CJ Cherryh - [Union-Alliance] Rimrunners

RIMRUNNERS

Caroline J. Cherryh

A Union - Alliance novel

EBook Design Group digital back-up edition v1 HTML

November 27, 2002

Contents

^

THE POST-WAR PERIOD

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 3O

POPULAR LIBRARY EDITION

Copyright © 1989 by C.J. Cherryh

All rights reserved.

Cover illustration by Don Maitz

Cover design by Don Puckey

This book was originally published in hardcover by Warner Books.

First Printed in Paperback: February, 1990

THE POST-WAR PERIOD

^ »

From: The Company Wars by Judith Nye

2534: University of Cyteen Press, Novgorod, U.T.

Bureau of Information ref. # 9795 89 8759

In 2353, when the Earth Company Fleet fled Pell under the command of Conrad

Mazian, the overriding fear of both Union and Alliance was that Mazian would

retreat to Earth and draw on its vast material and human resources. So the

immediate strategic consideration was to deny the Fleet that refuge.

It was rapidly clear that the Sol Station megacorporations which had built the

Fleet did not support Mazian in his bringing the War to Sol system; and the

arrival of Union warships before the Mazianni could so much as effect repairs

drove Mazian into a second retreat.

Alliance ships, dropping into Sol system close behind the Union fleet, entered

into immediate negotiations to enlist Earth in the Alliance. Union ships,

returning from the battle, offered similar terms. The governments of Earth saw

in this rivalry a situation which did not demand their capitulation to either

side; and in effect, while it may have been Earth's fragmented politics that led

to the Company Wars in the first place, it was that long Terran experience in

diplomacy which enabled a reasonable peace and assured the survival of the

Alliance.

In fact it can be argued that without Earth's independence, the Alliance could

not have maintained itself as a political entity, and without the Alliance,

Earth could never have remained independent. Alliance, consisting at the time

only of one star-system, Pell, immediately laid claim to the abandoned Hinder

Stars—a bridge of close-lying points of mass which, linking Pell to Earth,

promised economic growth for the newborn Alliance.

Union, which had come through the war with its industry intact, laid claim to

the war-ravaged nearer star-stations of Mariner and Pan-paris, simply because it

was the only government capable of the huge cost of rebuilding. Further, it

offered repatriation, free transportation and a full station-share to certain

refugees from those stations who had been evacuated to Pell—specifically to

refugees who could demonstrate technical skill and who had no record of the kind

of criminal profiteering that had arisen in Pell's quarantine zone. This program

of repatriation, the work of Union Chairman Bogdanovitch and Defense Councillor

Azov, drew a large number of skilled and educated refugees back into Union and,

according to some speculations, purposely left the Alliance a troublesome

remnant of those whom Union considered undesirables.

Nor was Pell Station able to absorb such a number of unskilled and destitute.

The Alliance solution was to offer similar station-shares and free transport to

the seven mothballed stations it had claimed in the Hinder stars.

Meanwhile the allies had hoped that the Company Fleet had exhausted itself with

no possibility of return from deep space; but Mazian's escape from Sol had

evidently been toward some secret supply dump, at precisely what point of mass

still remains a mystery. The Mazianni made a sudden return to Sol, but, thanks

to the allied forces who had remained on guard there, they were driven a second

time into deep space.

After this skirmish Union strategy was to deprive the Mazianni of supply by

driving them into deep space on the far side of Sol. Union viewed the re-opening

of the Hinder Stars and the resumption of trade with Earth as extending a

potential supply line to Mazian, who had regularly provisioned his ships by

raiding commercial shipping throughout the latter stages of the War; but the

newborn Alliance, with only the Hinder Stars and its proximity to Earth as

assets, determined to take the risk over Union's protests.

It was a strangely assorted group of volunteers who went out to re-open those

abandoned stations, some adventurers, some survivors of the riot-wracked

quarantine zone at Pell, and some few certainly with dreams of a new Great

Circle trade…

Alliance offered inducements to small, marginal freighters to take those

dangerous routes, an opportunity which promised survival for such ships in a

burgeoning post-war trade; but it reckoned without the discovery of a point of

mass off Bryant's Star that bypassed four of the newly reopened stations, and

most of all it reckoned without the competition of Union-built super-freighters

like Dublin Again which soon moved in off Union's long-jump routes—ships which

could, via tiny Gaia Point, hitherto unreachable by any freighter, bypass the

Hinder Stars altogether…

CHAPTER 1

« ^ »

Every day she came into the Registry, and he began to watch her—tall, thin

woman, unremarkable among others who came looking for jobs, men and women

beached at Thule, men and women at the end of the line and hoping for a new

beginning somewhere, on some further station or aboard some ship that came to

dock and trade in the days of Thule's second fading.

The jumpsuit had grown threadbare, once a definite blue, no longer crisp lately,

but still clean. Her fair hair was haggled up the back and sides, a ragged mop

of straight hair on top, crackling with fresh-washed static. Each day she walked

into the Registry and signed the application sheet: Elizabeth Yeager, spacer,

machinist, temp; and sat down, hands folded, at a table at the back.. Mostly she

sat alone, turned talk away, stared right through any hardy soul who tried her

company. At 1700 each mainday the Registry closed and she would go away until

the next sign-in, at mainday 0800.

Day after day. She went out to interviews and sometimes she took a temp job and

dropped out for a day or two, but she always came back again, regular as Thule's

course around its dim, trade-barren star, and she took her seat and she waited,

with no expression on her face. The rest of the clients came and went, to jobs,

to working berths or paid-passage on the rare ships that called here. But not

Elizabeth Yeager.

So the jumpsuit—it looked like the same one day after day—lost its brightness,

hung loose on her body; and she walked more slowly than she had, still straight,

but lately with a feebleness in her step. She took the same seat at the same

table, sat as she had always sat, and these last few days Don Ely had begun to

look at her, and truly to add up how long she had been coming here, between her

spates of temp and fill-in employment.

He watched her leave one mainday evening; he watched her come in and sign the

next morning, one of forty-seven other applicants. It was week-end, there was

nothing in dock, little trade on the dockside, nothing in Thule's dying economy

this week to offer even a temporary employment. There was a perpetual sense of

despair all around Thule in these last months, of diminishing hopes, an

approaching long night, longer than her first, when the advent of FTL technology

had shut her down once: there was talk now of another imminent shut-down, maybe

putting Thule Station into a trajectory sunward, to vaporize even her metal,

because it was uneconomical to push it on for salvage, and because the most that

anybody hoped for Thule now was that she would not suffer a third rebirth as a

Mazianni base.

Nothing in port, no jobs on station except the ones station would allot for

minimum maintenance.

And he watched the woman go to her accustomed table, her accustomed seat, with a

view of the news monitor, the clock, and the counter.

He went to the vacant workstation behind the counter, sat down and keyed up the

record: Yeager, Elizabeth A., Machinist, freighter. 20 yrs.

More? comp asked. He keyed for it.

Born to a hired-spacer on the freighter Candide, citizenship Alliance, age 37,

education level 10, no relatives, previous employment: various ships, insystemer

maintenance, Pell.

He recalled other applicants in the same category, as the records of hires

floated across his desk. They were either employed at Thule on the

insystemers—keeping Thule's few skimmers running took constant maintenance—and

stacking up respectable credit; or they had shipped out to Pell or on to

Venture. But Yeager got sweep-up jobs, subbed in for this and that unskilled

labor when somebody got sick. Waiting all this time, evidently, for something to

turn up. And nothing did, lately.

He watched her sit there till afternoon, when the Registry closed, watched her

get up and walk to the door, wandering in her balance. Drunk, he would have

thought, if he did not know that she had hardly stirred from that chair all day.

It was that kind of stiff-backed stagger. On drugs, maybe. But he had never

noticed her look spaced before.

He leaned on the counter. "Yeager," he said.

She stopped in the doorway and turned. Her face, against the general dim

lighting of the docks outside, was haggard, tired, older than the thirty-seven

the record showed.

"Yeager, I want to talk to you."

She came walking back, less stagger, but with that kind of nowhere look that

said she was expecting nothing but trouble. Close up, across the counter, she

had scars—two, star-shaped, above her left eye; a long one on the right side,

one on the chin. And eyes—

He'd had a notion of a woman in trouble; and found the trouble on his own side,

having gotten this close. Eyes like bruises. Eyes without any trust or hope in

them. "I want to talk with you," he said. She looked him over twice and nodded

listlessly; and he led her back into the inner, glass-walled hall, toward his

office. He put the lights back on.

She might think about her safety. He certainly thought about his, the danger to

his career, such as it was, bringing her back here after hours. He punched the

com on his desk, waved Yeager to a chair as he sat down behind its defending

breadth, hoping the other Registrar had not gotten out the front door yet. "Nan,

Nan, you still out there?"

"Yes."

That was a relief. "I need two cups of coca, Nan, heavy on the sugar.

Favor-points for this. You mind?"

A delay. "In both?"

He always drank his unsweetened. "Just bring it. Got any wafers, Nan?"

Another pause. A dry, put-upon: "I'll look."

"Thanks." He leaned back in his chair, looked at Yeager's grim face. "Where are

you from?"

"This about a job?"

Hoarse. She smelled strongly of soap, of restroom disinfectant soap, a scent he

had to think awhile to place. Under the overhead lighting her cheeks showed

hollow and sweat glistened unhealthily on her upper lip.

"What was your last berth?" he asked.

"Machinist. On the freighter Ernestine."

"Why'd you leave her?"

"I worked my passage. Hard times. They couldn't keep me."

"They dumped you?" At Thule, that was a damned rough thing for a ship's crew to

do to a hire-on, or she had deserved it by things she had done, one or the

other.

She shrugged. "Economics, I guess."

"What are you looking for?"

"Freighter if I can get it. Insystemer's all right."

A little hope enlivened her face. It made him guilty, being in the least

responsible for that illusion. "You've been here a long time," he said, and

said, to be blunt and quick, "I haven't got anything. But there's station work.

You know you can go station-work. Get basics that way, shelter, food, get an

automatic no-debt ticket out of here if there's a fold-up. It's pretty empty

here. Food's awful but the accommodations are take-your-pick all over station. A

machinist—could damn sure get more than that, if she was good."

She shook her head.

"Reason?"

"Spacer," she said.

He never quite understood that. He had heard it a hundred times before—the ones

who had rather starve than go station-side, take a job, draw the ration: the

ones who would go by drugs or outright suicide, rather than lose their priority

on the Registry hire-list, that little edge that meant who went to the

interviews first.

"Papers?" he asked, because there had been none on the record, comp-glitch, he

reckoned, nothing unusual in Thule's frequently screwed-up systems.

She touched her pocket, not offering to show them.

"Let's see," he said.

She took them out then, offered them in a hand that shook like an old woman's.

"My name's Don Ely," he said conversationally, since it occurred to him he had

not. He looked at the folder—not the official paper it ought to have been, just

a letter.

To any captain, it said.

This is to attest the good character and work record of Bet Yeager, who shipped

with us from '55 to 56 and who paid passage with honest work at watch and guard,

at galley and small mechanics, general maintenance, in which she has many skills

which she has gained under supervision of able spacers and which she performed

with zeal and care. She leaves this ship with the regret of me personally and

all crew. She earned her passage and had credit in the comp at her leaving.

Bet Yeager boarded without papers under emergency conditions and this ship

testifies that they know her to be the person Elizabeth Yeager whose thumbprint

and likeness are hereto affixed, who served honorably on this ship, and hereby,

by my authority, this stands in lieu of lost identification and swears her to be

this person Elizabeth Yeager according to the Pell Convention, article 10.

Signed and Sworn to by: T. M. Kato, senior captain, AM Ernestine, lately based

at Pell.

E. Kato, a/d captain.

Q. Jennet Kato, chief engineer, IS pilot.

Y. Kato, purser.

G. B. Kato, supercargo, IS pilot.

R. Kato; W. Kato; E. M. Tabriz;

K. Kato…

He looked at the back. The signatures went on. The paper was wearing through at

the folds. There was no other sheet in the papers-folder, nothing official but

Ernestine's embossed seal and the date.

"That's it?" he asked.

"War," she said, flat and quick,

"Refugee?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where from?"

"Ernestine," she said. "Sir."

Cold turn-down. Go to hell. Sir.

He saw Nan behind the glass wall, coming down the hall with the tray. She caught

his eye discreetly, got his nod and came inside with it.

Yeager took the cup Nan offered. Her hand shook. She ignored the wafers and set

the cup down untasted on the table beside her.

"Set it there," Ely told Nan, meaning the tray with the wafers, indicating the

same table. He took his own cup and sipped at the sweet stuff as Nan set the

rest by Yeager. "Have a wafer," he said to Yeager.

Yeager took one, picked up the cup and sipped at it.

Hell with you, that look still said. I'll take hospitality, you better not think

this is charity.

"Thanks," he said to Nan. "Hang around, will you?"

Nan gave him a look, added zero up, and left in irritated, worried patience. Nan

had her own problems, probably had dinner going cold in the oven if this dragged

on, maybe had a date to keep. He owed her for this one: and Nan clearly thought

he was a fool. Nan, being a veteran of the Registry at Pell, had probably seen

hundreds of Yeagers while he had sat in insulated splendor in Mariner's shipping

offices. Certainly they dealt with odd types in this office. All of them had

troubles. Some of them were trouble.

He laid Yeager's paper on the desk in front of him. Her eyes followed that, the

first hint of nervousness, now that Nan was gone, up again, to meet his. "How

long," he asked, "have you been here?"

"Year. About."

"How many jobs?"

"I don't know. Maybe two, three."

"Lately?"

A shake of the head.

"Maybe I could find something for you."

"What?" she asked, instant suspicion.

"Look," he said, "Yeager, this is straight. I've seen you around—a long time.

This—" He flicked a finger at the paper from Ernestine. "This says you know how

to work. You show that to the people on interviews?"

A nod of her head. Expressionless.

"But you won't take station work."

A shake of the head.

"Those papers don't say anything about a license. Or a rating."

"War," she said. "Lost everything."

"What ship?"

"Freighters."

"Where?"

"Mariner. Pan-paris."

"Name." Mariner was his native territory. Home. He knew the names there.

"I worked on a lot of them. The Fleet came through there, blew us to hell. I was

stationside." No passion in the voice, just a recital, hoarse and distant, that

jarred his nerves. It was too vivid for a moment, too much memory, the refugee

ships, the stink and the dying.

"What ship'd you transport on?"

"Sita."

That was a right name.

"No records, no registry papers." She set the cup down, hardly tasted, pocketed

the wafer. "They got stolen. So'd everything else. Thanks all the same."

"Wait," he said as she was getting up. "Sit down. Listen to me, Yeager."

She stood there staring down at him. A light sweat glistened on her face,

against the dark outside, the lone desk light in the next glass-walled cubicle

that was Nan's backroom office.

"I was there," he said. "I was on Pearl. I know what you're talking about. I was

in Q, just the same as you. Where are you living? On what? What pay?"

"I get along. Sir."

He took a breath, picked up the paper, offered it back, and she took it in a

shaking hand. "So it's none of my business. So you don't take handouts. I watch

you day after day coming here. It's a long wait, Yeager."

"Long wait," she said. "But I don't take any station job."

"And you'd rather starve. Have people offered you other jobs?"

"No, sir."

"You turn them down?"

"No, sir."

It would have been in the record. Illegal to turn them down, if she was

indigent.

"So you fail the interviews. All of them. Why?"

"I don't know, sir. Not what they're looking for, I guess."

"I tell you what, Yeager, you do the scut around this office for a few weeks,

you keep the place swept and the secs happy. A cred a day worth it?"

"I stay on the Registry."

"You stay on the Registry."

She stood there a moment. Then nodded. "Cash," she said.

It had to be. He nodded. She said all right, and she was his liability, a

problem not easy to cure; and his wife was going to look at him and ask him what

the hell he was doing handing out seven cred a week to a stranger. A Registry

post on Thule was no luxury berth, and if Blue Section questioned it he had no

answer. Probably it broke regulations. He could think of three or four.

Like unauthorized hire-ons in a station office.

Like failing to notify security of a probable free-consumer. No way in hell that

Bet Yeager afforded a sleepover room. Damned right she was an illegal, taking

Station supplies and returning nothing.

Day after day in the Registry. With the smell of restroom soap.

He fished in his pocket. What came out was a twenty-chit. He found no smaller

change. He offered it, regretfully.

"No, sir," Yeager said. "Can't say where I'll be twenty days from now. Ship's

due."

"So pay me back if you get a berth. You'll have it then."

"Don't like debts. Sir."

"Won't fill the gut, Yeager. You don't eat, you can't work."

"No, sir. But I'll manage. Your leave, sir."

"Don't be—"—a damn fool, was in his mouth. But she was like as not to walk out

then. He said: "I want you here in the morning. With a full stomach. Take it.

Please."

"No, sir." The lip trembled. She didn't even look at the money he was holding

out. "No charity." She touched the pocket, where the papers were. "Got what I

need. Thanks. See you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," he said.

She gave a scant nod, turned and left.

Military, he thought, putting it together. And then he was worried, because

there was nothing like that in the letter, very few freighters were that

spit-and-polish, and military meant station militia, or it might just as easily

mean Fleet or Union, if it was more than a few years back.

That scared him—because big, armed merchanters were rare, because Norway, the

only real force the Alliance had, was God-knew-where at any given time: the

Earth Company Fleet was God-knew-where too, and every unidentified blip that

showed up on station longscan sent cold chills through Thule.

Call security, was the impulse that went through Ely's bones. An investigation

was not an arrest. They could do a background check, ask around, see if there

was anyone else of the three thousand souls on Thule who remembered Bet Yeager

on Sita or in Pell's infamous Q-zone.

But Security would arrest the woman if she came at them with that

none-of-your-business attitude, Thule's very nervous Security would certainly

haul her in and question her… feed her, that much was true… but they would go on

to ask unanswerable questions like Where are you living? and How are you living?

And maybe Bet Yeager was everything she said, and had never committed any crime

in her life but to starve on Thule docks, but if they got the wrong answers to

those questions about finances, they would put Bet Yeager on station rolls and

charge her with her debt, and Bet Yeager would end up a felon.

A spacer—would end up shut up in a little cell in White Section. A spacer—who

would suffer anything to keep to dockside and the chance of ships—would end up

working for a fading station till they turned the lights out.

That was what his inquiry could do to Bet Yeager.

He walked out into the front office, behind the counter, saw Yeager open the

outside door.

He had no idea where Yeager might go for main-night; tucked up in some cold

corner of dockside, he guessed, wherever she had been spending her nights. Wait,

he could say, right now. He could take her home, feed her supper, let her sleep

in the front room. But he thought of his wife, he thought of their own safety,

and the chance Bet Yeager was more than a little crazy.

The word never left his mouth, and Yeager went out the door, out into the

actinic glare and deep shadow of dockside.

"Huh," he said, recalled to the office, to Nan standing by her desk looking at

him.

He motioned toward the door. "You know that one?"

"Here every day," Nan said.

"Know anything about her?"

Nan shook her head. They shut down the last lights, walked to the door

themselves. The door sealed and they walked down the docks together, under the

cold, merciless glare of the floods high in the overhead, in the chill and the

smells of cold machinery and stale liquor.

"I offered her a five once," Nan said. "She wouldn't take it. You think she's

all right in the head? Think we—maybe—ought to notify security? That woman's in

trouble."

"Is it crazy to want out of here?"

"Crazy to keep trying," Nan said. "She can sit still. Another year, they'll shut

us down, pack us up, move us on to somewhere. She could get a berth from there,

likely as here. Maybe more likely than here."

"She won't live that long," Ely said. "But you can't tell her that."

"I don't like her around," Nan said.

He wished he could do something. He wished he knew if they ought to contact

security.

But the woman had done nothing but go hungry. He had worked a year in the

Registry System, helped administer the hiring system that was supposed to be

humane, that was supposed to give highest priority and first interviews to the

longest-listed. But it ended up encouraging cases like Bet Yeager, it ended up

making people hang on, suffer anything rather than step out of line and let

somebody get in ahead of them, God knew where another spacer was going to come

from now who could threaten Yeager's seniority on the roll, if it was not the

incoming Mary Gold that let him off—but tell that to Yeager, who was down now to

scrabbling for the little temp jobs that made the difference in how long she

could hold on, and those had become nonexistent. Another few days and it was the

station bare-subsistence roll: the station judiciary always reckoned

free-consumers at ten cred for every day they could not prove they had been

solvent. In Bet Yeager's case, that money had probably run out a year ago. And

she had tried so damned long.

Next week, she said. Maybe next week. A ship was due in.

But none of the other ships had taken her.

CHAPTER 2

« ^ »

Bet walked carefully, having refuge in sight, the women's restroom on Green

dock, a closet of a facility, an afterthought the way the whole dock was an

afterthought, the bars and the sleepovers, the cheap restaurants, in a station

designed for the old sublights and now trying, in a second youth, to serve the

FTLs and their entirely different needs.

And there was this restroom. It was graffitied and it stank and there was one

dim light in the foyer and one no better in the restroom, with four stalls and

two sinks, where spacers in the early-heyday of the place had engraved shipnames

and salutations for ships to come:

Meg Gomez of Polaris, one said. Hello, Golden Hind.

Legendary ships. Ships from the days when stations were lucky to get a shipcall

every two years or so. Something like that, station maintenance had painted

over.

Damn fools.

It was home, this little hole, a safe place. She found the dingy restroom

deserted as it usually was, washed her face and drank from the cold trickle the

better of the two sinks afforded—

Her legs failed her. She caught herself against the sink, stumbled and sank down

against the wall beside it. For a moment she thought she was going to pass out,

and the room swam crazily for a while.

Not used to food, no. She'd wanted the coca for the sugar in it, but the little

that she had drunk had almost come back up right in Ely's office and now the

half a wafer threatened to, while her eyes watered and she fought, with even

breathing and repeated swallows, to keep from the heaves.

Eventually she could take a broken bit of wafer from her pocket and nibble on

it, not because it tasted good, nothing did, now, and eating scared her, because

the last had made her sick and she couldn't afford to lose the little food that

was in her stomach. But she tried, crumb at a time, she let it dissolve on her

tongue and she swallowed it despite the cloying sweetness.

Smart. Real smart, Bet.

Got yourself into a good mess this time.

Time was on Pell she'd hid like this. Time was on Pell she'd been almost this

desperate. Hard to remember one day from the other when it got that bad. Somehow

you lived, that was all.

Somehow you stuck it out, in this dingy place, sitting on an icy floor in the

loo trying to keep your gut together. But bite at a time, you kept it down and

it kept you alive, even when you got down to a pocket full of wafers and the

hope of a cred-a-day job. A cred got a cheese sandwich. A cred got a fishcake

and a cup of synth orange. You could live on that and you had to survive this

night to get it, that was all.

She'd stopped believing yesterday, had really stopped believing. She'd gone in

to the Registry today only because maintenance checked out the holes now and

again, because going to the Registry was a way to stay warm, and showing up

there proved she was still looking, the one proof an un-carded resident could

use to maintain legal status. And most of all it kept her priority with any

available job on that incoming freighter. Hoping for that was an all-right way

to die, doing what she chose to do, looking forward to what she insisted was the

only thing worth having. A good way to die. She'd seen the bad ones.

And if it got too bad there was a way to check out; and if the law caught her

there were ways to keep from going to hospital. She carried one in her pocket.

She'd gotten down to thinking about when, but she hadn't gotten to that yet,

except to know if she passed out and people were calling the meds she might; or

if they convicted her and slapped a station-debt on her—she could always do it

then. Just check right out, screw the lawyers.

And now there was a little more chance. So she'd been right about sticking it

out so far. She could turn out to be right in everything she'd done so far. She

could win. That ship next week could come in short-handed. It could still

happen.

So she sat there in the shadow of the sink awhile till one whole wafer had hit

bottom, and then she knew she had to move because her legs and her backside were

going numb, so she pulled herself up by the sink and got some more of the

metal-tasting water on her stomach and went into one of the stalls to sit down,

arms on knees and head on arms, and to try to rest and sleep a little, because

that was the warmest place, the walls of the stall cut off the draft that got

everywhere else, and manners kept people from asking questions.

Two women came in, way late, probably dock maintenance: she heard the murmur of

voices, the curses, the discussion about some man in the crew they had their eye

on. They sounded drunk. They went away. That was the only traffic, and Bet

drowsed, catnapping, thinking that tomorrow evening, she could go to a vending

machine and put that one cred in a slot and have a hot can of soup… start with

that. She'd had experience with hunger. Keep to the liquids when you came off

starvation, do a little at a time, nothing greasy. Her stomach was working on

the dissolved wafer and the third of a cup of coca, not sure how to cope with

what it had.

The docks outside entered a quiet time then, less noise of machinery and

transports moving outside. Alterday on Thule was hardly worth the wake-time.

Hardly any of the offices stayed open on that shift, no ship traffic was in to

make it necessary, the few bars were mostly empty. Early on, when she'd had a

few chits left, she'd gone into bars to keep warm. Docks were always cold, every

dock ever built would freeze your ass off. Thule-alterday shut down just like

some old Earth town going into night, and the general lack of machinery working

all over Thule during that off-shift, she reckoned, and the demand of all the

people back in their apartments for heat, meant a fierce chill-down in the

dockside air. Which meant stationers were even less likely to be down here

during main-night, and station scheduling didn't care to do anything about it.

So nothing got loaded out there, nothing got signed, moved, done, anywhere on

the docks until maindawn brought the lights up. Thule was dying. The Earth trade

opened up again after the War, but Thule had turned out to be superfluous, the

run had drawn a few big new super-freighters like Dublin Again, that could

short-cut right past the Hinder Stars, and the discovery of a new dark mass

further on from Bryant's meant a bypass for Thule, Venture, Glory and Beta,

which was over half the re-opened stations at one stroke.

A route straight to Earth via Bryant's, straight past the place Ernestine had

left her, the Old Man apologetic, saying, "Don't be a fool, Bet. We've got to go

back to Pell, is all. We'll be short, but we can make it. It's no good here and

further on is worse."

Hope you made it, she thought to old Kato. But she knew Ernestine's chances, a

little ship, running mostly empty, trying to get back to Pell against the tide

of economics, luck, and the onus of her own mass, because the Hinder Stars were

heartbreak, the Hinder Stars had drunk down more than one small ship, and

Ernestine's last hope, after losing all her cargo credit in a major mechanical,

was Pell, just getting there, even stripped down, carrying a few passengers

whose fares would get her a little credit in Pell's banks.

But Pell wasn't where Bet Yeager wanted to go.

"Not me," she'd said, "not me."

Ernestine crew had argued with her, they'd known her chances too. The free-hands

other ships let off found berths here and went on. Jim Belloni had tried to give

her a third of his sign-up money when he left on the Polly Freas. He'd gotten

her royally drunk. He'd left it in her bed.

So she'd gotten drunk again. She still didn't regret that extravagance. Not even

when her belly cramped up. It was the times like that kept you warm on nights

like these.

She catnapped a while more, waked hearing the sound of the outside door.

Her heart jumped. It was unusual, alterday, main-night, for somebody to be in

this particular nook to need this particular restroom. Maintenance, maybe.

Plumber or something, to fix that sink.

She tucked her knees up in her arms, just stayed where she was, shivering a

little in the cold. It was a man's step that came on in. Rude bastard. No

advisement to any possible occupant.

She heard the door close. Heard him breathing. Smelled the alcohol. So it wasn't

a plumber.

You got the wrong door, mate. Go on. Figure it out.

She heard the steps go the little distance to the door and stop.

Go on, mate. G'way. Please.

She heard the door close. She dropped her head against her knees.

And still heard the breathing.

God.

She shivered. She did not move otherwise.

The steps came back to the stall. She saw black boots, blue coveralls.

He tried the door. Rattled it.

"Get the hell out of here!" she said.

"Security," he said. "Come on out of there."

Oh, hell.

"Out!"

It was wrong. It was damned indelicate. And he stank of alcohol.

"Hell if you're security," she said. "I'm spacer, on layover. You get your ass

out of this restroom, stationer, before you get more than you bargained for."

"No ship in, skuz." He bent down. She saw an unshaven, bentnosed face. "C'mon.

C'mon out of there."

She sighed. Looked at him wearily. Waved a hand. "Look, station-man. You want

it, you owe me a drink and a sleep-over, then you got it all night, otherwise I

ain't buying any."

A toothy grin. "Sure. Sure I'll give you a good time. You come out of there."

"All right." She took a deep breath. She put her feet down.

She saw it coming. She knew it, she tried to clear the sudden grab after her

ankle, but the knees wobbled, she staggered and he tried again, under the door.

She smashed a foot down, bashed his head into the tiles, but he twisted over and

got a hold on her ankle and twisted, and there was no place to step but him, and

he was pulling. She staggered against the stall, felt his fingers close, tried

to keep from falling and went down against the toilet seat, a crack of pain on

one side, pain in her cheek as she rebounded and hit the wall and then the floor

beside the toilet. His hands were all over her, he was crawling under the stall

door onto her, arms wrapping around her, and everything was a blur of lights and

his face. He hit her, cracked her head back against the tiles once and twice,

and for a while it was exploding color, alcoholic breath, his weight, his hands

tearing at her clothes.

Damn mess, she thought, and tried to stay limp, just plain limp, while he ripped

her jumpsuit open and pawed her, which she couldn't stop: he had her pinned

between the toilet and the stall wall.

Just a little more breath. Just a little time for the stars to stop exploding.

He started choking her then. And there was damned little she could do except

struggle. Except get her right hand to her pocket, while his stubbly mouth was

on hers and he was choking the sense out of her.

She got the razorblade. She kept her fingers clenched despite the pain and the

fog in her brain and she got it out and slashed him down the leg. He reared up,

howling, his back against the stall door. She nailed him dead-on with her

boot-heel and he gasped and fell down onto her, so she got him with the razor

again.

Then he was mostly trying to slither out of the stall, and she let him. She got

an elbow over the toilet and heaved herself up and got the stall unlatched while

he was throwing up outside.

He was on his knees. She caught her balance against the row of stalls and kicked

him up under the jaw. When he hit the sink and went down on his back with his

leg under him, she waited until he tried to get up again and then kicked him in

the throat.

After that he was a dead man. She could finish it, while he lay there choking to

death, but she just stared at him with her skull pounding and her vision going

gray—she came to with the water running and water in her hands and splashing up

into her face. Which was stupid. She could be wrong about how hard she'd hit

him. He could have a knife, he could get up and kill her. But she looked to see

where he was with the water dripping off her face and her hands and running down

her collar and he was lying there with his eyes open.

So he was dead. A dizzy wave came over her. She threw cold water on him to be

sure he wasn't shamming, but there was no blink or twitch.

Another wave. She remembered he'd yelled. Somebody could have heard the shouting

outside. She looked herself over for marks. There were scratches all down her

chest and on her throat. There was blood on her jumpsuit, blood soaked one knee.

So she peeled down and washed that leg of the jumpsuit in the sink until the

water ran pale pink and the jumpsuit was mostly clean; and she almost blacked

out, so she leaned her elbows against the sink to scrub, and she wrung out the

jumpsuit and got it on again, one leg and a lot of spots all over it icy cold.

So she used the blower to dry them. It was dangerous while the docks were this

quiet. Security might hear.

But she wanted to go on leaning there in the warm air, wanted to stay there the

rest of the night. She pushed the blower switch again and again, legs braced,

staring at the man on the floor, while the gray and the red came and went in her

vision. There was a trail of blood from the stall to where he'd died. She

remembered the razor, but she had that in her pocket again, she found it there.

Along with two cred chits.

She was walking outside on the docks. She couldn't remember how she had gotten

there. She remembered the restroom, that was all. She remembered the man on the

floor. Remembered going through his pockets, stopped, and turned and looked

around to find out where she was.

You could get caught from evidence too." Station bank had her prints. But a

woman could use the damn restroom. So she had. So a lot of people had. So he was

where he had no business being. She walked further, thought about the law

getting a genetyping off his fingernails: but they had to catch her first, they

had all those cards, all those prints they did have, all those women to

question.

Another dark spot. She felt wobbly-hungry. She kept walking, eating a very few

soggy crumbs of wafers she scraped out of her pocket, and finally, steadier than

she had been, with two cred in her pocket, she went to a bar and had a plastic

cup of watery chowder she could even manage to eat.

The barman was lonely, she sat and talked. It turned out he wanted more than

that. "All right," she said. Her head hurt and she was sick and she was tired.

She'd done it to pay off a bet, never done it just to pay a tab, but he was

quiet, he was lonely, she didn't even care what his name was, he had something

to offer her and she was down to that finally, if it got her a warm spot and

away from the law. "Place to sleep," she said. "What the hell."

"I got that," he said.

So she went back in the storeroom with him, he made a pallet down, she lay down

with him and he did what he wanted to while she lay there and thought about Pell

and old shipmates.

His name was Terry. He found out she was hurt, she gave him a story about a

dockworker getting rough in a sleepover and her walking out on him. He got her

something for her headache and he was careful with her, he excused himself to go

take care of a customer and he came back and started in with her again, while

she was half asleep.

So that was all right too. He was gentle about it. He was soft, sweaty and

nervous, she let him do whatever he wanted, he waked her up a couple of times,

but she was too weak to do anything. "I'll come back tomorrow night," she said.

"I'll be better. Do what you want. You buy me breakfast."

He didn't say anything. He was busy at the time. She went out like that, just

back into the dark. A couple of times she felt him. In the morning he bought her

breakfast. She sat at a table in the bar and she ate plain toast while she

watched the morning news, about how a woman had found a dead man in a restroom

on Green dock.

Terry was busy doing his checkout with the owner. He was hangdog, slightly

overweight, nothing to look at and nothing too clean. He never looked the owner

in the eye. The owner looked at her once, a long stare. But Terry Whoever was

smart enough to pay cash for her breakfast, so she could have been a chance

customer and the owner had nothing on him.

The dead man was a dockworker, two years resident on Thule, recently laid off

his job. The company he'd worked for had folded. He'd been on station work. His

supervisor had docked him three days' work yesterday for drinking on the job.

They said his windpipe was crushed.

They said they were checking fingerprints. Naturally. And when they got down to

hers, she could say she'd been here, Terry might say she'd been a customer all

night, Terry might even say they'd had a fight, if she could keep him

interested.

She took careful spoonfuls. Her head hurt. Her whole body hurt. She had never

done what she'd done just to get a bed and a meal, not even on Pell.

But there was a ship next week. After weeks since the last, there was a ship

named Mary Gold, and damn, she meant to be on it.

Anything. Anything, now, to get off Thule.

CHAPTER 3

« ^ »

The woman Ely called Nan looked up from her desk in the outer office, took one

look at her and came abruptly to her feet.

"Fell," Bet said, because the eye was going to go black, she'd had a look at it

in the bar's restroom. She looked like hell, she had her collar zipped up high

to cover the scratches on her throat, she was still wobbly, and she smelled of

sweat and God knew what. But she was on time. She signed in at the desk and she

ignored the stare a moment doing that. Then she looked up.

"Ma'am, I got faint and I fell. I'm sorry. I got breakfast this morning. Kind

man gave it to me. I'll be better."

"O dear God," the woman said, in a shocked, bewildered way, and just stood

there, so that Bet found herself staring eye-to-eye with this stationer woman,

this upright, respectable stationer woman who could kill her with a phone call

to the authorities. "God. Sit down."

"I'm here to work," Bet said. "Mr. Ely said he'd pay me."

"Just sit," Nan said sharply, pointing to a chair behind the counter. And when

she did that, Nan brought her coca and wafers.

She took them. "Thank you," she said meekly, figuring she was in no place now to

quarrel. "Ma'am, I really want the job."

It was begging. But she was out of choices.

"I'll call the infirmary," Nan said.

"No;" Her heart thudded. She almost spilled the cup over. "No. Don't."

"You didn't fall," Nan said darkly.

Bet looked up, met more straight sense than she'd looked for in this dry, plain

woman. Not accusing. Just knowing damn well a fall didn't do what had happened

to her face. "I got shoved up a wall. Rough night. Please. I don't want any

trouble. It's just bruises. Give me a chance. I'll work back in the offices.

Won't frighten the clients."

"Let me talk to Mr. Ely. We'll fix something up."

"No meds. Please. Please, ma'am."

"Stay here."

Nan left. Bet sat and sipped the coca. It hurt her cut mouth; the sugar made a

loose tooth ache. She held the cup in both hands, trying not to panic, watching

toward the glass-walled corridor where the back offices were, trying not to

think about phones and security and the restroom last night.

But her heart was beating in hard, painful beats, enough to make her dizzy when

Ely came back with Nan and looked down at her. "Wall, huh? You look like hell,

Yeager."

"Yes, sir."

He looked at her a long while. Arms folded. He said, "I want to talk to you in

my office."

"Yes, sir," she said. She put the cup down on the counter. "Thank you," she said

to Nan, but, "Bring it," Ely said. So she did, as she followed him down the

corridor and into his office.

He sat. She sat, the cup warming her hands.

"You all right?" he asked.

She nodded.

"You report it?"

She shook her head.

"You get robbed?"

"Nothing to steal," she said.

"Are you all right?" he asked again, which she guessed finally in a stationer's

delicate way meant had she been raped.

"I'm fine," she said. "Just a disagreement. Damn drunk and I crossed paths."

God, if he or Nan put it together with the morning news—"I just wasn't walking

very steady last night. He shoved me. I cussed him. I hit the wall. I went out.

He apologized. Bought me breakfast."

Ely looked as if he doubted her. He looked at her a long time. Then: "Where are

you staying?"

She thought, desperately. A year since anyone had asked that. She remembered the

name of the bar. "Rico's. Good an address as any."

"You staying there?"

"I get my mail there."

"Who writes to you?"

She shrugged. The heartbeat was doing doubletime. But Ely didn't have to help.

Ely didn't have to hand out a cred-chit to a down-and-gone spacer. He didn't

have to call a woman friend in when he talked to her, all proper, so she could

read his signals, that it wasn't her he was after, that he was trying to do a

good deed. That kind was scarce on station docks. "Nobody," she said. "But if

someone did, it'd be there. If something came in."

He just looked at her. Finally: "You do the trash-sorts. You run errands. You

sign in every morning and you make sure you look like a client otherwise, if

somebody's here besides Nan and me. I don't want Personnel to see you. If

somebody comes in and you get caught in the back hall, just make like you were

going to the restroom."

She nodded. She sat back in the back room and sorted the trash for recycling.

She weighed it out and she noted the weight on each bundle because sometimes the

cyclers cheated you. She'd heard that about Thule the first day she was

onstation.

Mainday noon she got her cred-chit from Ely and she went to a sit-down

restaurant and had another bowl of soup.

That night she went back to Rico's and Terry, his last name was Ritterman,

bought her a beer and a cup of chowder.

He took her into the back then. She undressed, she said she had to wash her

clothes, so he got her a bucket and she scrubbed her jumpsuit and her underwear

and hung them to dry over the heat-vent. He came up behind her while she was

doing that and put his hands on her. Without saying anything. She let him. She

let him pull her down on the floor and he still wanted to touch her, that was

all, while she shut her eyes or stared at the ceiling, and finally somebody came

in out front, so he swore and went out to see about that.

She turned over and wrapped up in the rug and went to sleep for a while before

he came back and woke her up, turning her over again and starting in.

Customers came in. He was gone a while. He came back and he got down again and

she thought he must've been a long time without, he'd wear out finally and maybe

go to sleep or let her sleep the rest of the night. But he never did.

She got dressed in the morning, he bought her breakfast. He wanted her to come

to his apartment. "I got to work," she said.

She earned her chit. She thought about finding somewhere else to spend the

night, she was recovered enough to be more fastidious, and Terry gave her the

chills, but that meant no supper and no breakfast.

So she went back to Rico's.

It was that way every day. Every day she got the single chit. Every main-night

she went back. Terry got stranger. He wanted her to come to his apartment. He

wanted to show her his place, he said.

He got to doing weird things, like wanting to tie her up. "Hell if you do," she

said. "I don't play those games."

He acted embarrassed. But she was worried about the drinks he gave her after

that. She was worried about going to sleep with him. He kept fingering her scars

and asking how she'd gotten this one and that one and being weird, just weird,

the way he went at sex while he was doing that. "Quit it," she said, finally,

and shrugged him off. He slammed her back again, her bruised skull hitting the

tiles and sparking color through her vision. She lay still, because she'd told

her subconscious she was in trouble—don't react, don't react, he's a fool, is

all—

"That night you came here," he said. "That black eye and all."

He hurt her. She got a hand free and clouted his ear. "Hurts, dammit!" He pawed

after a hold on that arm and she gave him the knee. He yelled. She got away, off

the blanket, over where her shoulders hit the corner and the shelves.

"You damn bitch," he said.

"Just back off." She levered herself up and sat down on a beer keg. It was cold.

The air was. The whole place stank. "Back off, friend."

"Come on back."

"Hell. Just let me alone. I'm tired. This is my night-time, man, I work mainday.

Just back off."

"You and that black eye. That man you say grabbed you—'

"Just leave me the hell alone. You got your supper's worth."

The front door chimed. He sat there, ignoring it, breathing hard.

"You got customers, Terry-lad."

"Security's looking for some woman, off in Green, same night, same night you

came here, all marked up. You got no card, no ID, come in here beat up—Don't

call the meds, you say. Don't want anything to do with the meds—I bet you don't,

sugar."

Someone came into the hall. Shouted for service.

"Get out there, dammit," she hissed. "You want the law in here?"

"You're the one don't want the law, sugar." He put his hand on her leg. "I do

what I want. Got that? I know where you hang out at the Registry. I followed

you. Hear? If I call the law I can tell 'em where to look, even if you aren't in

the comp, like I bet you aren't, sugar…"

"You want the law, dammit, get out there and wait on those guys before they call

security!"

He stroked her skin. "You be here. You better be here. I got you for a long

time. You better know I do."

More shouting. "Just a minute," he yelled. He got up and limped around putting

his clothes together, staggered out the door fastening his belt.

She sat there on the beer keg with her arms clenched around her knees. She

wanted to throw up.

She thought it through, what her choices were. She listened to the voices in the

bar and she got up and got her clothes from over the heat-vent, she dressed and

she walked out into the bar where he was waiting on a rowdy tableful of

dockworkers.

He gave her a stark, mad look. She went over to the bar and got a drink for

herself and listened to the rude comments from the four dockworkers, the

invitation to have a drink, go to a sleepover with them and do this and that

exotic number.

Attractive notion, considering. But the thought that kept coming through cold

and clear was how fast Terry Ritter-whoever would be on the com to Central.

And with her fingerprints at the scene, the law just needed to get a look at her

black eye and those scratches and to know that she was a transient and an

illegal to get a judge to give a writ for real close questions.

Under trank.

She gave a scowl toward the dock workers. Loaders. Lousy lot. But cleaner than

Terry Ritterman. Maybe even decent types, sober and solo. Terry came up and put

his hand on her hip.

She took it. She leaned on the bar and drank her vodka sip by sip, she stared at

the dockworkers with the thought that any one of them would be a hell and away

better pick.

She walked over and got a bottle, she went over and poured their glasses full

while they protested they hadn't ordered it.

"It's on me," she said, and played a scenario through in her mind, stirring up a

ruckus where a soft little man could get his neck broken by some dockworker. But

that still meant the law. It still meant questions.

So they drank, she played up to them and enjoyed Terry squirming and worrying,

played it all the way and hoped to keep them there till maindawn, when the owner

came.

Terry rang up her charges on his own card, Terry glowered at her and beckoned

her over, but she ignored it until he picked up the phone.

Then she came over to him.

"You go home with me," he said, cutting the phone off then. "You're going to pay

for this."

She said nothing. He pinched her hip. Hard. She stared at the mirrored room and

when he demanded a response from her, nodded.

The dockworkers left, fifteen minutes before maindawn. She poured herself synth

orange while they walked out.

"My place," Terry said. "Understand?"

She nodded again. He rubbed her shoulder. She flinched away and went to sit down

and drink her breakfast, while the owner came and checked out the accounts. The

owner gave her the eye and gave her a laconic good morning.

"'Morning," she said. Probably he was more than suspicious why an orange juice

and toast always turned up on Terry's card. It was that kind of look.

Probably that look followed them when Terry came and told her to come with him,

they were leaving.

