, suits open, helmets and harnesses suspended on their

racks, a surreal gathering ofhuman shells, crewalready backing

into them, sealing them in that drill a spacer could do drunk or

asleep. “Michaels!” Saby said, and shoved him at Michael’s locker. He turned, stepped into the suit backward, got his arms into

the sleeves, sealed the front, kicked the release plate to bringthe

LS backpack and helmet down overhis head and shoulders. Seals clicked. Indicators and faceplate display ared on,

con rming lifesupport and seals positive. Came, instantly, that claustrophobic shortness ofbreath the

suit gave him. It always got to him this way: he’d helped Marie

in cargo, yeah, mostly fromthe ops boards safely upside—he

never suited except in drills. The borrowed rig smelled ofdisinfectant, ofMichaels’ use. The air he depended on came to him rationed by a regulator. The mass ofthe harness as it came free ofthe rack was an

instant revision ofbody-space and center ofgravity. Another suited gure leaned into vision, adjusted something

on his chest-link. SABRINA PERRAULT, the paint on the helmet

said. With a decal rose. She bumped helmets. “You all right?

Com not working?”

“Yeah. It’s working.”

Stupid. He’d not turned his communications on. He’d sworn

to her he knew what he was doing, and she knew…

“Channel D for private.” She punched somethingon his

shoulder. The channel indicator moved, near his chin. “Come

on, expert.”

She moved and he followed, at the shu ing, big-footed walk

which ring rotation imposed on them, a lock-step sweating

haste, back along the D-curve, toward the cargo lift as it opened. They got in at the rear, jammed in as closely and as tightly as

they could, fourteen, maybe fteen suited bulks, before the

doors shut and the lift jolted out ofsynch with the passenger

ring. Immediately after, one fractional pass ofthe ringabout the

core, the car banged into lock with the zero-g frame. Automatic doors let them out on a dark hold. The cold of

space froze their attending pu ofhumidi ed air into ice

crystals in the spotty glare ofthe helmet lights. Hold lights

ared on around them, illuminatingloadingmachinery, racks,

and tiers ofcans that jammed theirhold right up to the red line. A group ofwhite-suited gures was goingforward, down the

still-empty cargo chute—he sawo cers’ sleeve patches on that

lot. All around him, bodies moved, white, bulky, anonymous

except for sleeve patches, non-com crew fanningout in silence

along hand-railings, takingstation out amongthe tiers ofcans,

ready to sort those racks out onto the main delivery track and

secure the spent carriages when they came down the return

track. Saby grabbed his arm brie y, hit his chest with herhand and

got his suit light on, illumination for the shadowed areas. He wasn’t tracking a hundred percent. The suit read-out

wasn’t in the familiar orderin the chin-level display—he hadn’t

realized his light wasn’t defaulted on; and crew knocked into

them in their delay, makinga gap in the line, hinderingan

already dangerous e ort. A jump-queasy stomach and the

beginnings ofa headache argued he could easily become a

worse problem, and he was determined not to be. An enemy in the system?

Colors ashed, in memory. Sound wailed at them. Got to have that card in the slot and that message input,

Tommy. If Patrick comes at us, and he will, got to have that

message input. Then that old hulk’s our friend. Sweat ran, a trickle down his face he couldn’t wipe. He

moved where Saby and the rest moved. Words echoed out ofthe

dark in his skull, red and blue ashes smeared and ran while he

hauled himselfalong on the hand-rail. God, release the line brakes… The 4-meter cannisters, with

the mass they carried… could probably survive the o oad

without bursting, ifthey were good, double-walled cans, no

temperature-constant stu —but Austin had called forhazard

pay volunteers on the release end, and he’d seen rst-hand what

happened when a can broke under stress. He’d seen it happen to

a ship on a station dock, brake lever accidentally jammed open. Can ew o , hit the deck, hit a support girder, killed one