"You'll learn," he said, linking his arm through hers. They walked like lovers

as far as the lift. He had to behave himself: there were other passengers in the

car. But he trapped her arm again when he got her off on his floor, over in

Green. He radiated heat like a furnace. He kept squeezing her hand in his soft,

sweating fist. He started telling her in a half-whisper that she'd like him, he

really had to teach her not misbehave, but they could get along, she could stay

in his apartment and as long as she did the things he wanted he'd keep her safe

from the law.

She said nothing, except when he squeezed down on her hand and insisted she say

yes. So she said yes.

He got his keycard out of his pocket. He led her to a dingy door in the dingy

miniature hall that could have been the bowels of some ship, instead of a

station residency. He opened the door and he turned on the lights with a manual

switch and he shut the door again.

It was an ugly place. It was all clutter. It stank of bad plumbing, unwashed

dishes and old laundry. She watched him take his coat off and throw it down on

the table. His hands were shaking.

She watched. She waited till he turned around and reached for her. She took his

hand and twisted around, and he hit the floor. Hard.

"I want to tell you something," she said in that instant of shock. "My ship

name's Africa."

His eyes got wide. He scrambled to get up. She let him. He staggered over

against the wall. There was a phone around somewhere in the filth, she was sure

of that. She gave him a chance to make a dive for it. She leaned on a chair

back, just waiting. But he froze, gone white.

"You're lying," he said, standing there with his hair on end. "You damned whore,

you're lying to me."

"Got separated from my ship when the Fleet pulled out. Just mixed with the

refugees, worked docks a while, talked my way aboard a freighter." She patted

her breast pocket. "Even got myself an Alliance testimonial. Said I lost my

papers. Not too hard to get this far. I was born spacer, friend, that's a fact.

But I was trained marine."

"Go away," he said, waving a fluttering hand. "Get the hell out of here. You got

nothing to gain here. I got no percentage in saying anything."

She shook her head slowly. "Oh, no, friend, you know I'm going to kill you. And

in your case I'm going to take my time."

CHAPTER 4

« ^ »

Morning, Nan," she said, at the door of the Registry, and Nan looked at her

oddly and tilted her head as she unlocked.

"You're right cheerful," Nan said.

She nodded. And went and had her morning cup of coca, in the back, out of view

of the couple of clients that were coming in the door—that being an employee

privilege.

Rico was going to wonder for maybe an hour this mainday evening, when Terry

failed to show. And maybe he'd call up the apartment and maybe leave a message,

but Terry's kind was cheap, Terry's kind was the sort that showed up to work a

stretch and then got his life in a mess and just dropped out of sight. Rico

might have a new alterday man by mainday next, that was all Rico was likely to

do. Meanwhile Terry's card still had credit in the bank, it worked in the

vending machines—she wasn't fool enough to walk into some restaurant and claim

to be Terrence Ritterman; she just used the machines, just cheap stuff, just to

tell anybody who happened to check the card-use records that Terry Ritterman was

still walking around, no reason for alarm unless someone had specific reason to

be alarmed.

And was it unusual if alterday help in a skutty bar walked out one shift-change

with some piece of ass that might have more money than he did, and just not

bother to tell the owner he wasn't coming back?

She could live off stuff in the apartment, but she wanted to keep the card

active. So she'd had this morning's breakfast out of the dockside vending

machines. You didn't need an access code check for that, you just slipped it in

and out came breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner. There'd been a little cash in

Ritterman's pocket. Eight cred. She knew where that could turn to a cheap

duffle: she could use that, for when the ship came; that and a few other

necessaries off Ely's cred a day, that she could save now.

She'd left the body in the bedroom, she'd turned the heat off in there, she had

stuffed the vents and cracks under the door and sealed everything up with tape.

It could get real unpleasant in a week or so, but there were no neighbors close

and if people noticed a scruffy spacer coming and going out of Terry Ritterman's

apartment, all they could figure was, she was crazy as he was for hanging around

with him. And nobody much bothered a crazy woman.

She'd washed the jumpsuit, she'd had herself a shower, she'd scrubbed with

perfumed soap and she'd given herself a haircut; and Ely gave her a second look

when he came in. Looked pleasantly surprised to see her scrubbed-up and

cheerful, as if he'd really done something spectacularly good with his charity.

"Looking good, Yeager."

"Adds up," she said back, and grinned. "Few meals don't hurt, stationer-man."

She had a real warm feeling for people like Nan and Ely. They were probably real

happy doing good. And it was really too bad, they were probably going to shake

their heads and have long second thoughts about their helping strangers when

station-law found what was in that apartment bedroom and linked everything up.

Damn mess was what. Get herself a ship out of here, get clear back to Sol if she

had to, change ships where she could, just keep moving far enough and long

enough and stay alive.

The Old Man was operating hell and gone away from here. Africa was still alive,

and maybe she could be lucky enough, sometime, somehow, to match up her course

and the Fleet's. Meanwhile she just hoped to hell to avoid Alliance law and

Mallory's attention. That was the thing gave her the chills, that turncoat

Mallory was out hunting her old friends, and Norway made these ports from time

to time, Mallory being respectable now. The rest of them had come up on the

losing side, that was all, and Mallory was smart, Mallory had gotten herself on

the outs with Mazian, then luck happened and here was Mallory, shiny-new

loyalties and all. Smart captain. Damn good, Bet gave her that. If luck had been

on her own side she'd have gotten snagged up in Norway's company instead of

Africa's and have herself a clear record right now—have credit in her pocket,

have a snug spot and a rack to sleep in, rich as a skut could get. No matter

Norway's captain was a hardnosed bastard who'd gunned down her own troops and

tried to blow Africa to hell—no love lost at all between Mallory and Porey.

They'd fought in space, fought on dock-side, Mallory had arrested three of

Africa's marines and Africa troops had sniped at Norway's on the docks of Pell

before they got to open space. Not to ask what Norway's skuts would do to one of

Africa's if they got her aboard.

Long, long way to die, she knew that.

And if station law caught her they'd hold her for Mallory, who would take a

direct, even personal interest in her.

She shivered. She did her work, she thought about that ship that was coming and

how long they were going to be in port—some three, four days from now. Another

three, four days to fill Mary Gold's tanks—

While the contents of that bedroom got more noticeable, long enough for an

inquiry into that business in the restroom to get damned close.

They said they were going to close down Thule, they were going to blow it and

shove the pieces into the sun so there was no way the Fleet could even mine the

place for metal—so there wasn't going to be a Thule Station for a ship to come

back to, the people were going to be scattered across a dozen lightyears and

maybe they wouldn't even bother about the records, just junk everything, maybe

forget all the old records as useless and she could go on and never worry about

the business on Thule catching up with her someday, if she could just keep it

quiet for a week, keep on using Ritterman's card in places Ritterman might go,

and convince the computers he was still alive. Thule wasn't like Pell, where

there might be relatives to ask questions: the types that had come out to this

armpit of the universe were all loose-footed, the dregs of Pell, mostly; the

sweepings out of Q-section, refugees and nobodies hoping for a break that might

have come but wouldn't, now. And Ritterman wasn't the sort to have a lot of

friends.

Just get the supplies she needed, look respectable enough to impress Mary Gold,

work to the next port, and just try to make herself useful enough to stay

on—anywhere, any port but Pell—that being Norway's port.

That was why she'd told old Kato she was staying, because Ernestine was going

back. And Kato had believed the crap about her wanting to take her chances on

the Rim, but Kato had desperate business to do at Pell and a ship in debt and

Kato left her for a fool, good luck, mate, stay out of trouble, hope you find

your luck.

Hell.

She went back to Ritterman's apartment, she read the messages on the comp, which

was only a notice from station library that tapes were overdue. She found the

ones the library wanted back, she laid them on the table, to take out and dump

in the return the next morning, she looked the address up in the station

directory to be able to find it.

And she kept the vid tuned to station traffic ops, always hoping, while she made

down a comfortable bed on the couch and drank Ritterman's vodka, ate Ritterman's

chips and candy and read Ritterman's skutty picture-books till bedtime.

Back to the docks the next morning, down to the row of vending machines spinward

of the lift. She had her mouth full of cheese puffs when the bell rang, that

loud long burst that meant a ship had just dropped into system; and she gulped

it down with a mouthful of soda and took a breath.

So she made her leisurely stroll toward the corner where the public monitor was,

because it was just the longscan had gotten the info from the zenith buoy, and

that was an hour and a half light away.

Thule was a dim double star, hardly more than a moderately treacherous jump

point, no traffic: the buoy was close-in, and that ship, if it was Mary Gold, a

day and a half early, had probably just shaved a quick lighthour or so off that

distance in the V-dumps since that information had started on its way to Thule

Central. Which still put her some hours out at realspace V, and a long, long

burn to go, plus another hour on docking once she got close-in.

A cold-hauler, Mary Gold, just the regular supply run out from Pell. And on from

here to Bryant's, that was the schedule. Moving less mass than expected, she

reckoned: that could speed a ship up a day, easy. Thank God.

But when she got to the corner where the monitor gave its tired, gray cycles of

information, the shipname was AS Loki.

Her heart ticked, just a single bewildered jolt.

Who in hell is Loki?

She stopped, ate a couple of cheese puffs, washed them down and stared at the

progress marker on the vid. She wasn't the only one. Dock workers gathered

around to wonder.

It was coming in smartly enough. It was an Alliance ship designation.

Her stomach felt upset. She heard somebody speculate it was a Unionside

merchanter, just come into the Alliance.

Not unless it was some damn tiny ship, she thought, something come in from some

godforsaken arm like Wyatt's Star, clear on Union's backside: she knew every

shipname that was worth knowing, knew the Family name, the cargo-class—and the

armament class. Down in Africa's 'tween-decks, shipnames and capabilities were a

running topic. The skuts in the 'decks might not be able to do a thing in a

ship-fight, but if you were down there strapped into your rack and your ship was

going into a firefight, what the cap was on the other ship was a real important

topic; and if you were going to have to board after that, go onto some

merchanter's deck into twisty little corridors full of ambushes, you liked to

know those little details. Damn right.

She ate her cheese puffs, she watched the data unfold—then suddenly she

remembered the time and she ducked out of the crowd and hurried on down to the

Registry.

"I wondered if you were coming in today," Nan said, at her desk as she slipped

in the door.

"Sorry." There was a reg about eating and drinking in the front office.

"Breakfast. I'll dump this in the can. 'Scuse."

"You know what ship that is?" Nan asked.

She shook her head. "Thought I knew 'em all. Spooks." Trooper word. It was

getting to be common, since the War, but she wished she hadn't said that. She

oozed past Nan and into the back hall, where Ely met her and asked, "You know

that ship?"

"Just saying: no, sir. New one."

Ely looked worried. Well he should. She went on into the back-office work area,

tipped the last of the puff-crumbs into her mouth and washed them down with the

dregs of the soda, chucked the foil and the can into the cycle-bin before she

walked out where the vid was.

Where everybody was: Ely, Nan, the three other clients looking for jobs this

morning, all standing, all watching the vid and not saying a thing, except she

got looks from the three stationers that maybe added her up as an honest-to-God

spacer and maybe a source of information.

"Do you know—?" one started to ask her.

She shook her head. "New to me, mate. No idea." She folded her arms and looked

at the numbers, heard one of the stationers say that looked like an all-right

approach, the numbers didn't look like a strike-run.

Depends, station-woman. Depends on the mass. Entry vector. Lot of things,

damnfool. Sometimes you got to maneuver. And we lied to those buoys, damn if we

didn't.

She watched, standing there with her arms folded, thinking, the way the

stationers around her had to be thinking, that it could be one of the Fleet;

feeling, the way the stationers certainly weren't, a little stomach-unsettling

hope that it was one of Mazian's ships.

Hope like hell it wasn't a Fleet ship going to pull a strike for some reason,

and hole the station.

And hope while she was at it that any minute that single blip was going to start

shedding other blips, that that screen was going to go red and start flashing a

take-cover, and Africa itself, with its riderships deployed, was going to be on

station com, old Junker Phillips himself telling a panicked Thule Station that a

Fleet ship was going to dock, like it or not.

She watched. She bit her lip and shook her head when one of the stationers asked

her about the numbers. She listened while the com-flow from station intersected

the com-flow from the incomer, all cool ops, station asking the intruder for

further ID and a statement of intent, the intruder within a few minutes light,

now, but going much, much slower.

Decel continuing, the numbers said.

"Huh," she said finally, figuring there was nothing much going to happen for a

while, so she went over and sat down, which got a momentary attention from the

stationers, who looked at her as if they hoped that meant something good.

So she relaxed. Watching on vid, waiting to see, was hell and away more

comfortable than they'd gotten between-decks, just the audio, the com telling

them what they absolutely needed to know, while the ship pulled G and racks and

paneling groaned like the pinnings were going and somebody's gear that had been

loose when the takehold rang became a flock of missiles.

Nan and Ely drifted back to work. One of the job-seekers went over to the

counter to finish an application, but the other two just stood there looking up

at the vid.

"This is Loki command," the vid said finally, amid the muted, static-ridden

comflow that had been coming through. "Clear on your instructions, Thule

Station. We're a fifteen tank, running way down."

God. No small tank on that thing.

"This is Thule Stationmaster. We've got a scheduled ship-call, Loki, we can do a

partial."

Bet sat there with her feet in a scarred plastic chair and listened, with her

heart picking up its beats, brain racing with the figures while the timelag of

ship and station narrowed, but not enough.

An unknown and a tank that size. Claiming Alliance registry.

Thule Control reported the incomer had done the scheduled burn.

"Thule Stationmaster," the same voice came over the com, finally, "this is Loki

command. We're carrying a priority on that fill. Request you route us to your

main berth."

The stationers finally figured out priority. There was a sudden tension in them.

Bet sat there with her feet up, arms folded, knowing it was still going to be a

while, with her heart thumping away in leaden, before-the-strike calm.

Priority. There was only one berth on Thule with a pump fitting that was going

to accommodate a starship. The pump was two hundred years old and it managed,

but it was slow, and the station tanks were nowhere near capable of turning two

large-cap ships in the same week—it took time for Thule's three skimmers and the

mass-driver to bring in a ship-tank load of ice.

If that ship was priority and if it was Alliance, then it was something

recommissioned, something Mallory herself might have sent, if it was telling the

truth and it wasn't just talking itself into dock to blow them all to hell.

And if it was official, and if it was sitting there for the five days it was

likely to take drinking Thule's tanks down to the dregs, there was no way in

hell a freighter like Mary Gold was going to get into that single useable berth

and out again for another week.

Or two or three.

Information trickled out of Station Central. Central got a vid image. "God," Nan

said when that came up, and Bet just sat there with her arms crossed on a

nervous stomach.

Small crew-quarters, a bare, lean spine, and an engine-pack larger than need be.

"What in hell?" Bet said, to a handful of nervous civ stationers, and put a foot

on the floor suddenly. "Damn, what class is that thing?"

Ely was out of his office again, coming out to look at the vid in this room,

which showed the same thing as the vid in the office. People tended to cluster

when they thought they might be blown away.

"Oh, God, oh, God," one of the clients kept saying.

Bet got up while the comflow ran on the audio, business-as-ordinary, with an

apparent warship coming in to dock.

"Bet," Nan said. "What is it?"

"Dunno," she said. "Dunno." Her eyes desperately worked over the shadowy detail,

the midships area, the huge vanes. "She's some kind of re-fit."

"Whose?" a civ asked.

Bet shook her head. "Dunno that. It's a re-fit, could be anything."

"Whose side?" someone asked.

"Could be anything," she said again. "Never seen her. Never see ships in deep

space. Just hear them. Just talk to 'em in the dark." She hugged her arms around

herself and made herself calm down and sit down on the table edge, thinking that

there was in fact no telling. It was whatever it wanted to be. Spook was a

breed, not a loyalty.

But there was no likelihood it was going to open fire and blow the station. Not

if it wanted those tanks filled. Not if its tanks were really that far down.

Either it was hauling mass that didn't show or it'd been a long, long run out

there.

The comflow kept up. The stationer-folk huddled in front of the vid, remembering

whatever stationers remembered, who'd been through too much hell, too many

shifts, too much war.

Not fools. Not cowards. Just people who'd been targets once too often, on

stations that had no defense at all.

Bet kept her arms clenched, her heart beating in a panic of her own that had

nothing to do with stationer reasons.

CHAPTER 5

« ^ »

It took time to get anything into dock at Thule—minimum assists, a small

station. The process dragged on, a long series of arcane, quiet communications

between the incomer and Station Central, long silences while the station

computers and the incomer's talked and sorted things out. That was normal. That

relieved the stationers of their worst fears, seeing that the incomer was

actually coming in instead of shooting.

So things moved out on the docks, people began to separate themselves a little

from available vids: Bet went out for her lunch, down to the vending machines by

the lifts.

She got looks from the office types—as if suddenly anybody who looked like a

spacer was significant, whether or not she could possibly come from that ship.

She ignored the looks, got her chips and her sandwich and her soda, tucked the

chips into her pocket and walked out on Thule's little number one dock, where a

cluster of lights blazed white on the gantry, spotting the area where

dockworkers went about their prep, Thule's usual muddled, seldom-flexed system

of operations.

She gave a disgusted twitch of her shoulders, looked at that port, swallowed

bites of sandwich and washed them down with soda.

Damn, that ship was a problem, it was a major Problem, it bid fair to cost her

neck. It was probably Alliance, all right, her luck had been like that for two

years, but her heart was beating faster, her blood was moving in a way it hadn't

in a long time. Damn thing could kill her. Damn thing could be the reason the

law finally hauled her in and went over her and got her held for Mallory, but it

was like she could stand here, and part of her was already on the other side of

that wall, already with that ship—and if it killed her it still gave her that

feeling a while.

"Shit," she muttered, because it was a damnfool thing to feel, and it muddled up

her thinking, so that she could smell the smells and feel the slam of G when the

ship moved and hear the sounds again—

She swallowed down the sandwich, she looked at that dock and she was there, that

was all, and scared of dying and less scared, she wasn't sure why.

But she went back to Nan and stood by her desk with her back to the locals the

other side of the counter and said, "Nan, I got to try for this one."

"Bet, it's a rimrunner. We got a freighter coming in—it's going to be here. This

thing—"

Like she was talking to some drugger with a high in sight—

But: "I got to," she said. "I got to, Nan."

For reasons that made her a little crazy, for certain; but crazy enough to have

the nerve—like the Bet Yeager that Nan and Ely had been dealing with and the Bet

Yeager who was talking now were two different things, but she was sane enough to

go back to friends, sane enough to know she didn't want to alienate the only

help she had if things went sour.

"You turn 'em in my request?" Bet asked. "Nan?"

"Yeah," Nan said under her breath, looking truly worried over her, the way not

many ever had in her life.

So she left.

The dockside swarmed with activity, the dull machinery gleaming under the

floods, crews working to complete the connections, in Thule's jury-rigged

accommodation for a modern starship. It wasn't a place for spectators. There

were few of them. Thule's inhabitants remembered sorties, remembered bodies

lying on the decking, shots lighting the smoke, and there were no idle

onlookers—just the crews who had work finally, and the usual customs agent, and

no more than that.

Excepting herself, who kept to the shadows of the girders, hands in pockets, and

watched things proceeding. She inhaled the icy, oil-scented air, watched the

pale gray monitor up on top of the pump control box ticking away the numbers,

and felt alive for a while.

The whole dock thundered to the sound of the grapples going out, hydraulics

screamed and squealed, the boom groaned, and finally the crash of contact

carried back down the arms, right through the deck plating and up into an

onlooker's bones.

Soft dock, considering the tiny size of the Thule docking cone and the tinsel

thinness of little Thule's outer wall: damn ticklish maneuver, another reason

the dock was generally vacant. There was the remote chance of a bump breaching

the wall. But there was equally well a chance of a pump blowing under the load

or God knew what else, a dozen ways to get blown to hell and gone anywhere on

Thule. Today it failed to matter. She thought that she could, perhaps, a major

perhaps, go the round of vending machines and buy up food enough and stash it

here and there in the crannies of Thule docks, maybe go to cover if somebody got

onto what was in Ritter-man's bedroom. She could just ignore this ship, wait it

out and hope to talk her way onto Mary Gold when and if she came. That was the

hole card she kept for herself, if Loki was what she was afraid it was.

But Mary Gold had become a small chance, a nothing chance with too many risks of

its own.

She waited, she waited two hours until little Thule got its seal problem

corrected and got Loki snugged in and safe. She stood there very glad of

Ritterman's castoffs under the jumpsuit, made as it had been for dockside chill:

breath still frosted and exposed skin went numb, and she kept her hands in her

pockets. Ice patched the corrugated decking, and the leaky seal that was

dripping water at the gantry-top was going to breed one helluva icicle in five

days' dock time.

Finally the tube went into place, the hatch whined and boomed open, letting out

a light touch of warmer, different air, a little pressure release; and of course

it was the customs man first up the ramp.

She found a place to sit in the vee of a girder, cold as it was, she sat and she

watched, and finally the customs man came out again.

She shivered, she felt—God, a sense of belonging to something again, just being

perched out here freezing her backside, like a dozen other sit-and-waits she

remembered. And it was damn foolish even to start thinking that way. It was

suicidal.

But she wasn't scared, not beyond a flutter in the gut which was her common

sense and the uncertainty of the situation; she wasn't scared, she was just

waiting to risk her neck, that was all, she thought about where she'd been and

where she could go, and it was all still remote from here.

She heard the inside lock open again, heard someone coming. Two of the crew this

time, in nondescript, not military. Her heart beat faster and faster as she

watched them meet with the dock-chief, all the slow talk that usually went on.

More crew came down. More nondescript, nothing like a uniform, no family

resemblance either. She worked cold hands, got up from her wedged-in perch

between the girders and shook the feeling back into her legs, then put her hands

in her pockets and walked up to the latest couple off the ramp.

"You!" a dockworker called out.

But she ignored that. She walked up, nodded a friendly hello—it was a man on

rejuv and a woman headed there, both in brown coveralls, nothing flashy. Work

stuff. " 'Day," she said. "Welcome in. I'm looking. Got any chance?"

Not particularly friendly faces. "No passengers," the man said.

She touched her pocket where the letter was. "Machinist. Stuck here. Who do I

talk to?"

A long slow look, from a cold, deeply creased face; from a hollow-cheeked female

face with a burn scar on the side.

"Talk to me," the man said. "Name's Fitch. First officer."

"Yes, sir." She took a breath and slipped her hands back into her pockets, a

twitch away from parade rest. Damn. Relax. Civ. Dammit. "Name's Yeager. Off

Ernestine. Junior-most and they had to trim crew. Others got hire, but it's been

slim for about six months."

"Not particularly hiring," Fitch said.

"I'm desperate." She kept a tight jaw, breathing shallow. "I'll take scut. I

don't ask a share."

A slow, analyzing stare, head to foot and back again—like he was figuring goods

and bads in what he was looking at.

"Dunno," Fitch said then, and hooked a quick gesture toward the ramp. "Talk to

the Man."

She was half-numb from standing in the airlock, in the kind of dry cold that

froze up any water vapor into a white rime on the surfaces and left the knees

locking up and refusing to work when she stepped over the threshold into Loki's

dim gut. The knees had gotten to the shaking stage when she got through into the

ring (there looked to be only one corridor) and did a drunken walk down the

narrow burn-deck. There was one light showing, one door standing open, besides

the hatches that were probably the downside stowage.

She reached it, saw the blond, smallish man at the desk. Plain brown jumpsuit.

The gimbaled floor made a knee-high step-up. She stood in the corridor and

called up, "Looking for the captain."

"You got him," the Man said, and looked down at her from the desk, so she

stepped up by the toehold in the rim of the deck and ducked to clear the door.

"Bet Yeager, sir." Fitch's name had gotten her inside. Now she was shivering,

her teeth trying to chatter, not entirely from the cold. "Machinist. Freighter

experience. Looking for a berth, sir."

"Any good?"

"Yes, sir."

A long silence. Pale eyes raked her over. A thin hand turned palm up.

She reached to her pocket and pulled out her papers, trying not to let her hand

shake when she put the folder in his hand.

He opened it, unfolded the paper, read it without expression, looked on the

back—everyone did, the last few signatures. And folded it again and gave it

back.

"We're not a freighter," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"But maybe you're not spacer."

"I am, sir."

"You know what we are?"

"I think I do, sir."

A long silence. Thin fingers turned the stylus over and over. "What rating?"

"Third, sir."

More silence. The stylus kept turning. "We don't pay standard. You get a hundred

a day on leave. Period. Board-call goes out ten hours before undock. My name's

Wolfe. Any questions?"

"No, sir."

"That's the right answer. Remember that. Anything else?"

"No, sir."

"See you, Yeager."

"Yes, sir," she said. And ducked her head and got out, off the deck, down the

corridor, out of the ship, still numb.

She thought about going to the Registry. She wanted a drink, she wanted to go

out on the docks with a little in her pocket and hit the bars and get a little

of the cold out of her bones, but she was a stranger to Loki crew and she could

not use Ritterman's card.

So she went back to the apartment and made herself a stiff one.

Loki was no freighter. The captain told that one right. She was still shaken,

the old nerves still answered. Loki wasn't a name she knew, but the name might

not have been Loki six months ago, or the same as that a year ago. The frame was

one of the old, old ones by the look of its guts, a small can-hauler with

oversized tanks where the cans ought to be, something naturally oversized in its

engine pack—tanks easy come by, easy to cobble on even for a half-assed shipyard

like Viking, which had built three such ships the Fleet knew about—ships to lie

out and lurk in the dark of various jump-points, to run again "with information.

Except the Line was shady, and the spooks went this side and that of it, and the

Fleet had trusted them no more than Union had: if you pulled into a point where

a spook was, you took it out and asked no questions.

So this particular spook was all official in the Alliance. The free-merchanters

had put themselves a boycott together, the merchanters had taken over Pell, and

now the spooks the stations had built to keep themselves informed came out in

the open, government papers and everything.

Damned right the captain wasn't going to quibble about her papers. When somebody

shiny bright and proper came in there looking for a berth, that was the time

Loki might ask real close questions.

She sipped Ritterman's whiskey. And tried not to think that, spook or not, it

was about as good as joining up with Mallory. She had to stop the little

twitches, like the one that said stand square, like the sir and the ma'am, like

the little orderly habits with her gear that said military—

So they were Mallory's spies, most probably—but not with Mallory, not too

legitimate, since spooks had regularly sold information to any bidder. And going

onto that ship was a case of hiding in plain sight. If she could learn the

moves, learn the accent, learn a spook's ways—then she could get along on a

spook ship, damn sure she could.

Dangerous. But in some ways less dangerous a hire than on some merchanter on the

up and up, with a crew that expected a merchanter brat to know a lot of things,

things about posts she'd never touched, especially about cargo regs and station

law, things that never had been her business.

She had stood real close to Africa's Old Man once or twice. A couple of thousand

troops in Africa's gut, and Porey rarely put his nose down there, except he went

with them when they went out onto some other deck, Porey was always right in the

middle of it; and being close to him that couple of times—she'd gotten the force

of him, gotten right fast the idea why he was the Old Man, and why everybody

jumped when Porey said move. Porey was the damn-coldest man she had ever stood

next to; and maybe it was only how desperate she was and how Loki was the hope

she'd thrown double or nothing on, but this Wolfe, the way he moved, the way he

talked—said competent, said no-nonsense, said he was a real bastard and you

didn't get any room with him. And that touched old nerves. She knew exactly

where she was with him, cut your throat for a bet, but show him you were good

and you just might do all right with a captain like that.

Spook captain. That Fitch, that Fitch was no easy man, either. That woman with

him you didn't push. That told you something about the captain too.

She poured herself another glass. Maybe, she thought, she was crazy. She wasn't

sure whether she ought not just drop out of sight now until the board-call rang,

stay mostly in the apartment, not go back to the Registry at all—except she

wanted to keep that card of Ritterman's active and she didn't want any chance of

getting an inquiry going into Ritterman's inactivity.

Five days, at least, for Loki's tanks to fill. Maybe closer to four till

boarding, counting the ten hour boarding-call. If she could just keep things

quiet that long, do the daily run to the vending machines, back to the

apartment, and stay put, then everything would work out.

All she had to do was stick it out and check the comp for things like overdue

tapes, things that could require Ritterman's intervention.

Meanwhile she got out Ritterman's collection of fiches and started sorting. That

kind of trade goods was low-mass, it would pack real easy, Thule customs only

worried about guns and power-packs and knives and razor-wire and explosives,

that kind of thing, it had no duty on anything, and there were no regs on Thule

about liquor.

She started packing, at least the sorting part.

She bedded down, the way she had been doing, on Ritterman's couch, she watched a

vid, she drank herself stupid and she woke up with a headache and the absolutely

true memory that she had a berth.

Best damn night she'd had in half a year.

CHAPTER 6

« ^ »

She made the morning trip to the vending machines, she lived off chips and soda

and cheese sandwiches she heated and added Ritterman's pickles and sauce to.

That was the second day down. She stayed in the apartment otherwise and she went

through everything in the cluttered front rooms, to see what was worth leaving

with.

She checked the comp, she drank, she had another cheese sandwich for supper, she

looked at skuz pictures and she made a hook and fixed up the one of Ritterman's

useable sweaters that was really snagged—like ship, a lot. You tinkered with

stuff, you mended, you washed, you did the drill, you scrubbed anything that

didn't fight back, but hell if she was going to give Ritterman a good rep by

cleaning up this pit: she just kicked his stuff out of her way and washed what

she was going to drink out of.

But that night sleep came harder, and the level in the vodka bottle went down

markedly before she could rest.

She kept thinking about immigration and the one formality there was, that she

was going to have to log out of station records to get by that customs man.

Right now she might be hard to find, on Ritterman's card, in Ritterman's

apartment, with not even the Registry knowing where she was right now and only

Nan and Ely able to connect her name to her face—but all of that changed the

moment she had to hand dockside customs that temporary ID card of hers and that

customs man sent the information back through the station computers, right from

a terminal on dockside, to be sure she was who she said.

The one thing Alliance was touchy about besides weapons was people, because

Mariner and Pan-paris had learned the hard way that people were much more

dangerous—the kind of people who came and went under wrong names and false IDs,

at the orders of people parsecs away. Customs insisted on checking crew IDs:

they'd checked her onto Thule off Ernestine and they'd check her off and onto

Loki.

And that check, if anyone was looking for her, if they had any questions about

her fingerprints among a hundred others, if the customs man himself had any

interest in why her face showed marks—

She tried to think of a way to dodge that check, like maybe going down to

Thule's few bars, finding Loki's crew, maybe sleeping over with somebody and

maybe talking her way into an early boarding that might miss customs altogether,

if Loki would cooperate—

But doing anything that might make Loki back off taking her on, that scared her

more than the check-out did.

Besides, getting in with the crew during liberty took money she didn't have, and

a body was expected to stand her own bar-bill.

She had certainly fallen asleep with worse prospects on her mind, but solitude

was a new affliction. Her mind kept going back to old shipmates on Africa,

wondering if they were still alive, wondering whether the major was, and who

Bieji Hager was sleeping with now.

Teo was dead. Blown to cold space. So was Joey Schmidt and Yung Kim and a

thousand more, at least.

Damn Mallory.

So here she was, taking a berth on a spook ship, one that might be on Mallory's

orders to boot. So maybe it was fair pay to old debts, if they ended up saving

her neck. She imagined Teo shaking his head about what she was doing, but Teo

would say, Shit, Bet, dead don't count. And Teo would never blame her.

She tossed over onto her belly and tried to not to think, period, just tried to

go away, just go nothing, nowhere, like when the G-stress was going to hit soon

and the missiles were going to fly and if you were a skut in a carrier's

between-decks, you just rode it out and let the tekkies keep the ship from

getting hit.

Damn right.

Fourth day. She got up, stumbled across the clutter in the apartment and checked

the public ops channel on Ritterman's vid to see when the board-call was posted.

M/D 2100, it said. Fill 97% complete.

Thank God, thank God. Mary Gold was in, now, Mary Gold had made it into Thule's

system during the night; and the vid said: Condition hold, which meant that Mary

Gold was taking a slow approach, lazing along and probably damn mad and

desperate, figuring on a fast turn-around and instead finding out they could be

weeks down on their schedule—the same way that Bryant's Star Station, next on

Mary Gold's route, was going to find its essential supplies a month late; and so

was everybody else down the line. A little schedule slip at a place like Pell, a

huge, modern station—that was nothing. But here…

It was a question, what the reason was on that priority of Loki's, whether it

was just using it, hell with the stations and the trouble it caused. Or whether

there was an urgency about its getting outbound.

And urgency with that kind of ship meant…

She thought about Africa, she thought about the chance of finding herself on the

wrong side of things in a firefight.

Of getting blown to hell with a spook, that was what would happen. By her own

ship, her own old shipmates.

She shoved thoughts like that out of her mind, she had her breakfast of chips

and sat and read, and checked the comp for messages.

Ads, all ads, like always. Not one call for Ritterman, nothing but those overdue

tapes, in all the time she'd been here.

Popular man.

She got down to serious packing finally. She'd made herself wait for that, the

way she always made herself wait for things she wanted too much. She had another

bag of chips, she had a shower, she trimmed her hair, and finally she started

putting her personal kit together, the last thing, the very last to go into the

duffle.

The door buzzer sounded.

She stopped still. She stood there in the bathroom just breathing, that was all,

afraid it was somebody with a key. So—so if it was, Rico could vouch for her,

she'd been with Ritterman, she'd come in here when she knew she was shipping

out—had her stuff in stowage here, hadn't seen Ritterman in days, never asked

where he was, he'd always said just walk in—

Second push at the buzzer.

Third.

But they went away.

She let go her breath. And brought her little bag of personal things out into

the living room and finished packing, watching the time.

The phone beeped.

God. She held her breath again until whoever it was gave up.

She stood there, thinking about how to move, where to move: fast was the only

way, fast and direct and if somebody was waiting outside in the hall or down by

the lift, just to see who came out—

Oh, God, she'd given Rico's as an address for the Registry.

If somebody had asked for her at Rico's, if Rico had told them some woman with a

black eye had gone off with Ritterman, they could be looking for her, instead of

Ritterman—

And they were going to find Ritterman once they got in here.

She checked her pockets to be sure of the card, she grabbed up the duffle and

she left, down the dingy metal hall, heart pounding, down to the lift.

Nobody. Thank God.

She ditched the card behind a loose base-moulding, there by the lift, a place

where it was out of her possession if she got searched, and available if she

needed it—she'd spotted that two days ago; she took the lift down to dockside,

she walked out, she just kept all her movements normal. If they hadn't followed

the trail as far as Loki yet, if she could just get down the dock and get

aboard, counting on Thule's usual inefficiency—

Crew came and went all the time till board-call, a body forgot things, somebody

had to go back and check with the ship's purser: and a ship had no particular

wish to have anybody but crew coming and going through its hatch, especially in

a skuz place like this, so customs habitually reckoned a ship had a strong

motive to police its own entries, and customs didn't watch that until the last

moment, at least Thule didn't. There was just that log-off formality if they

were taking passengers—

And ships didn't ordinarily let new-hires on till board-call, when there was

crew aboard to keep track of them and make sure they behaved.

So it was 1600. She was five hours early.

She walked toward that berth and toward the lights, and she kept thinking all

the while that, even if the station mofs were tracing her the long way around,

and they had gotten to Rico's via Nan and Ely, and tracked her all the way to

Ritterman, they knew she was spacer, and they didn't need to go that far. She

was on the Registry list, Nan and Ely couldn't cover that fact even if they

would lie for her and even if Nan didn't tell half as much as she knew: once

they were looking for her, the authorities needed only one functional neuron to

think about that ship in port and to know where she was going to go.

Dammit, they couldn't get you for having fingerprints in a damn restroom.

All right, she thought, approaching that ship-ramp, that dark skein of lines and

gantry-braces and the maze of pump-housings and buttresses, all right, Bet

Yeager, so something goes sour, no good breaking heads, there's enough of them

to do what they like. If they grab you, you go with it, you do the innocent act,

you get them to call Nan, that's what, Nan's got good sense—Nan might could

nudge the situation on your behalf—

She walked up to the working area. She had her foot on the ramp when the voice

yelled, "You there!" and she did a moment's flash between running up that ramp

and risking a shot in the back and sanely realizing Loki's hatch was going to be

shut up there, even if she got that far, no way they left it wide open to

dockside cold.

"I'm crew," she said to the men who walked up to her—no dockers, for sure, very

definitely upstairs types. "I'm Loki crew. Got a load to take aboard. What's the

trouble?"

"Elizabeth Yeager," one said, and showed her an ID. "We'd like to ask you some

questions, upstairs."

"For what? I got a board-call going in a couple of hours!"

"You'll make your board-call, if you can satisfy the legal office. We have some

questions, that's all."

"About what?"

"Come with us, Ms. Yeager."

"Hell!—I got a call to make, then. Just a minute."

"No calls, Ms. Yeager. You can notify anyone you want upstairs."

She looked at the two of them, had this momentary irrational impulse to try her

luck making a break for it and losing herself on dockside, to try to get to

crew, but what she'd already decided weighed heaviest in crisis-thinking, always

did. You had your plan, and especially when things went absolutely worst-case

you stuck to it, you most of all didn't get rattled and do something stupid.

"All right," she said, and waved a hand toward the lifts, distant across the

dock. "All right. Let's get this settled."

But she was close to panic. She wasn't sure what she'd decided to do was right,

now. She distrusted knee-jerk decisions, always wanted to think, always wanted

to be sure, as long as it was something she'd had a chance to plan out, but God,

she was in a mess, she knew she was; and that mess involved stationers, who did

things by rules that made no sense, every station eccentric and unpredictable in

what it allowed and the way it worked.

So they knew her face: that meant they'd gotten her picture off the

card-on-file, the same one that she'd filled out when she'd gone through Thule

immigration and gotten her temp card. They had her prints, they had themselves a

spacer with a black eye and a lot of scratches, and had themselves a very dead

body in a room where, eventually, they were going to find a lot more of her

prints—

That would take time. The question, the first question was whether they were

going to break in there; whether they'd ever made the Ritterman connection;

whether they had enough right this moment to get the station legal department to

swear out a warrant to take her to hospital and start asking questions under

trank.

After that, two dead men were a minor problem.

They walked her far across the docks and down, they got her into an official-use

lift, and they shot straight up to Thule's little blue-section—a single level

up, then, and down a corridor to grim little offices.

"ID," the officer at the desk asked, and she handed over the temp card.

"Papers," the man asked next, which scared her as much as anything else in the

proceedings. That was everything, that little folder. But they had a right to

ask and they had a right to hold it until they were satisfied. They said they

would put her duffle off behind the desk and it would be safe. They had her sit

down and fill out a form that asked questions like: Present address and Current

Employment and Most Recent Prior Employment: Date.

Deeper and deeper. They wanted to know things she couldn't answer—like what her

credit balance was and where receipts were that proved she'd been spending cash

since she left Ernestine.

They wanted to know stationer references. She gave Nan and Ely.

Desperately she said she'd been living with Nan. Nan might cover for her. It was

the only thing she could think of.

God, if they asked her the specific address… Nan lived in Green, she remembered

Nan and Ely talking once. She could remember that.

Estimated income this month, they asked. She counted. She wrote, 25 cred.

Counting what she'd gotten off Ritterman, off the dock-worker, off Ely. She was

going to lie, but she'd spotted the next question, with a possible out, a

possible escape from all the traps.

Other source of support, it asked.

Nan Jodree, she wrote. Room and board, even exchange, for cleaning and errands.

She looked at the time. 1710. She sweated. The last answer put her legal, she

knew it had to—if Nan backed her, and she had some belief that Nan would, then

they couldn't hold her on the likeliest charge, free-consuming, which was what

they'd want to use to keep her here while they checked the other things.

If it was legal on Thule to do private work.

If Nan wouldn't panic and or just answer some trick question and hang her, never

knowing.

They took the form, they looked at it, and then they asked her to step into an

interview room—"To answer a few questions," they said.

"I answered!"

"Ms. Yeager," the men said, holding the door.

So they had her sit down at a table, they sat on the other side and they asked

her questions, like What happened to your face, Ms. Yeager?

Fight with a drunk, she said, the same as she'd told Terry Ritterman.

Where?

Green dock, she said.

When?

She had to be honest about that: the eye made it clear, and it was possible Rico

might remember the date she'd shown up. She said, "Last week. I don't know what

day."

"Wednesday?"

"I dunno. Could have been.—Look, I got to call my ship. I got a right to call my

ship…"

They said, "What's Nan Jodree's address?"

And she said, suddenly thinking like a merchanter, "I got a right to call my

captain."

"What's his name?" they asked.

"Wolfe!" she said, the first answer she'd had absolutely no doubt of.

But then they went back to the first questions.

"I don't have to answer you," she said. "I answered you once. Call my captain."

"Do you want to go before the judge?"

Civil law. Alliance law. Stations and civil rights and judges and hospitals

where they could get the truth out of you. Where nobody could keep from spilling

everything they'd ever done or thought about doing. "I don't have to talk to you

without my captain knowing."

"Come on," they said, "you're not crew yet, you aren't logged out of station

records."

"I'm Loki crew, I've got a right to notify my captain!"

"No, you don't," they said. "You can call in a lawyer, that's the only thing

you're allowed."

"Then I'm calling Loki's legal staff."

That stopped them. They went outside and consulted, maybe what to do next, maybe

what their choices were or whether they had to do that: she had no idea.

They kept arguing about something; then three of them walked off and left her

there, in that cubbyhole of a room with one large window. One stayed standing by

the door.

She didn't know what they were up to now. Maybe checking with Nan.

Maybe finally making that call to Wolfe, who could not be happy about getting a

call like that from a-new hire-on.

They had never searched her. That meant, she supposed, she wasn't quite under

arrest yet. That meant she still had the little razor. She thought about it

while she sat there. She thought that Wolfe was about one jump away from Mallory

herself, if Wolfe got onto her case—if they got a court order to question her

under trank and found out what she was; but there was no chance of that, no

chance unless maybe they rushed an indictment through at the last moment,

between the board-call and the undock, when Loki had to be away, on whatever

business was so urgent they'd prioritied out an honest freighter and created

hardship on stations down the line.

She pould see the outside clock through the window. She saw the time pass 1745,

and 1800 and 1830, and she got up finally and tried the door, to talk to the man

outside, but it was locked. She bashed its metal face with her fist.

"I got a board-call to answer!" she yelled; then, with no answer at all, not

even any interest on the man's part, she walked back to the chair and sat down,

raked a hand through her hair, and came the closest yet to complete panic.

She hoped—hoped if nothing else, they'd called Nan, and Nan or Ely had backed

her, and Nan or Ely was going to come through that door and take her side, do

something clever, get her clear. At least they could call Wolfe for her, if no

one else would.

But it wasn't Nan or Ely who stood there when they unlocked the door. It was

uniformed Security.

"Bet Yeager," one said, "you're under arrest."

"For what?" she asked, all indignation.

"For the murder of one Eddie Benham, the murder of one Terrence Ritterman…"

"Terry isn't dead!" she yelled back. She'd primed herself for that one while

she'd been sitting here. "I picked up my stuff at his place this afternoon! I

don't even know any Eddie Benham!"

"You picked up your belongings there. The duffle out front? You said you were

staying with a Ms. Jodree."

"I was. I was staying there. I left my stuff with Ritterman, I borrowed a fifty

from him, I was trying to pay it back!"

"Mr. Ritterman's dead. You didn't go in the bedroom?"

"No, I didn't go in the bedroom! What call would I have to go in somebody's

bedroom?"

"That's one of the questions we want to ask you, Ms. Yeager."

"I want my lawyer!"

"Turn out your pockets on the table, please."

She thought about refusing, she thought about taking out a couple of security

men, which came down to the same thing it had on the docks. She emptied her

pockets, and it came down to a one cred chit and the razor. She laid them on the

table.

They took her down the hall and put her in Detention. She did not argue.

She sat there staring at the door, making up her mind that Nan was going to come

after her at any minute, they would surely have talked to Nan by now, and Nan

was going to come down here and handle the station legal people the way a

stationer knew how to do.

And she'd tell Nan it wasn't the way it looked, she'd tell Nan everything—at

least the part about Ritterman and the other man, and Nan would understand that,

Nan would back her story about not being a free-consumer—And the Thule

stationmaster would give her a personal apology and a thousand cred too, of

course he would, that was the way station justice worked, every one in the Fleet

knew that, the way they knew there was thanks from stationers for favors done or

a memorial to the Fleet's dead or a shred of support from the merchanters who

had persistently smuggled war supplies and intelligence either side of the Line,

then cried piracy because the Fleet supplied itself the only way it could—with

no damn help from the stations, none from the merchanters, none, at the last,

from Earth.

She could always ask Mallory for a posting on Norway. Apply for a commission in

the Alliance while she was at it.

Oh, God!

Past 1900 now, past 2000 hours. She paced and she studied the calluses on her

hands and the tiles on the floor. She was aware of pain in her stomach that

would have been hunger, except she couldn't have kept anything down.

Finally they unlocked the door and it was Security again.

And Fitch, God, it was Mr. Fitch.

"That's her," Fitch said, to Security. "Let's go sign the papers."

Bet stared at him. Security beckoned her and she came, and Fitch, as she passed

him in the doorway, caught her arm a second and said, "You're in deep trouble,

Yeager."

But she knew nowhere else to go, when a station lawyer showed up to tell her she

had a two-way choice: she could stay on station or accept extradition by Loki,

which was claiming Alliance military jurisdiction over her case.

She thought about that little room back there, she thought about the dockside

and that ship and being off Thule; she thought a long, long few breaths about

Mallory and about what could happen if she'd slipped somehow with Wolfe and

Wolfe knew what she really was.

But it was all the same, sooner or later, if the stationers started in with

their questions under trank; and Loki was the only way she saw that had a chance

in it.

"Give me the paper."

"You realize," the station lawyer said, "if you sign this, you're giving up all

right to civil process. That includes appeal. And military law has a death

penalty."

She nodded. Her stomach had cramped up. She was stark scared. She signed her

name, Elizabeth A. Yeager, and she gave the station-man the paper.

So Fitch took her by the arm. "I got my duffle," she said, and Fitch called

another Loki crewman out of the outside office, before they cuffed her hands in

front of her and Fitch and the crewman took her out into the corridor of Blue

section and down to the lift.

All cool and quiet then, Fitch not saying a word; and she figured silence was a

good idea, under the circumstances. She stared at the door during the ride down

to dockside. She walked on her own between Fitch and the crewman, out across the

docks, over to Loki's berth—the customs man'd had the word evidently, and there

was no objection as they walked up the ramp and into the tube.

They reached the airlock and Fitch opened it up, Fitch took her by the arm and

brought her inside.

"Stow that," Fitch told the crewman with the duffle. And shoved her back against

the wall. "You got anything to tell me?" Fitch asked.

"Thank you, sir."

Fitch slammed her back a second time. "You're a damned problem, Yeager. You're

already a problem to this ship. Hear me?"

"Yes, sir," she said, and halfway expected a punch in the gut then. Or a crack

of her head against the wall.

But Fitch said: "So you know." And snatched her around by the arm and marched

her along to the first latch-door along the corridor.

Stowage compartment, dark series of zigs and zags going God knew how far back.

Oh, shit! she thought. And Fitch shoved her inside, and shut the door.

She searched beside it with her hands, found a number of switches. None of them

worked. No com in here that she could feel. No power to anything, not even

ventilation, so far as she could hear. The master switch had to be cut off from

ops.

She leaned back against the wall of lockers facing the entry, did a fast mental

sort, in the total dark, what the orientation was, where the ship-axis was—

What Fitch had said—a problem. She was a problem.

Like Fitch was damn pissed about her, but Fitch didn't seem to be onto her as

one of Mazian's. Fitch might not know anything beyond the fact of a new-hire the

captain wanted hauled out of the station brig and dumped into a secure place

aboard.

Wolfe himself might not know.

God, if, if there was any chance of getting out of here, if there was any chance

a spook ship was that desperate for crew—

She braced one boot tentatively against the door opposite to see if there was

the right amount of room. Just about.

After a long time she heard the take-hold.

And there was no going back from here, live or die. She knew that, knew that

better than the station lawyer could ever say it.

You held on, that was all, just held on, braced the best way you could, fair

chance—fair chance that son of a bitch had given her, the kind of a safe-hole

you used if you got caught by a take-hold in a long corridor, narrow space, a

place to wedge in: and after the shocks of Loki's oversized engines firing and

after the slam of force that tried to float your kidneys through your stomach

and a second one that bashed a sore skull against a metal locker, you just

clenched your teeth and tried to stay braced and keep from slipping, because if

you got pushed off center you could spend a real uncomfortable ride; and if you

slipped off to the left you could fall a long, long way.

And when Loki finally smoothed out into a steady one G plus push, you just lay

on the face of the lockers that were going to be the deck for a while and kept

your foot braced, in case, in case of God-knew-what.

Eventually Fitch would get somebody down here. Eventually somebody would get

around to it before the ship went jump. Somebody would get the drugs you had to

have in hyperspace, without which you were good as dead.

Without which you had no grip on where you were and you had no way back again,

no way to process what the mind and the senses had no way to get hold of.

It was one way to get rid of a problem. All it took was a little screw-up in

orders. And there was no com in here.

Somebody remember I'm down here, dammit!

She risked her skull to try the switches again, overhead this time. Nothing. The

acceleration dragged at her arms, made her dizzy, made her knees weak. She lay

down and braced one foot up against the door again.

Calm, she told herself. They'd get around to it. A ship heading for jump was

damned busy, that was all. Matter of priorities. Somebody like Fitch didn't trek

all the way up to station ops to get a skut out of the brig only to scramble her

brain for good and all in some fucking official screw-up.

Couldn't do that.

God—get somebody down here!

CHAPTER 7

« ^ »

She heard the latch give, and she moved, rolled across the uneven surface of the

lockers and staggered for her knees as the hatch opened and light flooded in—a

man was standing astride the doorway, which was the way the stowage was oriented

since the sort-out, a pit of unguessed depth in its zigzag contours.

It wasn't Fitch. "Up," the man said, and she pulled herself to her feet, tried

to use the door-edges beside her for a ladder up to the deck level, but the

edges were shallow and her own weight dragged at her.

He reached down and grabbed her chained hands, she climbed and he pulled, and

landed her over the rim onto the floor. She would have been happy just to lie

there and breathe a moment, but he grabbed her by the collar and hauled her to

her feet. "Come on, come on," he said. "We got a narrow window here."

"I'm walking," she protested, trying to, on the narrow plastic mat along the

edge of the burn-deck—doors to the right, the main-deck a wall at their left,

lights on the right-hand wall. The hard push they were under kept buckling her

knees and making her vision come and go. Well more than one, maybe most of two

G's, she thought. That was most of the problem with her head and her legs. Or

the bashing against the wall had rattled her brain more than she'd thought.

"God—"

Black skeins of webbing hung in front of them, around the curve. Crew

safety-area, hammocks up and down it, empty black-mesh bundles strung vertically

along the left-hand wall. She limped ahead, walking more on her own now, just

sore from the G-stress and the cold, through the safety-area, curtain of

hammocks giving way into a rec-hall, crew members sitting on a low

main-deck/burn-deck bench along the wall, where the walkway mat spread out wide,

clear up to the swing-section galley. Sandwiches and drinks. Food-smell hit her

stomach hard, she wasn't sure whether it was good or bad.

A handful of crew stood up to look at her, not in any wise friendly.

"This is Yeager," the man holding her said, and turned her loose and said, "Good

luck, Yeager."

She stood there, just managed to stay on her feet for a few breaths, dizzy in

the G-stress, dizzy in the sudden realization they were turning her loose, that

they had bought the story, everything—

She had a chance, then—fair chance, exactly that, exactly the way you got when

you got swept up into the Fleet, volunteer or otherwise. You were the new skut

in the 'decks, you got the rough side of things, and you learned the way to live

or you died, end of it, right there.

Good luck, Yeager.

"What ship?" a woman asked from the bench, while she stood there in front of

everybody, maybe thirty, forty crew, varied as the Fleet was varied, a dozen

shades, most of them looking at her as if she was on the menu.

"Ernestine."

"Why'd you leave her?"

"I was a hire-on. They got a mechanical, couldn't take me further."

"You any good?" a man asked, one of the ones standing.

"Damn good."

Any way you want to take it, man.

Long silence, then. While her knees shook. She set her jaw and stared at them

with sweat cold on her face.

"You about missed board-call," a second man said.

"Had a problem."

Another long pause. "Makings on the counter," another man said, from further

down the bench, and made an offhand gesture toward the galley. "You want

anything you better get it now."

"Thanks," she said.

Permission to help herself, then. Handcuffs and all. She walked on to the

counter, did an instant soup out of the hot-water tap, got a packet of crackers;

she came and sat down at the end of the bench where there was a little room, and

drank her soup, deciding finally she was hungry and that food was what her upset

stomach needed. Her hands were still shaking. The salt stung where her teeth had

cracked shut on the inside of her cheek. The man next to her seemed less than

glad of her being there; he was no temptation to conversation, which was all

right, she had no interest in talking right now: the soup was uncertain enough

on her stomach; and she phased out, staring at the detail of the tiles, not

interested in advance planning at all. Her situation could be hell and away

worse. And all the planning she could do now had the shape of memories she had

just as soon keep far, far to the back of her mind.

A fool kid had volunteered herself onto Africa's deck, volunteered because

Africa was going to take what they wanted from that refinery ship at Pan-paris,

anyway, which was always the young ones, and that was her. Better choose, she

had thought then, because that way you were a volunteer and that was points on

your record; and because she hated her life and hated the mines and she wanted

starships more than she wanted anything.

And the fool kid had found herself in something she'd never remotely imagined,

and the fool kid had figured out damn fast how not to be a fool. The Fleet

taught you that straight-off, or it broke you, and she was still alive.

The fool kid had gotten part of what she'd wanted. She still reckoned that had

to be worth the rest of it… and still must be, since she'd just had her chance

at station-life, and here she was back again. If it killed her, she thought,

right now it was like something in her was back in connection again and a part

of her was alive that wasn't, on station.

And you couldn't make sense of that, but it was true.

She drank her soup, she kept her mouth shut except when a man two places down

the row asked her questions—like her side of the business on Thule.

Like it was behind her already; and that was a breath of clean air too.

"I killed a couple bastards," she said quietly. "They picked it. Me or them."

Fitch walked in. Her pulse picked up. She looked up very carefully while Fitch

made himself a cup of tea at the counter.

Fitch stood there to drink it and look at her, and after a moment he tossed a

key down three or four places down the row. It lay there a moment.

Finally one of them, older man, picked it up and tossed it down toward her.

The man next to her, the unfriendly one, picked it up and gave it to her.

"Thanks," she said. She fumbled around and got the cuffs off.

No one said anything. She certainly didn't expect a You're Welcome from Fitch.

She just pocketed the cuffs and the key. You didn't leave junk on the deck, and

nobody asked for it.

"Hour till," Fitch said. "Yeager?"

She looked up, fought the twitch that said stand up, reminding herself this was

a civ ship. "Yes, sir?"

"You like this ship?"

"Yes, sir."

"Like what you see?"

"Fine, sir."

Long silence.

"You being smart with me, Yeager?"

"No, sir. I'm glad to get off that station."

Fitch sipped his tea. And ignored her after that, thank God. Fitch left, and

some of the rest did.

"Is there a place I'm supposed to pick up a trank-pack?" Bet asked the man next.

The man shrugged, pointed with a forefinger and his cup. "Galley. Right there by

the hot, should be."

She got up and went and opened the cabinet, found the plastic-wrapped packs and

found the c-pack in a clip beside it. "Thanks," she said, coming back to sit.

"Name's Masad," the man said, and indicated the man on his left. "Joe. Johnny."

The one past that.

"Bet," she said.

Other crew came through the section. And the jump-warning sounded.

"Better get hammocked-in," Masad said. Olive skin. Fortyish. Shaved head. "You

got any problems?"

"No," she said, and got up and offered a hand for other cups—hard to do, a

lets-be-friends move; but she was smarter than she'd grown up: the surly brat

who'd signed onto Africa had gotten hell and away smarter nowadays. And a little

friendly move won things with strangers, sometimes. So they handed theirs over,

she chucked them all in the galley bin, then walked with them down-ring, found

herself a vacant hammock, stepped in, wrapped up and snugged the tabs closed.

Then she carefully put the c-pack in her breast-pocket and took her trank-dose.

Going out of here, she told herself, while the bell kept ringing and the ship

drove toward jump. She had no idea where they were going. It could even be Pell.

But she felt the trank take hold and felt herself drifting, old familiar

feeling, live or die, you never knew how or if you'd come out when the ship made

transit.

The burn stopped. They went weightless for a few seconds, inertial. And slowly

the G started pulling her down horizontally instead of vertically. Main-deck

orientation, now. The light that had been shining in her eyes was clearly, by

body-sense, truly in the overhead, and her back was to the deck.

Going out of here.

Goodbye, Thule. Goodbye, Nan and Ely. You give stationers a good name.

Blow the rest of you to hell.

CHAPTER 8

« ^ »

The fog cleared, the bell that signalled system-drop was ringing, but that was

for the tekkies to handle, they were making their dumps.

Dark spot again. The bell had stopped, the mind kept trying to make it into

Africa's crowded lowerdeck, tried to smell the same smells and hear the same

sounds and hear the major cussing them awake: not the same, with the black mesh

in front of her face, the glare of light in her eyes, not Ernestine, either,

with its cubbyhole cabins—

No doubt it was shipboard, everything told you that, sounds, smells, the muzzy

feeling of trank downbound now, knocked her for a long, deep one, it had. She

found her mental place again, remembered when and where she was, remembered—

V-dump, then. Another half-nightmare. She heard the wake-call ringing, at least

she thought it was, she fumbled after her c-pack and got the foil torn.

Fingernails broke doing that, three of them on the same hand, a bad sign—she

lost the rest of them pulling the tube out, and sucked down the citrusy stuff in

the pack bit by bit, fighting nausea, trying to get her head clear.

"Move, move, move!" someone was yelling and you never argued with a voice like

that. She gulped the last, stuffed the foil in her pocket and fumbled the catch

open, rolled out and held on, with the jumpsuit hanging on her and her hands

like claws clutching the black netting. Steady one G main-deck. Loki was

inertial now. If the bridge expected maneuvers, they wouldn't order crew up and

about.

Undo the floor clip, the one that held at your butt, undo the end clips and furl

the hammock in its elastic lines, into the latch-bins that were the mess-hall

bench while specific crew-calls pealed out over the general com, but none of

them said Yeager.

Thank God, one part of her said; and another part said: This is odd. We're

star-to-star on this track, did those dumps feel light? Was I that far out, or

are we still carrying that much V in a station-zone!

And no take-hold?

Spook ship. We've short-jumped, we're nowhere near the star, and we've dumped

and we must be doing a real quiet run-in, that's what we're doing.

Where in hell are we?

There was a dizzying quiet, ship-quiet, full of pumps and fans and systems

cycling, heartbeat of a healthy ship. Crew passed her in a business-like hurry,

some probably on call, other crew on private emergencies, things like finding

the head, like getting to the galley, on a priority of duty and off-duty crew.

Her own lower gut told her what her own priorities were, and she followed crew

members into the first door down the corridor.

Not like Ernestine's cabin-style cubbies, but not damn bad either, she thought,

looking around: plastic sheeting tight-stretched between the bunks, downside and

loft with a buffer-net up there for safety—but you got the view.

And toilets downside, that was what she was interested in, fast as she could get

there. She fell in the nearest, shortest line and stood there rubbery-legged

with her back against the wall, and distracted herself by cracking the rest of

her fingernails off.

Every one of them brittle, breaking down to the quick. Gums were sore. Hair came

out when she raked a hand through it, a web of blond hairs in her fingers.

Short rations too damn long, and the time in jump took it out of you, used up

nutrients, made your knees pop and your joints brittle. She'd seen it happen. It

had never happened to her. Not like this—and it scared her. The thought that a

spook was prone to far, fast moves, that they might kite out of here again—that

also scared her. You lost more than fingernails if you got worn down like that.

Hit the galley, pour down the c-rations if she could get them, anything to get

her weight back up.

Her gut kept cramping. Another crew member came up behind her and didn't bump

her out of line on privilege, which could happen to a new skut on Africa, damn

likely. You didn't get favors. You didn't get anything but hell.

All right, she decided about that man—Muller, G., was the name on him—and asked,

while they were waiting: "Where are we? Venture? Bryant's?—'Dorado?"

Muller looked at her like that was some kind of privileged information, like

asking made him wonder about her.

So she shut up, she ducked her head and she waited and gritted her teeth until

she made it through the line.

Back up to the galley, then. She waited her turn, picked up the sandwich and hot

tea the cook was handing out, and she sat down along the wall where a

squat-level ell between main-deck and burn-deck made one long galley bench, sat

and sipped her tea and ate the best sandwich she'd had in half a year.

Better than the vending machines on Thule, damn sure.

She sat there, no idea where she was assigned; no real hurry about matters, she

figured, the ship must be on some kind of sit-and-wait, spook-like, maybe at

Venture, maybe at Bryant's, wherever. She left the whereabouts of the ship as a

whole to the mofs and just wished she knew if she dared go back to the lockers

and see where her duffle was; she wished she knew if she had a bunk or whatever,

and if she let herself think as far as the other prospects of settling in, her

stomach got upset. But she figured she was on somebody's list, sooner or later,

and somebody was going to tell her. Muller's reaction told her it was a nervous

ship and experience told her staying low and quiet was the best thing to do for

the time being.

Especially if it got her fed and got her a sit-down, long enough to get the

wobbles out, before some mof showed up with a duty-list.

Damn sure.

Damn near a med case, with teeth sore and the bones showing in her hands till

she hardly recognized them for hers—but she was afraid to go to the meds and

complain, afraid to start out her sign-up on this ship with a med report, afraid

to go anywhere near officers and people who might take a close look at her and

then start watching her more than they needed to.

But a man came by, stopped and stood in front of her.

"Yeager."

She looked up, did a fast scan from the boots to the faded collar with the three

black bands of a civ ship's officer and the circle-and-circuit of Engineering on

the sleeve.

"Sir," she said, "Bet Yeager, sir." She would have gotten up, but the man was in

the way.

"Been a problem, have you?"

"Had a problem, sir. Don't want one here."

The man stared at her a long moment like she was a contamination. Finally he put

his hands on his hips. "What's your experience?"

"Freighters, sir. Machine-shop. Injection molding. Small-scale hydraulics,

electronics. General maintenance. Twenty years."

"We aren't real specialized."

"Yes, sir."

"Means you do any damn thing that needs doing, at any hour around the clock.

Means you do it right, Yeager, or you tell somebody you can't, you don't fuck it

up."

"Yessir. No problem with that, sir."

"Name's Bernstein. Chief of Engineering, Alterday. Hear it?"

"Yessir."

"What in hell are you doing here on your butt?"

"No assignment yet, sir."

"Got a mainday crew of thirteen, alterday's down to two. We're a re-fit. That's

special problems. And they give me a damn small-hydraulics mechanic." Bernstein

drew breath. "With no papers."

Long silence, then.

"You screw anything up," Bernstein said, "I'll break your fingers one at a

time."

"Yessir."

Another long silence. "You got a trial run on my shift, Yeager. We got a few

areas you keep your nose out of, we got a few cranky systems I'm real particular

about. You got a piece of property in stowage one, you get that, you get

yourself checked into quarters. Somebody show you around?"

"Nossir."

"Why's it my job?"

"I dunno, sir. Sorry, sir."

"You got any bunk that isn't claimed, ring's got ten sections, front number's

your section-number, ten-four's a stowage, eight-four's crew quarters, section

five's bridge, one-one's engineering; you see a white line on the deck you don't

cross it, you don't cross it, without a direct order: sections four, five, and

six are all white-lined, you got to walk the long way around. You steal,

Yeager?"

"No, sir!"

"You see this deck?"

"Yessir."

"You got a job. You get your supplies from ten-two, you get on it, get it done.

Crew-wise, on your shift, I'll tell you right now, Musa's all right, you're all

right with him. NG, you don't mess with. That do, Yeager?"

"Yessir."

"Anything I need to know?"

"Nossir."

Bernstein stared at her long and steady. "Regulations are posted in quarters,

you take a look. It's coming up 0600 right now, alterday. You get that deck

clean before you go to sleep, I don't care whose shift it is. Got any problems

with me, Yeager?"

"Nossir," she said.

"Good," Bernstein said. And walked off.

Put an armor-rig in working-order, take it apart and put it together again,

right down to the circuitry, same with weapons, sir, probably any fire-system a

spook might carry, damn right, sir.

Twenty years' seniority on Africa.

Sir.

First thing, you consulted the reg-u-la-tions.

And the reg-u-la-tions Bernstein named were official print with the Alliance

seal behind them, shiny-new, behind plastic, mounted right on the wall, all

about the captain's authority and how you had a right to station-law if you

wanted to appeal a case off your ship; and another sheet that was Alliance

military law, that said they could shoot you out of hand for mutiny or sabotage

or obstructing the execution of proper orders while the ship was in a power-up

condition or in an emergency; but there was another list taped on at the bottom,

and those were the ones you wanted to know, the ones peculiar to this ship—like

you could get on report for going onto the bridge without a permission from an

exec, and if you were working with tools you damn well better have an adequate

belt clip or a wall clip on every one of them and never have but one outsized

number clipped to you.

That meant a ship that tended to move in a hurry. No surprise there.

So, first thing, you got around to the stowage directory and you got yourself a

belt and some clips and then you got into the supply locker Bernstein had said

and got to it, wiping down the burn-deck, mindless scut. You could drift and do

it, you could shut your eyes and halfway sleep sometimes and just feel the tread

with your fingers to know you were on, and check sometimes with your eyes to

make sure the strokes didn't miss any dust.

Effin' scrub-duty.

But you got to hear a bit, like the couple saying the ship was on a

sit-and-watch, like the three bitching about somebody named Orsini, somebody

saying Fitch had put somebody named Simmons on report for a slow answer to a

page, and Simmons was asking for a transfer to alterday, but Orsini wouldn't

take him: you got a feel for the way things drifted on board.

But then the back started to ache and the arms ached, and the kneecaps got to

feeling every shift of weight.

And you knew every damn doorway and every crack and crevice in the burn-deck,

and you damned every foot that stepped off the mat. You got to know those prints

that did it often and what size they were, and thought if you ever found that

son of a bitch he was meat.

Up to the galley by noon, for tea and a Keis-roll, the hard way, quiet there,

because mainday was sleeping.

All the way around through the galley and past sickbay—right next to each other;

and right around to the white-line and the bridge by a/d 1800. The bridge was a

swing-segment like the galley, thank God, no burn-deck to scrub at all, its

cylinder-segments oriented itself whichever way the G might want to be—

And hell if she wanted to ask Fitch or the captain permission to trek through

the bridge to the burn-deck on around the ring, so she gathered up her supplies

and stowed them, and went on back down-ring to the galley for a sit-down supper

and a plate of real food and cup of hot tea with mainday's breakfast—and she

didn't want trouble with Fitch, she didn't want trouble with anybody, so she

avoided looking at people, especially looking them in the eye or starting up a

conversation, just stared blankly at the main-deck and all those possible

footprints people were making walking back and forth—footprints had occupied her

mind all day, still occupied it, in her condition—and she mentally numbed out,

tasting the food and the tea down to its molecules, it was so good, and finding

her hands so sore holding a fork hurt.

People stared at her. She knew they did. A few talked about her, out of earshot,

masked by Loki's constant white noise. She could get scared if she let herself.

So she just finished her dinner and got up without getting involved with

anybody, chucked the recyclables, and went down and got the supplies out again.

That was halfway around Loki's ring.

Up the other way around the ring, this time, past downside ops and the purser's

office, and Engineering, where mainday crew was getting to work and alterday had

gone to rec.

Arms and knees were beyond simple hurting now. She sat to work, she inched her

way along, changing hands every time she changed position to keep the shoulders

and hands from cramping up, and by now it hurt so much all over she just shut

the pain out as irrelevant to any one place.

Past Engineering and up toward the shop and the machine storage.

Past 2000 hours a/d, and people walked by, crew evidently on errands, occasional

officers. People minded their own business, mostly. Occasional laughter grated

on her nerves, maybe not even her they were talking about, but she figured it

likely was: she was the new item, she was getting it from Bernstein, she'd

already had it from Fitch, and probably it satisfied their souls to see somebody

else sweating on a duty maybe five or six of them in some other department would

be doing, otherwise. At least they were quiet enough. And no one interfered with

her and nobody messed with her clean deck.

She gave the occasional kibitz-squad the eye, just enough to know who the

sum-bitches were. Just enough to let them know it was war if they messed with

her or put a foot near that mat. No one tried her. And she went on. Could stop

for a cup of tea, she thought. Could go and put the stuff away and get a tea or

a soft drink—hell, it was past mess, supposed to be her rec-time, they might let

her have a soft drink on credit, and tea might be free. Bernstein hadn't said no

break, the regs in galley had said there was beer for a cred, honest-to-God cold

beer you could buy during your own supper hours, if you weren't on call, regs

let you have that. There was that vodka in her duffle if it hadn't been stolen:

regs didn't object to that either, on your own time.

But she had mof territory yet to go, she didn't want to go and plead cases with

anybody tonight and her knees and her under-padded right hip were halfway numb

now. She had no desire to let the bruises rest and stiffen up and start hurting

all over again.

Just a quarter of the ring or less to go, not so trafficked as the crew-quarters

side. Maybe she could get finished before midnight. Maybe get that cup of tea.

Even a sandwich. Knees wouldn't bruise so easy, arms wouldn't shake if she got a

few regular meals. Please God.

Feet strolled up. Stopped. Stood there.

No stripe. Nothing but a hash-mark and an Engineering insignia. Just the two of

them in this line-of-sight in the dim systems and shop area, and her

trouble-sense started going off, little alarm, a larger and larger one, as the

man kept standing there.

She edged forward on her track. Another arm's-reach.

"One of Bernie's ship-tours, huh?"

"Yeah," she said. "Go to hell."

He didn't go anywhere. She kept wiping, edged forward another hitch.

"Real clean job," he said.

She said nothing, just kept her head down. It could start like this, you could

get killed. And if you killed the bastard you could end up taking a long cold

walk. The bastard, of course, knew it.

"Name's Ramey," the bastard said.

"Yeah. Fine."

"Friendly."

"Yeah. Real. You want to stand out of my light?"

The bastard moved around behind her. "View ain't bad."

"Thanks."

"A little skinny."

"Go to hell."

"Now, I was going to offer you a beer."

She looked around at the pair of feet, looked up at a not-at-all bad face.

Younger than herself, ragged black hair, not-at-all bad rest of him. What in

hell! she thought, squinted to unfuzz her tired eyes, and recollected Bernstein

talking about an all-right type on her shift, name of Musa.

So she got painfully to her feet, trailing clip-lines, wiped her hands on her

legs and gave him a good look-over. "Beer, I could stand, but the way I'm going,

doesn't look likely tonight."

"I can wait." He leaned his hand up against the wall, up real close. She had

this defense-twitch, a gut-deep he-could-use-a-knee twitch, but it wasn't the

way he was going, shift of his body that put her up against the wall—Oh, good

God, she thought with a little wilting sigh and an urge to put her knee up,

hard. She was disgusted, annoyed he was going to be a son of a bitch, and stood

there a breath or two thinking really hard about doing something about it,

except that being In with somebody was safer than trying to lone-it, except,

point two, that he was too good-looking for a move like this and he was probably

trying to have a laugh at her expense. So she leaned up against him, soapy hands

and sweat and all and still felt little jolts where his hands touched, damn

difficult to ignore.

He got warm real fast. Breathing a little heavy. So it wasn't all a set-up: he

was really interested. And he asked: "You want that beer tonight?"

"Anything come with it?"

"Yeah," he said. "No one's in the shop stowage right now."

Mmmn. There was the set-up. Nice little trap to catch her breaking a dozen regs

and start off real fine, that was. She made a little move of her hip. "Nice, but

I don't see my beer. You let me get finished. Hear?"

She figured that would cool it down, whoever put him up to this was going to be

disappointed. But the man was downright having trouble with that no-go, hell if

he wasn't. It was enough to make a woman feel a little better-looking than she

knew she was—or feel like she was hallucinating.

Man's weird, she thought when he backed off and muttered something about getting

her the beer, about meeting her in crew-quarters. Man's real weird.

Another Ritterman, that's what I got. Don't tell me that face can't get a

come-ahead any time he wants it.

She wiped her neck when he walked off. Hell if she wasn't a lot warmer herself

than she had been.

Hell if she wasn't thinking about him and that beer all the way down the

corridor, right through the mofs' section, all the pretty little

officer-quarters, so much that she ran right up on Fitch himself—bright, shiny

pair of boots standing there for-a full second before she looked up.

"Yessir," she said, and started to get up, but he waved a permission and stood

there scowling.

And Fitch walked off without finding anything to bitch about. Which from Fitch,

she reckoned, was some kind of compliment.

Damn prig, she thought. Mainday, middle of his morning. Her watch-officer was

that Orsini the skuts had been cussing, she'd heard enough so far to figure

that. She hadn't seen Orsini. Didn't expect to see him out supervising a

deck-scrub. Didn't expect him to come 'round and introduce himself. Fitch seemed

to be definitely, worrisomely curious about her.

She leaned into it and scrubbed that burn-deck all the way to the bridge again,

swearing that it was a basic law, officers had dustier feet than the skuts who

knew they were going to have to scrub it up.

But she lived to get to the white line on the other side of the bridge, after

which she got up on her feet again, straightened her aching back and walked down

to stowage, put up the scrub-gear exactly the way she'd found it, coiled and put

up all the clip-lines, exactly so, and got her duffle out of the stowage locker

where Bernstein had told her it was. Then she hiked up-ring, with a major thirst

for that promised beer by now, and telling herself all the while that pretty-boy

wasn't going to be waiting, or if he was, it was going to be some damn bit of

trouble, maybe a damn lot of trouble: on Africa you got hazed and it got rough,

it got to be real rough, and if that was the way it was going to be, then smart

and cool was the only way you lived through it.

She walked into the dark crew-quarters, where a vid was playing. Lot of noise

that direction. She looked around in the dim light trying to figure what bunk

might really be vacant on this shift, and where people might just be sharing-up.

Pick the wrong one and you could get hell; and she wasn't entirely convinced she

was going to get through the first night without getting jumped by somebody in

one sense or the other. Some sum-bitch in the lot had to have a sense of humor,

and maybe half a dozen of them. Maybe the whole damn lot. Her stomach was upset.

Memories again. Twenty years on Africa and she'd gotten seniority enough so she

could hand it out instead of taking it. It wasn't the case here.

Somebody came down the aisle to intercept her, a single dark-haired somebody who

said: "Want that beer?"

"Yeah," she said, once her heart had settled. She still didn't trust it

entirely, but it was a scary kind of night and she was fuzzy-tired enough to

hope she was being alarmist, that it was a civ ship even if it was a spook, and

the whole thing was just a good-looking younger man who for some fool reason

thought skinny, sweaty and almost forty was attractive. Or who was just

appointed to find out what she was and report on her to the rest of the crew.

So she snubbed the safety-tie of her duffle to a temp-ring by the door, and they

went out to crew rec, up by the galley: he logged himself a double tag on the

keyboard there on the counter, drew a couple beers from the tap, and handed her

one.

"How d'you earn extras?" she asked.

"You get fifteen cred a week, shipboard," he said. "Use 'em on beer, use 'em on

food, save 'em for liberty, they don't care."

"Thanks, then," she said, figuring to buy him one on her tab, if she liked him,

which looked likely, except she still couldn't figure him. He put his hand on

her back. She twitched it off, because it was bad business if any mofs walked

through here and caught you hands-on. She stood there like a kid with her first

boy-interest and drank her beer while he drank his.

"You're Engineering," she commented, for an opener.

He nodded.

"Guess you know that's my assignment."

Another nod.

Spooky man, she thought. Talks about as much as everybody else on this ship.

So she tried again, on something you couldn't answer without talking.,"How

long've you been on this ship?"

"Three years."

"You mind to say where from?"

"Hire-on. General. What about you?"

Not a question she wanted, that one. She shrugged. "Same thing. Last hire was

Ernestine."

"Kato," he said.

She nodded. But she didn't want to talk down that line either.

"Bernstein easy to-work for?" she asked.

"He's all right."

"Fitch?"

"Bastard."

"Guessed that," she said, and saw him toss off the rest of his beer.

"Come on," he said.

Nervous man. Real nervous. Steps were echoing in the corridor, somebody walking

in from down-ring. "I dunno," she said, annoyed, a little anxious herself with

that sudden hurry-up he wanted. "Minute. I'm still drinking."

"Come on."

"Hell. You can wait a damn minute!"

The steps got closer. It was Muller—who gave them both a frown, a halfway

pleasant nod to her, and a second frown at her company while he logged himself a

beer.

"'Evening, NG," Muller said.

She took another look at the man she was with.

"'Evening," her company said, not friendly, and laid a hand on her shoulder to

steer her out.

NG. The one Bernstein had included on his watch-it list.

"I'm not through yet," she said, with a swallow left in the bottom of her cup,

and NG dropped his hand.

"You been introduced?" Muller asked, and NG said: "Shut up, Gypsy."

"No, I haven't," Bet said. "Man introduced himself."

Muller gave her a thinking-look. NG stood there outside her vision, a shadow

whose reactions she couldn't see.

"You watch this one," Muller said, dead grim, and turned to the counter again,

got a cup and drew his beer.

Trouble. She felt her heart thumping, instinctively backed up a step between her

company and this Gypsy, touched NG's arm to distract him and saw very clearly

nobody was joking.

"Come on," she said, and he came away with her, put an arm around her and she

let him for a few steps, no matter it could get them on report.

"Let's get out of here," he said.

She stopped a step. "No way," she said. What he wanted was trouble, damn sure.

You didn't need long on a ship with Fitch on it to figure that out.

He stopped. He shoved her hard. "Hell with you," he said, and walked off, just

headed down-ring and kept going.

Something in his voice that wasn't right, she thought, with her shoulder still

stinging and her knees a little wobbly-tired. Hell with you!

"Yeager," Muller said from behind her, not hostile, not trouble, himself. She

looked back at him. "Yeager, let that go."

She wasn't sure she liked advice from Muller. She wasn't sure what it was worth

or whether it was right or whether it was friendly to her.

"What in hell was that?"

Muller shrugged. "A lot of trouble. Not my business, understand, but I figured

you might not know about him."

"What about him?"

"Name's NG. Ramey, sometimes. Mostly NG. Crew gave him that name, you figure it?

Short for No Damn Good."

NDG. Like you painted on something you were going to junk. Like with a spoiled

can, a piece too skuz even for the cyclers.

She looked around where NG had headed. She looked back at Muller.

"What'd he do?"

Muller made a face, shook his head.

"What'd he do?"

"Question is, what he hasn't. Man's a foul-up. Damn good at what he does, or

Fitch'd have spaced him, twice, three times over. You let him alone, you let him

do what he does, you don't have anything to do with NG you can help. Man's got a

way of paying back every favor you try to do him."

She didn't get the feeling Muller was anything but serious. She didn't

particularly get the feeling Muller was actively after NG's hide. It was more a

set-up for an eventual I-told-you-so.

But something upset her stomach and put a twitch between her shoulders.

"Muller," she said, polite, very polite, "Muller, I got to thank you for fair

warning: may be so and I'm not doubting it, but I got a problem not at least

asking the other side of it."

"You got the right," Muller said. "I don't say it's not smart, on principle. But

you got a rep to make in this crew. Don't start it with him. More'n one in this

crew's got station-problems, a few've got other-ship problems, but NG's in a

whole different class."

"I take everything you say," she said. "Thanks. But I got to make up my own mind

on a man. Maybe you're right. But I'm just that way."

Muller nodded, not offended, not offensive, just an I-did-my-best.

So she wiped her aching hands on her pockets and she walked off, wobbly-tired as

she was, because, dammit, she'd gotten into the middle of something and it

bothered her, it bothered her a whole lot the way the man had been, the

on-the-edge way he acted. That made her think Muller might be right.

But most, it bothered her that a whole crew hung a tag on a man like that, just

wrote him off like he was garbage.

Maybe he was. Maybe she was crazy. Maybe it was because she was more than a

little strung-out that she even gave a damn. She hurt, she was staggering-tired,

she could do a lot more for herself, just to go find some vacant bunk and fall

in it and let a grown man handle whatever problems he'd made for himself.

But she thought she knew where to find him.

CHAPTER 9

« ^ »

Ramey?" She let the door shut. Shop area wasn't a place she felt secure

wandering around, a real warren of a machine-shop, a narrow aisle, the lights

down to a dim glow, place cold as hell. She left the lights alone. She stayed

where she was, not precisely scared, just careful. "You here, man?"

Silence. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she was a fool talking to an empty room.

Maybe somebody on mainday shift was going to walk out of Engineering next door

and find her here off-shift and she was going to catch hell.

"Ramey?"

A slight movement, from back in the aisles of drills and lifts and presses.

He was there, all right. It occurred to her that he could be crazy—but that

wasn't what Muller had said, precisely.

But he wasn't being cooperative, either.

"All right," she said, "all right, I can take a hint. I'm going to bed, I've had

better times, Ramey, but thanks for the beer."

She heard the move, she saw the shadow at the end of the aisle.

Man is crazy, she thought. On drugs, maybe.

And I'm stark crazy for being here.

Ought to go for the door, but that could set him off, like as anything else.

Talk to the man.

"You want to come on back," she asked him, "maybe have another beer? Can't say

I'm up to too much deep thinking, but I owe you the beer. Except you'll have to

put it on your tab, haven't got my week here."

The shadow stood there a moment, finally made an abrupt throwaway gesture and

sauntered up the aisle into the light—man in a faded jumpsuit, the light making

hollows of his eyes, under his cheeks. He stopped there, put his hands on his

hips, then came walking up to her, closer and closer.

Careful, man, she thought. Trying to scare me. Trying to put the fear in me. I'm

a damn fool to be here in the first place, but this fool can break your neck,

man.

"You looking for trouble?" he asked.

"Looking for another beer," she said, hands on hips herself, making up her mind

to keep the whole situation cool: damned if he was going to think he had his

bluff in and start any petty, hands-on stuff in the dark corners during duty

hours when Bernstein could put her on report. "Dunno what else. I'm blind tired,

Fitch gave me a hard time, Bernstein gave me a hard time, man buys me a beer and

shoves me off—right now I got nothing particular in mind, except yours was the

bed I was headed for and I got no notion where to put my duffle without waking

somebody up. Got no desire to pick the wrong bed, don't want to get some

sum-bitch mad at me, I don't want some damn skuz next to me either; and I ain't

awake enough right now to make critical judgments, so I want to go back down

there—" She hooked a thumb toward the door. "—and get me another cold beer and a

shower and I ain't up to deep philosophy after that. You interested?"

He was close now, not nice, trying to spook her. But maybe he had sense she

could be trouble. He backed up against the counter and leaned there with his

arms folded, just looking down at the deck.

"Get out of here."

Probably it was good advice. She started to take it, legs all ready to walk. But

he kept staring down like that, tight muscle across his jaw. So she stayed,

folded her arms, just stood there looking at him, and he stood up and looked at

her with pure venom.

"Get," he said.

"Hell," she said. "I do get the idea why you're not too popular."

He jerked away toward the door and went out it. She crossed the same space in

about as many steps and walked after him, down the corridor, him walking as fast

as he could like a damn kid on a tantrum, herself trailing, because his legs

were that much longer and she refused to run to catch him up.

They passed a couple of crew on some errand, maybe getting a couple of looks

from behind them. She didn't look. He didn't. He stopped, just past that

line-of-sight, about the time they reached the general stowage area, and glared

at her. "You're damn persistent."

She glared back. "So were you. You give me the whole come-ahead. Wasn't my idea.

And if I got a lunatic on my shift, I want to know it, mister."

He gave her a killing kind of look. But not quite. The not-quite became a saner,

thinking-something-over kind of scowl. "Name's NG. NDG."

She stuck out her hand. "Mine's Bet."

He looked at her like she was crazed. She kept the hand out. A long time.

"What're you after?" he asked.

"Fuckin' beer. Maybe both of 'em. Is that some big deal? Ain't to me."

He drew a shaky breath, took the hand, not handshake-like: hooked his cold

fingers on hers and closed, like, she thought, pulling somebody out of a pit.

All chilled down, she thought, man totally out of the mood, looking for

something else for a while.

But he didn't let go of her fingers, either. He pulled her up against him, body

against body, which she hadn't expected, backed her against the inside wall, and

stared at her, all the while she was thinking how her knees ached and her butt

ached and her back and her arms ached and her skull kept echoing the sounds

back, she was so tired.

Crazy man, she thought. Ought I to do something about this? What's he do then?

What's Fitch do, what's crew do, if I break his arm?

And NG was saying, up against her ear: "Do it the other way around, don't go

back there, go on back up to the shop, then a beer, if you want, you want to do

that?"

She was mostly numb. But what she felt so far, felt all right. He wasn't bad,

she thought, not bad at all, oh, really, not bad!—which was a relief to her, she

hadn't been sure there was feeling left anymore, since Thule. And what part of

her brain was working said a crazy man was trying to get her off somewhere there

weren't any witnesses, dangerous, dangerous as hell, he could very likely be

some kind of real major trouble, he could have kinks God only knew.

"Locker right here is real private," he said, breathing against her neck, with

his hand inside her collar.

I'm a fool! she thought. What do I even want 'im for? I don't want to get

tangled up in bed with some damn spacer case, don't want to sleep with this man,

don't even want his damn beer, I sure don't want to go in any locker with him.

But I don't want any trouble with him, either. I can take care of myself. I seen

crazier. On Africa, I seen crazier.

He opened the stowage beside them, shoved her in, pulled the door to and that

was the end of the light, black after that. She hoped to hell he wasn't fool

enough or rattled enough to let it lock: she was still worrying about that when

he pushed her back deeper into the zig-zagged recess, pressed her up against the

lockers and started unfastening her jumpsuit and running his hands over

her.—Hell, she thought, then, not thinking terribly clearly past the echoing in

her skull and the things he was doing: she unfastened his and they did a little

warm-up, real gentle, real polite, she thought, now that he'd calmed down a

little; but things came on him a little sudden then and they ended up sorting it

out on the stowage deck in the dark, rough, a few more bruises on her backside

and real pain, so she was thinking whether it was safe to say anything about the

way he was going, crazy as he was; criticism didn't help a man and it might set

a real lunatic off good and all.

But "I'm sorry," he said, then, between breaths, when he'd suddenly finished,

and sounded mortally earnest and embarrassed. " 'S all right," she said, and

fussed with his hair while he just lay on top of her breathing hard and

sweating, for a long time.

"Hope to hell nobody needs in here," she said finally, when his breathing had

calmed down, but he hadn't moved, and she wasn't sure he was collected enough to

think of practicalities. "You all right?"

He didn't say anything. He just started making love to her then, really making

love, nice and gentle a touch as could be, best man she'd had since Bieji,

except he was already done and he was doing it, she thought, just for

politeness, just a thank-you.

"Damn!" she said finally, not as exhausted for a moment as she'd thought;

"Damn…" and several other things. She held onto him awhile then, and he held

her, and when she'd gotten her breath back she said, "Thanks, mate. I appreciate

that. I really do."

He didn't answer. He just held her and rubbed her shoulder. And finally, after

she'd been comfortable a few breaths: "I got to get to bed," she said, not

wanting to talk, not wanting to think about moving. "I'm going to go to sleep

here if I don't."

So he politely helped her up and helped pull her clothes together, all in the

absolute dark. Then he put his own self in order, went and felt around after the

latch, and cracked the door carefully. She leaned on his shoulder, looked out

and listened too, and the two of them slunk out into the corridor and shut the

locker door.

"Better go on ahead," he said, then, tight-mouthed, the only words but two he'd

said during the whole business. "Find yourself a bunk. There's two vacant midway

up the loft."

She looked at him with a real clear idea now at least what part of his

spookiness was, and why he had no inclination to do anything in crew-quarters. A

man living in with everybody, where everything went on all the time without any

privacy, that bothered a lot of people who hadn't grown up with it: bothered

her, at first, on Africa. It bothered a man a lot worse, if he was inclined to

freeze up real easy, if he was on the outs, and people gave him a hard time, and

especially if he was straight off some family ship like Ernestine, where he

wasn't used to that. Merchanter. The war killed ships and scattered their

people. She knew that for sure, knew it the way she knew the breed when Africa

jerked some scared kid in off a merchanter deck and put him through the

Initiation, same as she'd gotten, same as everyone got.