dockworker, sent fourteen to hospital—

“Look out!” came over his helmet-com. Somebody bumped

him, passing down the line in a hell ofa hurry. Didn’t know who

it was. He moved, out ofbreath, hand over hand down the rail

that led along the can-track, tryingto hit the rhythm Saby did,

ahead ofhim—he was tryingnot to hold up the line behind

them, because there was nobody in front, and he couldn’t get

his breath… colors washed across his vision. Remembrance of

smell-taste-hearing, bone-deep sound, all but pain…

They were well past the hold lights, now. The can-track was a

continuous-loop railing in the dim overhead, the exit-chute

wall was narrowing around them, and light came as a scatterof

patches where their suit lights picked out solid objects, a back-

pack, a hand, a section ofsafety rail as they hand-over-handed

into the absolute night ofthe chute. Then the cargo check console materialized in Saby’s chest-

light, nobody manning it. Saby left the line, moved in with

authority, threw the console switch that started the red motion

warning strobing in the overhead…he hesitated, sailed o the

hand-rail to clear others’ way, and grabbed the console edge. “Run ’em out.” That was Austin’s voice over the com, on the

general channel. “Get them moving, we’re waitingup here.”

Up here. Austin was forward, then, in the mate-up zone…

that wasn’t where the captain belonged, damn him…

“We got precious little time,” Austin was saying. “Skit’s coming

our way, but the sumbitch can’t re til he passes.”

“Cans are going to be all over that hold,” somebody said. “Damn free-fall billiards.”

“Yeah, yeah, best we can do, Deke, sorry, neat isn’t in our

capacity right now, we’ll be real satis ed with out of here.”

“We got high-mass stu in this load!”

“Deke, just watch the damn line—she’s rolling!”

Cans had started to move. Tomcaught a look at Saby, lights

from the console a multicolored constellation on Saby’s mask …

busy and on a hair-trigger. Saby ipped otherswitches,

engaging can-pickup robotics that moved the cans on their

tracks way back in the tiers… he understood the board—he

knew what process had just started; the carriages were picking

up cans back there, slidinginto the motorized track. The

inspection brake at this console only slowed a can enough for

the laser-reader to nd the can customs-tags, and a deft hand to

snatch o any remaining monitorplug…but then the tractor-

chain caught the carriage and ran the can up to whateverrate of

delivery the end-line brake was supposed to control. Ifit wasn’t latched down. Which left Saby’s brake as the only

regulator on a line not even designed for free-fall—God knew

what motion the cans were goingto pick up as they hit the

chain…

Stupid, stupid, stupid place to o -load, he said to himself,

having the whole picture now, why crew had lined up alongthe

exit track… human muscle, to keep those cans under control. And no instructions… they’d done it before. “You all right here?” he asked her. “You need help?”

“My job,” Saby said. “I got it. You know the board?”

“Half-assed. I’m going on the line.”

“You can stand back-up. Stay out of the track!”

Danger, then. Danger ofa glitch in the line—crew forward

couldn’t do anything but help those cans across whatever

inevitable bump in the track the mate-up with the otherhold

might make—never done a hando to anothership, but it

couldn’t be a perfect mate—always a glitch-point, even with

dockside. He moved, followed the hand-rail, knew he was

heading for a potential accident-point, ifsomebody was going

to lose a hand, once the walls narrowed—worst ofall when the

cans were in the mate-up, where carriages this side released and

carriages the other side had damned well betterbe ready and

adequate—

Can passed him, another, caught by the movingchain, then

—he saw both sway as they whisked past him on the last

tractor-section, into the cargo-chute’s section, into the dark—

didn’t want any swinging, a swingstarted here could impact

the side-rails, slow the cans, make a jam-up on the line. He found a place to hang, wall at his back, safety rail between

him and the track—a crewman was workingthere, and he

joined in, met can after can with his gloved hands, until he hit a

rhythm in the moves, move ofhis foot, move ofhis body—

breath came too short at rst, rawfear. Then he acquired a feel

for the fractional degree and vector the cans tended to sway,

and it became saner—the panic almost left him. He had wind

enough; he heard somebody else breathinginto an open mike…

he thought it was Saby. He could hear the terse slow-up and

speed-up orders to Saby’s station from some o cerforward in

the chute, and fell into the rhythm until he all but forgot there

was anything else in the universe but those cans comingfaster

and faster. Then something happened up ahead that shouldn’t

happen, the whole track shook for no reason. He couldn’t hear

it, but he saw the shudderin the cans—”Damn!” he heard over

the com, and somebody else said: “Track’s warping, she’s shot a

rivet, ease back, ease back.”