But some of that breed cracked. Some suicided. Some just died.

"Muller make a habit of giving you a hard time?" she asked.

He drew a breath, hesitated as if words cost by the gram, and looked skittish at

the sound of somebody coming further around the curve. "Get. I'm doing you a

favor."

"Oddest damn favor I ever had." She stayed, he started walking, so she walked

and caught up with him, stride for stride, keeping ahead of whoever it was back

there.

"They'll give you hell," he said without looking at her. "They'll give you real

hell if you get caught with me, think it's real damn funny. Take your stuff

topside, 'bout third, fourth bunk up-ring." He reached over, gripped her

shoulder, friend-like, let it go with a sexy little brush at her arm that left a

tingle behind it.

Oddest man she'd ever had, she thought, except Ritterman. Two in one couple of

months. What'd I do to deserve this?

Blind tired, I'm going to screw up tomorrow, sure, hell of an impression I'm

going to make with Bernstein.

But she got inside, slipped up the ladder with her duffle and tied it to the end

of the second vacant bunk, fell down on top of the mattress, cover and all,

fumbled the safety-net across her and snapped it, and just went numb, out, gone,

till the alterdawn bell rang.

"I got to talk to you a minute, Yeager," Bernstein said when she reported into

Engineering, and then, beckoning her over into a corner: "We got a complaint,

Yeager, we got cleanliness standards on this ship, don't care how tired you are,

you don't fall into a bunk that isn't dressed and you be careful and shower

after duty, Yeager."

"Yessir," she whispered, feeling her face burning. "Not my habit, sir, I

apologize, sir. Just couldn't find everything right off, I didn't want to wake

people up."

"Not putting you on report," Bernstein said. "First and only warning."

"Yessir, I appreciate that, sir."

He looked at her odd, then, real strange for a minute, so she thought maybe

she'd reacted wrong, or spoken wrong, or something, and that made her nervous.

God, maybe somebody had spread the word about her and her associate.

"You just remember," Bernstein said, then took her the tour himself, what was

where, where the jury-rigs were, the special problems, told her what had to be

done, what had to be checked on what schedule.

Thank God, she thought, she'd done a lot the same for Ernestine, even to the

point Jennet let her sit alterday watch alone toward the end, taught her the

read-outs and told her in Jennet's sane, easy way what was critical and what was

an as-you-can. Walk the rounds with Musa, Bernstein said, and introduced her to

a small, dark man.

And introduced her to NG, who looked at her cool, smartass, and just inside

Bernstein calling him down. She felt the tension in the air.

So she gave NG Ramey a raised eyebrow and a cold stare for Bernstein's and

Musa's benefit, as if she'd just met somebody she had no trust of at all.

Which might be the case.

Musa had nine fingers. He was one of those people you'd never ask how that was.

Something had hit his nose once, broken it and scarred it right across, and that

same something, probably, had made a burn-scar across his temple and right on

into his cotton-wool hair, where there was a gray bit right at that temple: you

didn't ask him about that either. He looked about fifty, his skin was pale

brown, that shade really dark skin did when you went on rejuv, not a bad-looking

man at all, but his real age might be fifty or ninety-five or a hundred fifteen

for all she could tell.

But Bernstein was right: Musa was all right, Musa knew what he was doing with

any system on this ship, you could tell that right off, and Musa kept saying,

"Ask questions, I don't mind."

Musa truly didn't, she found out, and that was a relief. Musa said Bernstein had

put her on maintenance, plain scut to start with, and job one was a simple

matter of a dead pump that needed fixing as a backup.

She was positively cheerful then. It was mindless work, it was something she

understood backward and forward and it was sit-down work, at a bench alone in

the machine-shop—no matter that her arms hurt and her hands hurt and it was all

she could do to hold a wrench.

So a simple plastic diaphragm was shot. "We got one," she went back to

Engineering to ask, and it was NG she ran into, on the check-rounds, "or do we

make one?"

NG showed her the parts-inventory access on comp, turned up a backup in storage.

"Show you where to get it," he said, and showed her on the computer-schematic of

the storeroom.

Bernstein being in a briefing and Musa being on a check-see call in ops, they

were alone. He put his hand on her hip, not smartass, just kind of trying to see

what she'd do, she thought. She twitched it off.

"Not on duty, friend."

He glanced off at the comp then and scowled. Not a word.

"Didn't say never," she said, and frowned. "You make me damn nervous."

Not a word to that, either.

"Trade you," she said. "You tell me where the hell we are and what we're doing

out here, and we do a little private rec-time tonight."

"Don't need to do that," he said sullenly, without looking at her. "We're lying

off by Venture."

"What in hell for?"

"Hunting. Just hunting."

"Hunting what?"

"Mazian's lot," he said.

No hard work to guess that much—as long as you could guess which side a spook

ship was on.

"They got any notion who?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Australia, maybe. Not real sure right now."

Africa, she thought. Her heart beat higher. Thinking about her ship made a

little lump in her throat. "Watch-see, huh?"

"We just spot 'em," NG said. "Cripple 'em if we can. Run like hell in any case.

This ship hasn't got a big lot of armament."

"Wouldn't think," she said under her breath, thinking—thinking that she was on

the wrong side of everything. She was desperate to get home to Africa again, to

Australia, Europe, any ship that might be operating in the Hinder Stars: and she

had no chance, no chance at all of living through an encounter like that, except

if Loki got disabled and boarded.

Chance of arranging that, a little sabotage—

You could get spaced for thinking about it.

And to do that without blowing yourself to glory, you had to know more than she

knew about ship systems.

She looked back at NG, saw him sitting there at the console, mop of black hair,

always a brooding look, like he was never happy, like he expected nothing good

out of anyone or anything.

Crazy man, she thought. Maybe no fault of his how he'd gotten there, and he

might be a damn good lover as far as that went, but a man that nervous could go

crazy someday, it had happened a couple of times on Africa, even to seasoned

troops, and you could tell the look, day by day, just quieter and crazier. One

had got hold of an AP, shot right down the main downside corridor, blew six

skuts to hell before somebody got him; one ten year vet had just spattered

pieces of herself all over barracks three one main-night when she was sleeping

just four spots over—nobody could account for how she'd gotten the grenade.

NG wasn't damn happy on this ship, with this crew.

And NG—the thought gave her a queasy stomach—was in Engineering.

CHAPTER 10

« ^ »

She got settled in—she figured who the skuz was who had complained, figured it

for one Mel Jason, who had the bunk next, and whose stuff was all over the

walls, pictures of flowers and souvenirs of bars and stations and pictures of

naked, nice-looking men, all of which told you not much about Mel Jason except

you supposed by that, that Mel Jason was a she.

As for the other, the downside ladder was down-ring from her, Jason was up-ring

from her, she had no neighbor on the left, and the plastic privacy sheet and all

prevented most neighbors seeing that she hadn't put a sheet down last night,

except one up-ring that might be passing by the foot of the bed headed for the

ladder—always possible it was somebody else, but the one next was the likeliest,

the way she figured it.

So she put one Mel Jason on her tentative shit-list, and still made up her mind

not to be too mad, all things considered: nice quarters on this ship, she

thought, with the privacy screens and all, real fine airy feeling and safe at

the same time, with the safety net there to prevent anybody going flying onto

the downside skuts in any sudden maneuver.

Best of all, in her figuring, you got your own rack to yourself, and your own

storage underneath for all your stuff: the ship wasn't crewed even half to

quarters capacity and you didn't have to share with mainday.

So, seeing how clean things were and how people expected to live, she didn't

much blame Jason, if it had been Jason who had complained, although Jason had

been a little quick on the trigger. Africa had had standards, crowded as they

had been, and if she'd gotten some skuz neo moved in next to her who broke the

sanitation regs, she'd have bitched too.

Life had just made her a little more willing to give a body room, that was what

she detected in herself.

So she was pleasant to Jason, walked around the privacy screen, and said; "Sorry

about last night. No excuses; but it's not habitual."

Jason looked around from her sewing, bit off a thread, nodded then, once and

definitely. That was all the comment Jason was going to make, Jason didn't even

ask what she was talking about, and that was all the answer she wanted out of

Jason right now. She figured time would kill or cure, and she went on down to

supper.

NG was there. NG gave her hardly more than a look, and she didn't walk past

empty spots to sit with him, considering he'd warned her keep clear of him in

public, for what might be good reasons of not wanting a ruckus. So she just sat

down at the first convenient vacant place on the bench and paid all her

attention to her food. He left. She didn't know where.

But afterward, when a lot of the crew gathered back in the darkened quarters to

watch a very tired pre-War vid, a man came up close beside her at the back of

the crowd, while she was standing with her arms folded and thinking she'd seen

this one twenty times at least.

The man touched her shoulder, made a nod toward the door, and said: "Yeager?"

Not NG. She'd thought that it was at first.

But it was an approach, she knew the dance. His name was Gabe, he said, he

wanted to buy her a beer, he was polite and interested, and he wanted to sit and

talk a while, with intentions for the rest of the night by no means hard to

figure.

She wasn't altogether enthusiastic about the invitation, she'd been looking for

NG with the hope of straightening some signals out with him, but if NG had been

in the quarters she couldn't spot him and if he'd gone off somewhere else he

damn well hadn't signaled her a come-ahead. So she found no immediate excuse,

she had the beer, she had two, and Gabe—the name on his pocket was

McKenzie—asked her questions she told the usual lies to: merchanter swept up in

the Pan-paris route, dumped at Thule, desperate—what about himself?

McKenzie was sympathetic. McKenzie said he was ten years on Loki, McKenzie was

clearly more interested in making his move than in answering detailed questions.

Then another couple of crew came wandering up from down-ring, both male, friends

of McKenzie's, just to look over the neo, do a little safe shopping and

neo-baiting—get her rattled if they could, have a little fun if they couldn't.

An all-right couple of guys, she decided: Park and Figi. They didn't sit down,

they just hovered, asking how was it going, checking out her disposition toward

McKenzie with an eye to a more personal check-out later if she was amenable.

—McKenzie, Park, Figi, obviously a buddy-system, all three of them scan-techs,

McKenzie the good-looking one, Park and Figi a little shyer, a little less

comfortable with a stranger, under the smartass facade.

You could bet who ran that trio, she thought, and she laughed at their

fun-poking. It was kind of cute, actually, that McKenzie actually blushed—they

nailed him with a tag about getting wrong bunks in the dark and he told them go

away.

But McKenzie was just trying to get friendly again when another couple of male

crew showed up in the rec area, and they had to walk over and introduce

themselves—Rossi and Wilson, by the tags, Dan and Meech, by name; not bad,

either, certainly Rossi wasn't, but you didn't get picky when you were new: not

good business, and you didn't start with one man and go off with another either,

not unless you wanted a rep as a trouble-maker. "Hey," McKenzie said, finally,

slipping a protective arm around her, "it's my beer. Get out of here.—Kate, get

these guys."—to a woman getting herself a beer.

"Do I get a favor-point?" Kate yelled back, which got a friendly rec-riot

started, just comfortable stuff over at the counter between Kate and Rossi and

Wilson: McKenzie took his chance to get familiar, a little squeeze. "Don't take

'em serious. How're you doing? Quarters is pretty private right now, everybody's

watching the vid. I got a private bottle. What do you think?"

"Fine," she said.

Except when she got up to go with McKenzie, she saw NG over against the wall by

the quarters, just standing there looking at them.

Her gut tightened up. She remembered about that rec-time promise she'd tossed

off to him this afternoon, and he'd tossed it off the other way, a kind of a

don't-bother she'd decided was his opinion on the matter.

But that look he was giving her didn't say don't-bother. Her heart started

pounding and she didn't want eye-contact with him, but it happened, once, fast,

direct, while she was walking toward the door.

Then he turned his face the other direction, just leaned there with his hands in

his pockets while she walked through the door and into the quarters with

McKenzie.

McKenzie had a downside bunk, back in the far end from where the vid was still

going on. They weren't the only couple back in the dark end, very likely not

everybody in their proper bunks this evening, because of the vid occupying the

other end of the quarters. McKenzie got out a bottle and took a drink and passed

it to her while he was undressing. She took a couple or three big ones, then

passed the bottle back and stripped down. They got in bed, got under the sheet,

while the end of the room erupted in a cheer for that damned tired vid, about

the time the good guys' ship showed; she remembered the plot. But the cold air

got her, or the straight vodka did, and she tucked down against McKenzie, her

teeth all but chattering.

"What's the matter?" he asked, rubbing her shoulders, and was real careful with

her, real concerned about her maybe being scared of him. "Just a little cold out

there," she said. "I'm fine."

So they had another couple of swallows off the bottle. Hell, she thought, there

was nothing wrong with Gabe McKenzie. He was polite, he was sane, he was worried

about her, he did everything right and he appreciated her the same—but it was

like her skin was dead all of a sudden, the way it had been with Ritterman—like

she was just too tired or the hormones weren't working or something.

It scared her, and then she flashed just for a second on NG and his hand on her

arm and it tingled, it tingled just thinking about that, all the while nothing

that McKenzie did was even getting past the surface.

That's crazy, she thought, and thought suddenly about NG out there in the rec

area, NG knowing what was going on right about now, and probably mad and upset

about her skipping out on him—

No, dammit, she hadn't skipped out, he hadn't taken up on her, he'd put her off

this afternoon when she flatly propositioned him, he'd had a chance at dinner to

at least look her direction and cue her.

She wished to God he wasn't a crazy man, wished he wasn't out there right now

being a damn lunatic, hanging around like that. She wanted to kick him down the

corridor.

She wanted—

Damn, she wanted him touching her instead of McKenzie, so she kept flashing

deliberately to him last night in the rec area and back to what McKenzie was

doing, trying to get some kind of feeling back—damn, dammitall! She reckoned

what kind of a buzz she was getting off NG Ramey, and when somebody ever got to

doing that… anytime you ever got to confusing sex with risking your neck, you

had a problem. She'd seen that kind in the Fleet—seen them take a few bystanders

with them, too, when they screwed up for the last time. Damn stupid, that was

what it was…

Except there was something else about NG, there was that wounded look of his,

that was no expression McKenzie could have caught if McKenzie had been looking

straight at him: she was the only one who knew why NG was standing there—and.she

couldn't forget he was there, couldn't stop, even while McKenzie ought to have

her attention, thinking that nobody had ever affected her the way NG had.

No, dammit, that was a lie, too, that was an absolute lie, the man had shoved

her off in a dark locker, gone near the limit of her patience with any man, no

matter what his excuse—nothing had been that damn spectacular in the first

place—

Except her mind kept getting the business in the locker all confused with the

way he'd touched her in the corridor and gotten that crazy jolt out of her

nerves that she'd never in her life had even in sex, that feeling that, if she

could get it twice and turn it over and figure it out—

Damn, you flat couldn't go on getting it, it was a cheat, a

first-time-in-two-years adrenaline buzz, that was all it was, it wasn't going to

repeat, she was just stressed out and NG was the first man along. She certainly

wasn't crazy enough to get a high like that off a man who could just likely go

off the edge some night—and she damn sure wasn't crazy enough to get a high only

because he could go off the edge some night.

No. The risk wasn't what was nagging at her, it was that look he'd given her out

there, that look that said he was doing something his common sense told him not

to do.

And it was two different people, the man who had smart-assed his way into a beer

with her—and the one who was out there, scared to come in here… and still

refusing to walk off and leave it at that.—God, it could look to everybody else

like he was just being his usual spook self, but that wasn't what was going on

out there, she knew it, she was sure of it. NG was pushing it tonight, his

standing outside that door was a kind of fighting back, even if McKenzie

wouldn't even notice it.

That was what got to her, deep down. He wasn't out there to start a fight, not

to embarrass her, either—risking, she thought, a whole lot of his pride with

that one moment of eye-contact, before he just turned his face the other way.

That was the thing that kept bothering her while she was in McKenzie's bunk. She

had no idea where NG's bunk was, she had no idea, finally, as people came and

went by that corridor doorway, whether NG had come on into quarters or not. She

might have passed out a while, she woke up and another vid was on and McKenzie

was snoring, so she got out of bed and went on up to the loft.

Somebody accosted her up there in the dark of the walkway past the bunks, big

man, a little rude, drunk and offering her a drink if she'd stop at his bunk,

so, what the hell, she did it with him, she didn't know why, she just wasn't

sleepy, and she wanted somebody to touch off what NG had last night and blow

holes in all her careful analysis.

He didn't. He didn't care, either, he was far too lost in his own space, but he

shared his bottle, she got herself wobbly-drunk, still found her bunk, got

undressed and went to bed in good order, out soon after her head hit the

mattress.

But she woke up part of the way through the night, disgusted and scared by what

she'd done, dropped off and woke up a second time with the alterdawn bell

ringing and people getting up to go to work.

Damn, she had no idea who the second man had been or what bunk she'd been in.

She wanted a shower. She wanted not to have done what she'd done, at least the

second one, for God's sake. That piece of gossip would make the rounds, damn

sure it would.

Fool stunt—no name, nothing—get blind drunk in a strange place, let herself get

talked into a bunk with some skuz as drunk as she was, God, she couldn't even

remember if one was all there had been, or how she'd gotten back to her own

bunk. She could've ended up a med case, no knowing what could have happened,

they were no shipmates of hers, not yet, not by a long way.

Only hope was, the drunk she'd slept with might be wondering who she was.

Damn, damn, damn! she was mad at NG Ramey, that was what, damn spook, damn

lunatic, she was crazy if she had to have him to set her off, it was a piece of

nonsense, a feeling bred of too many drinks and too many loose ends around her,

that was all, it was insecurity, and it was easier to worry about an effin'

spacecase than it was to worry about where the ship was and what kind of game

she was into and what she was going to do when Bernstein tried her on some

complicated something she couldn't fix.

She got her shower, she ate her breakfast, a few quick gulps of synth orange and

some salt to get her blood back in balance, piece of cracker, enough to cushion

her stomach and buffer a couple of pills for a sick hangover.

But she showed up in Engineering, first to sign in this time, clean sweater,

clean pants, never mind the red in her eyes and the pounding in her skull.

There was check to do, she grabbed the checklist off the wall-clip, and got

right to it, all enthusiastic efficiency, exactly the way Bernstein had said

first-in was expected to do.

NG showed up, walked over and took the board out of her hand.

"Good morning," she said.

"I'd better check it over," he said, and then started re running all the checks,

everything she'd just done, from the top.

"I'm right," she said indignantly, at his elbow, trying to keep it all quiet

from the mainday crew members that were still finishing up. "Dammit, I can write

down a damn number, Ramey!"

He nodded, and didn't even look at her, just walked on his rounds.

She couldn't do anything about him just then. The mainday chief was still there,

within earshot, and then Bernstein walked in with Musa. So she choked it down

and waited for Bernstein to put her on something.

Bernstein put her on a core-crawl with Musa, that was how the rest of the day

went—suited up and still freezing her ass off, a long, long misery of checking

joints and looking for leaks and all the while knowing, as Musa put it—

"I like to move a little fast on this. Different from any merchanter—if Loki had

to move right now, mate… we'd be in for one hell of a ride."

"How are we so lucky?" she asked, meaning alterday shift. They drifted, zero-G,

in the dark dizzy perspective of pipes a quarter kilometer long, half swing up

and over the pipes, half swing down under, like lacing, helmet-lamps and

hand-held spots throwing close pipe into light, losing itself down the long,

long fall Musa was talking about.

"Bernstein lost a bet," Musa said.

"You serious?"

"Crazier stuff goes on." A moment of silence, while the sniffer-lights ticked

away, blink-blink, blink-blink.

You had a tether you kept moving and clipping on as you moved. You hoped to hell

you never had to trust it. You never let yourself think up or down in a place

like this, or they might have to pry you loose from the girders.

Anybody in the Fleet knew all about long corridors and sudden moves. A carrier's

ring wasn't a ring, it was a cylinder with a few long, long corridors fore to

aft, and corridors zigged, precisely to break falls like that, but even those

could be a long, long drop if the engines cut in. You ran like hell when the

take-hold sounded, you set yourself into a nook, hoped you had a ringbolt close

you could clip your safety-belt to, you held onto the handholds as long as your

hands could stand and sometimes the push was too hard for that, you just hoped

it quit soon and concentrated on breathing. One time there'd been only a

three-second split between the take-hold siren and a push that became a whole

lot too much, a hundred twenty dead, that time, just couldn't get the clips

on—God, she remembered that, she dreamed about it sometimes, remembered bodies

falling right past her—and herself just lucky enough to have her back to a solid

wall.

You didn't look at a perspective like the core as down, no way, or you could

heave everything in your stomach.

Especially with a hangover.

Damn him.

"Musa."

"Yeah."

"You mind to tell me something?—Is anybody going to monitor us?"

"Not real likely. Can. What d'you want?"

"What's the story on NG?"

"Who you been talking to?"

"Muller."

Long silence, just the hiss of the airflow and the ping of the sniffer-readout.

Then: "What'd Muller say?"

"Just he was on the outs. That he had some bad shit with the crew, didn't say

what."

Another long silence. "He give you trouble?"

"No. What's his problem?"

"At-ti-tude, mate. I told him.—I tell him that now and again. What he did, he

killed a man."

"Law didn't get him?"

"Wasn't like that. Just wasn't where he was supposed to be, wasn't watching what

he was supposed to be watching. Damn pipe blew, killed a man, name of Cassel.

Good man. NG—just had that habit of ducking out when he wanted to, Cassel tried

to cover for him. That's how he paid Cassel."

"Hell of a tag."

"Not only the one thing that won it for him. I'm fair with him, I don't pick any

fights, I don't make trouble, and Bernstein's his last chance. Fitch had him up

on charges, last time he ducked out. Fitch was going to space him, no shit.

Those rules and rights in quarters?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't you believe 'em… And NG, he was done, but Bernstein got him off,

Bernstein threw a fit with the captain and said put him on alterday crew, and

move this other chap, he'd take him. Or NG'd have gone the walk, damn sure."

Lot to think about in that, she thought.

"He thank Bernstein?"

"I dunno. Maybe. Maybe not.—I tell you, I tell you something. That man's not

altogether here. But he never run out on duty again. Never gives Bernstein any

trouble, never gives me any. You just don't cross him." Another long silence,

Musa rising above the level of the pipe, arcing over toward her. Musa grabbed

her hand and pulled her close until their helmets touched. He cut his com off.

She understood that game and cut hers. "I tell you something else, Yeager."

Musa's voice came strange and distant. She could see his face inside the helmet,

underlit in the readout-glows. "I think one time this ship went jump and NG was

in the brig—I'm not real sure Fitch saw he got his trank. I'm not sure,

understand, but that time Bernstein got him off—maybe it was just one time too

often in the brig, maybe it was just that jump and looking that spacewalk in the

face—but I'm not real sure that didn't happen, just the way I said: Fitch hates

his guts, we had an emergency, we had to go for jump, NG was dead, the way Fitch

had to figure. But once Bernstein got him reprieved, the other side of jump—no

way was Fitch going to tell the captain what he'd done. Can't prove it. NG don't

talk. I'm not real sure all of him came back from that trip."

"God…"

"Not saying it's so, understand. No way to prove it. Don't even think about it.

We're legitimate now. We're Alliance. There's rights and there's laws, and the

captain's signed to 'em. But they aren't on this ship, woman, and you don't get

off this ship, no way you ever get a discharge from this crew, I hope you

figured that when you signed your name. You skip on a dockside, Fitch'll find

you, you go complain to station law, Fitch'll lie and get you back, and you'll

go a cold walk, that's sure. Fitch tell you that?"

"No. But I'm not real surprised."

"You got the right of it, then."

"NG a volunteer?"

"Dunno. Fitch gets 'em. NG never has said. Unless he told Cassel. Doesn't

matter. He's on this ship, he'll die on this ship, and so will all of us." Musa

pushed her adrift and turned his com back on. She flipped the switch on hers.

"Let's make a little time," Musa said, motioning along the ship spine with a

shine of his lamp. "I hate this effin' core-crawl, damn if I don't."

CHAPTER 11

« ^ »

She peeled the suit, she checked back with Bernstein along with Musa, a long,

long day, a chill set deep in the bones. "Just go on," Bernstein said. "Quiet

day, only an hour till shift end, NG's on and you're off, get."

She was willing to swear, then, that Bernstein was human. But she hung around

reading the duty sheet while Musa was already checking out, and she dropped by

NG's work-station on her way, while Musa was leaving and Bernstein was busy with

his back turned.

NG didn't turn his head, NG kept on with his keyboard and his readouts, and she

came up close and brushed her fingers across the back of NG's neck. "Want to see

you," she said. He swatted at the nuisance, and looked around at her with an

expression—

. Mad, maybe; disturbed, confused, scared—all of that in a second's blink, then

a scowl and a furious set of his jaw.

She said, "Where?"

He kept scowling at her.

"Front of the lockers?" she said cheerfully. " 'Bout 2100?"

"Shop-stowage," he said with no change of expression.

"You'll get us—" —spaced, she almost said, but that wasn't a good idea.

He didn't say anything. He didn't look happier, either.

"All right," she said, and walked on out before Bernstein could turn around and

notice anything.

So she picked up her laundry from Services, walked on up-ring to rec, sat down

on the bench and had a cup of tea with Musa during mainday shift's breakfast,

waiting on mainday crew to clear the showers, then very purposefully dawdled

through cleanup and through dinner—

Because McKenzie had more notions. She saw the look he gave her when he spotted

her, and she was dodging him. She took a seat close between two women, nodded a

pleasant hello to two stony silences, then paid absolute attention to the stew;

but McKenzie walked over and asked her how she was doing.

"Oh, fine," she said, thinking fast, "except I got to get Services straightened

out, damn screw-up with my laundry—"

"What about tonight?"

"I dunno," she said, in the friendliest possible way. She saw NG walk in, down

at the down-ring end of rec—dammit! And McKenzie could properly feel insulted if

a woman turned cold after a first-time sleepover… especially if man number two

from last night was going around telling how she'd left McKenzie and come up to

his bunk because McKenzie had given out. God!

So she smiled at McKenzie, wrinkled her nose in a sweet expression. "I tell you,

I really want to take you up on that." She got up with her tray in hand, tried

just to shake him, but at least the retreat moved McKenzie over where she could

talk to him without the two women in earshot. "I owe you the truth, Gabe. Fact

is, I got an appointment tonight—well, actually a couple of nights ahead, right

now, and I don't think I ought to do any different—but you're on my good-list,

you really are. I'm just not ready to go single, first off. Never been my

policy."

Damn man was entirely out of line, coming on her twice in a row like that,

putting her to it in public, making her defend herself when there was no wrong

on her side. Damn! she could pick them.

"After that," he said.

"Hey," she said, "I got to be politic, Gabe."

"Nothing you don't want," he said.

"Did you hear don't want? I didn't hear that. But I just got this bad feeling

about singularity first and right-off. Bad business. But I do make my favorites

after the new wears off." She patted him on the arm, chucked the dishes and the

tray, turned around and winked at him. "See you, luv."

She escaped. She didn't know how McKenzie felt about it, but he looked at least

a little mollified. She got back to quarters, she ducked into the head for a bit

in the case McKenzie was following her or one of his friends was, then ducked

out again and escaped out the door of the quarters in the other direction

without even turning her head, well down the corridor before she slowed down.

Damn! she thought, her heart pounding. McKenzie gave her the shakes. The

appointment she was going to gave her the same.

Damn, she thought, why are you doing this, Bet Yeager?

No good answer for that one, besides hormones—and besides a real disgust with

the skuz who was back there trying to buy her along with a beer, and disgust

with the women's surly silence, and a disgust for what she was picking up for

morals on this crew. There were a lot of peculiar things on this ship, she

thought, and only one crazy man gave her anything like a healthy feeling.

Hormones, maybe. But there was her own experience with Fitch. There was what

Musa had said. And Gypsy Muller's ambiguous signal.

She headed on around past Ops and Engineering, past ordinary traffic, and ducked

into the shop-stowage, quite business-like.

The lights inside were on power-save. The place was three long aisles of bins;

and all around the edge, barrels of plassy for the injection-mold and pieces of

the press, and pieces for the extrusion-mold, and hoses and rods and wire and

insulation-bales that made the whole huge compartment a maze. She leaned against

the door, looked left and right and listened for sound above the general

white-noise that masked everything on a little ship.

"NG?" she called out, enough to carry in the place, in case he had gotten here

ahead of her and just hadn't heard the manual-latch door.

Not a sound. But with him that was nothing unusual.

She had a sudden, bad case of the willies, felt the chill in the place, her

breath frosting in the dim light. She chafed her arms and folded them, wishing

she had a sweater under the jumpsuit.

God, the man wants to make love in a damn freezer.

If that's actually what he wants, she thought then, with a little upset at her

stomach, thinking that a man on the edge could just be crazier than anybody

thought, could be waiting somewhere in here with a knife or something, in some

notion that she was pushing him—

What in hell am I doing in this hole? I got more sense than this, I always had

more sense than this.

So I can take care of myself. Taking care of myself means getting the hell out

of here, back to quarters, just tell him later I couldn't find him—

And, sure, he'll believe that. And then I got trouble with him.

You focus a crazy on you, you got trouble forever, that's what you've done, Bet

Yeager. You know better, you known better since you were eight years old…

She ought to get back to quarters, just go to bed, not with McKenzie, not with

anybody tonight, not for a lot of nights, maybe—just get her thinking

straightened out and maybe figure out some things. She already had two problems

on this crew, three, counting Fitch, and the smart thing to do now, the smart

thing to have gone for in the first place, was to shed all connection with NG

Ramey, and get in with a compatible crowd well on the Ins with everybody, some

group with a woman in it, dammit, she wanted buddies as well as bed-mates, and

the female crew was being more than stand-off right now. She was getting hostile

signals out of certain people, all women, like she was doing something entirely

wrong, or like she was crossing lines she didn't know existed—and she was less

and less sure she was doing anything right.

She was about two jumps from scared about this crew, considering the confused

signals she was getting out of McKenzie—scared of what she was picking up from

the women the way she was scared with stationers, scared the way she'd been

scared sometimes on Ernestine, like she walked around making wrong move after

wrong move and people were putting their heads together and whispering at her

back—look at her: look at the way she did that—that's not civ.

She tried to remember civ manners. She tried to act right. She'd been sixteen

when she'd volunteered aboard Africa, but she remembered very little about home

before that, couldn't even clearly remember her mama's face, just the apartment

where you had to let down the bunks to sleep every night and put them up to move

around, everything was so crowded; and mama's clothes hanging all along one wall

and lying all over the deck—just the dingy metal corridors of Pan-paris number

two refinery-ship, and the places she used to hang out, the holes there were—her

mama trying to handle a kid who never did take to civ rules, who was always in

trouble, people always making up their minds two and three times what they

wanted, rules they never posted, exceptions they never told you—

But then, mama could have done a better job of telling her the regs in the first

place. And mama never had a real grip on things. Mama would break something,

mama would slap her for it, mama would come in mad and you just ducked out,

didn't matter whether it was your fault or not.

Never could figure mama out, let alone mama's friends. Never could trust what

one said, never dared get alone with them.

Because she never was In with civs. But when you got In on a ship, you could

trust people. Like Bieji Hager, and Teo—the five of them—the times they had—

Damn!

She got a lump in her throat, suddenly felt like it was the refinery-ship around

her again, felt herself strangled and had to get out, get a breath of air, get

herself back to bright light and sanity—

She opened the door and ran straight into NG, inbound.

"I—" she said, face to face with him. She didn't want to upset him or act the

fool, and then it was too late, she'd let him back her up inside and shove the

latch down on the door. So there she was, in the middle of it.

She shoved her hands into her pockets and said: "Wasn't sure you were coming."

She felt like she was sixteen again. Or twelve. Only it wasn't mama they were

dodging. It was Fitch.

"I wanted to talk to you," she said. He tried to take hold of her right off and

she flinched back a couple of steps, fast, not even what she wanted to do, she

was that spooked.

He turned his move into a throwaway gesture, a hell with you kind of shrug, and,

God, her hands were shaking. She balled them into fists and stuck them back into

her pockets where they were safe.

I like you, she wanted to start with, but that was stupid, there was no knowing

what NG was capable of: he could go off the edge, do something violent later if

he got the idea there was some kind of claim he had on her. She said: "Are we

safe here?"

He just stared at her, talkative as he always was when he was crossed.

"Aren't," she concluded, and her skin crawled. Then she thought about Fitch,

thought about NG getting on report about one more time.

Last chance for him, Musa had said.

"I don't want to get you in trouble," she said. "Ramey, dammit—"

Hell, I can't even get my own shit straight on this ship. What can I do for him?

She shook her head and raked a hand through her hair, and looked at him again.

"Look, I got caught up with a guy last night, didn't really want that. I wanted

to go over and ask you up to my bunk, that was what I wanted, I wanted to get

things straight, but you said it'd make trouble. So I didn't come over and talk

to you, I don't know what you're mad at."

Not a word, hardly a blink from him.

"Ramey, give me some help here."

Long silence. Then: "You can get in a lot of trouble," he said, so quietly she

could hardly hear him above the ship-noise. "More than crew. Better not to be

here. Better not to talk to me."

That miffed her. "Is that what you wanted, night before last?"

NG just shrugged.

She screwed up her courage to have it out, then, her whole body going on alert

to move if she had to. "I talked to Musa," she said, and expected some blow-up,

but all he did was breathe a little faster, no change of expression. "He's half

on your side, Ramey."

"Musa's all right," NG said, so little moving of his jaw it hardly showed.

"McKenzie's all right, far as that goes. I do my job, crew lets me alone, don't

screw it up."

He was going to leave. He reached for the door latch.

"Ramey."

"Forget it."

"Hell if I will." She put her arm in his way, heart-thumping scared, knowing he

could break it in that position. "I go back down there and McKenzie's all over

me. I don't want McKenzie."

He stood still, just stopped with his hand on the door, not looking at her.

"Ramey, don't walk out on me. Dammit, don't you walk out on me! I got some

answers coming!"

He dropped his hand, turned around of a sudden and hauled her up against him,

nothing she couldn't stop, but she went entirely null-state then, scared—God,

getting body to body with him was so damned stupid. He could do anything, he

could break her neck, she ought to make him back up and work this through slow

and sane, but she was having real trouble putting two thoughts in a row right

now, not on-course with anything that had to do with him.

"Out of the damned doorway," she gasped when she got her mouth free and had a

breath, "dammit, NG—"

She hadn't meant to call him that. He didn't even seem to notice. "Come on," he

said, and pulled her off with him into the dark, into a gap between the wall and

the cans, where the track they rode on turned a corner.

There was an old cushion and a couple of blankets back there in the dark, about

enough room between the track and the outside wall for a body to fit; or two,

one on top of another, if they arranged things. Cold, God, it was cold, but his

hands weren't, and he wasn't, and she was trying the best she could to keep

things paced with him, to keep him calm and all right… until the colored lights

went off behind her eyes and she had to concentrate on breathing and not making

a sound for a while.

"Oh, God," she said, finally, and put an arm out into the cold air and hugged

him. He let out a breath and just got heavier for a moment, relaxed on top of

her because there was no room for him to do anything else.

"You're all right," she said, hand on his side, not wanting him to move. "You're

all right, Ramey. Let me tell you, you got a couple friends on this ship. At

least."

He drew a sharp, sudden breath, another one, as if the air had gone thin—or his

sanity had.

She rubbed his shoulders, a little scared at that, kept doing it while he got

his breathing straightened out again. "How'd you get here?" she asked, to chase

the silence away and keep him thinking. "How'd you get on this ship?"

No answer. But NG was like that.

"You free-spacer, Ramey? Just a hire-on?—Or are you a Family merchanter? What's

your real name?"

He shook his head, slowly, against her shoulder.

"Ramey a first name?"

Another shake of his head, just refusal to answer, she thought.

"Doesn't make any difference," she said. "You just got the moves, Ramey, just

got the way about you. I don't care. Want to know about me?"

No answer.

"What I thought.—Well, me, I'm a hire-on, Pell, Thule, wherever. Seen a lot.

Some of it not too pretty. They tell where Fitch got me?"

A few deep breaths. Quieter now. "They say."

"What d' they say?"

"Say you cut up a couple of people."

It caught her grimly funny, somehow, him with cause to worry about her, all

along; and not funny: maybe they both had cause. She ruffled his hair. "Not

habitual. Doesn't worry you, does it?"

"Don't care," he said.

Absolute truth, she thought, just flat, dead tired truth.

"Been that way too," she said, and felt the cold of Thule docks, remembered what

the nights were like there when you were broke—felt the cold ofLoki's deck

through the blanket, chilling her backside; felt the cold chance that somebody

could walk in and bring down the mofs on both of them. "But things change. I'm

alive to tell you that."

"Can't," he said, "can't change," and he gave a long, deep breath that became a

shiver, brushed his mouth past her ear. "Just a matter of time." A slow tremor

started, like a shiver, got worse; and he started to get up in a hurry, but he

banged the overhang of a girder and came down hard on her, smashed her with his

elbow, shoved at her, but the space trapped them. "God!" he yelled, "God—get out

of here!"

No place to go: she knew a space-out when she saw one. She scrambled, blind for

a second, blood in her mouth, fetched up against the icy metal of the can-track,

got her knees up to protect herself, but he was just sitting there, bent double.

"Ramey," she said, shaking, trying to pull her clothes together.

He just curled over and tucked down, arm over his head.

She grabbed a blanket and got it around his shoulders.

"Go to hell," he said, between chattering teeth.

"Been there, too, you sum-bitch." She put back the blanket he shrugged off.

"Should have kicked you good. Leave it, dammit!"

Long, long time he was like that, clenched up hard, shaking. She just sat there,

leaned on his back and held the blanket around him, talked to him sometimes,

wished she dared hit him with the trank she carried, but God knew if that was

the right thing, or where he was, or when, out in some mental jump-space.

Finally he said: "Go 'way, Yeager. Get the hell out of here."

"You all right?"

"I'm all right."

"C'n you get up?"

He straightened up long enough to shove her away. "I said let me alone!"

She caught her balance squatting on her heels, put a hand down to steady

herself, not a defenseless position. "You yell all you like, man. You want crew

in here, you just yell your head off."

Silence from the shadow opposite her, a long, long time.

"Ramey."

"Get on back," he said without raising his head from his arms.

"Do what? Leave you to freeze your ass off? Get up. Come on."

No answer.

"Ramey, dammit."

Still no answer.

She pushed up to her feet, stiff, half-frozen, caught herself on the wall. "I'm

going after Bernstein."

"No!"

"Then get on your feet, Ramey, hear me?"

He moved. He started getting his clothes together, hands shaking. He didn't look

up, and she squatted down again and blotted her lip.

"Sonuvabitch," she said slowly, with a despairing shake of her head, and put out

her hand to press his shoulder. He shook that off.

"You're being an ass," she said.

"General opinion," he said. "Let me be."

"That how you pay all your favors?"

He sank against the wall, hand over his eyes, turned his shoulder away from her,

just beyond coping with her.

Her gut hurt. She was still shivering with adrenaline and her teeth were

chattering, but some kinds of pain got to her, and a man with a reality problem

was a hard one to sit through. A spacer who'd had done to him by another spacer

what Fitch had done—that was hard even to think about.

What this crew had done, on the other hand—

—maybe just not knowing what to do with him… She didn't know what to do with him

either, right now. She was ready just to give up and go away and let him pull

himself out of this particular hole in his own time, man wouldn't do himself any

hurt, he never had.

And maybe there was just nothing she could do but make him crazier.

He passed the hand over his face and leaned back against the wall, finally, bit

of light falling on his jaw, on one eye.

"You all right?" she asked.

He nodded, exhausted-seeming.

"Musa said Fitch didn't give you your trank," she said. "That true?"

Second nod.

"Fitch shoved me in that damn locker during undock," she said. "I was scared he

wouldn't."

The single visible eye flickered. Blinked, fast.

"Fitch is the crazy one," she said. "—You merchanter, Ramey?"

No answer.

"Ramey, you scared of me?"

No answer.

"I figure," she said quietly, "You got all you can handle. I can understand

that. But I tell you something, Ramey, I don't need anybody either. Not going to

lean on you, not going to doublecross you. I would appreciate it if you kind of

watch where your elbows are going."

He reached across the gap between them and pressed her arm, once, gently.

She put her hand on his, held onto his fingers. "You want to go back to rec and

buy me a beer? I'm still not sure my credit's in the bank."

He shook his head.

"Come on," she said. "Doesn't scare me."

Another shake of his head. His jaw showed knotted muscle.

"All right," she said. "I'll take your advice on it. But I tell you what.

Someday you're going to do that."

"Fitch," he said. Cold straight shot. Damned sobering one. "Name's NG," he said,

then, as if some obstruction in his throat had broken loose with that. "Don't

make a case of it. Don't stand outside the rest."

"I understand you."

He lifted his hand and touched her jaw, gentle, gentle touch, and it brought

back what he could be, either the crazy man or the sane one, she wasn't even

sure which was which with him.

"You're going to give me a hell of a rep," she said. "I tell McKenzie I'm going

off with a guy, I come back with a cut lip.—Where's the other holes on this

ship, so I can explain where I was? A lot of them?"

"Galley stores. Services. Core lift-bay. Stowages."

"Mofs get upset?"

Shake of his head. "Most don't."

"But Fitch is looking."

"This is Orsini's watch. Fitch is mainday."

"Orsini an S.O.B?"

"Different kind." NG ran a hand through his hair and leaned his forehead against

it. "He—"

The door opened. Lights came up.

NG's hand reached hers in a flash, clenched it. She closed down hard, sat

absolutely still while voices drifted back, woman's voice, man's sharp and

angry.

A switch thumped, machinery whined, and the cans moved on the track. Bet

snatched the blanket clear of the rail, where it could hang the track up, saw

the can coming at her and pressed against NG for a moment as can after can

cycled past, pushing against her with brutal force, shoving at her back and hip,

enough to drive the breath out of her.

More machinery. NG's hand pressed her head close against his shoulder as a

loader clanked.

And stopped.

Things quietened after a while. The voices were a dull murmur over the

ship-noise. Then the lights went down and the door shut.

She sat there with her teeth chattering, the cold all the way through her.

"Gap's still there," NG said, of the way they had gotten back into this hole.

"Always is."

"Good," she said, clench-jawed, because she'd been thinking about that, too

shaken-up to look.

"You better go," he said. "Slip past the shop door. It could be open. That was

Liu and Keane. Liu's a bitch."

She had to, that was all. She got her stiff limbs to work, she squeezed her body

between the cans at the curve and got herself out and down the corridor, walking

like she belonged there, with her knees weak and her gut gone to water.

She stopped around the line-of-sight from Ops, hung out near the lockers for a

good few shivering, worried minutes until NG showed up.

Not expecting her. That was clear.

"It's late," she said. Somehow the crew was at fault for the whole damned mess,

and for the aches and her cut lip. And for him. And she was mad enough now to be

stubborn. "I tell you what, I want that beer. I go in, sit down, you just come

in and make a move. All right?"

He nodded.

So she did that, came in and got the free tea the galley offered; and sipped it

with a sore lip and hung around the counter with her back to two couples who

were the only crew there.

So NG came trailing in after a little, and she went and sat down while he

brought her the beer.

"Thanks," she said, and patted the place beside her on the bench.

But he went and got his and drank it standing at the counter, with his shoulder

to her.

CHAPTER 12

« ^ »

We got a water-leak in galley," Musa said wearily, "Bernstein wants you to fix."

Then Musa stopped and looked at her twice.

So did anyone who got up close.

"You caught hell," Musa said. "You got trouble from anybody?"

Bet shook her head. "In the shop," she said. "Tried to recoil some line, it

snaked round and got me."

Best lie she could think of, that could account for a bruise on her head and a

cut lip.

"Hey," Musa said, worried-looking, "you got to watch that stuff, Bet, don't pick

any fights with it."

Like hell Musa believed that story.

"I'm all right," she said.

And got on the damned leaky coupling in the galley, a crawl through an access

barely body-wide, and a nice flat-on-her-back and slightly over to the side

reach next to a damned, noisy refrigeration compressor in a space that gave you

barely enough room to get a wrench on the bastard. Bernstein, she figured, was

well through the necessary jobs and into the real busywork scut.

"Sonuvabitch," she kept saying between her teeth, just to keep the breath

moving, and other things, while hot water dripped in her face.