Oh, damn, he thought, we’re not goingto make it; and Saby

said:

“I got it slowed, I got it… Tom, get down there, get a look, tell me

how bad.”

He didn’t ask—Saby didn’t have eyes for what was happening

ahead in the chute, the rig was stressed past design limits, and

somebody on com was yellingat Saby to keep it rolling,

dammit, keep it rolling, and givingorders to shunt tier ve-c o

to last-loaded, they’d run that set ofcans out ifthe righeld and

they had time…

Something in that load, he said to himself, somethinghigh-

mass they weren’t sure the equipment could take. He hauled

himselfalong the hand-rail, alongthe outbound chute, as faras

a section where the cans had picked up a hell ofa bobble. Cans were still coming past him. Guys were workingahead,

damping down the motion with theirhands and bodies, the

same as they’d done higher up the line—you didn’t know what

kind of mass was coming at you in a given can, whetheryou

were going to meet foam rubberor foam steel in a load. It was

terrifying, but the receivingzone was yellinghurry up, speed

up. “Saby!” he said. “They got a hand-span swingat the rate

you’re sending ’em now, you copy?”

“I copy. Get back here.”

“I’m all right, do you copy?”

“We got no damn time!” somebody else broke in. “Get on it,

dammit, move it, move it up plus two, Saby, she’ll take it—”

That was an o cer talking, by the sound ofit, and he didn’t

belong on com. He found a space next to a bigguy as the cans’

delivery rate began to speed up—the several ofthem actingas

living bu ers to keep the cans movingsteadily. “It’ll be all right,” came over his com, over somebody’s hard

breathing. Didn’t even know who the guy was until he’d worked up a

total sweat and a can swungback, knockinghim into the wall. The big guy sent the can on its way with a shove, and a one-

handed reach met his grip as he rebounded o the wall—hauled

him out ofdanger ofthe track, to a hand-hold he could reach. Tink looked startled. “‘S all right,” Tom breathed, “I’m all right, Tink, thanks.”

Wasn’t time to talk. Cans were passingthem, fast as

nightmare, now. Oscillation at the warp-point had proliferated,

and all he could do was keep one hand to the safety-hold, a

straight-arm block to damp the motion in his area everso little,

next man to take a little more swingo , and on to the next, like

assembly-line robots. Couldn’t let it stress the clamps. The track had already bowed

under a mass-heavy can at too much v, no telling when another

might come down the line—hope the crew in the hold were

reading labels. Oscillation grew worse. A can hit the wall, acquired a real

nasty motion, slowed. “Hold it!” somebody yelled. “Got a hang-up, hold, hold, hold!”

Cans bumped, all the way down the line. Tomhauled himself

back, panting, shoulder to shoulder with Tink. Then Austin’s voice came on, and channel A’s indicator

ashed, general override. “We’re dear, we haven’t got damn

forever, Saby, let’s get a move on.”

The cans started to move again. Tomheld his breath—one

can had to nudge another into motion, all the way back from

Saby’s station, where she could let loose cans to the inertial line,

that was all. Bump, bump, bump, cans came out ofthe dark, nudgingeach

other with a swing they had to damp, and the line moved,

faster, faster, faster. He thought—nightmare ash—about that

hostile ship out there… time lost, maybe fatal time. He’d gotten the shakes into his knees, scared—exhausted, he

wasn’t sure. Patrick, Capella’d said. Patrick. Noise in the dark. Runny blues and reds, sound that went through the bones…

he couldn’t remember. Except Capella saying, A freighter

screaming…

He shoved at cans as they came, one afterthe other, the rack

assembly moving uninterrupted, now, cans one behind the

other, a moving wall ofshadowed white. Somebody screamed, on A, screamed, where o cial voices

went back and forth. He heard Christian, then, somewhere, he

had no idea where. “Just stay clear, stay back, it’s all right. Patch it, patch!

dammit,

he’s losing air—”

“Got it, got it. It’s just his nger.”

“What’s our time?” somebody else asked, and Christian

answered, “Just do it, dammit. Keep your damn hands clear, we’re

one row to go.”

Almost through. They could make it. Suddenly he couldn’t

get enough air, touched the air- owregulator—but cans came

in, bumped a slower can, set it in motion. Careful, careful, he

wished Saby, don’t lose it, don’t lose it—he ignored his

shortened breath, shoved as cans passed, to the limit ofhis

strength and his grip on the hand-hold bar. Bumping in the line had started anotheroscillation, cans

endangering workers along the walls—he attened, had enough

room until the e ect dissipated down the line. Cans bumped

one another, threatened anotherjam, and then didn’t—Saby

was controlling the feed back there, nessingit, best she

could…

“Captain. Sprite’s moving this way.”

Sprite’s…

Moving. “Oh… shit!” Tink said. He didn’t know he’d moved, but he had, he didn’t realize Tink

had made a grab for him, but he’d slungTink’s hand o —didn’t

know where he was going, but he shoved with his foot on a can

and shot forward, the walls a blur in his vision as he

richocheted o cans, o the wall, grabbed for a handhold where

the railing climbed to the release zone. Brain caught up to body,

then—he wanted escape, wanted forward, where ship’s o cers

were, where Austin was, where the truth was, as much as they

hadn’t told to him, who that ship was, that was comingat them. Bright lights now, vacant stretch ofhand-rail, at the top of

the cans now, the cargo-lock mate-up area, cans bumpingin the

guide rails, where the line started a process to shunt the cans on

Corinthians rails o into the mated rail in the otherhold—both

cargo locks standing wide open, all the way into the hulk they

were dealing with. Com D light was blinking. Saby wanted him. Maybe Tink did. Breath was ragged. The suit regulator wouldn’t give him more

oxygen. Betrayal, then, Tink’s voice, on Universal: “All hands, Hawkins

is in Michaels’ rig.—Tom, you got to get back here.”

Save the ship. He knew that. He understood. Tink had to get

him. “Tom!” Saby’s voice. Saby couldn’t leave herpost. Wouldn’t. Too many lives… “Tom, come back, Tom, I need you!

I need you,

dammit!”

“Tom!

“Tink’s voice, again, anguished. “—Captain, he’s coming

your way!

I can’t catch him…”

The whole ship wanted to stop him. In front ofhim, glaring

light, Corinthian’s cargo-lock console, as he hand-over-handed

toward the o cers there. “Hawkins!”

Christian. He had no direction with the com. He scanned the 360° of

helmet display, looking, but had no warningas someone

snagged the back-pack, spun him around to rebound against

the wall. “Son-of-a-bitch!

What are you doing?”

He fended o the hold, but it wasn’t only Christian, it was

two, three ofthem, grabbinghold, startingan inertial tumble. They bumped cans, richocheted o to the wall ofthe chute,

back again. A section of tractor-chain ground against his

helmet, bump, bump, bump, until somebody hauled them out

ofit and anchored their collective mass alongthe rail. “Cut his regulator!” somebody shouted, C. BOWE was the

name on the helmet closest, the one with his hand on his

oxygen supply. He panicked, swung to free himself, claustrophobic as ifthe

oxygen had already stopped. “You lied to me,” he panted, and struggled to get a hold on

the rail. “You all fucking lied to me, you son ofa bitch—what

ship, what’s going on out there?”

Someone else was yelling—he couldn’t hear it; then “Hold it!”

Austin’s voice. “Hold it, dammit, that’s high mass—brake on,

damn you, cut it—”

Something happened. “Shit!” somebody yelled, but he was

still ghting for air, found an arm free and got a hold on the rail,

as a jackstraw debris ofmetal rods ew everywhere. “Brake!

Brake!