She got the line disconnected, got the failed coupling off and stuffed it, the

work of the two fingers that could reach it, into one pocket, got the

replacement out of the opposite and lay there blinking hot water drip and trying

to get the damn line dried off to take the adhesive on the coupling.

Effin' plumbing. Effin' same effin' system since humans blasted out of

atmosphere. Maybe before. Modern effin' starship and the effin' plumbing got

stressed in the effin' expensive swing-section galley and cheap little effin'

gaskets had to be seated or nothing worked.

And the drip never ran out. Ran over her face and into her eye and down her

cheek into her hair, while the damn thing had to fit on just so, and the damn

com was sputtering at her ear, the plug come loose and about to fall out where

nobody human could get at it—had to wear the damn thing, reg-u-la-tion, when you

were working in a hole like this.

"Yeager," it said, nattering at her personally this time.

"Yeah," she said, but the mike was out of reach too, the way she had to tilt her

head to get the band-light to bear on what she was doing. "Yeah, I got my

page—just a minute—

Bernstein checking up on her.

"Yeager."

"I got my fuckin' hands full!" she yelled at it.

"Yeager! Check in!"

She held the line and the coupling with one hand, shaking head to foot, made a

desperate reach to adjust the com. "Yeager here!" she yelled.

And heard Bernstein's voice. "—forty seconds to firing."

Oh, my God.

"Say again," she said. Like a fool she grabbed after the coupling and jammed it

home on the snap-ring.

"This ship is moving, Yeager! Thirty seconds!"

She reached after the cut-off valve, screwed it open, a half-dozen fast turns.

The coupling held.

"Yeager!"

She started eeling out of that access, using heels and hips and hands, fast as

she could go.

The take-hold bell started ringing.

"You got hot water!" she yelled to the com. "Can't get your access-door!"

"Dammit, where are you, Yeager?"

She scrambled up and grabbed the E-belt, bright yellow D-ring, put her back to

the galley wall and snapped the shoulder-hip restraint closed, put a hand behind

her head, pulling her head down. "Clear!" she yelled. "Clear!"

Loki kicked, her neck-muscles strained, feet lost their footing and the whole

galley-cylinder rumbled on its track, reorienting until the strain became weight

on her feet, and the general com was yelling: Going for jump. Move with caution.

You have time to secure doorways and stow hazards. Burn-rate will increase two

hundred forty-five percent over the next three minutes…

She unclipped the E-belt and let it snap back into its housing, she knelt down,

swung the access to and screwed the bolts tight by hand, fighting the drag that

tried to tear her hand down.

Up, then, weighing near double, hauling that weight erect, hand back to pull the

jumpseat down, straddle it, pull the yellow D-ring again, to haul it over, get

the tab inserted.

Down the burn-deck, complete vacancy—crew had gone to whatever E-clips they

could find, against solid surfaces, inside compartments, no time to rig the

hammocks.

Hell and away more comfortable, flat on your back on the inside burn-deck, than

upright on a jumpseat in a swing-section.

This ship is approaching jump…

Got a problem, we got a problem, God, something's on our tail out there…

I had to stop for the damn cut-off valve. God, I could've been stuck in there—

God, God—we're really moving—got a hell of a push on this ship—where's my trank

pack?

She fought for air, felt the drag at gut and joints, lifted a hand up after the

trank pack in her breast-pocket, found it, got her fist around it and squeezed

the trigger against her neck, only bare skin she could orient to.

We going to shoot at that sonuvabitch or what?

Where's NG? Musa and Bernstein?

Everybody all right?

Got hot tea when we get there.

Wherever…

… coming up again, siren blowing… Battle stations, condition red, condition red.

… This ship is now inertial… Stand by…

Crew may attend emergencies with caution…

Condition still red… Medical to 23…

Hell of a way to be first in line, she thought, helping Johnson the cook throw

trank-packs and c-packs at crew who got themselves to the counter, handing out

ten-packs for the scarcely mobile to carry back to friends a little wobblier,

while the com thundered advisories at them—

"A second jump is possible but not imminent. We are presently in transmission

silence…

"We have suffered one fatality. Scan-tech John Handel Thomas—"

"Shit!" Johnson groaned.

"—died instantly on impact. The captain expresses his personal regrets.

"Station-chiefs and area monitors, medical is attending two serious injuries: do

not send minor injuries to sickbay…"

"Yeager," her personal com said, Bernstein alive and functioning.

"Yessir!" she said, never stopping the rhythm.

"See me when we're stable."

"Yessir." That tone was trouble. Her stomach had a new reason for upset.

"This is the captain speaking. A bogey of carrier-class entered system. Our exit

at an opposed angle gives us a considerable lead time into this system, we hope

enough to make finding us difficult. We are presently low-V and positional

calculations are virtually complete. I'm allowing crew to stand down from battle

stations on a condition yellow. Off-shift crew, rig for jump. We'll remain in

condition yellow until further notice from command. …"

"We will manage a shift-change in five minutes," came the precise, clipped voice

she'd learned as alterday command, Orsini—via the general com, while she was

having a sandwich, privilege of being stuck in rec with the mainday lot.

"Alterday crew prepare your lists."

"What do I do about shift-change?" she asked Bernstein via com.

Bernstein said, "Call it luck. I'll skin you next shift. Tell Jim Merrill get

his butt up here on call."

"I got to tell him?" she protested. Merrill probably reckoned that her presence

here in rec having a sandwich meant she'd been half-shift on a temp, and that

Jim Merrill was therefore going to skip a little duty-time.

"He can bring your stuff up," Bernstein said.

So she had to go to Merrill, over on the bench contentedly having his sandwich,

and say, "We're complete on the galley plumbing job. I got a call from Bernstein

says tell you report on the change and bring the gear up."

"Shit!" Merrill said. She unbelted the tools, took off the com and turned it and

the duty over to him.

But before she could get back to the counter she had Liu-the-bitch on her,

telling her she was low man in Engineering and she was pleading off on

Bernstein, getting special privileges like a half-shift and that sandwich and by

implications too vague to prosecute, fraternizing with some unnamed officer to

do it.

You didn't argue with Liu, the word was. Liu was senior on mainday Engineering,

a small, almond-eyed, black-haired woman who carried a knife, at least on

dockside. Bet looked down at the shoulder-high attack, Bet listened patiently to

the high-decibel shouting, then said: "I got no quarrel with your worrying about

it, mate. But I spent down to jump under that damn galley cabinet, and she's all

fixed and you got hot water and the sandwich was free, so I'm not going to turn

it down. Matter of fact, I was up there handing out packs and hauling out

sandwiches with Cook, it being my shift. Don't tell me about lay-abouts."

Liu fumed. Merrill sulked. Other crew stared, a whole shift of people she didn't

know—a scary lot of people she didn't know, who had themselves a shouting

controversy to entertain them instead of the chance of a take-hold and another

jump.

She got speculative stares, caught a little edge of a whisper to the effect

that: "That's Yeager. Liu better watch herself. Want to lay a bet?"

The other man made the obvious pun.

She'd heard that one since she was eight. Funny, she thought.—Like hell.

"Shift-change! No loitering and no talking!" Fitch's voice went straight to the

bone. "Inverse order of seniority, sign-off protocols are word of mouth! Go, go,

go!

Everybody made it, mainday to stations, alterday back to quarters, at least to

the corridor where mainday had rigged the hammocks. She saw Musa and NG come in

and she treated herself to a beer, since Cook said her credit had come through,

and she bought them both one, no question about her being polite to her whole

shift, and getting briefed while she was doing it. "Go on, sit down," she said,

to both of them, while they were drawing the beers, "I can buy my mates a drink,

f'God's sake, NG, you don't have to be such an effin' stand-off—" Innocent as

could be, for the benefit of whoever was listening.

And: "Yeah, NG, sit down," Musa said. "Woman wants to buy you a beer, you better

be polite about it."

NG sat down, worried-looking, on Musa's other side, in the crowded goings-on in

rec, people so busy getting fed and settled, Bet thought, nobody was going to

notice.

"Everything come through all right?" she asked.

"Damn press was running," Musa said, "and we got the master shut-down, but we

got stuff stuck all over the mold. Mainday's going to bitch—"

Liu was Musa's opposite number. Bet grinned and sipped her beer.

And NG, quietly, never looking exactly at her while he ate: "Bernie couldn't

raise you." With the implication of no little worry around Engineering.

"Damn compressor going in my ear," Bet said. "I never heard the bell. Bernstein

wants to see me, I got an idea I'm going to catch hell."

"Well, lookit what we got," a tech named Linden jeered at NG's back, sitting

down with a couple of his buddies, and NG heard it, Bet figured, since she did;

but Musa leaned over to look past NG, and said, loudly:

"Is that Linden Hughes down there? H'lo, Lindy! How's it going?"

"How you doin', Musa?" the answer came back, man leaning to see who that was, a

whole lot more polite.

"Not so bad." Musa leaned back again, and Linden Hughes leaned back, avoiding

conversation. NG, between, swallowed a last gulp of his sandwich and washed it

down, fast, finishing the beer.

"Going to my hammock," NG said. "Thanks."

"Damn mouth," Bet said. "NG—"

"Let it go," Musa said, putting a hand on her knee; and NG just went to wash up

and turn in.

"It's not damn right," she said.

"Shut up," Musa said.

So she shut up, Musa's advice generally seeming worth listening to.

CHAPTER 13

« ^ »

Quiet night, all told. The morning bell went off and the com flooded

announcements at them:

This is the captain speaking. We've passed beyond our alert parameters without

incident. I'm downgrading the alert to stand-by. We're remaining on passive-scan

only. We've communicated our sighting to an allied ship which made jump during

the last watch…

No different than in the Fleet, Bet thought. You got your information after the

fact and if you got killed it was generally a surprise to you.

So the hammocks stayed rigged, but you could get back in quarters and get a

shower, which was high priority after a jump right along with other things, your

skin tending to shed a bit and whatever you were wearing tending to make its

seams too well acquainted with your joints, not mentioning it smelled like old

laundry. So she took a fast one, changed to sweater and pants and kited on out

to breakfast—no sign of Musa and NG, which meant she was running late or they

were in the showers.

Chrono by the counter said a little late. So she put a little push on it, gulped

her toast and tea and a cup of orange, and headed on to Engineering.

Musa was there. Musa gave her a jaw-down nod and a cut of the eyes toward

Bernstein, and she wiped her hands off on her pants and went over to Bernstein's

station.

"Sir."

Bernstein gave her a slow look. "You want to tell me about the com?"

"No, sir."

"You tell me about the com, Yeager."

"Yes, sir. Fell out of my ear, sir."

"Didn't hear the bell."

"No, sir. Thank you for the page, sir."

Bernstein looked at her a long few seconds.

"You stayed in there getting that fuckin' water on. You damn fool, if that line

wasn't secure we could've emptied the damn tank all over rec-deck."

"Yessir. But I dunno heaters. Just pipes. Didn't want anything to blow. So I

turned it on."

"That's the trouble with you damn big-ship trainees. You dunno heaters. You know

pipes. Everybody's a fuckin' specialist."

"Yessir."

"What'd you do as a hire-on?"

"Sit watch, sir. Small repair. Never claimed I was more'n that when I hired on.

Said I wouldn't muck with a system I didn't know, sir. But I didn't figure a

galley heater was critical to the ship."

Bernstein stared at her like she was something he was thinking about stepping

on.

"What condition was that line in when you got my page?"

"Just wasn't hooked on the clip-end, sir. I heard you, I hooked it up, I cut the

water on, I moved, sir."

Long silence out of Bernstein. Long, deep breath. "Yeager?"

"Sir."

"You come on here with no papers, you got the spottiest damn training I ever

worked with—I ought to chuck you right over to Orsini and let him put you in

Services."

"Yessir."

"'Yessir.' 'Nossir.'—You got an opinion, Yeager?"

"Rather be in Engineering, sir."

"Tell me the truth, Yeager. Did you ever have papers?"

"Lost 'em in the War, sir."

"Don't lie to me."

"No, sir."

Another long silence. "Spottiest damn training I ever worked with," Bernstein

said. "But you got the hands and you got the nerves. You know anything I can

rely on, Yeager?"

"Hydraulics, sir. Electronics."

"What else?"

She thought fast and hard. "Small com systems. All small systems. Motors.

Pumps."

Bernstein frowned. "Real specialist. What class freighters you been working on?"

"Small, sir. Some stationside work." She drew a breath, took the jump, because

she wanted to establish her alibis. "Did a little stint in militia before this."

"Where?" Bernstein asked sharply.

"Pan-paris." Records were blown there. It was Union territory now. No way to

check it. No way to check anything she claimed there.

"You ever worked with weapons-systems?"

"A little." The air felt too thin. She cleared her throat. "Much as a merchanter

carries, sir. And station systems. Small stuff."

Bernstein sat looking at her. Looked at her up and down. Nodded slowly. "Tell

you what I'm going to do, Yeager. I'm just going to keep this in mind. You just

don't do any damn showoff stunt again."

"Yessir."

"Sign in."

"Yessir." The hand twitched. She didn't move it. She found her shoulders in a

brace and gulped air and relaxed, walked over and did the sign-in, exchange with

Jim Merrill, who was waiting with no great cheerfulness, with Ernst Freeman.

"Take your time," Merrill said.

"Sorry about that," she said.

"You got no continuances except the clean-up in shop."

"Right," she said. "Thanks, Merrill."

"Where's NG?" Freeman asked.

"I dunno," she said, and looked around, all the way around. Freeman was NG's

mainday. Freeman was still standing here, not waiting on Merrill, Merrill having

left. "I'll find out."

Her eye tracked to the clock. Fifteen minutes past. Her heart sped up. She went

over to Musa, at the counter an aisle back. "Musa," she whispered, "—where's

NG?"

Bernstein came walking from the other direction. "Either of you seen NG this

morning?"

"No, sir," Bet said.

"Saw him in quarters," Musa said, frowning.

"Shit," Bernstein said, and yelled at Freeman: "Go on, you're relieved. I'll

cover you myself."

Freeman left.

"Shit," Bernstein said again. "Musa, go look in the shop."

"Yessir," Musa said, and left.

Best they could do, Bet thought. Short shift, boards to be covered, NG missing

and Musa off looking—that left herself and Bernstein.

So she grabbed the board and ran NG's checks, took down numbers and called

Bernstein to look-see on a fluctuation. "Inside parameters," Bernstein said.

About that time Musa came back. "Not in the shop," Musa said.

"I'll check quarters," Bet said.

"He's not there," Bernstein said. "I already put in a call. Man's ducked into

some hole, is what. Shit!"

"Let me try to find him," Musa said. "Sir."

"This department's got work to do, dammit! Get on that check, or we're going to

have Orsini down here.—Damn that sonuvabitch!"

"Let me look," Bet said.

"You don't know where to look."

"I know a few places. I seen a few things on this ship. Sir. Please."

"If you find him—"

"If I can get him back here—"

"You got an hour," Bernstein said. "You try the core-access, you try the

lockers, the stowages—"

Bernstein ticked off the places on his fingers, a few more than NG had named to

her.

"Seen him last in quarters," Musa said. "He was dressing, nothing was wrong that

I know."

"Nothing's ever wrong that anybody knows," Bernstein muttered. "Get the hell

gone. Get him. Hit him over the head when you find him. Move, Yeager!"

She moved. She went back up to the shop-storage, she looked in the nook she knew

to check. No luck.

Dammit.

Nothing was wrong that I know—

No way that you cut up into officers' territory, no damn way you even thought

about that. There were the several accessways to core, but they were low-G and

colder than a rock and no way in hell a man was going to hide out there unless

he was desperate.

Lockers weren't NG's favorite place, considering, but they were the likeliest

and they were on the way—past a fast check on the core-lift bay, no joy there

either.

She just started opening doors, God knew what you were going to find at this

hour, it being mainday's rec-time, and you hesitated to search them all the way

to the back, but it was a case of desperation.

Locker one, locker two, locker three, all negative. She had a stitch in her

side, caught her breath and decided a look-see in cleaning-stowage was worth it.

Dark in that slit of a place. Light came in from the open door, on somebody's

legs. "Sorry," she started to say, then got the notion that somebody wasn't

moving. She moved her shadow, reached and cut on the lights.

NG. Not asleep, not that twisted position.

"God. NG—"

She got down and shook at his leg. "NG?" She was afraid to try to move him. She

got his pulse at his ankle, slapped at him. "NG?"

There was a twitch, then, a little movement.

"NG, dammit!"

He drew the leg up, moved, slowly, until she could see the mess he was, his face

all over blood, blood on the deck—

"Oh, my God." She took his arm, kept him from falling on his face. "Stay put.

I'll get Bernstein."

"'M all right," he said, reaching for a locker-handle—grabbed her arm when she

started to get up. "No! I'm all right!"

"What in hell, you're all right? Who did this?"

He shook his head, hauled himself up to his knees, just held onto the lockers a

moment.

"I'm getting Bernstein," she said.

"No!"

"Bernstein's after your ass, dammit, I got to tell him, you just don't do

anything stupid till I get back, hear me?"

"No!" He hauled himself to his feet and staggered. She grabbed him. "Can't go to

the meds," NG said, grabbed a locker handle and held on. "Just go to Bernstein,

tell him I'm going to clean up. I'll get there soon as I can."

"Hell, you will! Stay there!"

She ducked out, went to the first general com station and punched in

Engineering. "Mr. Bernstein, sir, this is Yeager. I found him."

"Where?" the chiefs voice came back—instantly: he must be sitting over the com.

Or wearing one.

"Supplies locker, sir. Somebody beat hell out of him."

"Get med on it."

"He doesn't want that."

"Get a med on it, Yeager, you going to be a problem?"

"He says—"

"I don't care what he says, Yeager. Do it!"

"Yessir. What's the number?"

Bernstein said, she keyed it, made the call, went back inside to find NG into

the cleaning cabinet and trying to wash up at the utility sink. The water was

running red.

"Med's coming," she said. "Bernstein's orders. I tried to talk him out of it."

"Shit," he said, and leaned on the sink.

"Who did this? Did you see them?"

NG shook his head.

"Why'd they do it? You start it?"

"Last night," he said thickly. "Tried to tell you."

"You mean your sitting with us?"

NG just shook his head. "Don't get into it."

"Was it Hughes?"

"Don't get into it! Don't get into it, how many times do I have to say it? Call

medical, tell them it was a mistake, I just hit my head on a locker, for God's

sake—"

"Bernstein won't have it. I tried."

"You were on general com," NG muttered slowly. "Dammit."

"Nothing broken," the med said to her, the other side of NG, NG on the table

between them, with the med shining lights in NG's eyes, probing after places NG

had as soon not have public; but the cubbyhole of a surgery offered no privacy

but a sheet. "He's got a mild concussion. Locker door, was it?"

''S right," NG said.

"Hell of a locker," the med said. Fletcher was the name, older woman. A doctor,

no less. "Don't argue with it again."

"Yes, ma'am," NG said. "Want to go back to duty."

"I can give you a medical."

"No, ma'am."

Fletcher frowned—her mouth was made for it—and ticked off some notes on a

keypad. "You got a painkiller, muscle relaxer, pick it up in galley this

evening, one with meals. I shot a little local into those spots, should carry

you till then. No alcohol with the pills. Hear?"

"Yes, 'm," NG said, meekly, and slowly sat up, between her help and Fletcher's.

And stopped, frozen, looking toward the doorway.

Khaki shirt, command stripes. Not Fitch: a tall, blackballed man with a

permanent beard-shadow.

"I hear we have an injury," the mof said: Orsini. The voice left no doubt.

"Sir," NG said, and slid off the table and kept his feet.

"How did that happen?" Orsini asked NG.

"Accident, sir."

"Are you a witness?" Orsini asked, looking at Bet.

"No, sir. Mr. Bernstein asked me bring him in, sir."

"Accident in Engineering, then."

"In quarters, sir," NG said. "Locker door sprung on me."

Long silence. "Any others victims of this door, Fletcher?"

"Not yet," Fletcher said.

Orsini nodded slowly, hands behind him. He walked around to the end of the table

while NG pulled his bloody clothes together. "I'll want a copy of the write-up."

"Working on it," Fletcher said. "I'll send it over."

"Released to duty?"

"His request," Fletcher said.

Orsini looked NG's way. "You're dismissed. Go clean up. You too, Yeager."

"Yessir," NG said. "Sir," Bet said; and NG walked on his own getting out of

there, walked on his own in the corridor, still fastening up his jumpsuit.

"It's all right," Bet said. "It's going to be all right."

"It's not all right," NG said. "It's not going to be all right. Keep away from

me. Hear me?"

"No way in hell, mister."

NG said nothing. He walked back to quarters, he slipped in, where mainday crew

was asleep, he changed clothes while she waited by the door and came back again.

So she walked with him.

All the way to Engineering.

"Hell," Bernstein said, getting a look at him, and shook his head.

Musa didn't say anything. Maybe Musa had told Bernstein, maybe Musa hadn't. She

figured Musa would have done what was smart.

NG just checked in on the sheet, made no arguments when Bernstein put him to

paperwork.

"Fill out your own damn accident report," Bernstein said. "It's not my job."

But Bernstein caught her apart and said: "Who did it?"

"I dunno, sir, I got my suspicions. Sir—Orsini was up there, in sickbay."

"I got the call. Listen to me, Yeager. If somebody else comes into sickbay

banged up, he's got a problem. Fighting's a serious charge on this ship. You

hear me?"

"Know that, sir."

"How much do you know?"

"Musa filled me in. About NG. About what happened."

"You better be smart, Yeager. You better be damn smart. You better listen to

Musa.—You better know what you're buying when you buy NG any beers, hear me?

Because this crew knows what's new on this ship, this crew knows whose idea it

is, and you're going to make trouble if you get independent ideas, Yeager, have

you got the shape of that?"

"Yessir. I got it."

Bernstein took a deep breath. "You got it. I've been trying to save this man's

life, Yeager, and keep him sane. Now this has happened. Worse can happen. This

is friendly, compared to what can happen. All they have to do is lie. They can

still do that. You understand? They can call it self-defense."

"I can lie, too, sir. This Hughes bastard jumped me, NG stepped in. Exactly how

it happened, sir. If it has to."

"Don't be a fool!"

"Yessir."

"Was it Hughes?"

"Dunno, sir."

Bernstein gave her a long, cold look. "You armed, Yeager?"

"Not right now, sir."

"What's in your pockets?"

She fished up her card. And a fat bolt.

"What're you doing with that?"

"Going to put it up, sir."

"You do that. And you and Musa—just kind of walk behind him when he goes places.

Not one of you. Both. Hear me?"

"Real clear, sir."

Bernstein walked off. And talked to Musa. She exhaled a long, shaky breath. Game

I know, sir. Damn nasty one. But I do know the game, sir.

CHAPTER 14

« ^ »

I got news for you," Bet said, leaning over NG's chair, putting her hand on his

shoulder; NG flinched, mild attempt to get rid of her, but she was at an

inconvenient angle. "Musa and I are walking you out of here tonight—"

"I got enough trouble."

"You haven't heard the rest of it. Musa and I are walking behind you in the

morning, we're walking you to supper, we're walking you into quarters, anytime

you move, you got us behind you."

"And how long does that last?" He swung the chair around, far as he could

without bashing her knee. "Stay out of it."

"What's their names?"

"Not your damn business."

"Going to be. Mine and Musa's. We agreed."

"I said let me alone! You trying to get me on report?"

"For what? Walking down a corridor?"

"They'll find a way." NG wasn't doing well. He waved a shaking hand. "Just go to

hell. I got enough trouble."

"What're you going to do next time?" She slid past his knee, into the seat next

to his at the counter, facing it to him; leaned forward, arms on knees. "What're

you going to do, merchanter-man, if they aren't through hitting on you?"

"That's my problem."

"Mnn." She stuck out her foot between his, against the circular foot-rest of his

chair, stopping him from turning it. "No. It's Bernstein's orders. Bernstein's

own idea. And I'm not stupid. Didn't come off any Family ship. Maybe I know this

game, all right?"

"It's not just them—"

"Yeah, yeah, that's all fine. What're Musa and I going to do? You were drinking

our beer. Bunch of skuzzes takes exception to that. So what do we do, just play

stupid? Act like we're just too stupid to see how A fits with B? Or too stupid

to know if you push a thing you got to be ready to back what you did? Lot of

this crew isn't committed on this, lot of this crew don't care shit about you,

lot of this crew doesn't give you two thoughts in a week—because you didn't mean

shit, friend, till you got yourself beat up and now it looks like Musa's got to

decide to ignore that or not. And I do, being the new guy. So you got yourself

an organization, you see what I'm talking about?"

"Fitch'll kill you!"

"You're not listening, merchanter-man. You're not playing the game right."

"Shit."

He was turning away. She braced her foot and grabbed his arm.

"And that right there is one of the problems, friend."

"Get your hand off me before I break it."

"Mmmm-mmm. Won't put a mark on the guys that beat you up and now you're going to

break my hand. Real smart."

He shook her off.

"Muller told me," she said, "you got this way of repaying what people do for

you."

He shoved the chair the other way around this time, kicked her foot out of the

way and got up.

Right face-on with Musa.

"Sit down," Musa said.

"Hell!"

"Looks like we got to beat shit out of him," Bet said to Musa. "Seems to be the

only way he takes anybody seriously."

"Leave me alone!" NG shoved Musa out of his way, headed for the door.

"NG!" Bernstein shouted across the room.

NG took a couple of strides more toward the door. And stopped there, as if there

was some kind of invisible line on him.

"It's my order," Bernstein said. "You damn well do what you're told."

NG shoved his hands into his pockets, made a move like a shiver, then turned

around with that damned cocky set of his jaw, cut lip and all.

"Yessir," NG said.

NG left, they left—Bernstein having held all of them until all the mainday shift

came on; NG walked into rec and got his pills and they got beers and sat—

"Dammit," NG said when they parked themselves one on either side of him.

Musa patted him on the knee. "Everything's fine. Doing just fine." And Musa

looked at him, leaning a little outward on the bench. "That eye's going to turn

all colors, isn't it?"

People stared as they came in. People minded their business, until they got what

they fancied out of earshot, and then heads got together and not too furtive

looks darted NG's direction—people naturally wondering what had happened to NG's

face, and the business about NG having one more chance with Fitch being, as Musa

put it, shipwide famous, there was certainly a little morbid speculation going

on, damn right there was.

"You stay right here," Musa said, patting NG again on the knee. "I got to get me

another beer."

But Musa got directly into a conversation with Muller before he got to the

counter—not without saying exactly what he wanted to say, Bet figured, sipping

her beer and watching NG from the corner of her eye—watching whether he reacted

to anybody in particular this evening.

Linden Hughes reacted—walking in, seeing him there.

Damn sure.

"That the man?" she asked NG without turning her head.

"I got enough help."

"Sure. Him. His friends. You got all sorts of help."

Silence out of NG.

"You got it wrong," she said. "You got it all backwards. Friends is the ones you

help."

"You're a damn fool," he said, and got up and went off toward quarters.

So she went.

And caught up to him inside, in the dim light.

He stopped short. "Get off my tail," he snarled at her.

"Hey, fine," she said.

"Look," he said, and came back, hands open. "Look, Bernie's got this great idea,

works just fine until some damn emergency comes up and Bernie's got to have Musa

off over here, and you're off over there—"

"All you got to do is be halfway smart. Like you weren't."

"Musa's not going to put up with this past three days. Musa's going to duck out

of it soon's Bernstein gives him the excuse, and that leaves you, you understand

me, that leaves you in that damn locker. You like that?"

"Musa and I got this understanding, just this little arrangement—"

"What kind of arrangement?"

"What you think. Same's with you. Or-ga-ni-zation, merchanter-man. You

understand Family? I'll bet you do. Same thing. Same thing."

NG looked as if she had hit him in the face.

And he walked off on her, down the aisle to his bunk.

A second later, Musa walked through the door.

"What's that?" Musa asked.

Family merchanter, for sure, she thought, I bet you anything you like.

But she said, staring after NG, arms folded: "Just getting something at his

bunk."

Musa scratched his shoulder. "Not real happy, is he?" Musa said. "Didn't

figure."

"I got to tell you," she said, "I been sleeping over with him."

"He all right?" Musa asked.

"Little nervous," she said. "Real sweet, sometimes."

Musa thought that over. "Been a long time," Musa said. "Long time for me, too.

You're a pretty woman. Can't blame him."

She laughed a little. Felt a little nicer, at that. Nobody ever had said that

but Bieji when he was drunk.

That was what you had to do, find yourself a niche and a couple or three you

could trust. That was what was the matter with this ship, that there were so

damned few you could, you could pick that up right out of the air. And she

hadn't felt safe on this ship until she felt Musa put his arm around her.

Musa was all right in bed too, during the vid, when the bad guys and the good

guys were noisily shooting hell out of each other on the screen at the end of

the quarters, to the cheers of the drunks and heavy breathing from the couples

behind the privacy screens.

NG was in neither category. NG was sleeping, if he could. More likely he was

hurting, but at least he was safe—right next to the bed both of them were in,

NG's being endmost toward the vid, Musa's being next over.

It was something Musa had bargained his way into at Bernstein's instigation,

back when NG had first come onto alterday shift—Musa having a favored

mid-quarters bunk that Muller had been all too glad to trade for, and nobody but

Musa being on speaking terms with NG.

That was the way Musa explained it, anyway.

Which was how Musa with all his seniority ended up next to the vid, with

cheering drunks sitting on the deck at the foot of the bunk he was sharing at

the moment—good question now and again whether it was the vid they were

cheering.

"Damn fools," Musa said between breaths.

"'S all right," Bet said, and laughed, because it was funny, laughed and got

Musa to laughing, quietly, under the blankets they had thrown over themselves.

"You're a good woman," Musa said— Musa smelled of perfumed soap, no less, Musa

had clean sheets, Musa had hauled out an old bottle of real

honest-to-Mother-Earth whiskey and poured her a big hit on it. It was something

she had only heard about, from Africa troopers old enough to remember it.

Where'd you get this? she had asked, and Musa, pleased, had said, Taste of home.

So Musa was from Earth. The Fleet had fought for Earth. Africa had gone back to

fight there. It was kind of an obscure connection that formed, not even a

friendly one most of the time, but it made her think what a tangled lot of

things it took to get an Africa trooper and a man like Musa into the same bed.

Lot of places that led.

The vid reached a series of explosions, the drunks yelled. Musa voice-overed the

next lines from memory, funnier than hell, at least drunk as she was getting,

and poured her another drink.

The vid went quiet of a sudden. The drunks groaned into a disappointed silence.

"This is the captain speaking," the com thundered out. "This ship will make jump

at 0600 mainday."

Then the vid started up again, but the talk was quiet then.

"Damn," Bet said, "gone again. Where now?"

"Easy to answer," Musa said.

"Where, then?"

"Wherever they got us put."

"Damn," she said, and hit him a gentle punch.

"Actually," Musa said, settling down to be comfortable a while, "not too hard to

guess. The Fleet's got its ass kicked twice now, back at Earth, they popped out

again, nobody knows where—they say maybe old Beta Station—"

That could put a chill into you. There had always been rumors in the Fleet that

Mazian had a hole-card, and the name of abandoned Beta, old Alpha Cent, had come

up—the bad-luck station, second star humankind ever parked a pusher-can at and

set up to live there—and, the story ran, it had just gone transmission-silent

one day, the constant data-flow to other stations had just—stopped, no reason,

no explanation, and not a scrap of a clue left behind when a ship finally got

there—sublight—to investigate. Beta Station had systematically shut down, and

the pusher-module that could have gotten the people off was gone—

But no wisp of wreckage or electronic ghost of a transmission ever told what had

happened.

"They'd be fools," she said, and thought to herself it was the kind of rumor

Mazian himself might have started, just to confuse things.

"They jumped to some point in that direction," Musa said. "That's what I hear."

"So maybe they know some point of mass nobody else does."

"Could be. Or maybe they just jumped out to old Beta and laid real quiet. Beta

would be good for them, all that old mining and biomass gear, antiquated as

hell, but if the dust ain't got it it's still there. Could be what he's done."

"Is that where we're going?"

"Not us. No."

"Then what are we doing?"

"Keeping the lanes open. Not letting that sum-bitch cut us off from Earth. Not

letting him peel off the Hinder Stars. He could start the whole war up again,

get Earth cut off, force Pell into Union or force Pell to deal with him, one way

or the other. Sure as hell Pell can't hold out independent if Earth goes into

his pocket. Sure as hell the Hinder Stars are nothing but a damn human

warehouse. You found that out."

"Found that out," she said.

The vid never did get as noisy again, not what was going on-screen, not the

crowd that was watching. A lot of people left to go out to rec and get a beer

and talk, and a lot of people just sat around on bunks to drink and talk.

"I got to check on NG," she said, and leaned down off the edge of the bunk to

put her head below the level of the privacy screen.

"He all right?" Musa asked.

"Looks to be asleep. 'Scuse."

She crawled out and ducked under, and sat down again on NG's bunk, beside him.

Half-asleep, all right. Pills had a kick to them. He gave her a bleary look.

"You hear that?" she said. "We got jump in the morning."

"Got to wake up," he muttered.

"No, you sleep. Musa and I'll pour you into your hammock in the morning. No

problem. You can trust us." She squeezed his hand. "G'night. All right?"

No answer. The fingers didn't twitch. But he was all right. She and Musa had

custody of the pills—in case. And if Loki was going somewhere tomorrow, wherever

that was, then at least they were starting out in good order this time, no

surprises.

She ducked back under, crawled back into Musa's bed, cold and shivering.

Man who didn't mind that was a gentleman, she thought.

CHAPTER 15

« ^ »

Out of the bunks and off to duty stations, theirs being the lucky watch that

drew duty through this particular jump: scant time for a dance through the

shower, grab the trank-pack and the c-pack off the galley counter along with a

Keis-and-biscuit and a hot drink while Services was stringing the hammocks for

mainday. NG was barely functioning, limping around and definitely reluctant to

leave the hot shower, but Musa was next in line, and she steered NG out to the

breakfast line, bleary-eyed and sullen as he was.

"I'm saying get off me," he muttered while they were going through the door.

"Watch doesn't mean hanging onto me."

"Hey, you're not put out about me and Musa, are you?"

"Hell!"

"So go on." She nudged him with her elbow. "Get your breakfast."

He looked bloody awful, one eye swollen, mouth swollen, and his expression this

morning made no improvement. He muttered something for an answer, limped toward

the line ahead of her.

Hughes and his friends. She saw it coming before NG did, a half a second before

Hughes shouldered him and knocked him off his balance.

"Watch where you're going!" Hughes said.

"You watch where you're fucking going!" Bet hissed at Hughes, grabbing a fistful

of sleeve. "You want an argument, mister, you got one."

Hughes grabbed for her wrist and ended up with nothing—not going to cut loose in

a full-scale brawl, no, not here, not likely; but the whole rec-hall got quiet.

"You a friend of his?" Hughes said, and there was just ship-sound in the hall.

"May be," she said. "I dunno your quarrel with him, and I don't care, mister,

but I'm on his tail on orders of the chief, who don't like his crew running into

any locker door. Nothing personal."

"Screwing with him on the chief's orders too."

"That's personal and that's shit. Don't give me shit, mister. I'll give it

back."

Real quiet.

"No fighting," NG said.

"That's fine," she said. "I ain't fighting. Man's just got a little problem.

Probably glandular. You want to fuck with me, mister? Take you right down to

that locker, soon's this ship clears jump. You and your two bedmates there. We

can straighten everything out."

"Here, Lindy—" Musa showed up, right through the audience, thank God, still damp

from the shower, low-key as always. "We got a little problem?"

"Problem's your new girl," Hughes said. "Problem's this piece of garbage on our

deck."

"Problem is," Bet said, loud and sharp, "we got some crossed lines here, this is

the same skuz butted in yesterday while our shift was sitting down doing simple

business over a beer; and beyond that I don't fucking care what his problem is,

somebody took severe exception to that beer, in the dark and from the back, the

way I see it. So I'm asking, was it you, Lindy Hughes?"

Lot of quiet, then. Some more mainday crew had strayed in from duty, and their

voices got quiet too, more spectators.

"Somebody did this ship a favor," Hughes said.

"Hell if it did!" she said. "I hear all to hell and gone what NG did, but I see

nothing but a damn good engineer at his post ever'day doing his own job and

several others', and the only time he ever missed he was lying beat half to

death in the supplies locker, so don't tell me about responsibility, mister, I

seen more of it in NG Ramey than I seen in whatever fool beat up our Systems man

when this ship is apt to go jump any damn minute—"

Slow, measured clap of the hands from somewhere around the fringe. That nettled

Hughes. "You want to fuck with him?" Hughes asked, playing to the crew at large.

He made a wide gesture. "Neo comes on here and tells us what a fine, upstanding

man NG Ramey is. Shit!"

"Pull off, Lindy," Musa said.

"Fucking neo."

"I said, pull off! Bernstein's orders. Somebody beat up our Systems man, and we

got orders to keep him in one piece, it ain't a question of preferences, mine or

hers."

"I ain't taking shit from her!"

"Shut it down, Lindy."

Long silence. Then Hughes shouldered past, and so did his friends.

"Sorry about that," Bet said under her breath. "He shoved NG in line."

Musa put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her in the direction of the counter.

NG was still standing there, in whatever frame of mind she didn't care to figure

at the moment. She got her packs and her breakfast. Johnson the cook was there,

galley staff working fast to set up for after the jump. Johnson gave her an

under-the-brows look.

"You're crazy," Johnson said, which she took for a friendly warning.

"May be," she said. "But I go with what I see."

She got NG's two packs too, and collected a second breakfast and brought it back

to him.

NG took them, no expression, no look directly at her, he just tucked the packs

under an arm and gulped the biscuit and the tea. She swallowed hers, too much

adrenaline coursing her bloodstream to afford any appetite, her stomach in a

knot, but you took food when you could get it, hell with Lindy Hughes.

A couple of mainday Engineering were there, Walden and Farley having come in,

maybe having been there through the ruckus. She didn't spot Hughes any longer.

Damn stupid, she thought, with her mouth full of biscuit. She was catching more

attention from little confabs here and there in rec-hall than was good for

anybody.

—Yeager, you've done it good and proper. You've just picked yourself a fight you

can die in.

—Better'n some, though…

—Spent all my grown life fighting Earth's fight, and look at how they paid us.

None so bad to take on one that I pick, none so bad to go out that way, if I got

to.

Just give me targets, that's what Teo would say.

She looked over at NG standing there sipping tea with a sore mouth. Gave him a

sort-of smile.

He glared at her like somebody cornered.

"You got a terrible attitude," she said and elbowed him in the ribs. "Cheer up,

NG."

He walked off on his own, to throw the cup in the bin and head off for work. But

she was on his track and she caught Musa's eye and Musa came, still gulping the

last of his breakfast.

So they trailed him around to Engineering, NG half a dozen strides in the lead,

Musa and herself behind, herself walking with hands in pockets and a kind of

unreasonable cheerfulness while NG looked mad as hell.

But they got there the way Bernstein said, no time at all that NG was ever out

of their sight: they got in, checked systems with their opposite numbers; and

Bernstein came in to take over from Smith—off a general briefing for the mofs,

one could guess.

Bernstein and Smith talked a moment, in the privacy ship-sound afforded, while

they were going through the routine shift-change checks, she saw that out of the

corner of her eye, and she felt the sweating nervousness start—

Calm down, calm down, she kept telling herself. No fire fight on the other side,

just another sit. It's the way this ship works, it's all she does…

But the hands wanted to shake and the gut kept tightening up, just anxiousness

to get it done.

Damn, I'm not up to this, they got NG on the boards, and he's crazy and they got

me and I'm not an engineer; and besides us they got just Musa and they got

Bernstein, and what in hell kind of way is that to run a ship?

Can't be a firefight, she thought, no way they'd put alter-day crew up when

there was a shooting match coming.

Bernstein finished with Smith, walked over to take the stats from NG. The

take-hold started ringing, the advisement of the coming engine-start. "So where

are we?" she asked, being curious. "Where're we going?"

"Classified," Bernstein said.

A body tried.

"We don't fight," Bernstein said. "We just stay ready to run. That's all."

"Yessir," she said.

"No different than we've been doing," Bernstein said. "We got a half hour.

Burn's about to go. Take the number three chair.—How're you doing, NG?"

"No problem," NG said, cold and preoccupied, flipping switches.

She was the one with the upset at her stomach as she settled into her place and

set herself up, trank-pack and c-pack and earplug and all, nothing else to do,

since mainday had been good enough to sign the shop sealed and secure.

The burn cut in, an authoritative shove of the engines that built fast and hard.

The deck shook and the whole swing-section of Engineering command rumbled on its

tracks as it reoriented, a quiver deep in bones and nerves.

Here we go.

"You watch this readout," Bernstein said over the complug in her ear, and

brought the station three screens live. "You got the panic button there and you

push it if any display starts flashing, you push the panic button and the system

will route it to me and Musa, you got it, Yeager?"

"Yessir."

"You know the parameters on the containment?"

Her heart jumped. "Yessir."

"That's your number one, there. On your right. If you get a sudden trend in the

numbers you don't like, you push your number one red button and the panic button

together. That sends it to me, got it?"

"I got it, sir, but f'God's sake tell me I'm not the only one on that."

"You're not. I like more than one pair of eyes on it. Watch your screens,

Yeager, and don't bother me, I got my hands full.—We're on count now. Start your

trank."

She grabbed the pack and squeezed it, felt the sting in her hand and the old

tension in her gut. She could see NG's station from where she sat, she could see

NG reach after the trank and take his. His face was still calm, but sweat

stained his jumpsuit and beaded on his skin.

Hard push now.

"Five minutes," Bernstein said.

Her thoughts wanted to scatter. Hughes; and NG; and Musa last night; and the

containment readouts and the numbers; and the chance of trouble otherside.

Watch the damn numbers.

Only time for so. much.

Is NG all right?

How long's it been since he sat station on a jump?

Flash of the space behind the cans in the stowage; NG tripping wild, hand in the

middle of her, hand bashing her lip—

He do that often?

And she thought, just as the final bell rang and they were bound for jump:

Does Bernstein know what he's doing putting a load on NG? Expecting him to work

in jump?

Man could kill all of us—

Down again. She heard electronic chatter in her ear.

She tried to focus, sorted after the numbers in her recollection, remembered to

watch the rate on number one. Saw the numbers falling away.

My God.

She hit the buttons, heart pounding.

"Got that," Bernstein said, "got it. She does that."

Sweat poured. She slumped, feeling the flutter in her muscles head to foot.

NG said: "Doing all right, Bet. Little slippage in one of the arms."

She felt like fainting. Breath came short for a little and she felt a cramp in

her gut she hadn't felt in years, like maybe the treatment was wearing off.

Or it was advancing age, maybe.

V-dump, then. She felt the pulse through the ebbing trank, felt them come down

again.

She fumbled after the c-pack, kept her eye on the screens while she pulled the

tube out and got a sip.

Second dump, hard, God—hard…

The numbers—

"We got that drift again!" She had the button punched.

"Got it, got it," Musa said.

God!

She wiped sweat and took another sip, reminded herself they were used to doing

this with one fewer. Old game of Scare the neo. Never a time that they weren't

onto that system. But, damn! it was all tekkie problems, it was all garble, she

didn't know what damn arm NG was talking about or what it had to do with the

magnetics or what in hell somebody was doing just then that pulled the numbers

back to safety.

The ship just worked, dammit, tekkies made it work, you never thought about the

ship just blowing up or losing its braking because of some damn numbers on a

screen.

She was shaking. She wanted a drink. She wanted a shower. She wanted to get to

the head. She sat there watching numbers till her eyes ached. And NG just talked

back and forth with Musa and Bernstein, calm and cold, until Bernstein said,

"Bridge is giving us an all-clear to unbelt. Yeager, you want to take a five

minute break?"

"Yessir." She had to pry herself out of the chair. She headed straight for the

outside and the E-section head, between Engineering and the purser's office, not

half scared about the ship changing its mind and moving, and making a

Yeager-shaped dent in the paneling—not half the scare those damn numbers put in

her, flowing away like the ship was bleeding to death right through her fingers

and she didn't have a patch for it.

Damn, damn, if everybody else could sit there like that, so cold, if NG could

sit there like that, just pick up and go on working with the shakes and all—

Damned if she couldn't.

Thirty-seven years old and starting over as a neo. So she got the shakes.