Can’s ruptured—”

Crewmen were yelling, rods were yingeverywhere, into the

line, into the moving cans, rebounding. A piece slammed him

side-on, knocked him against the wall with no surety his arm

wasn’t broken, but he got his glove to his regulator, tried to get

the air- ow up. “Patch!” somebody screamed—suit rupture—and nobody was

watching him, they were shuttingthe cargo doors, faras they

could with the racks mated, tryingto stop the debris. He couldn’t breathe. He drifted, trying, with clumsy ngers,

to adjust the external regulator. Last impact had thrown him

against the cargo-lock console, piece ofmetal rammed right

through the shelter wall and into the console board, more ofthe

jackstraws in slower, entropic motion now, companions in his

drift. He fended them, tried to calm his breathing. “Austin!” he heard Christian calling. “Austin, use your com,

dammit!”

“Captain was otherside,” somebody said, “in the other lock!”

and Christian:

“Shit, open the doors, open the damn doors!”

“Austin.” That was Beatrice, somewhere. “Austin, answer

com!”

“Yeah,” came back, through heavy static. “I got a problem.”

More ofit, but it broke up. Crew were trapped over in the otherhold—trapped with a

ricocheting mass ofsteel—and he’d done it. He had. He caught a

hand-hold, no one caring, now, no one payingattention to him. “What’s happened?” somebody asked, not the only voice. You

didn’t chat on Universal when an emergency was in progress,

you shut up. He thought that last voice might be the bridge

asking information, but nobody answered. He tried to, on

general: “Can ofrods ruptured.” Airstill wouldn’t come fast

enough. “Doors are shut, bridge—doors are shut, and that’s my

ship out there, dammit!”

“Tommy?” Capella’s voice. “Tommy, it’s closing—it’s Sprite and

us both the sumbitch is after,—Tommy, d’ you hear me?

That’s the

truth.”

Mind went scattershot, a dozen trails oflogic—sounds in the

dark, colors running—freighter, freighter screaming…

Capella, leaning close, whispering…touch oflips…saying…

telling him…

“Tommy, we got to have the card, now, Tommy…Austin’s got to

input. Hear?—Do it now, Tommy!”

Limbs jerked, halfparalyzed, movingto what he couldn’t but

halfremember, just Capella’s voice and the gut-hittingfeeling

that he might have been immensely, irremediably wrongin his

instant assumptions, Marie’s assumptions, beaten into him,

dinned into him…

Not what he’d seen on this ship. “Where’s Austin?” the bridge was asking, and he listened

sharp, wanting to hear, when somebody, a voice he’d heard

before, answered:

“Captain’s caught otherside. The other hold. They’re trying, Bea,

they did an emergency close, and they got to jack the damn doors.”

“Shit,” he heard, Capella’s voice. “Captain?

You copy?”

The outer cargo hatch had closed on the mated rails. Crew

was jacking it open, using levers at eitherside ofthe doors,

others trying to scrape past the doors and under the cans

blocking them to reach the hulk’s hold. Tom slung himselfthat direction alongthe safety rail, no one

stopping him on his careeningcourse—was so shaken he

strained his arm catching himselfon the landing. But a man

squeezed through ahead ofhim—he re-angled his body and

hauled himselfthrough, riskingthe LS kit on his back…felt it

scrape as he entered the hulk. His rst sight in the hulk’s cargo lock was loose cans, debris

oating, white powder in clumps and clouds, adheringto

surfaces, obscuring vision throughout the cargo chute. He had no idea now what he was doing, except they were

trying to get crew out past him, one man that could move

himself, that tried to help his rescuers. White powder, God

knew what, clung to his visor no matter howhe wiped. Loose

rods shot past, still potent with v. Then a suited body drifted toward him alongthe stalled row

ofcans. He grabbed its arm, not able to see who it was, whether

the man was alive or dead, orwho it was—he wasn’t moving,

was all, and he hauled the man back to the cargo lock, through

the whiteout ofdust, and passed the man through the gap to

the men on the other side—one life maybe they could save. “Captain?” he was hearing on hail. “Captain?

Seven minutes. Closing fast.”

And a second voice, Capella’s, he thought, desperate: “We

need that key-card. Look in the console key slot, Tom, somebody. Fast.”

He knew what he was lookingfor. He tried to go in that

direction, when a rod bounced past, hit the wall noiselessly,

ricocheted and vanished into the powder-storm. And crew

hauled suited bodies past him, a man with a piece ofiron

through the torso, then one with a helmet gouged and

splintered across the faceplate. TRAVIS, the helmet said. Only name he’d made out, on anybody. Wasn’t Bowe. He

found himselfshakily relieved it wasn’t Austin, as he grabbed a

rail and tried to get along the wall. A suited gure caught up with him in the obscuringdust. BOWE, the helmet said. Smeared with blood. Christian looked

straight at him. He started to ask…where Austin was…and his

com crackled with, “Damn you, you Hawkins bastard, get out of

there!”

A rod shot between them. Rebounded. Hit a can, richocheted

again, came back. He was drifting, on a rebound. Grabbed something. “Four minutes,” he heard, in the ringing ofhis ears. Motion

alert, was ashing in his faceplate. “Get out of there,” com said,

male voice this time, “Get out, now, we’re screwed, leave it, leave

it, leave it.”

And Capella’s: “Get the card, damn it!”

His back hit the cans. He bounced o , sawa crewman near

him, trying for a hand-hold, and he held out an arm, mindless

free-fall re ex. The man grabbed him and he grabbed the rail as

they grazed the wall in a conjoint tumble toward the bright

light, spotlights all he could see in the white-out, except dark

beads like frozen oil spattingagainst his faceplate. He shoved o , dragging the man with him, grabbed the

console rim and stopped theirrandom motion as green seconds

bled time away from him in the faceplate display. The man he’d

rescued had hold next to him—crew had reached them, trying

to pull both of them away; but the man shoved them o , shoved

a card into the console they both clungto. C. BOWE showed grey through the paste ofwhite dust on the

opposing helmet. He could see Christian’s face, intent on the

card, not on him. Other voices on Universal sputtered with static. Somebody

was yelling, “Close the doors. Kick the cans clear!

Shut the cargo

doors!

Fire window is forty-eight seconds—”

Christian jammed the card down, rm contact, groped for

the input slate and the electronic stylus scissor-jointed overit. Wrote an H. A. Hand shook, dithered in a t ofshock. V. “O,” Tom said, furious with his own spasm ofshaking. Christian’s hand wasn’t makingit. He grabbed the hand, forced

a shaky circle. Shakier C. Son ofa bitch, it wasn’t just himself

and Austin knew Capella’s code. Lights ashed. Display above the input said, in red letters:

ENEMY IDENTIFIED. TARGETING. POSITIVE. He ashed on Sprite’s corridors. Marie at her console. But he

believed Patrick was real, and Patrick was rst on the old hulk’s

list. His voice in the dark said so. While Sprite was out there. Coming toward them. TARGET

LOCKED, he saw on display, through a white haze. FIRE INITIATED. The hulk’s frame shook. He felt it through the hand-grip. Stared at his brother’s face, Christian staringat him. Felt something pull at him, tryingto pull them away. He held

onto the console. But he sawsuit lights then, comingaround

behind Christian, to take himaway. Christian went. But he wasn’t leaving. Wasn’t moving. No. Information was here. On this readout. It was all the truth he

had. “Tom,” Saby said. Hands tugged at him, failed to move him. “Come on, Tom, dammit, it’s red, it’s all we can do.”

“Tom.” Tink’s voice. A new hand pulled and he couldn’t hold

on any longer. His gloved hands lost theirhandhold, and they

carried him back toward the doors, through the driftingwhite. “Tom.” Capella’s voice, then. “Tom, Sprite is not, so far, a

target, repeat, not, so far, a target.”

“Who’s in command down here?” he heard somebody ask, and

Christian answer:

“I guess I am.”

“Not yet.” Another voice came faintly, scratchy with static. “Not yet, you don’t, kid.—Where’s the damn hostile, can somebody

nd the hostile?”

“Fireball,” came from the bridge, smugly. “Any minute now.”

Still couldn’t get enough air. Tomlet Saby and Tink pull him

ahead, along the railing. He just breathed, his visor dusted over

so the lights fuzzed. “There it goes,” a female voice said. “Austin. You copy?