That was just adrenaline you didn't know what to do with. But you learned,

damned if you didn't, you learned what to do with that charge-up nature gave

you, and you got your head to working and you just did it, that was all,

whatever it was. Bernstein wasn't going to hand her a damn thing real without

checking her on it, and at least nobody was shooting at her while she was

learning it.

Please God he wasn't going to hand her anything real and on her own.

What do I say if he does? I don't know what the hell you're talking about?

Questions about her papers, all the way to the captain's office, that was what

honesty got her. They might forgive her being stupid, might just put her on

plain scutwork; but then Bernstein could tell the captain she was too damn good

at some things and too damn stupid at others and things didn't add up right,

that was where it could go once the questions started.

You learned, was all you could do, and you said no when you had to, and you

never agreed to anything you couldn't fix.

"Shakes?" Bernstein asked her, stopping by.

"Nossir," she said.

He patted the top of the chair. "Did all right. We just got a little play in a

servo, always wanders a little when we drop out. You know why?"

She gave him a desperate look.

"Nossir."

"Suggest you ask somebody real soon, Yeager."

"Yessir," she said. "Thank you, sir."

Bernstein patted the chair back again and walked off on his business, and she

just sat there a second. While her heart settled.

CHAPTER 16

« ^ »

Quiet evening in rec, vid going in the quarters, a lot of the shift just

collapsed in their bunks.

There was a large run on beers in rec, but just quiet drinking: lot of headaches

for tomorrow.

And their own little group of three collected at the end of the bench next the

galley, nobody bothering them, while two good Systems engineers drew diagrams on

a slate and tried to get what they knew through a dumb skut's head.

It made half sense. "Why's it do that?" she asked.

"God does it," NG said, exasperated. "Just believe it happens."

"No, no," Musa said, "fair answer, now."

NG erased the slate and started re-drawing his schematic of little labeled

circles, patiently, meticulously.

"Boy's damn smart," Musa said, hunkering closer. "Never did get this part

myself."

"The hell," NG muttered, giving Musa a dirty look, and went through it again,

how and why the flare-off worked when a ship dumped V.

It made her sick at her stomach when she started figuring it in terms of what

could go wrong. Or of what that number-drain was and what could happen if things

just failed to go right.

"Well, are we going to fix that damn thing?"

"First chance we get."

"We got to put in for a fill soon," she said.

"Where we put in," Musa said, "they got no facilities. And we can't afford the

sit."

"We can't afford to lose the—"

Musa shushed her. "Business, business don't go in rec. Drink your beer."

She took a sip. NG took a big one.

And seeing the look on NG's face she wished she hadn't said that about losing

the ship in hyperspace.

Seeing the look on his face—

And beyond it, where Lindy Hughes and his couple of friends were sitting,

talking, momentarily staring this way.

"Hughes is down there," she said with a second cold chill in her stomach.

"Hughes is on this shift," Musa said. "He's got a right."

"He's shit." She picked up the slate, she cleared it off and she gave it to

Musa, thinking that if it wasn't so traceable and so likely to land on NG, a

simple accident could account for Lindy Hughes.

"He's damn stupid," Musa said. "Bernstein's over all the techs. Man's got a real

problem. If he's real damn smart he'll transfer."

NG just sat there.

"Going to take this man to bed," she said to Musa, putting her hand on NG's

knee.

"No," NG said, and got up and went and threw his cup in the bin.

And went to the quarters by himself, past Hughes' stare.

"Man's upset," she said.

"Yeah," Musa said.

"I got to see to him," she said, worried about NG, worried about Musa—damn,

she'd had enough crazy men. But Musa turned his callused hand up and took hers,

and squeezed it.

"You be careful of Hughes. Hear? Some things I can't pull you out of."

"Yeah."

"Get."

She got. She tossed the cup, walked back to the dim quarters, heard a little

catcall from Hughes' company, and found herself face to face with McKenzie in

the doorway.

Shit! she thought, and flinched when McKenzie grabbed her arm, pulled her

inside, and said he had to talk to her.

"I got business."

"You got trouble," McKenzie said, and his hand hurt her arm. "You got major

trouble." He shoved her over against the first privacy screen, right by the

door. "Listen here."

"That's my arm, mister."

The grip lightened up. He was standing close, pushing her into the corner. "NG

the appointment you were talking about?"

"What if it was?"

"You'd be damn stupid. Damn stupid." Another jerk when she started to move.

"Listen to me! The man's going to get you killed. People are trying to warn

you—"

"You in with Hughes?"

"I didn't have a damn thing to do with it. I'm trying to warn a fool. You don't

know this ship."

She pulled to get her arm free. He eased up again, and she might get all the way

loose, but there was a note of something honest in the things McKenzie was

saying.

"I got my orders," she said.

"That include sleeping with him?"

"Is that your problem?"

"Go to hell," he said, and shoved her loose. "Go straight to hell if you're set

on it."

She grabbed his arm then, before he could get out the door. "McKenzie. You heard

anything?"

"I'm telling you there's ways things get done on this ship and ways things come

back at you on this ship and you're being a damn fool, woman. Don't be playing

games."

"Appreciated," she said, quietly. "Appreciated. What's your percentage?"

No answer.

"Yeah," she said.

"Don't be stupid. I'm telling you, I'm just telling you, is all. You can take it

any way you like."

The man confused her. Bad feelings to start with, man suddenly coming at her

like this—

"Damn few women on this ship," McKenzie said reasonably. "Hell of a waste,

Yeager."

"Me with him?"

"That too."

She suddenly liked McKenzie a lot better than she had— a little too eager to

start with, maybe, but saner than she had looked for. She touched him on the arm

with the back of her hand. "I tell you," she said, "you might be all right,

Gabe. I hope so."

He put his hand on her hip. God! she thought, nettled. He said, "I'm telling

you—you go around making cases where everything was quiet and things can happen

to you."

"That a threat?"

"No." He took the hand back. "Damn, I told you—

"You made me nervous as hell, friend. I'll tell you that. But I could have been

wrong."

"Wrong about what?"

"About you being in with Hughes."

"Damn, I'm not!"

"What's Hughes' game?"

"He's a sum-bitch," McKenzie said. "Just a plain sum-bitch, no percentage in it.

Got his little clique. He may be under Bernstein, but he's got ties on the

bridge. He's got Goddard on his side. Navcomp. Goddard's a poker partner of

Kusan's and Orsini's, you follow?"

"I know Orsini."

"Goddard's a—" McKenzie shut it down. "You just watch it. I'm giving you good

advice."

"I'm listening."

"That's all. Just get clear of it. Figi and Park and me, and Rossi and Meech, we

just stay the hell out of it."

"You scared of Hughes? You got the same pull, topside, what about the scan-ops?"

"I'm not scared of Hughes. I'm just not interested in borrowing somebody else's

trouble. I'm telling you get clear of it before you mark yourself with this, you

already got people talking."

"Saying what?"

"Saying you're a damn fool. Come in here, cross the lines, stir up the whole

damn watch on old business—I don't know what Musa's game is, maybe you got him

going the same as you got half the men in this watch—but I don't say I don't

believe it about Bernstein—he hauled NG's ass out of the cold or he wouldn't be

here. And maybe there's people on this ship don't like what happened to him, but

that won't buy a thing. They won't be there when it comes head-on against you."

"You?"

"I'm not a fool either. I'm telling you, you're setting yourself up for some bad

hurt. I don't like to see that. Damn, I don't like to see that."

"I appreciate it. I do." She patted him on the arm. "You got yourself on my good

list for that. Tell you what you can do cheap, that's be eyes for me and Musa

where we can't."

McKenzie scowled. "What percentage?"

"Favor-points with me. Maybe with Bernstein, who knows?"

"Bernie's favor-points don't spend on mainday bridge, I'm telling you. You go

on, you're in for it."

"I got you clear. I got you absolutely clear."

Fitch.

"Just so you do." He came up close against her, gave her a nice little pass of

the hands she didn't mind at all. "Damn,", he said, and she said,

"You know where I bunk? Got a bottle, got some picture-stuff. Make free of it.

Anytime. You and Park and Figi."

"What else comes with it?"

"Lot else might. You want to party? I bring my mates."

Long silence.

"You're buying trouble."

"Get a few other guys. Get some bottles. We got no push on us, we got no

likelihood of an alert I know of—What d'you think?"

"Dammit—"

"Nice pictures. Got a viewer too. Tell you what, I get NG up there for about

half an hour, then you just happen by, everybody else happens by—one at a time—"

"You're crazy as he is."

"Vodka."

"Damn. All right."

She grinned, gave Gabe a peck on the cheek and a pat on backside and took out

down the aisle.

CHAPTER 17

« ^ »

We got a little trouble," was what she told NG when she caught up to him, in the

dim light down by his bunk, down by the vid. "Don't ask questions. Come on.

Fast."

And when she got him as far as the ladder to the loft: "Come on, it's all

right."

"Dammit," he said, confused-sounding.

But he went in front of her up the ladder—a lot of trust, she figured, from a

man who had lately been ambushed.

She caught him up, grabbed him by the arm and steered him right for her bunk—got

him that far and then he started pulling back.

"Where's Musa?" he asked.

"Musa's right where he needs to be. Just shut up, stay put, don't make me

trouble." She edged between him and the privacy screen, tilted up her bunk in

the dim light and pulled out a bottle, the viewer, and Ritterman's pictures, and

set them on the floor. She let the bunk down then, said, "Sit down. Don't be so

damn conspicuous," and when NG did that, sat down beside him, reached after the

bottle, uncapped it and took a drink. "Here."

He took one. She took one. He took a second; she snuggled up close, swung around

on one knee on the bunk and settled with a leg in his lap. "Dammit," he said,

catching on. He made to give her the bottle back and get up, she got her knee in

the way, got her arms around his neck and said very close to his ear:

"Didn't say we couldn't entertain ourselves. Just keep it quiet, all right, and

don't spill my bottle."

He stayed put. In half a dozen seconds he was warming up a lot, went back on the

bunk, she did, and somehow they managed not to spill the vodka.

"Where's Musa?" he asked while clothes were coming askew.

"Oh, I dunno," she said. "He's taking care of stuff. I'm just keeping you where

you can't get into trouble."

"Dammit, dammit—" he mumbled, and after that not much.

Man always did have a primary problem with sex and priorities, or maybe life

just got cheap. So he was occupied when McKenzie showed up, McKenzie with a

"Mind?"

"Help yourself," she said, and held onto NG, while NG was trying to scramble up

off the bunk. "It's all right, McKenzie was going to borrow the viewer."

"Hell!" NG said.

"It's all right," McKenzie said, and got the viewer and sat down on the bed.

"That vodka you got?"

"Sure."

"Excuse me," NG said, gone all cold, but Bet snagged him with an arm before he

could escape.

"No, no," she said, "NG, Gabe's a friend."

"Dammitall!"

"No problem," McKenzie said, all easy, and Bet hooked a knee over NG's to keep

him sitting. McKenzie thumbed the power on the hand-viewer, popped a fiche in

and took a look.

"What d'you think?"

"Shee-it," McKenzie said, "that's something."

"Let's see." She reached, while NG sat there in stony silence. She took a look,

passed it to NG.

"Not interested."

"Don't be a lump." She reached after the vodka and traded Gabe back the viewer.

"Here."

"Where's Musa?" NG asked in a flat voice, refusing the drink.

"Musa's just fine. Have a drink."

"I'm getting the hell out of here."

"You want to walk down there and get into trouble?"

"Trouble's here."

"No trouble." She pushed the drink on him. "Come on. Gabe's just sitting

look-out."

Sullen silence. But he stayed put.

"How you doin', Gabe?" While she kept her arm tight around NG.

"Fine," McKenzie said, and took another drink and passed it back.

Then Park and Figi showed up in the aisle, mostly shadow, from past the privacy

screen. "H'lo," Park said.

"Oh, damn," NG said. "What is this?"

"Party," Bet said, holding onto him. "You're invited. Stay put."

"The hell!"

"Keep it quiet. Everything's fine. Have a drink. Gabe's a friend of mine, these

are friends of his."

"What are you doing?" he asked, real quiet. "Bet, what're you doing?"

"Just be polite. Friends of mine dropped by after some stuff, it's no big

problem. Everybody knows everybody, just sit back, take a drink—"

"I want out of here," he said in that same tone. His muscles were all hard. His

voice was just over the edge of calm. "Bet, I'm leaving."

"No, you're not. Musa'd skin you. Sit still."

As Park and Figi added their heft to the load on the bunk, and the mattress

slanted a little.

"Hey, vodka," Figi said; and Bet put her arms around NG's middle, and her legs

to front and back of him, and got familiar again.

"Stop it," he said under his breath.

"Just be nice," she said, but she didn't push him, just took the bottle in her

turn and gave it to him, and he took a big drink of it, while the viewer passed

around and Park and Figi made appreciative noises. NG was tense as drawn cable,

just ready to snap, but she got another drink into him, got him to take a

desultory look at the viewer, which did him no good at all.

Then Rossi and Meech showed up with their own bottle, and sat down on the floor

in what space there was, right in the escape aisle. And a couple other strays

came in, so the viewer was going wide circles now.

And NG was just sort of back in the corner of things with her, up against the

wall, trapped, and relaxing a little when nobody turned out to notice him—and

since she curled herself around him and got her hand in his and just kept things

secure and friendly a while.

"What in hell?" Musa asked, coming up from around the curtain, and NG tensed up

all over.

"I got him," Bet said, and:

"Have a drink," McKenzie said, offering Musa the bottle.

"Shit," Musa said, but he stood there and took his drink.

"See?" Bet said into NG's ear. "Ever'thing's fine."

No word out of him, not a thing, just a shiver, NG tucking up against the wall

and staying real quiet.

So she worked at relaxing him.

"Let me alone," he said.

"Come on," she said. "It's friends."

"Dammit, let me alone"! he yelled, and shoved her and started through, but she

tackled him from the back and yelled, "Gabe, stop 'im!"

NG stepped on Meech and got tangled up, with her holding around his neck and

Gabe getting him from the front and Meech and Rossi impeding him from below.

He went crazy then, swinging on them, twisting to get loose—

"Where d'you want 'im?" Gabe called out, no soberer than he had to be, and:

"God, let me alone"! NG was yelling, fighting to get loose, while the whole mass

dumped itself generally back on the bed.

"You want us to hold 'im for you?" Park asked.

"Man's crazy," Rossi said. "Told you he was crazy."

And Musa didn't say a thing about it: Musa was one of those holding onto NG till

he was half-smothered and gasping after breath.

"Give the man a drink," Bet said. "NG ain't crazy, he's just a little nervous.

Careful, there! Sit him up!"

Because they were a little gone, having a damn good time, but gone, and NG was

gone too, out-there, deep-spaced and having trouble breathing.

"Ease off," Musa snapped, and let go to fend Rossi off pouring vodka down NG,

and shoved her hard. "Ease off, Bet, dammit!"

"Man's all right." She didn't take the shove for serious, just slipped in again

and got her hand on NG's shoulder while everything was quiet and everybody was

catching their breaths. "NG? Nobody going to hurt you. Nobody going to hurt

you."

"Go to hell," he said, teeth chattering.

"Hey, let up, let up," she said, and disengaged Rossi and McKenzie and Figi, and

Musa, one by one, everything staying quiet. God! if it got out of hand and some

drunk sod decided he was common property along with the bottles—

She got the bottle from Rossi, offered it, shaking-scared NG was going to blow

up and blow everything to hell. "Come on," she said. Like coaxing a kid out of a

hidey-hole. "NG?"

He just stared at her. Musa patted him on the shoulder, telling him it was all

right, telling him get his breath.

"You got a mate talking to you," McKenzie said, drunk and expansive. He shook at

NG's knee. "You hear 'im? Mates trying to help you, you sum-bitch. Take a

drink."

"Let me go," NG yelled, between gasps after air. "Let me go"!

"Let 'im loose," Musa said. "Let Bet have 'im."

"Get 'im drunker," somebody advised from the periphery, who else had come up to

kibitz Bet had no idea. There was a crowd gathering—dangerous, damn, the whole

thing was getting out of limits and what could happen next—

"I got 'im," she said. "Gimme the bottle."

Rossi gave it; she took a drink herself, said, "Relax," and offered a swig to

NG.

He took a deep one, drank twice between gasps for breath, and she took it back,

took another one, and peeled her suit down and got down on the bunk with NG

while the bottle went round and by-standers cheered.

He stopped fighting. He wasn't good for much, but he shivered and then relaxed.

After a minute or so he got a little buzz out of it, and put his arms around her

while she said into his ear, the air between them fumed with alcohol:

"You're doing fine, merchanter-man."

Damn if he didn't about manage it then, witnesses and all, when some fool

started to unhook the privacy screen on the next bunk, that was Mel Jason's,

Jason being nowhere to be found, and all Jason's pin-ups in danger of folding.

"Hey, careful with her stuff!" Bet yelled. "That's my neighbor."

"Let that be!" Musa yelled, and McKenzie and Park and Meech got it stopped,

while NG just struggled up on his arm to see what was going on and went out like

that, thump, curled onto his side.

Somehow there had turned up far more people in on this than she had brought in,

there were a couple more bottles going around—had to be, or the first couple

were bottomless—and she pulled her clothes together and just leaned against NG

with her head spinning and her ears buzzing while Musa and McKenzie and his

mates controlled the booze and the drunks and started up a dice game.

So it wasn't so exciting anymore, except the viewer was going the rounds to

howls and comments, the bottle kept passing, and somebody was saying Mel Jason

was mad as hell about the crowd in the loft.

But the crowd had kept growing, it was noisy, and she figured then she could be

in real trouble, so she kept faking her drinks after that when the bottle came

her way, and sobered a bit, leaning there at the head of her bunk on a body she

finally figured out was NG, and insulated on the left by Figi's broad rump. So

she was all right back there, behind a wall of friends, NG was safe where he

was,

But it all settled down, Musa was drunk as a docksider while he played his mates

out of their credits, all the while spinning some incredible tale about serving

on Gloriana.

On Gloriana, for God's sake—a sublighter.

Man was old enough, maybe.

She felt a shiver in her bones, like meeting God, figuring how old Musa could

be, because if time-dilation got to spacers nowadays, it was nothing to what the

old sublighters had gotten, and although they were all changed and FTL'ed

now—the several of those nine original ships that still survived—crew could

still be alive—

Musa had a bottle of real whiskey in his bag—

Musa had learned his engineering the patchy way, knew practical because-it-works

things, but not the technical words for it, like somebody grown up in FTL ships—

Musa had seen Earth—

The curfew-bell rang quietly. "Party's over," somebody said, and people groaned

and wondered if they could negotiate the ladder.

"Want us to leave him?" Musa came to her to ask.

"Yeah," she said; and gave Musa a bleary hug and a kiss, and a sloppy,

passionate kiss to Gabe McKenzie, too. "See you later," she said with his hands

all over her. "Owe you one."

"Major one," he said.

"I got to get my stuff," she said, remembering that. But people had been halfway

considerate, piling fiches and viewer on the bunk, taking their empties with

them, so she grabbed up the fiches and stuck them in her patch-pocket and she

grabbed up the viewer and she shoved that deep into her bedding.

Then she just collapsed with NG for a pillow, struggled and worked one-armed to

get the safety mesh across both of them, sort of, and clipped it in.

And passed out.

"What in hell—" NG mumbled sometime during the night, and stirred and lashed out

with his arm, or he had been doing that and that was why her shoulder hurt.

"'S all right. I got you. Go to sleep."

"Hell!" He flailed out again, kneed her good, trying to straighten himself out,

and then he got the safety mesh clip undone and that spring-wound itself back

across her while she was trying to get her arms around him and reason with him.

"You're all right. You're in my bunk, settle down—

"Shut up!" came a female voice from next door.

"Shhhsssh," she whispered, trying to hold onto him the while. "Curfew's long

gone. Lie still."

"Going to my bunk," NG muttered, shoving his legs off and tearing loose from

her.

"You're in the loft," she hissed, fast, while he could still hear her, because

in his condition she wasn't sure he wouldn't walk right into the net or right

off the ladder.

He left. She got up and she followed him, staggering and reeling herself, saw he

got down the ladder all right before she went back to her bunk and fell in,

doing the netting on autopilot, that was all she had left in her.

Mel Jason was pissed, no question about that. Mel stormed past her when she was

dimly taking account of the fact she didn't have to put on yesterday's jumpsuit

to make the showers, she was still wearing it.

So, well, Jason was always pissed.

She ran her hand through her hair, got up, staggered over to the edge of the

balcony and hung there on the safety netting to get her eyes in focus and see

that Musa was up and Musa had NG in view, NG already up and looking like he had

been through the showers ahead of the wake-up, his clothes being unrumpled. So

she went back and made her bunk—the lump she found doing that was the viewer,

that had to be stowed underneath; and her thigh-pocket was full of fiches, but

they were all still flat. Everything seemed to have come through all right,

except she had a headache.

Except when she got downside she was running late, NG and Musa were already out

at breakfast, she supposed: almost everybody was ahead of her.

And that almost was Lindy Hughes.

Didn't mind being in line for the head in front of that man; didn't like being

in the showers with him damn near the last in quarters.

But you didn't shy off.

So she just went on ahead in when a guy came out, meaning there was a stall

free; and she went in, stripped down for a quick rinse and a dry—mind your own

damn business, Yeager, she was telling herself, soaping up.

The door opened. Hughes was standing there.

"I hear you'll do it for anybody," he said.

"Want to find out?" she said. "Or you want to keep what little you got?"

He made a grab for her. She just grabbed his coveralls and went with the grab,

and Lindy Hughes kept going, right into the wall and the shower toggle.

"My God!" she yelled, bashed the back of his head with her elbow, his face with

her knee, and let him hit the floor, then when he stirred, smashed down on his

head with her bare foot, again and a second time when he kept trying to move.

Then she stepped out past his body and looked at Davies from Cargo, who was out

in the aisle, naked as she was; so was Gypsy Muller. "I tell you, that damn fool

came charging right into the wall, hit his head something terrible. Somebody

better call infirmary."

"Shee-it," Davies said, and grabbed his clothes; "Shit for sure," Gypsy said,

looking at her and Hughes' clothed legs lying across the shower threshold.

As Hughes' friend Presley showed up in the doorway.

"Better call infirmary," she said. "Your friend slipped."

"You damn bitch!" Presley said.

"Hey, it ain't my fault." She edged past Davies in the body-wide aisle. "God, I

got soap all over. 'Scuse, please."

"Damn bitch!"

"You got trouble," Davies warned her.

"Yeah."

Presley was picking Hughes up, Hughes was coming around, sitting up bleeding

from the forehead. Nasty cut.

"Be nice," she said to Hughes. "And I won't say it was rape."

Hughes looked at her with murder on his face.

"We was just doing an exotic in the shower," she said. "You just hit the soap.

Right?"

Man added it up—two witnesses and Presley.

"You damn whore," he said.

"You want you and me to go up to the captain's office? I'm for it.—Or you want

to go up to infirmary and just tell 'em how you hit some soap and slipped? I'll

save your ass for you. You can owe me one."

Maybe Davies and Gypsy would back her. Maybe they'd side with Hughes. But she

didn't think so in Gypsy's case.

"Son of a bitch"! Hughes said, blotting his forehead.

Not a sound from anybody then, except Presley helped Hughes get up.

And Gypsy said, after Hughes was on his feet: "Looked like a slip to me. Nobody

needs any damn trouble, Lindy."

"Yeah," Davies said.

Hughes glowered, blotted his forehead with the back of his hand—he was dripping

red on the tiles.

And he shoved Presley out ahead of him and left.

Bet let go her breath.

"Thanks," she said; and looked at them—Gypsy who stood there in the altogether

and Davies who was grabbing after his towel.

"Late," Davies said. "Damn, we're going to be late."

Gypsy just stared at her. Then he nodded, once, decisively, and didn't look

unhappy.

She went and rinsed the soap off before it ate her skin, washed the blood off

the shower floor, grabbed her clean clothes and tossed the old ones in the bin.

Not a drop of blood on those.

Mainday crewman opened the outside door, first of the incoming shift. "Evenin',"

she said, uncomfortable in his staring at her.

But about half a dozen mainday crew were out there, and she got more than one

stare on her way out, felt them uncomfortably close against her backbone from

there to the door and out.

CHAPTER 18

« ^ »

Late for sure. She came kiting into Engineering, said, "I'm here, sir," to

Bernstein, and Bernstein gave her a moment's glowering attention that upset her

stomach.

"Everybody gets one," he said.

"Yessir," she said, fast and sharp, and went to check the duty board.

Not to socialize for a while, NG and Musa both being on the rounds and on the

reports: no shop-jobs, no fix-ups, a real conspicuous shortage of fix-ups lately

on alterday shift, main-day doing the scut-work, since it had three times the

personnel. Bernstein's list under her name was short: Calibrations Check Assist:

see Musa.

So she did.

"He ain't happy," Musa said, meaning, she thought, not Bernstein.

"Yeah, well," she said, with this little sinking feeling, then got down to ship

business, figuring NG could keep and Bernstein's good will was real important

just then. "Calibrations Check Assist. List says that's you."

"Show you," Musa said, and bringing her over to station three boards: "Man's

mad," Musa said under his breath. "I tried to talk to him, he's not talking, not

real reasonable. Bernie's onto it that something happened, I said give me some

room with it—Bernie said all right, but he give me this look, understand, I

dunno how long he's good for."

"I got you," Bet said, and: "Hughes grabbed at me in the showers, man had an

accident this morning."

"Damn."

"Nothing broke. Gypsy was there, and Davies. Ever'body says he must've hit some

soap and fell."

"Going to stick by that?"

"Dunno how he couldn't. I was stark naked, he was dressed, we got three stalls,

we was four in there, me and him and Gypsy and Davies. Even mofs can count."

Damn. Wish she hadn't used that word. For a moment Musa was looking at her real

funny.

"Yeah," Musa said. "I'll talk to Gypsy tonight."

Musa showed her the routine, mostly computer-stuff: you just got the

Calibrations program up and you told it which system and it ran checks for a few

minutes and then told you if it found things outside pre-set parameters.

That was all as easy as filter-changes.

Except NG was walking around like he had murder on his mind and he wasn't

looking at anybody.

And Hughes was off in infirmary telling whatever damn lies Hughes could think

up.

And she could hear Orsini asking the chief med, that morning when it was NG

getting patched up, Anybody else have trouble with that door? And the med

saying, with a deadpan face, Not yet.

So she got the CCA run, because mainday was busy with the shop-scut and the

plain maintenance—and the core-crawl and the sync-check and the dozen other

nasty jobs for reason of which mainday had to be wanting to cut their throats

about now—

—while a dumb skut whose only real expertise was field-stripping arms and armor

was trying to learn which board was which, never mind qualifying for a license.

Bernie wasn't pushing anybody on his understaffed shift, wasn't having anyone on

alterday turn a hand on anything but at-the-boards Engineering Ops and absolute

on-deck or in-shop maintenance—and damn sure wasn't doing anything that could

send one of his crew out alone and unwatched.

Which told you something, she was afraid, first because the ship just might not

be tending to routine maintenance in any major way, which could have any of

several reasons, like being close to a docking; or like being in chancy space.

Or maybe Bernie had a deal with Smith on mainday, because Bernie didn't want any

more accidents like NG's.

Till when? she wondered. How long is Bernie going to keep this up? How long can

he? And she remembered what NG had said—that sooner or later Bernie was going to

get pressed or Musa was going to get tired of shepherding him around, and Hughes

or somebody was going to get him.

But NG didn't know what had happened to Hughes this morning and he needed to

know that. So she found an excuse, seeing NG was over to the end of the main

console, where there was a nook, while Bernstein and Musa were talking urgently

about something—which, she had this uncomfortable feeling, could be Musa

explaining something other than readouts.

To a mof. But a mof you could trust—one you'd better trust, if that mof really,

actually wanted to know what had happened in the showers.

"Musa says you're mad at me," she said coming up on NG. She reached out to his

arm and he twitched her hand off, instantly.

"Hell, no," he said. "Why should I be?"

She had meant to warn him about Hughes right off. It didn't seem the moment.

"You got along fine."

He had trouble breathing for a second. Then he shoved her hard with his elbow,

turning away, but she got in front of him and it was a wonder with a look like

that, that he didn't swing on her.

"You were all right last night," she hissed, under the white noise of the ship.

"Everybody took it all right, everybody saw you take it all right, more's the

point. You were downright human last night."

Didn't go well, no. He got this absolutely crazy look, and he was going to shove

past her or hit her, she was set for it.

But he didn't. He just stood there until his breaths came wider and slower.

"Yeah," he said, "well, I'm glad."

"You don't figure it," she said.

He couldn't talk, then, she saw it, he didn't want to crack with her and he

couldn't get himself together to talk about what had happened; and that hurt

look of his got her in the gut.

"People were doing fine with you last night, you understand me?"

No, he didn't, he didn't understand a damned thing—embarrassed, she thought,

more than the offended merchanter sensibilities he knew he couldn't afford on

this ship; he knew and if he was getting eetee about that, she wasn't even going

to acknowledge it.

No, what was bothering him was a damn sight more than that, she thought,

recalling how he'd spooked-out for a minute last night, just gone, complete

panic; and he didn't ever want people to see him like that.

But, dammit, they had to see that, that was part of it, people had to see what

was going on with him and most important, they had to see him recover and handle

things. She couldn't fix that part of it. She didn't want to.

"I got to talk to you," she said, and moved him—she wasn't sure he was going to

move—into that corner where there was about a meter square of privacy from where

Bernstein and Musa were. "You got a problem with what happened?"

No answer.

"You were all right," she said. "Wasn't anybody made any trouble, people were

saying something just being there, you understand me? McKenzie and Park and

Figi, they were all right with you, they come in on my cue, they were there all

the time, and they were real solid from the start, or I'd've stopped it cold

before it got where it did, trust me I got some sense. There was McKenzie and

there was Park and Figi and there was Musa, wasn't anybody got past them, wasn't

anybody even tried, they just drank the booze and looked at the pictures—they

ain't a half-bad lot, NG, I imagine it was Gypsy and maybe Davies and six, eight

others up there. I told McKenzie ask a few friends, and McKenzie knew you were

going to be there when he asked 'em, so people knew, or if they didn't, you can

damn well bet they found out; and they stayed anyhow. So there was five mates,

all the time, between you and anybody who started trouble. All the time. You

think I'm fool enough to start a thing like that without knowing my parameters?"

He just stood there.

"NG, you were all right, you did fine last night."

It was still like everything was garble to him. At least he looked confused as

well as upset. At least he seemed to know he wasn't understanding.

Or maybe, at bottom, he just didn't remember who there had been and how many; or

he was scared thinking of what could have happened: he'd been out cold, no

question; and he'd been isolated too long to trust himself drunk with anybody,

even somebody he halfway trusted when he was sober. "Didn't let anybody touch

you," she said. "Wouldn't do that. Promise you."

He gave back against the wall, looked at her a moment like she was some kind of

eetee, then leaned his head back, turned his face away and stared into nowhere a

second or two, all the wild temper gone. He just looked hurt and tired and

quietly, heart-deep, mad at something. A muscle worked in his jaw. "I have work

to do," he said. Distant voice, a little wobbly and a little nowhere. And he

straightened up and made to do that, but she blocked him.

"That's not all!" she said, fast, while he was listening to anything at all.

"Hughes come at me this morning. Hear me? I set him back some."

He was focussed tight on her then. Scared.

"Don't do anything stupid," she said. "Don't go out of sight, for God's sake.

You can be mad at me, just don't do anything that's going to put you where there

aren't any witnesses."

"You're a damned fool," he said. "Bet, they're going to kill you."

"Mmmn, no, they aren't. Don't you worry."

"Fitch—" He got his voice down, under the ship-sound, and if Bernie and Musa

were through talking over there across the consoles, they were letting them both

alone for the moment. "I told you from the start. You're going to get killed."

No—no, not good for a man's pride to say she had sent Hughes to infirmary, after

Hughes had sent him there—even if it had been Hughes and two friends and a

no-fighting rule that got him, even if it had been a supply locker Hughes had

caught him in, and NG had a lot of real spookiness when it came to being boxed

in and trapped.

"I been on ships like this all my life," she said, reasonably—a lie, but the

important part was true. "I told you, there's ways to get at people without

laying a hand on 'em, and there's a time you can do it and get away. I know

Hughes' game, damn if I don't. You can trust me, NG, you can trust me. I know

what I'm doing."

That was a real hard thing for him. But he thought about it. She saw the

figuring going on in his eyes, saw him scared and upset, and shying off from the

obvious conclusion.

Couldn't. Couldn't make it that far. And he was at least straight enough with

her to let her see it.

"I been there," she said. "I been there more'n once, man. Like letting a knife

against your gut. But you got to take a chance on it now while you got a chance.

You got a handful of guys come up to a party you was at and they give you a

little haze about it, but friendly, you understand that? You got to say good

mornin' now and don't take it hard. They got their pride too, and they come a

long way, a long way last night. You got to come at least that far to them."

"The hell I do."

That made her fit to hit him. But she said, calmly and quietly, "Dunno how you

feel about them or why. But I sure know what you owe me, mister, and if you slap

them in the face after all I've done you make me a fool. You're the one'll get

me killed."

That got through, how deep, she couldn't tell, but it hit, and he shut up and

just looked mad, the way he would when he was cornered.

While she had the shakes like a neo, fighting with a damn merchanter who had

been no more than a kid when she had signed onto Africa.

And learned the lessons he had yet to figure out.

Damn him!

I can fuckin' see why you make so many friends on this ship, mister…

She didn't say that. She just walked off and left him, too mad to think

straight, but Bernstein had been patient, and Bernstein deserved a calm face and

a clear head.

So she went over to number three station and checked comp to see what her

next-up job was.

See me, it said.

She shut down and turned to go do that—but there was a bridge officer in the

doorway, and her heart did a little tick-over.

Orsini… not just sightseeing, damn sure.

Orsini did his little courtesy to Bernstein, Bernstein caught her eye and

beckoned.

So she walked over and Musa melted off sideways, finding business to attend to.

"Yeager," Orsini said.

"Yessir?"

"There was an accident in the showers this morning."

"Yessir."

"You were a witness?"

"Yessir."

"What happened?"

Hope to God Hughes took the cue she'd handed him and hadn't gotten elaborate. Or

didn't want to go up on countercharges.

"Wasn't a line outside, I guess Lindy just figured there might be a stall free,

and he come in just as I was drying off—opened the door, he scared me, I guess I

scared him; anyway, he must've hit a wet spot."

"He slipped."

"I guess he slipped, sir."

Long silence from Orsini. A dead-black stare, while the sweat ran down her

sides.

Then Orsini wrote something down on the TranSlate he was carrying, something

more than a sentence, said, "That'll be all, Yeager," and she said: "Sir," while

he walked off.

She didn't want to look at Bernstein. But you didn't walk off from a mof without

a courtesy either, and Bernstein waited.

"Sorry, sir," she said, then.

"What'd he do?"

"Made a grab," she said. Bernstein didn't look like he was going to kill her, so

she added, "At a soapy woman. And him dressed. Must've lost his grip, sir."

"Yeager—" Bernstein drew a breath. "You watch it. Dammit, you watch it."

"Yessir." She was shaking. That was twice this morning.

"You got a finish-up on a system over in the shop. You want to see to that?

Ought to take you about an hour. This afternoon you got sims on three, long as

you can stand it."

Simulations. Engineering sims. It didn't help her stomach at all.

A close brush with Orsini, Hughes and his friends were damn sure going to be

smarter coming at her now, Musa thought she was a fool, NG was ready to kill

her, and Bernie wanted an unlicensed machinist running the boards on a jury-rig

like Loki.

Sure.

She went and started the electronics job, flipped through the manual and found

out it was out of the helm-engineering interface.

God.

Do-it-in-your-sleep stuff—if you didn't know where it was going back to. She

triple-checked everything, went to Bernie to ask if there was an install or if

she just left it, and he said, "That's the backup to the backup now, but there's

some reason it blew. Mainday's still looking for it."

Makes you real confident.

Damn ship's falling apart.

NG still wasn't speaking much by shift-change—as if every word cost him

money—but he was civil, at least, and subdued—the NG who sat the boards, mostly,

just business.

"You got to help me some more," she said to him, "with this stuff with the

boards. Bernie's on me about it."

And he just nodded, nothing really engaged and nothing really to fight with, not

actually looking at her.

She was sure Musa read him just fine, she was sure Musa was mad about NG's

acting up, but NG wasn't going to give either one of them a handle to grab, just

a not-there, don't-care, do-what-you-like.

It made you want to back him up against a wall, that was what it did; but you

couldn't, NG would do about what he'd done with Hughes and his friends, she

reckoned.

So he just wandered on around the rim on his own with them behind him, and he

walked up on the end of the supper-line in rec and didn't speak to anybody,

didn't look at anybody, even when people looked at him to see what kind of mind

he was in.

And she and Musa got in line behind him and he didn't turn around, didn't come

alive at all.

Damn him.

What in hell d'you do with him?

Knock him across the deck if he was on Africa, damn right somebody would.

But he wouldn't've lived, there.

She remembered the flash, the shock, the smell of burned flesh. And the skut

with the grenade.

Remembered guys that just stopped ducking.

Man's bent on suicide. Not even that. He's just left, just gone away. Won't

fight. Won't fight till somebody pushes him.

Dangerous as hell is what he is.

At the boards.

Or anywhere else critical.

"What're they having?" she asked NG. Elbowed him in the back when he ignored

her, and was ready to duck. "Huh?"

He didn't react at first. Then he said, calmly, "Think it's meatloaf."

"Meat, hell," Musa said, "it's got fins."

NG sort of looked at him, she said: "We got to be close to port, it's getting

worse," and NG halfway woke up a little—just was there again.

"Haven't got to the stew yet," he said, "that's the worst."

Like, God help them, NG was trying.

"Stew or that egg-and-ham stuff," Musa said. "Let me tell you, I remember pork

that was a pig."

She remembered, once in her life—eating what used to be warmblooded and walking

around, instead of tank-stuff. She wrinkled her nose, a little queasy. "Had it

once. Flavor's fine. Dunno about the feel of it."

They moved up in line.

"Where'd you get it?" Musa asked. Not suspicious-like. Interested.

"Crewmate got it off this dark-point trade," she said.

That was where Africa had got it, all right, except they hadn't paid for it, out

in the dark between the stars—where ships met in realspace and the carriers had

taken what they wanted.

Blood all over a wall. AP's didn't leave much of a man's middle. First time

she'd been with the boarding-team.

Pork that night. Galley did it up in little pieces for the whole ship's company.

Except you could bet your ass the bridge crew got slices.

The line moved up. "Fish," Musa was saying. "Told you it was fishcake."

NG shrugged. He stood there ahead of her with his hands in his pockets, looking

down again at the floor like he was going away again and she just reached out

and tweaked his sleeve.

"You all right?"

He looked at her very odd for a moment—scared, maybe, worried, but there, thank

God.

"Don't slip on me," she said.

He didn't say anything. He just stared until the line moved and Musa bumped both

of them and got them to close it up.

NG looked back at her a second time, like he was trying to figure something just

outside his reach.

"Hey," she said, "I ain't the enemy, you know."

And that came out funny, kind of a chill going through her gut.

"Go on," somebody yelled from behind, "do it in the locker."

Their turn. They got the meatloaf. Musa did. It was pale, pale gray and it

smelled fishy right past the flavor-stuff and the sauces cookie put on it, it

crunched with bones you tried not to notice.

Tried not to notice the way people kind of looked toward them while they were

eating either, how heads got together and voices were quiet and Hughes was at

the other side of the rec-benches, down at the opposite end—Hughes with a

patched-up mess in the middle of his forehead and a lot of looks their

direction. Hughes and his two mates; and Mel Jason sitting with Kate and a

couple of the other women, all of them with their heads together—

There was a kind of a gap between her and NG and Musa and everybody else—not a

big one, but they were a three-set, no mistaking it, on the end of the

bench—until McKenzie and Park and Figi got through the line and took that spot.

Deliberately.

Man, she thought, looking at McKenzie, I do owe you.

"Hughes isn't happy," McKenzie said for openers, and took a big drink of his

beer.

"Pity," Musa said.

NG was wound tight as a spring. She felt that. "What's he saying?" she asked

Gabe McKenzie.

"Says he'll settle accounts," McKenzie said.

"You're taking a chance, then."

"Yeah," McKenzie said.

She thought about that, thought about what she owed and where, and how NG was

likely to react to company, damn him anyway; but she was about to take the

chance when Musa said, "Got to arrange a get-together, you and us."

Musa having manners and sense, God save him.

"Might," McKenzie said.

"Yeah," she said, and nudged NG with her knee. "All right?"

NG nodded and mumbled, "Fine."

So they got a card-game together at McKenzie's and Park's bunk, the two being

next to each other. They did a little drinking, a little talking—NG and Park

being about equally conversational, but Figi was a card-artist, no question, the

moment you saw him shuffle, and Figi gave a kind of shy grin and proved there

was a real brain in there, the kind that could remember what had turned up in a

deck.

NG wasn't bad at it either, come to find out; and Musa was sharp as you'd expect

when a guy had spent long, long realspace voyages with very little rec aboard.

"You can get skinned in this company," she complained, figuring up it was two

and a half beers she had lost to Figi by now.

"That's how he got so healthy," McKenzie said. "All those beers."

Figi just grinned, and sipped the one he had.

About which time the vid died and the lights came up full in the quarters,

bright as morning, and a voice yelled out, via the intercom:

"Inspection!"

"Good God," McKenzie said in annoyance.

And: "What in hell's that?" Park said. "We ain't touched a port."

"Go immediately to the center aisle where you are. No talking. No delays to

secure materials. If you're drinking or eating, hold it; if you're doing

anything else, leave it. No talking, no discussion, no walking around. Move

now't"

"Shit," NG muttered, and sent a twitch through Bet's nerves.

"Shut up," she hissed, scared for reasons she couldn't exactly pin anything on,

except when NG took a notion to be an ass he could do it up in ribbons, and she

didn't like that attitude. She took her beer and she took herself to the aisle,

leaving everything the way the mofs said, all six of them standing out there.

Musa went on sipping his beer, other people did, so she figured it must be all

right, while the mof search squad came in and started at the other end of the

quarters.

God, when they pulled a check in the troop-deck, you didn't sip any beers, you

swallowed it to keep the ship move-ready, you threw everything loose into the

mesh bag that hung by your bunk, you stood in that aisle at attention and you

didn't think about drinking any beers while the mofs were going through your

stuff and writing down every frigging thing that wasn't inspection-ready, God

help you if you had drugs or unregistered armament in your locker.

People did talk, under their breaths, shifted around a little to do it, where

the mofs weren't right at hand, you could hear the little muttering under the

ship-noise.

Then two more mofs walked in, Orsini and Fitch together.

"Oh, God," somebody said.

She slid a glance toward NG, saw the set of his jaw, saw him take a deliberate

slow drink of the beer he was holding and stare murder in Fitch's direction.

They just stood there, and talk died down entirely in the area.

Fitch was in his own morning rounds and Orsini was on duty during his

rec-period, both, you could figure, because they were searching all the bunks

and all the stuff, what belonged to mainday as well as what belonged to

alterday.

The search had started near the vid, four junior officers she'd never laid eyes

on, but that could include a whole lot of the bridge crew, even those that were

alterday. Bunks got turned up, the storages underneath inspected, everything got

a general lookover, but it went pretty fast.

Hell of a time to start looking for drugs, Park was right. No sense to start

searching now for what they could have brought aboard. Probably some damn thing

had gone missing, maybe they'd lost a bottle or two out of the officers' mess,

maybe the captain had lost his watch or something. Probably was a stolen-goods

check, if they were finally headed into port, to make sure something didn't get

carried offship and bartered for booze. That was probably what was going on.

But it sure as hell made you start tallying up what you had brought aboard and

re-checking the regs in your mind to see if you had anything you weren't

supposed to.

No prohibition on anything she had, she was sure of that: she'd read that list

real careful. And they were already past NG's bunk, thank God, with no problems

evident.

The search got to them, they stood quietly, all six of them, while the mofs

turned up McKenzie's bunk and then Park's and Figi's, and the guys' across the

aisle, and worked all the way down to the bulkhead.

Up to the loft then.

Nothing I got's illegal. Please God.