Got the

bastard.”

“I copy,” Austin said. “Thank you, Beatrice.”

He tried clumsily to adjust the air- ow. People talked to

Medical, then, talked about broken arms and a suit puncture,

one man dead. They said the cargo doors were shutting. But

motion imminent had just gone o his faceplate display. Nothing seemed real to him. Crew movement was all drifting

now, leisurely. He heard Beatrice Perrault say, “Evidently the

robot respects a freighter ID. Or its direction, as nav believes. Sprite

is, at any rate, sacrosanct. That gives us a new problem.”

“Screw that,” Tom said. New panic closed on him. Indignation. He shoved to get clear. “They’re not attackingmy

ship.” He couldn’t break Tink’s grip. He shoved the channel

selector with his chin. “Austin, damn you, that’s my ship,

dammit, that’s my mother’s ship—”

“Put Hawkins in contact,” Austin said faintly. “Beatrice. Dan. Do it.—Tom.”

“Sir.”

“That’s a word I like to hear. We still have them outgunned,

Thomas Bowe-Hawkins. Remember that. Tell mama hello.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Stand by.” Voice he didn’t know. But after that:

“Go ahead, Hawkins. Talk them out of shooting. Or going away. The old hulk doesn’t like either one.”

Chapter Twelve

—i—

“TOM,” SAJA SAID, A FACE ON THE vid. “Tom. Tell me again. Tell me why

it’s your choice.”

“Yeah, well…” Breath still felt as tight as it had in the suit. “Dammit, tell Marie I want to talk. I’ll tell her. All right?”

“She says,…”

“Yeah, screw what she says until she says it to me. Tell her get

the hell on the com and talk to me. Now.”

Silence, then. He sat there, on Corinthian’s bridge, with Saby

and Christian standing overhim, and Austin sitting—a broken

leg, four broken ribs and a broken arm, was Austin’s tally, give

or take. One man hadn’t been lucky. Came offools interfering

with operations. Came ofa mistake he’d never in his life forget. But they’d delivered the last ofthe cargo. Austin insisted. Said he’d never failed a contract and he wasn’t startingnow. Flour and blood every damn where, iron rods oatingall over

the hold. Couldn’t get that out ofhis memory. Hadn’t even realized his ankle was broken. He’d been that

scared. That numb. New image came on. Marie stared at him. He stared back, a

light-second removed. “So?” Marie said. “You staying with Corinthian?”

“Yes,” he said. “—Met a girl, Marie.”

“A girl.” Marie snorted. “You damn fool.”

“Yeah. I know. But you’d like her, Marie.”

“Austin there?”

That surprised him. That really surprised him. He looked at

Austin. Austin turned his chair, reached across the board and

put the aux com live. “Hello, Marie. What can I do for you?”

While, across the bridge, missiles were armed and the scan

was locked warily on Sprite. “Hello, Austin. You want him?”

Austin shrugged. “Not my choice.”

“What do you want?”

“To get clear. That’s all. You speakingfor Sprite, now, Marie?

hear so.”

“Damn right.”

“Well, captain Hawkins, you’re clear, you’re free. My

navigator says you could even cut a deal. I’ll give you a

password, in fact. Tell Miller Transship you want the deal I had. Whisper the word Tripoint. Somebody’ll be in contact, ifyou’re

polite. Just sit at Viking and wait.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“It’s clean money, all legitimate salvage. Real old dates. And

we’re out ofthis route, forgood. Got anothero er. So it’s all

yours, captain Hawkins. Comfortable living. I do suggest you

upgrade your armament, ifyou take the o er. And riga cuto

for that damn ID.”

“Go to hell.”

“Go to hell yourself, Marie. Love you.”

“Tom?”

He punched the switch. “Marie. Yeah?”

Marie didn’t say anything right o. Just stared. Punched a

few buttons. Maybe the image-capture. It looked to be. He

pushed that button on Corinthian’s board. Froze that look, that

motion, for keeping, for the rest oftime. “You stay out of trouble,” Marie said. “Keep yourself honest. Hear?”

“You take care ofyourself,” he said. “Mama. You take care.”

—ii—

DREAM OF A POINT OF shifting mass, three-body problem. Tricky

spot, the navigators said. Never been a star. Never could be. Complex motion, forever

shifting, the third mass tendingto widen the gap by very small

amounts over centuries. Navigators said the Point wasn’t stable—said the close binary

mass followed Sol on its strange course, maybe some ancient

association with Sol and its planetary companions in the long-

ago past, in their frantic pace across the long, longgulfSol was

crossing—all ofhuman history in that passage. And the third mass at Tripoint… was a newcomer, maybe

swept up out ofPell, who knew?

Scientists wrangled, nothing

proved, nothing known for certain—they talked about probes,

to reach down into the high-g depths ofwhat might, almost

have been a star. Easy, most of all, to lose things in the triple mass. Easy to

miss ships, easy to pick up the brown radiance ofany ofthe

three Points, blotting out all else that might lie behind it. Tom could hear one deep sound, at least, goingaway from

them. Sat there, while Saby slept the sleep that made

hyperspace bearable. Sprite was on its way. So were they—to a Place, Capella swore, where there was

cargo to be hauled, a place the Fleet had found, that they’d been

supplying all along, but they’d not needed to know—until now. Where?

was the burning question in the crew. But Capella

wasn’t talking. Said, the Fleet had never surrendered. They never would. Said, Some things you got to take on faith. Austin said they put up with her. Christian said…

Christian said they could sell surplus crew to the Fleet, and

older brother should watch his step, and not screw anything

really essential. They made one seven-light jump, toward the place they were

going. Arrived, not at Pell, or Viking, but at anotherdark mass and a

fuel dump. So where they were going nowwas far, farfrom places they

knew… he didn’t know ofany two-jump that lay on ordinary

routes. Some Maziannihideout, it might be. Austin was still worried,

he caught that, in things he’d overheard. But rumor had always

said the Fleet had places nobody knew. Mostly, he regretted Pell. He wanted to go back ifonly once,

wanted to recover that time with Saby. That walk in the

spacefaring forest. He wanted to see a rainstorm, even from

water-jets. Saby had kept the leafsafe for him. He sat on the bed looking

at it… you could sit a longtime, in the strangeness ofjump-

space. He hadn’t duties. Computers weren’t reliable right now. It

was the interface the ship engaged. Time wasn’t. Logic wasn’t. Colors and sounds came and went. The music, Capella called it. He heard it. At least… it sounded

that way. A shadow arrived in his vision. Howlongand when didn’t

matter in this space. Capella was there. She sat down on the bed. He folded the leafback into its paper safekeeping. “More ofthose,” she said. “What, more ofthose?” Sometimes, with Capella, you had to

start in the middle ofconversations. “Where we’re going,” Capella said. “More ofthose.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Absolutely. Always. Well, sometimes. But this is true,

Tommy.” She reached out, patted Saby’s foot.” ’Scuse. Sweet

dreams.”

“Forests?” he asked. “Might be.”

“Can’t be.”

Capella shrugged. Tucked herknee into the circle ofher

arms. “All that Earth was,” she said. “Will be again. Six more

jumps.”

“Six. My God.”

“There’ll be fuel dumps. We’ll be ne.” Capella looked at him

sidelong, tilted her head and looked at the overhead as ifshe

could see through it. Maybe she could. He was still discoveringthings. “Do we come ever back from there?” he asked. The territory

beyond was dark to him, a complete, uneasy unknown. Except,

suddenly, the idea offorests. Green. Damp. Alive. “I’ve been there,” Capella said. “Truth is,—I found this place.”

“You?”

“Heard it, in the dark.—D’ you hear that?”

Something. He wasn’t sure. Felt it, more. “What was it?”

“Dunno,” Capella said. “There’s things you can’t explain. Keeps you wanting to go again. Listen. Listen to it. There’s a

whole universe out there.”

He did listen, for a long while. Capella went away again. The

whole ship was theirs. Visit any cabin. Open any door. No one

knew. Forests, the woman said.

Tripoint

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