She sipped her own beer, feeling odd about it, telling herself this ship was

hell and away looser about a whole lot of things. But you couldn't help

worrying—particularly when you knew you had enemies, and particularly when you'd

had the message delivered that same day that some sum-bitch with bridge-level

connections was out to get even.

"Yeager," the intercom called out. "Come to your bunk area."

Oh, shit!

She took, a deep breath and started to excuse herself past, felt somebody pat

her back, another take her arm.

One was Musa, the one who held her arm was NG. She looked at him and gave a

shrug. "Probably the viewer," she said: at the moment she hoped to hell it was.

He let her go, she went and climbed the ladder, and somebody else was coming up

after her, which she had a very clear idea was the two watch-officers. She

didn't look over her shoulder, she walked on to where the four inspectors had

gathered—where her bunk was standing on its side and they had the underneath

storage open to view.

Their sniffer-box was going crazy, the red light was flashing, and a plastic

packet of capsules was lying on top of her stuff, right there in front of God

and everybody.

"This your bunk?" one asked.

"Yessir," she said. "But I didn't put that there."

About the time Orsini and Fitch showed up and the inspection crew said how

they'd found it—of course—in her stowage, and she said, when Orsini asked her

whether she had a prescription, "Nossir, but that's not mine."

"Whose is it?"

"Lindy Hughes', sir. He said he had something for my headache, said he'd leave

it at my bunk."

"You consider going to the pharmacy, Yeager?"

"Didn't know it was prescription, sir, must've got it this morning, he had an

accident, you know, figure he didn't think it was strong enough to worry over."

Orsini took the packet in his fingers. "Remains to be seen if this is

prescription."

"Yessir."

"Find out where Hughes's been," Fitch said.

Wasn't a presence-sniffer they had, then, just a basic job, no way to track

where anybody was—more the pity.

"I'd like to point out, sir, if I was running contraband, I'd do it in a better

container."

"You want me to note that down, Yeager?"

"Yessir. I know the ways stuff gets past. And how it doesn't. Plain plastic bag

isn't going to get past anybody."

"You want to tell us anything else?" Orsini asked.

"Don't mind to take a test, sir. Nothing in my system except the last trank

dose."

Fitch picked up the viewer and shoved a fiche in. He was quiet a moment.

Looking. Then Fitch turned the viewer off and gave her a cold, measuring stare.

"Think you'd better come to Administrative, Yeager."

"Yessir," she said, and went where Fitch and Orsini indicated, back down the

aisle, down the ladder, a couple of steps ahead of them.

There was a gossipy murmuring in the crew. It got quieter in her immediate

vicinity. She saw NG close up, saw him with a panicked look on his face—not

waiting where he was supposed to be, not him, not Musa either, who had a firm

grip on his arm. What NG might do scared her, so she just gave him a straight

I-don't-know-you stare and kept walking to the door, calmly as she could,

because Fitch was there, Fitch was likely to pick up on any communication she

made with anybody and write that into his report.

They got through to the door, they walked out into rec and general com started

calling Lindy Hughes to report to Orsini's office.

That gave her a little satisfaction, at least. If she was going down, if this

was going to start with little questions and get to the ones she didn't want

asked—then it didn't matter as much who had done it as she just wanted to take a

few shots that counted, and take out the ones that did matter.

They had her stop by infirmary and do the tests: she was real glad about

that—"Nothing but the last trank-down in my system," she told the med. "That's

all you're going to find."

"Hope so," Fletcher said.

She was confident about that. She wasn't, about the interview in the office.

Except Bernstein showed up as they were going in, said, "What in hell, Yeager?"

And she said, "Wish I knew, sir,"—figuring that saying more than that right

then, just outside Orsini's office, while Orsini was opening the door to let her

in, was going to annoy him seriously.

Civ procedures. Civ mofs ran all over each other's prerogatives, and talked to

each other in ways that made her nervous, but having Bernstein waiting out there

was a comfort, even if she figured it could set Orsini off.

So she walked in, stood quietly at informal rest while Orsini came in and sat

down at his desk. He pushed a button on the console.

"We're recording."

"Yessir."

"You maintain the pills belong to Hughes."

"I've got every reason to think so, sir."

"Why?"

"Man promised me."

"After his accident with the door."

"Shower head, sir."

"Don't be flip with me."

"Yessir."

"Friend of yours?"

"Nossir, not much. But if he tells me he's going to do something, I won't doubt

him."

Orsini made a note on his TranSlate, looked up under his eyebrows. "You're a

smartass, Yeager."

"Sorry, sir."

"You like Hughes? Got anything personal with him?"

"If he set me up I got something personal with him, yessir, but I haven't had

that proved yet."

"You insist he promised you pills for a headache."

"I stick by what I said, sir."

"You come onto this ship, you pick fights, you create dissension in my watch,

Yeager, you just make trouble all up and down the line, don't you?"

"Nossir. No fighting, sir."

"Lindy Hughes just slipped."

"I was all over soap, sir. Probably he was joking around, I take it that way,

sir."

Another quiet note onto the TranSlate. A shift of black eyes upward again. "God,

I hate smartasses."

Didn't seem the time to say anything. She waited, hands tucked behind her.

"You tell me, Yeager… are you smart, or just smartass?"

"Hope I'm smart, sir."

"You know what they call you on the bridge?"

"Nossir."

"Spit 'n polish.—Shit won't stick to you, is that it?"

"I try not to get into it, sir."

"Smartass again."

"Sorry, sir."

Orsini rocked his chair back, hands folded across his middle, and stared up at

her a long time. "You come on this ship with papers by the grace of your last

captain, you haven't got the rating you claim, have you?"

"Machinist, sir."

Long, long stare of those black eyes. "Hughes make a grab at you?"

She felt the sweat running. "Wouldn't venture to say, sir."

The com beeped. Orsini took it private, using the earpiece, listened while he

watched her.

"Thanks," he said to whoever. And to her: "Headache, is it?"

"Yessir."

"It's not Hughes' prescription. It's 'dust. You know that word?"

Worse than she figured, then. "Yessir."

"You still think it's Hughes."

She thought about that, with Orsini staring up at her and her heart thumping

hard. "I think if that was what he meant he's no friend of mine."

"You ever thought about the diplomatic branch?"

"Nossir." She hated round-the-corner attacks. Orsini was that kind.

"Are you clean?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where do you suppose it came from?"

"Somebody who wanted me in a lot of trouble, sir."

Long silence again.

"Why?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Spit 'n polish, where'd you learn your manners?"

"Lot of ships, sir." She made herself shift weight on her feet, stand easier,

civ-like. "And station militia. Pan-paris."

He might believe it. He might not. He said, one brow lifting: "Militia, was it?"

"Yessir."

"What rank?"

"Specialist."

"In what?"

"Weapons tech, sir."

He thought about.that, rocking his chair. Finally he said, "What kind?"

"Whatever we could get."

Too much truth, in the last years, the losing years. Her pulse skittered and

fluttered while Orsini kept up that gentle rocking.

"You can wait outside."

There was no indication how it was going. No figuring anything with Orsini.

"Yessir," she said, and she went and opened the door.

"Send Hughes in."

Hughes was out there, sitting on the bench along the wall. So was Bernstein out

there, standing talking with Fitch. "Your turn," she said to Hughes.

Hughes got up, scowling as they passed each other, and she sat down on the bench

in Hughes' place, while Bernstein and Fitch went on talking, Bernstein just as

calm and reasonable as if it was the supper menu they were talking about,

instead of NG Ramey.

"… no question," Bernie was saying, to Fitch's objections, "he's steadied down a

lot, no sick-reports, no problems…"

"The man's always the center of something. I'm not surprised to find him in the

middle of whatever's going on." Fitch made a move of his hand and pulled

Bernstein over out of earshot. Voices dropped, Fitch's face stayed angry,

Bernstein's worried.

Had to be coming up on alterdark, thirty minutes or so, and that meant the

alterday evening/maindawn lapover ended. So did Orsini's optional jurisdiction,

unless Orsini planned to stay up around the clock, and small chance Orsini

intended to do that.

Small chance that Bernstein could, counting he had one of his shift under arrest

and NG under consideration for arrest—God knew for what… but Bernie might have

his hands full tomorrow, working the boards himself unless he pulled somebody

off mainday right now and put him back to bed, or unless Orsini was going to let

him work somebody twenty-four hours solid at the boards—

And Fitch was just warming up, just starting to ask questions.

Like about NG.

What in hell can he have done?

God, are they on him because of me?

If they have, if Fitch corners him—God knows what he'll do, he'll go out on

Fitch, he'll do one of those eetee spells with Fitch watching and they'll jerk

him off the boards, they'll lock him up—it'd kill him, it'll finish him—

If he doesn't go for Fitch's throat …

If Fitch doesn't goad him into it…

And Fitch would.

She sat there staring at the wall while a couple of the bridge crew and a

mainday tech on business walked through. She listened to the few words she could

catch from Fitch and Bernstein. Bernstein was looking worried, from what she

could catch out of the corner of her eye; and she reckoned Bernstein didn't even

have the right to stay there, once the curfew rang and the watch passed to

Fitch, Fitch could order him out of it, Fitch could order any damn thing he

wanted with anybody in his way—except maybe Orsini.

Oh, God! let Orsini stay on the case.

Bernstein and Fitch stopped talking. Bernstein just stood there looking upset,

but Fitch walked off a little up the rim and gave some order on his pocket com,

with his back turned, so she couldn't hear what he was saying, or read lips for

it.

Bernstein walked back to her and said: "The packet was 'dust."

"Yessir, I heard."

"They're pulling half of main Engineering, putting them on alterday."

"What are they going to do?" She felt the panic rise and fought it. No use for

the adrenaline rush, nothing to fight, and it sure as hell didn't help a body

think. "They didn't plant anything on NG—"

"Musa's rep is clean, and that's a given. Just keep calm. You've got a witness."

"They arrested NG?"

"He's up for questioning. Just questions."

God. Like someone had hit her in the gut. She couldn't breathe for a second. But

the mind went on working, thinking about him and small spaces, about him and his

temper and Fitch getting him in his office—and she thought about how to stop

that and the answer came up the only way she could sort it out.

"What's the log if I tell Orsini it's mine?"

Bernie frowned, quick and hard; and she thought in the same second that log

wasn't a civ word, and that Bernie hadn't missed it and that Bernie was adding

that up, somewhere in the muddle of everything else going on, Bernie was upset

as hell and ready to kill Hughes with his bare hands.

Because they were in a trap and she should have broken Hughes' damn neck, hell

with the chance of getting caught at it—the chance of Lindy Hughes coming back

at her was a hundred percent, and she'd known that, dammit, known it right in

the gut and she'd pulled back from what she should have done till Gypsy and

Davis and Presley were in on it and everything was too damn late.

So when you screw up you cover it, Bet Yeager. Same as under fire.

"It's a detention offense," Bernstein said, quiet and fast, under the

ship-noise. "If you're lucky. You don't sign off this ship. There isn't any

discharge, you understand me? You've got no priors, you've got a good work

record—but you know what happened to NG—"

"I'll live. I'll get Hughes—someday. I'll pay him."

She was saying that to a mof. But Bernie understood her, Bernie was somebody you

could say that to and Bernie would keep his mouth shut when Hughes had a real

bad accident someday.

"Think I better talk to Orsini," she said, "before curfew goes."

"Dammit," Bernstein said. "Dammit to hell—"

"Yeah," she said, took a deep breath and felt halfway better. "But little spaces

don't spook me." She motioned with her eyes toward the door. "I got to talk to

him. How much time do we got?"

Bernstein did a fast, covert check of his watch. "Three minutes."

"God!"

Bernstein went to the office door, hesitated a bare half-second.

"Mr. Bernstein," Fitch said from behind them.

Bernstein pushed the button.

Door was locked. Sure as hell.

"Mr. Bernstein."

As the bell rang.

Stupid as hell, she thought. Power games at the top of the whole damn command.

But it was valid, it was past alterday's shift, and Bernie looked Fitch's

direction the way he had to and said with a deliberate slowness, "Yes, Mr.

Fitch."

"Yeager," Fitch said, and invited her with a move of his hand. You didn't say

no. Even Bernstein couldn't—twice over Bernstein couldn't do anything with

Orsini refusing to open his door and armed Security a little way down the

corridor just watching everything that happened—two of them, probably Fitch's

own pick of the docks. Or wherever.

Probably Orsini thought it was Fitch at his door, and Orsini wasn't about to

unlock and talk. More damn power games between the watch officers, No word from

Wolfe, the whole command busy with its own politics and a skuz like Hughes had

favor-points with the tekkie sum-bitch bridge officer he was probably in bed

with, enough to get away with murder.

Or Fitch had been hunting something on Bernstein himself for a long, long time,

and everything else was just Fitch's way of getting the leverage.

So she said, mildly, "Yessir," got up from the bench and went where Fitch

indicated, trusting Bernie to do as much as he could.

Fitch's office, it happened, being the next over.

CHAPTER 19

« ^ »

Wasn't mine, sir," she said, one more time through the drill.

"Are you thinking I'm a fool?" Fitch asked.

"I'd never think so, sir."

"Seems to me you do, seems to me you think everybody on this ship must be fools.

I pulled you out of the fuckin' brig, Yeager, I signed you on this ship, and you

haven't been a fuckin' thing but a pain in the ass, you know that"!

"I don't think so, sir."

"You don't think so, you don't fuckin' think so! You're calling me a liar,

Yeager. Are you calling me a liar?"

"I don't admit the charges, sir."

They were recording, she was sure; and if they were they weren't going to get a

damned thing Fitch could edit into something else.

And maybe Fitch was just crazy or maybe he was better in control than he looked

and he was trying to get her to react. He left his desk, he prowled the office

while he yelled at her, he bent down and he yelled in her face.

She thought, Better than you have tried, and she retreated into null-mode, just

the same as standing at attention with old Junker Phillips yelling at you, just

focus on the questions and keep twisting right back to your basic position, no

matter where the son of a bitch tried to lead you. If you didn't say anything

different they couldn't get anywhere, and they got mad and then they got bored

and then they just logged you what they could and gave up and maybe eventually

forgot about it.

Yessir, nossir, nossir, I don't admit the charges.

And if the son of a bitch couldn't scare you he might want you to hit him; might

just push you far enough that you could, if you were a fool, but you weren't, so

you didn't.

Nossir.

Keep at it all day if you want, mof. Keep at it till shift-change and Orsini's

watch starts. I got the time.

At least NG's not in here.

"You hear me?"

"Yessir."

Fitch grabbed the front of her jumpsuit and jerked her hard, and she just gave

with it, just went limp.

"Gave you a chance. Hauled you out of one brig and here you are trying to get in

another. Hauled you out of there and you were carrying contraband. Weren't you?"

"Nossir."

She figured Fitch would hit her. He jerked her hard, leaned into her face and

said, "I have other sources, Yeager, I know where the trouble comes from on this

ship and I know where to go when something's wrong and nobody in lowerdecks

wants to talk."

Man's crazy, man's absolute crazy, she thought; and thought, He's talking about

NG.

"You want to think it over?" Fitch asked her. "You want to think about it?" He

jerked her up to her feet, pulled her off balance and she didn't do the natural

thing, didn't grab at him or hit him, just got her feet under her and bashed her

leg against the transit-braced chair. He hit her, jerked her and hit her along

the side of the head.

Won't show, she thought while her brain was ringing. Bruises won't show there.

So she brought her knee up.

He hit her, about twice before she went flying backward into the wall and hit it

full length, thought she was going to stand up, but she bounced off it and the

floor came up.

Hazy for a second, then. She moved to tuck up and protect herself, and she had a

view of Fitch's boots, figuring he was mad enough to kick hell out of her.

Plenty of bruises, damn sure.

"Get up," he said. She lay there, he grabbed her and jerked her up by the collar

and hauled her for her feet.

She stared him in the eyes, thinking, Got you, you sum-bitch.

Got you, if you got any regs on this ship.

He pulled her over to the chair, he sat her down, he went over and set his rump

on the corner of his desk, just looking at her.

She sucked the cut lip and kept staring at him.

"You're asking for it," Fitch said.

She didn't say a thing.

"Catch your breath," Fitch said calmly. "You want a drink?"

"Nossir."

Fitch cut the recorder off, ran it back a minute or so.

Didn't restart it. And she worried then.

"I keep the records," Fitch said. "See what smart gets you? Come onto this ship,

go right for the troublemakers—You've been damned useful, Yeager. You think

you're smart. But I don't need a thing out of you—now we're off the record. I

just need you to exist. Bitch."

She figured she was in for it, then, figured Fitch had plain revenge in mind and

a whole lot of things could have been a bad mistake.

"Now," Fitch said, "I want you to think about something. I want you to think how

you can save your own ass, because this is the chance you've got. I want you to

think about how you can go on being useful to me, and I'm going to help you

think about that, you hear me?"

"Yessir."

Damn! No simple son of a bitch…

Going to hurt for this one, Yeager…

So you lie. But what's he want? ,

"All you have to do is get along with me."

"Yessir."

He got off the edge of the desk, he came and took hold of her the way he had and

she flinched, mad that she did that, but the nerves remembered, the body wanted

to protect itself and if you did that they'd space you sure.

He slapped her across the face, once, twice, three times, and he stopped, but he

was still holding onto her and her bones hurt and her ears rang and her vision

fuzzed… and hit her the way he could, and her obliged to take it…

He shook her, one neck-popping snap. "You want more?"

"Nossir."

"Those drugs yours?"

"Nossir."

He hit her again. "Are you any use to me?"

"Dunno, sir." Talking made a bubbling feeling, now. Blood, maybe. "I try."

Fitch said, "How's that?"

"Try, sir. Real cooperative."

"I think you're lying, Yeager. Would you lie to me?"

"Nossir."

The grip on her clothes let up. She tensed up, expecting a sneak blow, but he

let her sit there.

"You want your friends to be all right, is that right?"

"Yessir."

"There's a washroom back there. You go clean up. Then you can go."

She stared at him.

"You understand me," Fitch said. "Report on the drugs is inconclusive.—I sure as

hell better not catch you in any more trouble, Yeager. You or your friends, you

hear me?"

"Yessir," she said. She got up, the way he said, wobbling, she managed to focus

enough to see the door, and she went back into the cubby with the sink and

toilet and turned on the cold water. The mirror showed a face better than she

expected, the blood from her nose and mouth went with a couple of handfuls of

cold water. The red on the sides of her face didn't.

She blotted dry with the towel, she looked up and Fitch was mirrored in the

doorway.

Her gut clenched up. She couldn't help it, and couldn't help it when she had to

turn around and face him, and pass him when he moved back ever so little to let

her brush past him.—Dammit, she knew what he was doing, wasn't half surprised

when he put a light hand on her shoulder, enough to make her stomach heave.

"You do better in future," he said. "And we'll get along just fine. Hear?"

"Yessir."

He motioned her toward the door. She went, opened it herself, .walked out into a

vacant corridor. The cold of the water was going. Her bones ached, her vision

still kept blurring, and she had to walk around the rim and get some rest and

get up, she supposed, at alterdawn—back on duty; but she realized numbly that

she had no idea where NG and Musa were, or what had happened to them or whether

NG was next in Fitch's office.

She grayed out for a second, found herself in rec, walking up to the quarters

door, got just about that far before she got dizzy and had to hang there a

second. Then she shoved off and walked into the dark, past sleeping crewmates,

down as far as Musa's bunk and NG's, and they were both empty.

God.

She had to sit. She picked Musa's bunk, and sat down and after a moment lay

down, in the idea that if either of them came back the way she had, they'd come

here, and she didn't think she could make the loft, she was too dizzy and too

sick.

The dizziness got better after a few minutes of lying down. But the fear didn't.

Exactly what Fitch had done to NG.

Exactly.

Except it could get worse. Except you toed the line with Fitch or he'd see you

had accidents, and he had his hand-picked skuz aboard to see you got up on

charges—no damn wonder Hughes and his bridge connections were so solid—

Goddard. Goddard, over nav, Hughes' operator.

Friend of Fitch's.

Fitch picked the personnel.

Got himself a skut who carved up two people on Thule, just out of the goodness

of his heart and his faith in humanity hauled her aboard and let her loose—

Like hell.

Like hell Fitch didn't run this ship…

Or intend to.

Bernstein had to be a pain in the ass to him. Bernstein had been on mainday

until he got a bellyful of Fitch and transferred to alterday—

—like anybody else who could manage it.

Alterday was where you went if you couldn't get along with Fitch and you had a

little pull—like Bernie had gotten NG and Musa to his shift; or you got there by

being Fitch's hand-picked damn spies—

—like Lindy Hughes. Should've killed that skuz.

Will.

Except—the facts were real clear now, what the real rules were on this ship—that

meant you went head to head with Fitch, and that meant—

Fitch had just given her a preview of what it meant.

And Fitch had NG in there by now, another locker-door accident, that was all. A

lot more valuable alive—

You didn't make martyrs, you just beat hell out of 'em and you turned 'em back

into the 'decks to start the rest of the campaign—

—like little accidents to your stuff, and then little accidents to you, so you

knew if you fought back you were going to be in Fitch's office, and maybe in the

brig when the ship went jump—

—like little accidents to your friends. And your 'friends' would pull off and

leave trouble alone, if they were smart.

Or just human.

You always gave your enemies an out, right in the direction you wanted 'em to

go. That was what the Old Man used to say. That was what Fitch was doing. And he

shouldn't make her scared, old Phillips had belted her across a hallway once;

but Junker Phillips wasn't trying to kill you, he was just trying to keep you

alive.

Fitch was trying to kill you. Or Fitch was trying to break you. And those were

the two choices you had. Crew like this had to have an example. Like NG.

But NG was too crazy to break and too valuable to kill.

Not when NG was a way to Bernstein's gut.

And Fitch didn't damn well need her now—except as another way to put the screws

to NG.

Who wasn't as crazy as seemed, not half as crazy as seemed, if he was still

alive and Bernstein was.

Man named Cassell wasn't.

Man named Cassell had had a fatal accident. In Engineering.

And NG Ramey took the shit for it.

Cassell had been a friend of NG's. And Bernstein's.

She found her hands in fists, tasted blood and swallowed it; and knew if Fitch

so much as stopped her in the corridor after this she was going to be shaking

head to foot.

Shake like hell suiting up, she thought, flashing on what it felt like, with

your body cased in ceramics, with the servos whining when you moved and the

pressure of the bands on your body that told the suit what the body wanted. And

the damn servos got confused as hell if you started shaking and everybody knew

it, because they stuttered and chattered—

Embarrassing as hell. So you developed a sense of humor about it, since you did

it every damn time—

Adrenaline charge. Stutter and rattle.

Smell of oil and metal and plastics. Human sweat and your own breath inside the

helmet.

You were machine, then. Human gut inside a human-shaped machine. And it took a

damn lucky shot to damage you.

Sure missed that rig, sometimes. Sure hated to leave it, in that corridor on

Pell.

Shakes stopped after you got going. Servos smoothed out and you floated, like

nothing was effort, and nothing could stop you.

But armor's got no thinking brain, armor's got no guts.—That's you, skut, you're

the Operating System. It'll walk after you're dead, but it don't fight worth

shit in that condition. You're the brain and the guts. Remember it.

Damn right, Junker Phillips.

Somebody bumped the bed. She woke up with her heart thumping, knew right off

that she was in quarters, and in Musa's bunk, waiting on her mates, and that

there were two men, shadowed against the night-glow, one with Musa's shape and

Musa's smell, and one with NG's, touching her, gathering her up when she tried

to move, hugging her so everything hurt.

"I'm all right," she said. "You?"

"Fine," NG said, or something like that, and she just held onto them a while,

not caring that it hurt. NG felt over her face, and the way his fingers stopped

at her lip and her right cheek, and the way the spots were both sore and a

little numb from swelling she got a mental picture the same as he had to, what

she had to look like.

He didn't say a thing. And NG was dangerous when he didn't.

She grabbed his hand. Hard. "You listen to me," she whispered. "You listen good.

Not going to talk, here. But craziness is what Fitch wants. Hear me?"

NG didn't say anything. He tensed his hand just enough to keep the bones from

grinding.

"Going to bed," Musa said, putting a hand on her back, giving her a little

shove. "His bunk. Hear?"

"Yeah," she said, feeling a little tightness in the throat. She leaned over and

pressed her mouth against Musa's stubbled cheek. "Love you," she said. "Love

you, man."

Musa shoved her again, and she crawled out after NG, to follow him.

NG grabbed her and held her at arm's length. "He'll kill you," NG hissed at her.

"He'll kill you, you understand me?"

She wobbled on her feet and hung onto him and left him nothing to do with her

but get her to his bed, and get in with her, and hold onto her, clothes and all.

"I got him figured," she said into his ear, fainter than anything was likely to

pick it up. But you never knew. Fitch could even bug the damn pillow. She

wrapped a leg over him, snuggled body against body until they fit together,

which was the only way to be comfortable sleeping double in a bunk. Her back

hurt. Her head was pounding. She said, wishing Fitch could hear, "I seen skuz

before. Nothing new. Shush, they could have bugs in bed with us." She moved

against him, gentle as she could, figuring he could have sore spots too, and

that was one of them. But he didn't seem hurt, didn't seem interested that way

either, he just kissed her face and made that kind of love to her, just real

gentle, real careful, not even sex, but she liked it.

Liked it and found herself scared the way she'd never been scared for anybody in

her life. You served with guys, you knew people got killed, and partners did,

like Teo, sometimes real hard ways. But none of them she had lost had been her

fault, and none of them had ever had to risk what NG was risking for her.

She drowsed what felt like a few minutes before the morning bell went off,

before it was time to move and go up and get a change of clothes, and face

stares at her face and hear the whispers behind her back.

Face NG and Musa too, with the lights on. "Pretty bad?" she asked them: Musa

grimaced and shook his head, and NG said, "Damn him to hell."

She had to face Lindy Hughes, too, and Presley and Gibbs, who gave her dark

stares and snickered about her looks.

"Hey, Yeager," Hughes yelled out, "your man been beating on you?"

"Hell, no," she yelled back, "Fitch did. Wanted me to kiss his boots for him.

Which end did he make you kiss?"

Real quiet in the quarters, just then. A lot of stares.

"You got a mouth, bitch."

"You're all mouth, skuz. You dropped the drugs in my bunk. Or one of your skutty

friends did. Funny thing, I thought I smelled you up there."

Deathly quiet.

"You'll get yours, bitch."

"Yeah, from the back. Same as you got NG. Tried it on me in the showers and you

got your head busted, didn't you? Damn shower-crawling skuz. Looking up the

stalls. That the only thing that does it for you?"

Nasty cut on Hughes' forehead. And one eye was turning black. Didn't improve his

looks any at all.

A few people were walking around, going to showers, trying to ignore the

shouting match.

But one of the bystanders was Gabe McKenzie, who shouldered past the gawkers and

came and stood by her and NG and Musa with his hands in his pockets.

And another was Gypsy Muller, who strolled into the middle and said, "You got

what you deserved, Hughes. Swallow it and choke."

Park and Figi came in, then, right beside Gabe McKenzie, and then Meech and

Rossi; and Moon and Zilner, Gypsy's mates, and then, God, one of the women, Kate

Williams, out of Cargo, just planted herself at the edge and stood there with

her arms folded.

Nobody was moving now. Until Hughes said, "Fuck you," under his breath, shoved

one and the other of his mates into motion and walked out.

"Good riddance," McKenzie said.

Not Fitch's plan. Damn sure.

There were new faces in the quarters, Freeman and Walden and Battista and Slovak

from mainday Engineering, Weider and Keene, too, she recognized them on the

fringes of the commotion. She saw everybody staring at her and her mates and

McKenzie and his, and everything still real quiet, so quiet you could hear the

rumble of the ship.

"Sorry," she said, to everybody in general, "damn sorry. I hate a fight."

It was like the whole quarters drew a breath then. People moved. People

discovered they were behind schedule and the shower-line wasn't full.

"Thanks," she said to a few in particular, and then she found herself with a

slight case of the shakes. "Damn!"

"Time we got rid of that skuz," Park said.

Bad news for a man when people on his watch got that opinion of him. Hughes had

to figure it, Hughes wasn't stupid, at least not in that department.

"Hell of a mess," Gabe McKenzie said, looking at her. She put a knuckle to her

cheek, which was so swollen it pulled the eyelid.

"Yeah," she said, and figured he meant her face. She was cold sober for a second

and scared… and that wasn't the mess she was thinking of.

"He's likely headed straight for Fitch," Musa said, "and he won't even stop for

breakfast."

You couldn't stand in the middle of the quarters and yell out warnings about the

mofs. The regs had a name for that kind of activity, and you didn't want to be

the ringleader. But she wanted it passed, and there were people enough in the

circle who would spread it fast. "If they got the quarters bugged," she said,

looking down at the deck and muttering, -"he's already onto it."

They hadn't thought. They hadn't expected. There were traditions and there were

rights and even with all the evidence of what was going on the crew hadn't

thought of that—not even Musa had, and he was damned sharp.

"I got to talk," she said, "but not here and not now."

And after showers, out in rec in the fast-moving breakfast line, where the noise

made specific pickup a lot less likely, she got NG and Musa up close and said,

"Listen. Listen fast. Hughes isn't what's going on last night. It may have been.

But it's Fitch now. I think he's trying to make a blow-up, and not just with

us."

"Bernie?" Musa wasn't slow at all.

"I think it is. He wants one of us to blow up, NG, you hear me? I pushed Hughes

and I pushed Fitch some last night, and he's pushing me, trying to spook me,

same as he tries to spook you. What'd he do last night?"

NG hesitated, his mouth not working real well; Musa said, "Called us in for

questions. Kept us sitting in Ops for a couple hours. Asked questions."

"You and him together?" She hoped to hell it was together, that Fitch hadn't put

all the pressure on he could.

NG nodded. Musa did, and she drew an easier breath.

"So I'm supposed to spook," she said, "and he's not going to lay a hand on you,

he wants you to blow and do something stupid, and then Bernie might."

Musa's eyes went thinking-sharp on that. NG said, a ragged, hoarse whisper:

"He'll put you in that damn locker, Bet, that's the next step…"

She felt a chill, knew he was flashing on that place, that time, knew McKenzie

behind them and Williams in front of them had to be hearing it, even if some bug

wasn't. "I know that. Know it real clear. But we got no choice, Fitch isn't

going to give us a choice, we just got to keep our heads clear. He could grab

any one of us. He can do it any time he can set us up, and that pressures

Bernie, you hear? Skuts like us don't matter topside, you and me don't cross

Fitch's mind one day out of thirty, it's a Bernie-Fitch fight going on, I don't

know a damn thing else, but I pick that up real clear. Some of alterday bridge

crew has got to be transferees like Bernie, them that want clear of Fitch;

others has got to be Fitch's pets. Same as the 'decks. Hear? And Lindy Hughes is

on the way out of here, but if Fitch doesn't own anybody down here now, he's

going to find somebody he can spook or buy. Isn't he?"

They didn't say anything, they were thinking; Williams snatched up her biscuit

and tea and it was their turn, over against the wall to gulp a few bites and put

things together.

"He's fouling up Engineering," Musa said, "hauling in people off their

shift—messing up Bernie's operations, forced transfers into his shift—but not

us. Mad people, lot of heat and no outlet."

"We got to be nice to them," she said, and washed down a fast gulp of breakfast,

hot tea stinging her lip. She nudged NG with her elbow. "We got to be 'specially

nice. Even if they get skutty with us—they been put upon, seriously put upon,

and we got to make things easy as we can."

"They got an earful," Musa said, "and they may've come in mad, but there's no

fools in that bunch. They got contacts back into mainday. I got to talk to

Freeman."

NG nodded, calmer now. He had pocketed his biscuit, was only drinking his

tea—upset stomach, she thought, no appetite; but he was following everything,

she was sure of it. And sure of him, in spite of the fact his hands were

shaking.

"I got two fast questions else," she said. "Where's Orsini this morning and

where's the captain last night?"

"Good question," Musa said after a breath.

"What in hell does Wolfe do on this ship? Does Fitch run everything?"

Scary question, possibly a mutinous question. And she thought about the chance

of it getting past the three of them.

Musa said, in the lowest possible voice, "He ain't a real activist."

"Shit!" she whispered, disgusted, irritated, and, God! missing Africa. Porey

might be a bastard and a bitch, but you never had any doubt somebody was in

charge up there.

Scary, to know what was going on in Loki command; and she tried to put it

together with the slight, cold man she had met, once, in the downside office.

Not a stupid man. Not a man who'd cower in his cabin. Not a man who'd give a

damn about shooting you in cold blood, either.

Damn good captain, at least as far as keeping a ship like Loki alive through the

war years. But you didn't know how many sides he'd played, or even what side he

was playing now.

Spook ship captain and a spook top to bottom, evidently, and she didn't like it.

It was real odd not to be the only ones headed into Engineering—Freeman and

Walden and Battista and the rest headed around the rim in the direction opposite

to what they were usually going, and checking in with Liu and her crew under

Smith—Liu with dark looks and a sullen, short manner, and Mr. Smith a little

down in the mouth, over talking with Bernstein like most mornings.

But Bernstein saw them check in and came straight over, mad and upset even

before he got a look at the damage.

"Damn," Bernstein said then.

"Little argument with a wall," Bet said. "Can I talk with you, sir? Private?"

"Five minutes," Bernstein said, and went back to Smith to settle something,

while they sorted themselves out and Musa got Freeman and Battista and the rest

of the transfers over in the corner. Fast, hard talking was going on over there.

And NG… NG just put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed ever so gently.

"Don't you think about anything stupid," she said. "Hear me?"

Because he was capable of it, capable of just walking into Fitch's office and

killing him. She thought about the same thing, if it got down to being shoved in

any locker with no trank. Take out the main problem and leave the ship to

Orsini. There was a chance for everybody with Orsini.

And you could start figuring like that, if you were good as dead already.

"Hear me?"

He nodded, made a struggling little noise like a yes, as if everything in him

was so dammed up that nothing could get out, and he didn't know how to talk to

people anymore without being crazy.

"Team-play," she said. He got a breath and nodded as if he meant it, then

grabbed up his data-board and went off to do his work. Alone. Like always.

"Sir," she said, when Bernstein got back to her and they got off in the corner,

"has Fitch got something in for you?"

It wasn't what Bernstein had looked to hear. It was impertinent, and maybe it

wasn't information he wanted to hand out to whoever asked.

"He indicate that?"

"I just got this feeling," she said.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Hauled me in, asked me about the drugs, knocked me around and let me go. And I

got this bad feeling it's not finished. I got this feeling it didn't have a damn

thing to do with Hughes. I get this feeling," she said on a deep breath, "he's

got it in for this shift, and it's not NG.—And I don't ask to know, except to

tell you that's what we think, and we're watching out for it.—I tell you another

thing, sir—it's no secret in quarters what happened last night and there's a lot

who don't like Hughes, and a lot I don't think like Mr. Fitch very damn much,

sir. Begging your pardon, but a lot of people don't think we got fair shift and

they think crew's being pushed."

Bernstein was upset. Not mad. Upset. Finally he said, "Musa keeps me updated."

Not surprising, no.

"You being a fool, Yeager?"

"Nossir."

Bernstein passed a hand over the back of his neck. "The lid needs to stay on."

"Yessir," she said, "you want it, you got it."

He gave her a long, long stare then. "Where'd they get you?"

"Sir?"

"Spit 'n polish. Where'd they get you?"

"Thule, sir." Her heart started thumping, painfully hard. "You know that."

"One of Fitch's picks."

"I signed with the captain, sir, at least, I asked him for a berth."

"Fitch picked you out of the station brig."

"Got arrested after I talked to the captain. I had some trouble on Thule. I'm

not in the habit of knifing people, sir."

"Knifing people. That's not what I hear."

"Man asked for it, sir."

"Asked for what you did?"

There was a lot of the upstanding merchanter in Bernstein. A lot of

sensibilities. Like Nan and Ely, back on Thule. She tried to put that in

perspective, tried to see how a man like Bernie would even think, if she told

him what Ritterman was.

"Yessir," she said, and stopped it there. "He did."

Bernstein was quiet a few seconds. Then he said, "Must've. Must've. So the

captain signed you. Personally."

"Yessir," she said, puzzled because it puzzled Bernstein. "At least verbal. I

ran into Mr. Fitch first out of the ship, I says, is there a berth? See the

captain, he says. So I came aboard and I saw him and he said report. But they

arrested me first."

Bernstein rested his thumbs in his waist-loops, looked at the deck a moment,

then at her. "And Fitch came after you."

"Yessir." She felt more and more cornered, wondered if she ought to explain more

than she had, or whether that could only make it worse. "Got picked up on one

charge and they pulled a search and they found this guy…"

Bernstein wasn't paying attention to that, she realized. It wasn't her record

and the murder, it was the Fitch connection Bernstein was worrying about, and

who she was working for, even this deep in—especially this deep in, and this

close to him. She shut up and waited for him to think everything out.

"You just be real smart," he said finally. "You tell me the truth, the whole

truth. Are you Mallory's?"

That caught her so far to the flank her jaw dropped. "Nossir."

"Orsini wondered."

She felt herself shaking and trying not to show it, not to let a wobble into her

voice. "This ship got some trouble with Mallory?"

"Orsini just wondered. Pan-paris militia, huh?"

"Yessir."

"You lying to me, Yeager?"

"Nossir." While the sweat ran on her chest and the air seemed thin and cold. "I

been around a bit. I guess the habits just took."

"I think you are lying."

She stood looking Bernstein in the eye, desperate and thinking that there was no

way back from what he was asking. If he spooked, she was dead, that was all.

"Africa," she said then, dry-mouthed. "Africa, sir. Separated from my ship at

Pell."

Finally he said. "Crew?"

"Marine, sir."

The silence hung there.

"I don't mean anything against this ship," she said. "Truth, I just wanted off

the stations." And in the long further silence: "I give you everything I got.

You're a good officer. And you asked and I told you. All I know to do now, sir."

"Anybody else you've told?"

"Nossir."

Bernstein rubbed the back of his neck. Shook his head. Looked at her finally,

sidelong. "You take orders?"

"Yessir. I take yours."

"Did you hit Fitch?"

"Just shook him up. Thought he'd leave some marks. Only defense I got, sir, let

people know what he's doing, only thing I could think of, maybe to get it on

record what he's doing. Dunno whether that was smart or not."

"It was smart," Bernstein said, "so far as it goes. Where it goes next… Dammit,

be careful, Yeager. Be damned careful."

She drew a deep breath. "Yessir. I got that straight. All of us.—But there's

others taking our side in this Hughes business. McKenzie and his shift.

Williams. Gypsy Muller and his mates. Nobody in quarters is standing with Hughes

now. So we got that, sir."

Bernstein digested that piece of news for a second. Then: "You check in with

medical at all?"

"Nossir."

"Get the hell over there."

"I can—"

"Documentation."

"Yessir," she said, having it clear, then. "But what do I tell them happened?"

"Tell 'em the locker door that got NG got you. Musa and Freeman can walk you

over. Keep you with witnesses."

"Musa—" she protested.

"NG's on duty, he's not going anywhere. I don't want you getting stopped."

"Yessir," she said, on a breath. "Thank you, sir."

But she was scared, deep down, about going to the meds, about leaving the

situation with NG. She thought of a dozen things that could go wrong or get out

of hand, the kind of superstitious unease that jump set into her. You left

things at loose ends and they came back and got you, in ways you never planned.

Chance always got you. And if you left any string untied, it happened.

She stopped like a coward and looked back at Bernstein, wanting—God knew—to ask

him what he thought, wanting reassurances. But that wasn't the most important

thing. Bernstein outright deciding he couldn't trust her wasn't the worst thing

that could happen.

Worst was the irrational stuff, the kind that went wrong just because you

trusted it—and it killed you.

"Sir—what I told you about me… I don't think NG'd feel at all comfortable to

know that."

"I don't think so either," Bernie said.

CHAPTER 20

« ^ »

They walked past the lockers, around the curve to rec, where alterday's

breakfast was cleared away and mainday was having evening beers. "Just keep

moving," Musa said, when they started through.

Damn right, Bet thought, conscious of her face and the reason for the stares.

God, there was Liu-the-bitch, with Pearce, the senior Systems man, Freeman's

yesterday mates—Liu and Pearce stared, Musa waved a hello and kept going, and

Freeman undoubtedly looked back—a man had to, when he had to walk by his former

mates on alterday's duty, and miss the beers and the talk, the bed-sharing and

the partnering and everything else the situation had yanked away from

Engineering's mainday shift.

Like being kidnapped and raped in the bargain, it was, and small wonder if Liu

and Pearce didn't look exactly cheerful seeing them kiting past on Bernstein's

affairs.

Not a happy crew back there, not happy looks that came their way—mainday had

been messed with, Engineering was far and away the largest command in the

'decks, and if mates had been transferred, if Mr. Smith was unhappy and Mr.

Fitch was pissed, then it wasn't going to be a happy crew for some little while.

Freeman, poor sod, looked like he was bleeding a little; and she wished she

could say she was sorry, but she didn't think Freeman wanted to hear it from

her, most of all.

"Locker door, huh?"

"Yes'm," she said to Fletcher, while Musa and Freeman waited outside and she was

sitting buck-naked on the surgery table letting Fletcher shine light in her eyes

and look in her ears for blood or such.

"Not concussed, I think," Bet murmured, wanting the exam over and her clothes

back. The surgery was cold and Fletcher's hands felt colder. "I had that before.

Doesn't feel like it."

"Happens you're right," Fletcher said, turning the light out, flipping the

little scope other-end-to. Fletcher put a steadying hand on her shoulder.

And jabbed her in the back with the scope. Bet straightened up and swallowed

down a damn! with a gulp of air, because breakfast nearly came up and her eyes

watered.

"Just fine, aren't you?"

"Thing was cold," she said. With the cabinets and the counters shimmering

through the water in her eyes and her nerves still jerking. Fletcher ran the

probe lightly up and down her back.

"Should have been in here last night," Fletcher said. "I take it that's when

this happened."

"Yes, ma'a—" Stars exploded. Her breath went short. "—'am. Did."

God, she was going to pass out.

"So you went to sleep on it. Who with?"

"I just went to bed."

"Alone?" Fingers ran over the sore spots. "Hell, you couldn't come by after it

happened. You have to wait and call me out of my rec time…"

"I'm sorry."

"You ought to be." Fletcher went over to the cabinet, looked at the scan-images

again, made notes with lines going to this part and that, then started searching

the shelves, in that way that inevitably meant medicine. Hopeful sign.

Prescriptions meant there was a pill to fix it.

Fletcher said, "Must've been just after I saw you last night."

"Yes'm."

"When?"

She didn't like that kind of question. Documentation, Bernie had said. It was a

damn Q & A about what kind of story she was spreading about Fitch, that was what

it was turning into, and she wanted off the edge of the table, wanted to get her

feet on the floor and take the strain off her back. Most of all she wanted to

get to Musa outside and get back to Engineering, where, God knew, if somebody

called Bernstein out to the bridge or somewhere, NG was all alone with a half

dozen mad as hell transfers.

Fletcher found what she wanted and picked up a hypo. Popped the cylinder in.

"I don't need any shot," Bet said. She thought about Fitch, about maybe Fletcher

putting her out, Fletcher working with Fitch—

You signed on a ship and you were subject to the meds, that was the way it was.

Like God. You got walked into sickbay for a simple lookover and a pill and not

even Bernstein could keep Fletcher from giving her that damn hypo…

Fletcher knew it, of course. "I'll do the prescribing, Ms. Yeager. And that

means following orders. No core-crawling for the next couple of weeks. No

deck-mopping. No bending work. No lifting. That's an order. I'm writing it on

your record."

After which Fletcher shot her first in the shoulder, then in three

excruciatingly painful spots in the back, and told her, while she was close to

throwing up, that she was going to check her into sickbay for forty-eight hours.

God!

"I got duty—"

"You've got a strained back, is what you've got, Ms. Yeager, not mentioning the

bruises."

"Ma'am, I've got orders, I can sit station. The department's short, we've got

new transfers—"

Fletcher turned her back-and searched the drug cabinet again.

God, maybe she was in with Fitch.

"Dr. Fletcher, I swear to you, I don't need any sickbay.—Look, look, I'll sit.

Won't walk around at all."

Fletcher unwrapped a packet and started making notes of some kind. "All right,

I'll make a deal with you. None of the things I named. No using the arms. Sit

and watch, period, or I'll put you in here and I'll trank you down and see you

rest."

"Yes'm," she said.

Documentation, hell. God, Bernie, what did you do to me?

But, shit, any damn thing could go on if I get stuck in sickbay, NG's back there

alone with those guys, and in quarters, all it takes is somebody distracting

Musa, Musa turning his head, NG just getting out of sight half a minute, near

Hughes or his friends—

Showers or somewhere—

"Your drug test was negative," Fletcher said, handing her two different pills

and a cup of water. And after she had swallowed them: "It won't be now. Hear

me?"

She stared at Fletcher a moment, replaying that, trying to figure out what

Fletcher was telling her, whether it was a setup or a rescue—

No way in hell they could get a valid drug test now—in case there was any reason

to try again…

"You steady enough?"

"Yes'm." She hauled herself off the table, determined not to flinch, and started

pulling her clothes on, fast, because the jolt started a sweat, and she was

afraid Fletcher was going to take that for an excuse to hold her after all.

Just get me the hell out of here—

Scan. Reading the scan. Hypos. Pills. The longer this took, the longer Musa was

standing out there in the hall.

And the longer Bernie and NG had no help.

Fletcher gave her a paper and two packs of pills. "You stay out of trouble,"

Fletcher said. "Follow directions. You've got a written order there, exempts you

from certain duties. Carry it. Call me if the pain gets worse. And don't ignore

it, dammit."

"Yes'm."

"One of those pill-packs is NG's. Fool didn't pick up his refill. Make sure he

stays on it. Hear?"

Fletcher was one of the friendlies, she suddenly knew that. She suddenly knew

what Fletcher was doing with her papers and her shots and her pills and she

suddenly knew why NG might not have been a useful target in any trumped-up

drug-search.

"Yes, ma'am," she said.

Fletcher didn't say anything, Fletcher just dismissed her with a back-handed

wave of the hand and kept writing.

Go. Be smart. Keep your head down.

Damn right, she thought, and she went, light-headed with relief, out into the

corridor to pick up Musa and Freeman.

Not just Musa and Freeman.

Liu was out there.

Bet stopped cold, off-balance and thinking, Oh, God…

"All right?" Musa asked her.

"Gave me some pills," she said, clutching the packets and the paper Fletcher had

given her, while the corridor went tilted and her head floated. Liu, senior

mainday, gave her a head-to-foot sidelong stare and said to Musa, finishing

something or another: "Much as we can, anyway."

Secrets. The whole corridor drifted and steadied on Liu's sullen face, before

Musa took her by the arm and steered her down-rim toward the galley-section.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"It's all right," Musa said, and let her go at the step-up, where the deck

narrowed.

Through the galley-cylinder to rec, in among others, not fast, just walking.

Liu was behind them until then, Liu dropped off at the galley counter and

Freeman stayed with her a second, then caught them up again.

Place smelled of beer, the quarters had that same damned vid playing again, she

could lip-synch the words. It could have been alterday rec, you could expect

McKenzie and Gypsy and the rest to be here, but they were all the wrong faces,

the faces that arrived in the morning and left in the evening, they were the

bodies that just filled the beds during alterday, and they were standing,

watching, conversation fallen off in this uncanny quiet.

Maybe it was just Fletcher's damned pill that made things seem so unnatural and

so dangerous. Maybe it was the shots that still hurt and made her a little sick

and shocked.

Maybe everybody was looking at her and her company, and the rumor had gotten to

mainday that there was the fool that had taken on Fitch and made all the

trouble.

She wasn't navigating well when she got to Engineering. She did a fast scan to

find out NG was there and safe, and that war didn't seem to have broken

out—mumbled, "I got to sit, sir," when Bernstein asked what Fletcher had said,

and then things were fairly fuzzed after that, except voices kept coming and

going and things echoed.

"Think I'm sick," she said, not quite mad, not quite scared, she couldn't get

that far, but she was sure now that she'd been dosed, and that she wasn't in

pain anymore, and the back didn't hurt, and she could have worked, could have

done most anything including float around the section, except Bernie came over,

the skuz, and got her attention with a hand on the shoulder and asked if she

wanted lunch—

—meaning the cup of tea and the little Keis-rolls Services brought you, the

stuff that was about as appetizing as a glue-stick. Usually she skipped it, but

Bernie said it was a good idea she eat it, and she couldn't find where she'd

misplaced her objections to pushy people who wanted her to do things: so she did

it

Just absolutely zee'd, no question. She sat there with the padded seat tilted a

little back, watching and listening in complete placidity, heard people talking

around her.

And finally, a while after lunch, the voices started coming clear and the boards

in front of her came into a little clearer focus.

She had to go to the head. She was aware of being spaced, she sat there as long

as she could stand it, until the discomfort was more or less overcoming the

fuzziness, and finally she got up and walked.

Somebody grabbed her. It was NG. She blinked at him and said, "I got a

prescription for you, the doc give it to me…"

She felt damned embarrassed by mid-afternoon, cold sober again and realizing,

with a sudden snap to clarity, that she was sitting in Engineering at station

three, and that people were talking near her seat, one of them being Freeman,

one being Musa, and one being Bernstein.

"Awake?" Bernstein stopped to ask her.

"Yessir." She reached after the arm of her seat and got up, still wobbly and

trying to remember how she had gotten there. The whole day was a blank. Just

gone. And Bernstein hadn't thrown her out, just let her sleep it off in her

chair.

"Damn," she muttered, "I hope to hell I didn't insult anybody."

Bernstein quirked an eyebrow at her and gave her a smile, in a good mood, for

God's sake, after all she had told him, after everything that had happened. She

leaned on the seat-back and looked at everybody, at Walden, Slovak and Keane,

with their heads together—and NG over at station one, unscathed.

Hadn't taken Fletcher's pills, evidently.

"Been a real quiet day," Bernstein said then, and looked at Freeman. "Why don't

you take off early?"

She might be zee'd. She wasn't stupid. She stood there holding to the seat-back,

a little pain in her back, a general rubbery feeling about her legs that said a

long walk wouldn't be a good idea—and figured it wasn't out of simple muddled

priorities that Bernstein let an Africa trooper drug-case sit his boards all day

and sent a healthy Systems man back to quarters.

There was some talking going on, dammit, stuff was flying between alterday

Engineering and Liu's team, on one level and another—Musa had had a go at Liu,

Freeman was going back early, it didn't look like there'd been any bar-brawls in

Engineering during the shift, and Bernstein wasn't pissed at anything—she knew

him when he was, and this wasn't that kind of day, not at all.

Isn't what Fitch wanted, she thought, and thought with a little sense of things

delicately balanced, that Fitch being out asleep all their day, he was going to

wake up and find out things that wouldn't make him happy.

Then they were going to go to sleep and Fitch was going to be awake thinking of

ways to fix that.

Hell of a way to carry on a war, she thought, and stood there watching Freeman

check out and head back to quarters, doubtless, where he was going to be in time

for breakfast with his proper mates.

"Feeling any pain?" Bernstein asked her, as if she was all right with him, as if

everything was.

"Not much," she said slowly, wondering what the hell Bernstein was up to. But

Bernstein wasn't about to say and she wasn't going to upset things with

questions, hell, no.

She sat down again, she didn't bother anything, mostly she ran the sims and

watched the colored lights, still phasing out a little—still with a little

numbness about the common sense and feeling that she ought to be more spooked

than she was.

She wasn't too bad by rec time, all right enough to have a beer or two, sitting

with the new guys on the bench, with NG and Musa and McKenzie and Park and Figi;

and NG wasn't too bad either, a little tranked and placid on Fletcher's stuff—

Fletcher had herself an official scan record of a back that justified the

happy-stuff she had dosed her with, no matter it didn't halfway hurt until

Fletcher started messing with it, and Fletcher had poured enough different kinds

of stuff into her to make it real unlikely a test would prove a damned thing.

Her and NG…

God, NG was kind of pitiful, relaxed as he was, sitting on the bench between her

and Figi and leaning against the wall—eyes large-pupilled and this sort of happy

look on his face, like he was finally just gone, people could do what they

wanted with him, hell if he cared.

"You doing all right?" she asked him, and he mumbled that he was, and took

another sip of beer.

Not much for him, in that condition. She was getting his drinks for him and no

way was he getting any more alcohol, beyond the one, just soft drinks. Probably

wouldn't notice. Didn't remember to drink very often.

They sat, they talked, people came by to meet Freeman and his mates and say a

welcome-in, and to say how happy NG looked—

Meech, the son of a bitch, even went so far as to reach over and shake NG by the

shoulder, with a "Pleasantest I ever saw 'im," at which NG, conscious, might

have gone for him, but NG took it with a kind of bewildered look.

Never trust a prescription with just one pill in it.

"He all right?" Gypsy asked.

"Fletch give him a relaxer," Musa said. "Prescription."

No sight of Hughes and his pair of skuz since dinner. Watching the vid, maybe.

Not so easy to transfer, when it was the whole effing alterday longscan tekkie

crew asking: that was what Musa said—bridge tekkies got used to their operators

and vice versa, and mainday was higher rank than alter-day, and there was no way

in hell the mainday operators were going to take Hughes and crew and no way they

were going to shift-trade with alterday just because Lindy Hughes went and

pulled a skutty trick.

So Lindy Hughes was somewhere being real quiet this evening, and it was

absolutely amazing how nice people were being, just absolutely amazing, people

like Liu and Freeman and all, having every right to be mad, being so friendly it

could give you a sugar overload—

Because—it didn't take much brains to figure it—alterday had been hassled,

alterday had been rousted and the mofs had come busting into quarters on what

just had to be a tip—

—and beat hell out of somebody they couldn't prove a damned thing on.

And that, in the humble estimation of the 'decks, was just a step too far.

Now, I'm not saying what would be illegal to say, Musa's line had been, she

heard him in action, but I do say if somebody's got the idea to roust us or any

one of us we got to take a real firm position on that problem… nothing against

the rules, no, but we ain't just the machinery on this ship, that you can kick

and cuss, and maybe we got to make that clear for people that've gotten a little

far from that fact—

So the Lius and the Musas and the McKenzies and the Gypsy Mullers of the 'decks

were smiling and telling their mates to smile and be nice, and Bernie was being

nice to Freeman and just bending double and twisting sideways to welcome them

in, ditto Musa, and the beers were being bought and people were just walking

around being deliberately, cussedly po-lite with each other. So it was funny,

people started having a good time and being in a good mood, like it was a joke

going around—and NG being as tranked as he was, people came by just to look at

him.

NG being as tranked as he was, he was going from bewildered to having a

tolerably good time, especially when a delegation headed by Meech and Rossi

bought him the second beer, the one she wasn't going to let him have. Rossi put

it into his hands, got his attention with a little pop on the side of the face

and said he looked like he needed another beer and a bunch of the bridge techs

had gotten together and decided he should have one on them.

NG just stared at Rossi open-mouthed, Rossi walked off, and finally NG started

drinking that one, totally glazed.

"Hey," she said, "sips."

She took it down a bit, enough to keep him from passing out where he sat, maybe,

and Figi was on his other side—if he fell that way, Figi was built like a rock,

probably wouldn't even notice.

You couldn't sit on the rec-deck. You could squat. In case somebody needed

through in a hurry. Meech and Rossi and some guys brought some dice, and they

squatted and they gambled for cred-points, dece a round.

Damn, even Freeman and his mates were in it, beyond loose, all the way to

blown—Battista and Keane headed off to bunks or a locker party, God knew, it was

all getting noisy enough in rec nobody heard the first mof-alert.

But the noise fell off fast—real fast, when bridge crew showed up, small, dark

fellow, and the squatters stood up and cleared the through-way.

"Kusan," Musa said under his breath.

Helm 2 himself, alterday command.

Kusan looked around him, Kusan scanned faces and said: "Yeager."

It was real, real quiet of a sudden, just noise from down at the end of rec and

out of the quarters where the vid was going.

And there was damn-all to do but hand the rest of her beer to Musa and nudge NG

over upright so he wouldn't look as crashed as he was, and get up and say,

"Yessir, I'm Yeager."

"Ms. Yeager," Helm 2 said, beckoning her to come, and to everybody at large: "As

you were."

There wasn't a sound. Not a sound, except of a sudden NG said, "What's going

on?" and tried to get up, except Musa grabbed onto him. "Shut it down!" Musa had

to say, too loud.

"Isn't any problem," Bet said.

She wished not. It was Fitch's watch, the tail end of Orsini's. Again.

And she hoped Musa could get a call through to Bernstein, or someone could.

"Bet!" NG yelled, mad as hell, crazy-sounding. Trying to get himself in trouble,

that was what he was doing. But people must have shut him up. She was afraid to

look back to see.

CHAPTER 21

« ^ »

She was still a little out-there while she was walking the corridors beside

Kusan, too much beer and one of Fletcher's smaller pain-killers, which

combination let her feel no real pain, but she remembered what pain was and who

could cause it; and while there was certainly no reg against the 'decks drinking

and gambling in rec, there damn sure was a reg against drunk and disorderly. She

sneaked a tug at her jumpsuit, a rake of the fingers through her hair, a quick

roll-down and snap of the safety-tuck on her sleeves, duty-like. The beer-smell

and the wide spill on her knee she couldn't do anything about, and there were

probably three and four charges Fitch could think of, just looking at her.

Like beer and pills. Like spitting on the main-deck if Fitch said she'd done it,

or a drunk and disorderly—real easy.

But it wasn't Fitch waiting at the step-up to the bridge, it was Orsini—and

Orsini was clearly where Kusan was delivering her.

"Are you drunk, Yeager?"

"Not sober, sir, to tell God's truth." She was halfway upset—having gotten one

set of ideas arranged in her head and then coming up against Orsini, who was

being a fool if he thought it was safe to pull her in at this hour, where what

had happened last night could happen again.

If Orsini cared about that.

Orsini looked her up and down. "Spent a lot of today in that condition, haven't

you?"

What d'we got, a damn morals charge!

But it was Fletcher did it, Fletcher's Bernstein's friend—isn't she!

"Yessir, I apologize, sir."

"Come along," Orsini said, and led the way through the bridge-cylinders, past

mainday ops, past Helm, past—

Fitch stood on the bridge watching them go past. He didn't challenge Orsini. She

wasn't sure if he followed them, then. She couldn't hear, in the general racket

two sets of footsteps made on the hollow deck, in the whisper of multiple

cooling and circulation fans and other people moving around on business. She

just stayed with Orsini, wondering what in hell he was after, telling herself it

was all right, Bernstein hadn't acted overly upset with what she had told him—

Like they'd known already that something was wrong about me, and Bernie was

still on my side—

But Orsini thought I was Mallory's…

She did take a fast look back, to see where Fitch was. Not behind them… but

Fitch undoubtedly knew where they were going, and maybe Fitch was just waiting

for the shift-change, knowing that when Orsini was through, it was always his

turn.

Hope to hell you got a smart notion how to stop that, Mr. Orsini, sir.

Hope to hell you got some concern about that.

Hope to hell you and Bernie came to some understanding about whatever's going

on…

Orsini passed right by his own office, passed by Fitch's.

Where're we going? she thought. And: Oh, God…

They stopped in front of a door with a stencilled: Wolfe, J. and no more

designation than Fitch's office or Orsini's had.

Orsini pushed the button, the door opened on the office and the man inside, and

Orsini said: "Yeager, sir."

Fancy place, carpet, panels, a big black desk and the captain sitting there

waiting for her—blond, slight man in khaki. Pale eyes that didn't care shit what

your excuse was for existing, just what you were doing that crossed his path for

five minutes and annoyed him.

The door shut behind her. Orsini left her. Wolfe rocked his chair back, folded

his arms.

Wolfe said, "Machinist, are you?"

She felt distanced from everything around her. Nothing added, except that

everything she had told Bernie had spread, Orsini knew, now Wolfe knew. She

thought, between one heavy heartbeat and the next: Bernie, damn you, well, you

had to, didn't you?

She said, "I worked as that, sir. On Ernestine."

"Rank."

"M-Sgt. Elizabeth A. Yeager, sir." And she added, because she was a damn

smartass fool, and she hated being crowded: "Retired."

Wolfe wasn't amused. Wolfe sat there looking up at her, with no expression at

all.

"Africa, is it?"

"Yes, sir. Was." Nothing else to say. Bernie'd evidently said it all.

Damn sure.

And she'd had this dumb dim hope that Bernie didn't think she was a threat and

that maybe all the way to top command, a ship that got its crew out of station

brigs didn't give shit what it raked in for crew—

Except she'd all along discounted Wolfe.

Damn dumb, Yeager, damn dumb. So who do they think you're working for if you

aren't Mallory's?

Effin' obvious, Yeager.

"You lied to me," Wolfe said.

"Nossir. Everything the way I said. Crew slot is all I wanted, it's all I want

right now."

Long silence. Wolfe never had any expression. She stood there, just went away a

little inside, figured past a certain point they were going to do whatever they

wanted to do and if command had made up their minds to freight her off to Pell

and Mallory or space her inside the hour, there was damn-all she could do about

it.

But this man could. Could help her, if he would, if what happened in the 'decks

ever concerned him at all, if he didn't just leave crew to suffer Fitch and

Orsini's private war and their maneuvering for power—

There were ships like that, in the Fleet.

"When did you leave your ship?"

"Pell, sir. When the Fleet pulled away. I was on dockside." She added,

uninvited, hammering away at what she wasn't sure Wolfe had heard the first and

the second time: "Not my ship now, sir. This is."

She wasn't sure Wolfe wasn't outright crazy. She wasn't sure she ought to take

one course or the other with him. Or maybe nobody was loyal to this ship, and

Wolfe just didn't figure her. He had that kind of look, just the least doubt in

that cold, ice-blue stare.

Maybe he would just throw her back to Fitch and Orsini and let them fight it

out.

What in hell does Wolfe do on this ship? she had asked Musa. And Musa,

uncomfortable in the question: He ain't a real activist…

Man had to be aware too, that he wasn't totally safe, if she wanted to commit

suicide and take him with her.

But he sat there. He rocked back in his chair and looked at her a long time and

said, "What's the last contact you had with the Fleet?"

That was the question. That was the big one. "Last was my com breaking up. On

Pell. Nothing since." She could see him saying to Fitch: Find out what she

knows. She said, quietly: "Decks never knew anything, no more than here, sir."

Long, long silence, Wolfe just sitting there.

"Master sergeant, was it?"

"Yessir."

"Mechanic?"

"On my own rig, sir. Some of us were."

"Tactical."

"Tac-squad, sir."

"Where before that?"

"Came aboard at sixteen, sir. Born on a miner-ship."

Wolfe pushed his chair back on its track, got up, walked to the side of the

desk. He wasn't armed. She'd thought he might be.

He walked to the side of her, walked around to her back. She didn't know what a

civ would do under the circumstance, gone straight from dumb smartass kid to

shipboard manners a skut better have to survive in the 'decks. And those said

stand still and keep your mouth shut when a mof wanted to think what he was

going to do about you.

Anything you say, sir.

Till you prove you're a fool, sir.

Till I know I got no percentage in anything, sir. Then I'll take a few.

But—

God, what'd they do with NG then? What'd NG do, himself?

Wolfe walked over to the low table and the cushion-chairs at the side of the

office, meddled with something as if he'd forgotten her.

Maybe he had. Maybe he was just slightly crazy. Maybe he was going to see how

long a skut could stand there without panicking and doing something stupid.

Indefinitely. Sir.

"Sit down," Wolfe said. She looked at him. He was offering her a chair at the

office table.

That spooked her, when yelling wouldn't have. "Yessir," she said, and came and

started to sit down, and then thought about her work-clothes and the chance of

beer-spills, deck-dust or worse on that pretty white upholstery. She dusted off,

for what good that would do, but Wolfe having sat down, she sat, opposite him,

and watched him open the little box there.

Chess set. Real one, not just a sim. Real board, real pieces, God knew how old.

"You play?" he asked.

"Some," she said. In the 'decks you played anything and everything.

"Black or white?"

God, he was crazy, she was sitting here in the hands of a crazy man. "Your pick,

sir."

He turned the box, gave her white.

So the first move had to be hers.

She frustrated him a couple of times, which he took with that same dead-cold,

appraising look at the board that he gave to her while she answered his

questions… long, long after the shift-change bell.

What mining-ship?

What's Porey like?

Finally: How much elapsed-time on Tripoint-Pell?

Question that could kill a ship. Kill everyone she'd served with—if she was

tekkie enough to know that answer down to a hair, what Africa's running-cap was.

But you had to know how much mass she'd been hauling.

Wolfe asked that too. And she honestly didn't know. The elapsed-time down to a

half hour, but not a thing about the mass…

"Made many runs in the Hinder Stars?"

"A couple. Mostly Pell-Mariner-Pan-paris. Wyatt's. Viking."

You'd remember that, sir. Remember it damn well, if you were a spook during the

war.

While his fine-boned fingers moved a piece to threaten a knight, and a rook,

some moves down.

"You remember the Gull?"

Name ought to mean something. There'd been a lot of names. They'd taken the

Gull, a little ship, hell if she could sort out whether that was the one they'd

blown or one of the ships that had decel'ed and taken boarders when they were

operating at Tripoint.

Ship-corridors through the mask, past the green readout glow. Scared faces.

Mostly scared faces.

Except the fools who tried to make a fight of it, locked body to body with a

rider-ship, with marines oh their deck.

"Dunno, sir, we took it. Tripoint. I recall the name."

Something to do with you, sir? Or this ship"?

Wolfe didn't say more than that.

She took a pawn, worrying was she supposed to do that. Wolfe was a better

player. Wolfe was moves ahead, and he set you up a route he wanted you to take.

Did it this time.

"Shee—" she started to say, and swallowed it in time.

"Tac-squad," Wolfe said, moving a pawn. "Boarding party. Stations or ships."

"Yessir."

"Know what you're doing with docking equipment."

"Yessir."

"Weapons systems."

"Yessir."

She lost a pawn. Was going to lose a knight. She saw it. Moved the rook.

Damn.

"Armor?"

"Yessir."

"What do you think about this ship, Sgt. Yeager?"

"I'm not a sergeant anymore, sir."

"What do you think about this ship?"

"I got friends aboard."

"On Africa too."

That was a hard thought; and damned clear what he was asking. "Yessir. But no

way this ship could take her, and if she could, that's the way it is, got

friends there, got friends on board here." She moved the threatened knight.

"Don't even know who's alive anymore. Here I do. Me, for one."

"If you weren't on board?"

She honestly thought about that, put herself back on Africa, with Loki for a

target. Her hand hovered over a pawn and she lost her focus. Saw herself up on

charges, old Junker Phillips' face—

"Have to shoot me," she said, and made the move, giving up the pawn. "I dunno,

dunno I could ever get to that, sir. But I got people here—got a lot of people

on this ship."

"So I've heard."

Heard about me and NG. God, I got him in trouble, maybe Musa, too, if Musa

wasn't what he is—

McKenzie—Park and Figi—all those guys—

Maybe Bernstein, too.

Wolfe took the pawn. She took his knight.

She saw it coming, then. Rook took queen in four moves. Check and mate.

She bit her lip, surveyed the board.

Knew Wolfe was several moves ahead in the other game, too.

"You can go," Wolfe said.

"Thank you, sir." She got up carefully, as if the whole place was rigged with

explosives. She was sweating. She only half-felt the pain in her back.

What do I say? Enjoyed the game, sir?

Wolfe let her walk to the door, let her open it, let her walk out into the

restricted section by herself.

She walked through to the bridge, through Fitch's territory to the med-area

corridor, through the galley to rec and the darkened quarters.

0258 alterday.

She went to Musa, told Musa she was back. Musa was wide awake, asked her: "You

all right, Bet?"

"Fine," she whispered back, only then getting a bad case of the shakes. She went

right on over to NG's bunk, but Musa followed her, Musa said, "He's sleeping one

off."

Sleeping one off, hell. He was tied to the damn bunk, out cold. "Dammit," she

said, popped him a light one on the cheek and started working at the knot,

shaking so badly she could hardly work the cord through, especially when NG came

to a little and started pulling. "What'd you give him?"

"Figi's sleeper hold, for starters.—He's all right. I've been watching him."

"Hell!,—Hold still!"

"Bet…"

He wasn't crazy. Not half as crazy as where she'd been. She got him loose, he

hugged her till he hurt her back, but she didn't mind that. She had sore muscles

and he had a bitch of a hangover, evidently, because he made a miserable sound

and held his head.

"Fitch?" he asked.

"Wolfe," she said.

He dropped his hands. Musa said, beside her, "What happened?"

"Captain wanted a chess partner," she said, and almost spilled what Wolfe had

been asking her for three hours, she was so aching tired and so rattled. She got

it together, remembering nobody in the 'decks knew what the mofs knew about her.

Most of all NG didn't know. And she didn't know how long that would last or what

he would do when he found out.

Merchanter, lost from his ship. And there was one way, in the War, that that

would have happened.

"That was all," she said. "We played chess."

CHAPTER 22

« ^ »

What happened?" was a question she got too damned often in the shower-line and

at breakfast, everybody from McKenzie to Masad out of Cargo, people coming up to

her, and then putting their heads together to whisper the business elsewhere.

The first time she was caught a little off-balance, and hesitated, and said,

"The captain asked into it," as if it was the Fitch business, which was a damn

lie, at bottom, and she wished she'd never been so stupid—like a challenge to

Fitch, and using Wolfe's name for a weapon. It might get back to Fitch. It might

make him think twice. It might also make him talk to the captain about it, and

that wasn't the outcome she wanted, damn sure.

So she wished she could take that back. She changed it as far as she could the

next time she was asked—said, "Captain wanted to ask me some questions, said

keep my mouth shut."

Damn stupid, Yeager. That mouth's going to kill you someday.

She ate her breakfast with her mates, and they were worrying about Fitch, they

were thinking about Wolfe and trying to reckon whether Wolfe was going to come

down on her side, that was all they understood about it.

"I'd be gone," NG had said quietly, in the dark, before the little sleep she had

gotten, "except for Wolfe. I don't know why. Favor to Bernie, I guess. I don't

understand it."

Most she'd ever gotten out of NG on that topic, that dozen or so words.

And when she thought about it this morning, she thought Fitch had to be worried

right now, damn worried, and that she ought to be happy about that situation,

ought to thank God Wolfe had stepped in, and ought to be a whole lot more

cheerful than she was.

Except Fitch just meant to kill her. Wolfe seemed to have decided something last

night, Wolfe had let her go, Wolfe had written her down as a liability or an

asset, she didn't know which.

In either case—expendable.

Hell, she thought, sipping her morning tea, tail back in the fire. What's

different than it ever was?

She had that answered until she saw NG looking at people this morning, looking

around him, looking at her and Musa and paying attention to human beings the way

he could those damn boards, saner this morning than she'd ever seen him.

He'd gotten drunk with friends last night, people had cared enough to sit on him

and knock him stupid to save him, and she'd gotten back safe, God in the person

of Wolfe had intervened to stop Fitch from killing her, and maybe things weren't

going to be the hell they'd been for three years.

Yeah.

Nothing could hurt him before this. Not even Fitch. He wasn't sane enough to

hurt, when I came aboard, and look at all I've done for him. Helped him no end,

haven't I?

Man'd have died for me last night, all he could've done, but he'd have done it.

Maybe he's got some crazy notion my trouble is his fault. Maybe he thinks he's

responsible for me, the same as for Cassel.

If he ever was responsible for Cassel.

Can't prove it, can't ever prove it, can't even do that much for him.

And what when he learns what he's been sleeping with!

Dealing with NG in a social situation was like handling a live grenade—you

really had to pay attention, all the time, to the little things—like how he'd

jump like he was wired if somebody touched him unexpected, he'd tense up when

people came up on him, he'd do this little subtle flinch when he knew people

were going to speak to him. You had to know him to know it was a flinch, but he

was just on-alert all the time, schiz as hell, trying so damned hard, and sane

enough to be scared, himself, that somebody was going to startle him and he was

going to blow up—he held onto her and Musa like they were his lifeline, that was

what he was doing at breakfast, with people asking him how he was doing, how's

the head, NG?

Hughes had just made himself scarce. Headed off to work early, thank God.

And NG was doing all right, so far, with social acceptability cold sober, doing

all right and once, with Freeman, even managing a thin, tentative grin… not the

smartass one, the real, wide-open one.

Doing just fine until they got to Engineering and Bernstein met them with:

"Yeager, Mr. Orsini wants to see you."

"It's all right," she said to NG, and touched his arm. "I know what about. No

problem."

"What?" NG asked her point-blank, delaying her at the door. "Fitch?"

"They're just trying to figure out some things." Best lie she could manage.

"Fitch won't lay a hand on me. You can believe it."

So she checked out of Engineering before she'd even checked in, didn't say a

thing to Bernstein about last night, and Bernstein didn't say anything to her.

Probably Bernstein and Orsini had talked. Orsini and the captain would have.

Maybe the captain and Fitch—last night, his day, after she had left.

So she went up-rim to Orsini's office, she sat down and she got what she thought

she would, question after question, while Orsini took notes on the TranSlate.

Nossir, nossir, yessir, nossir, I don't know anything about ops, sir.

At least Orsini didn't act as if he was out to kill her.

"You have a problem with Mr. Fitch," Orsini said.

"I hope not, sir."

"You have a problem," Orsini said.

"Yessir."

"I trust you won't be stupid about it."

"I don't plan to be, sir."

Orsini gave her a long, long look. And started asking other questions, the kind

she didn't want to answer.

Specific detail, on Africa, on her cap, what she carried, how many she carried—

I don't know, she said sometimes. Sometimes she shied off, inside, but she

couldn't do that—had to make the jump, finally, and be Loki's, or not, and talk

or not.

What can I tell them that Mallory couldn't? Hell, they got a renegade Fleet

captain giving them any cap they ask. What's anything I know worth, against

that!

So she answered, sat there telling things that might help kill her ship, one

little detail and the other and deeper and deeper—far as a belowdecks skut could

betray her ship, she did that—

Because here was here, that was what she kept telling herself. Because the war

was lost, whatever it had ever been for, and Teo was dead, and the ship she was

on was all that had to matter anymore—

Nothing to go back to. Pirates, people called the Fleet now. Maybe that was so.

"War's over," Orsini said. "There's nothing Mazian can win. Not in the long run.

Just pointless destruction. Just more casualties. Best thing Mazian could do for

his people is come in, sign the armistice—take what he's got coming and save the

poor sods on his ships. But he won't do that."

She saw the docks again, being stationside, permanently, doing station scut, if

they didn't do a wipe on you and leave you too schiz to defend yourself. Or

there was Thule, maybe, one damn great hole they could dump all Alliance's

problems into, same as they'd dumped Q-zone.

Hell if they'd come in. Hell if they would.

"Let's get specific again," Orsini said, and she didn't want to, didn't want to

talk for a while, kept thinking about Teo and wondering if Bieji was still alive

on Africa.

Bieji'd give her one of his black looks and tell her no hard feelings, but he'd

try to blow her ass away.

Stay alive, Junker Phillips used to yell, stay alive, you stupid-ass bastards, I

got too much invested in you—

"Yeager?"

"Yessir," she said. Here and now again. This ship, these mates.

Nothing personal, Bieji.

She sat there finally, throat sore from talking, Orsini note-taking again.

She thought, What I've done, there's no halfway, is there? Can't betray these

mates, and them.

She wanted to go somewhere and take a pill for her back and her head, she wanted

to have a bath and see NG's face and Musa's and be back in rec with her shift,

and remember why she wanted this ship. Right now she couldn't, right now she

couldn't remember anything but Africa, couldn't see anything but Bieji and Teo

and how it had been—

But those had been the good years. Those were the years before she'd lived off

Africa, before she'd seen Ernestine, been from Pell to Thule and wherever they

were now—

—older, maybe. Tired. Maybe just taking any out better luck might give her. She

wasn't sure, unless she could feel what she felt on this ship again and shake

the devils Orsini called up.

Orsini put down the stylus and got up from his desk, going to send her back down

to Engineering, she thought: there was still time enough before the shift

change.

God, she had to go back and go on pretending there was nothing wrong…

Had to tell NG somehow—before he found it out from somebody else.

"I want to show you something," Orsini said, motioning to the door.

"Sir?"

He didn't answer that. He showed her out, up-rim toward the bridge, to a stowage

locker. He opened the door and turned on the lights.

Like so many corpses, pale, fire-scarred body-shapes stood belted to the left

wall.

Armor.

Africa, one stencil said. Europe, the other. And names.

Walid—M. Walid.

Memory of a small, dark man, grinning. Always with the jokes.

God…

Orsini was looking at her. She walked into the locker, laid a hand on the one

rig. "Knew this man," she said. And then, afraid Orsini would read a threat into

that: "Acquaintance, anyway."

"Collected it at Pell," Orsini said.

"You could've got mine," she said. "Left it there."

"Maybe your friend was lucky."

She shook her head.

"They're not in good shape," Orsini said. "Figured to use them in emergencies:

figured they were free, why turn them down? Lifesupport halfway works, most of

the servos operate on that one—it'll move, at any rate, but nobody's got time to

fix it."

"Not real comfortable," she said, thinking, God, the damn fools, with a gut-deep

memory of what a human joint felt like with a servo pushing it just a little

past reasonable, wondering if Mallory who must've let them have the rigs had

ever provided the manuals. She touched the surfaces, tried the tension in the

arm, felt her stomach upset at what was going on in her brain, all the old

information coming up like pieces of a disaster—parameters, connections—

—her hands were close to shaking. It was Africa's gut, the armor-shop, the

voices she hadn't been able to recall, the smells and the sounds—

"Fixable?" Orsini asked.

"Yessir," she said, and looked at him, trying to see the white plastic lockers

and Orsini's face, not the gray, echoing space she remembered. She said, knowing

nobody gave a damn, "But I don't want to."

"Why?"

I don't want to handle this stuff again. I don't want to think about it—

She said, realizing she had stirred suspicion, "Thought I was through with rigs

like this." Then another reason hit her, in the gut. "And I don't want people to

know where I come from."

Orsini said, quietly: "Can you get these things working right?"

"Yessir, probably."

Man wasn't paying attention, man didn't care. She didn't expect otherwise.

"No need to have it general knowledge," Orsini said. "We're insystem, slow rate,

going to dock here and fill. You can make it back and forth up the lift. You've

got enough level deck here."

She looked at the L by the entry, thought about what she could get to in the

shop. "Yessir." Without enthusiasm. It was in-dock work he meant and no liberty.

But she hadn't really expected one, under the circumstances. "Not real easy. But

I could do that."

"Not all crew gets liberty," Orsini said. "Takes five years' seniority. And the

captain's approval."

"Yessir."

"You might eventually get a posting out of it," Orsini said. "If you have the

right attitude."

She stood there thinking, Right attitude. Hell. And thinking that the mofs could

think they owned these rigs, but you didn't just suit up and have everything

work. She didn't say, Who am I supposed to fit this for? and explain that part

of it; or think she had to say something if Orsini didn't.

Maybe Orsini would call that a bad attitude.

She just said, "I'll see what I can do, sir."

CHAPTER 23

« ^ »

The news about their heading into dock was on general com when she headed back

for Engineering, forty-odd minutes to shift-change.

"Everything all right?" Bernie asked, asking more than that, she reckoned, and

she frowned at him, just not able to come back from it and knowing she had

to—had to put a decent face on things and not do anything that could make

Bernstein wonder about her, because Bernie was watching, Bernie was going to be

making regular reports to Orsini and Wolfe and maybe Fitch, and she knew it. You

asked a body to be a turncoat and you'd better keep an eye on them, if you had

any respect at all for them.

Damn right, sir.

Nor trust them if they smiled at you.

She said, "Wasn't a real good time, sir."

Bernie looked sad at that. But at least he didn't frown back at her.

"Anything the matter?" NG said—NG the first one to come up to her, on his own,

when you never used to get NG out front on anything.

She said, thinking fast, "Looks like I don't get a liberty."

It wasn't what NG had worried about, for sure. He looked upset, touched her arm.

"Hell, I never have had. I'll be here."

Got her right in the heart. She couldn't think for a second, couldn't remember

what she'd decided two beats ago her story was, or put any organization in her

thoughts.

NG'll be on board. Him and me. God.

"You didn't expect it," Musa said, from beside her.

"Dunno, didn't think, till they made the announcement; and Orsini told me it was

five years. Shit, Musa—"

She didn't want to think about months and years. A week was hard enough, NG

bound to ask what she was doing topside while they were in dock, or why Orsini

had her out of main Engineering, going back and forth between the shop and

topside.

Damn!

Musa gave her a hug around the shoulders, friendly, Bernie didn't mind a little

PDA, NG didn't say anything else, back in his habit of no-comment, and she tried

to cheer up, which she reckoned made it a tolerably good act.

Damn, damn, and damn.

They did a burn before shift-change, they started doing others, after.

"We'll be docking at Thule Station …" Wolfe said on general address.

She felt sick at her stomach.

Wonder if Nan and Ely are still there. How long've we been out, realtime?

She counted jumps they had made, figured maybe as much as a year, stationside.

She stowed everything she wouldn't need, stuffed a duffle with things she would,

same as those who were going stationside—"Hard luck, Bet," people dropped by to

say, and some few of them, McKenzie included, were cheeky enough to say, "Yeah,

well, but you and NG got free bunks and all the beer aboard.—Want me to buy you

anything?"

She checked with the purser's office and found out she could draw on her liberty

money even being held aboard, and that NG was downright affluent, never having

used his liberty credits except for on-board beers.

"Vodka," she said to McKenzie, trusting him with a sizeable draft on her

account. "Walford's is cheap, Green dock, listen, I got some incidentals I need,

stand you three bottles if you hit supply for me."

"Hell," McKenzie said, "give us a list. Nobody's in port but us, we got to make

do with dockers, and you know Figi's going to be in a damn card game from the

time he hits—Park and me can go shopping, buy you anything you want."

"You're a love," she said, feeling better for the moment, and took McKenzie off

in the corner and exchanged about twenty concentrated minutes of accumulated

favor-points.

Real special, this time, rushed as it was—hard to know what it was, maybe that

they were both in a desperate hurry, and taking time to be mutually polite,

maybe just that they'd gotten beyond acquainted and all the way over to looking

out for each other.

She wanted that right now, wanted somebody it just wasn't complicated with, who

cared about her; and she hurt her back doing it and didn't regret it later, when

the take-hold was sounding and she hauled thirty kilos of hammock and duffle

down to the stowage area to clip in and hang on with the rest of alterday and

most of mainday.

Not the mofs. Mofs and a few of the mainday tekkies got to ride the lift down

from the bridge to the airlock, of course—except for the lucky few who drew duty

part or all of the port-call.

I hope to hell Fitch gets a long liberty. Hope the sonuvabitch gets laid at

least once. Might help his disposition.

Mostly she worried about Hughes and his friends being out there with Musa and

her and NG not being. "Keep an eye on him," she'd asked McKenzie, and McKenzie'd

sworn he would.

They made a tolerably soft dock, no teeth cracked, no bruises, and crew stood in

harness waiting for permission to move about, laying grandiose plans for the

bars they were going to hit—yeah, sure, mates, on Thule…

They got the permission, they undipped, they milled or they settled down on

their duffles and checked through their cred-slips.

Johnny Walters had left his kit. There was usually some poor sod. There was

always a volunteer who'd get it down by shift-change. "Yeah," Bet said. "NG or

I, one. Who else,? Make a list."

Damn list always grew when people found out there was a quarters-run going.

"Shit. Write it down! I got a year's worth of favor-points coming from you

guys…"

Except Dussad, out of mainday Cargo, who muttered something about having NG into

his stuff—

"You want a favor?" Bet asked, swinging around, read the name on the pocket and

said, "Dussad? You want a favor or you got a problem with me and my mate?"

"You got lousy taste," Dussad said, and of all people, Liu said, "Take it easy."

And McKenzie said, "Nothing wrong with NG. He just doesn't talk too good."

"Ask Cassel," a mainday woman said.

God, they couldn't move, they were here till they got orders. NG just stood

there, nobody could go anywhere or do anything.

Gypsy said, "Man's got by that. Man's stood his watches, took his shit for it,

long enough."

And Musa:

"Damn valve blew, Ann, you get your head in the way of it and it happens, it

don't matter if you got a mate there. The rest of it's hell and away too old to

track."

"He got an opinion?"

"Let him the hell alone," Bet said, and threw NG a look, couldn't not; NG was

just staring somewhere else, jaw clenched—God, he couldn't talk, just damn

couldn't, out-there for the moment. "Let him alone."

"I know what his mates are saying. I want to hear what he's got to say about it,

all right? There's a lot of trouble going on. I want to know what the guy has to

say."

McKenzie said, "I'll buy you a drink, Dussad. We'll talk about it."

Quiet for a second or two, real tense. The lift clanked and whined, high up on

the rim—mofs doing their business with dockside.

"Drop it," Liu said. "Drop it, Dussad. Later. All right?"

"What about my kit?" Walters asked, in the silence after. "Is somebody going to

go after it?"

They finished the fetch-downs list, mofs went out and did customs, lot of noise

from the lift and the airlock; and they waited and talked, and bitched—

Prime bitch coming, if you drew duty, if you had to get up and wish everybody

Drink one for me, while the captain got on the general com and told everybody

clear out and when the board-call was. "I got a couple of old friends here," Bet

said to Musa. "Drop in by the Registry, wish Nan Jodree and Dan Ely g'day for

me. Stand 'em a drink if they got the time."

Depressing, when everybody cleared out in a noisy rush and left the downside

corridor all to the two of them—and NG paying attention again, but down-faced,

quiet. Damn that Dussad.

"Well?" she said, looking at NG, and sighed and picked up the duffle and the

hammock. "Where d'we put it?"

NG looked at the corridor and looked up and down the curves in either direction,

and finally sighed and said, in all that awful quiet of shutdown: "Locker's all

right."

They got Walters' kit down, a matter of climbing up the curve using the safety

clips, also stuff for Bala and Gausen and Cierra—and for Dussad, NG did that,

did all the climbing around, the dangerous part, where you could take a long,

long fall if you got careless clambering through the quarters. "You'll hurt your

back," he told her. "I'll do the climbing, you just stay down here and catch

it."

He acted all right. She wished she knew what to say about Dussad and mainday

shift, that had been NG's—and Cassel's. She wished she knew what was going on in

his head and she wished she had Musa here, to talk to NG, if nothing else. Or

Bernstein. Bernie could get through to him. She wasn't sure she could, she

wasn't sure she wanted to get into the topic with him at all.

Damn Dussad. Hughes had stayed out of it, Hughes had to be taking all of it in

and wanting to say something—and there was no doubt he would be saying

something, in the bars and up and down dockside for five days, causing as much

damage as he could, dropping stuff in ears he knew would be receptive, and in a

liberty, down to the last day, the shifts mixed.

Damn, she wanted to be out there. Most of all she wanted NG out there in Musa's

keeping, not on-ship, brooding on things, working alone while his partner was

off doing what she couldn't let him know—

She ought to tell NG, had to tell him sooner or later what was going on, and

alone on the alterday watch might have been a decent time to do it, except for

Dussad and that damn woman from mainday—Thomas, she thought it was, Ann Thomas,

navcomp, Hughes' opposite. Alterday and mainday nav both were a pain in the ass,

she decided—must be something in the mindset; while Dussad, out of Cargo, was a

hard-nosed hard-sell sonuvabitch, but you couldn't fault him too much—just want

to bust his damn thick skull, was all. "Eyes up!" NG yelled from overhead.

"Fragiles!"

They weren't the only crew missing liberty: Parker and Merrill were on mainday

duty in Engineering, and Dussad and Hassan just had a partial, going out to the

suppliers' and dealing for the ship, with whatever spare time they were

efficient enough to gain; while Wayland and Williams were on a three-day pass,

having to come back and supervise the supply loading, and a lucky handful of

bridge crew, rotating off-ship for sleep and whatever rec-time they could

squeeze in, was responsible for the fill, indicator-watching, mostly, and

communication with Thule Central—an ops routine she knew, for once, the

intricacies of cables and hoses, the names of the lines and what the hazards

were—learned it because you'd always had to worry about sabotage, in the war,

and when Africa was in dock, the squad was always out there in full kit,

checking the hook-ups, posting guard—

Dammit.

She kept remembering. She didn't want to. There were those dead rigs topside,

waiting for her, like ghosts—

And NG was going to ask questions, NG had a natural right to ask questions about

where she was going every day, and why.

They had the night, at least. "I'm not making love in any hammock," she said to

NG, setting up, having consulted Parker and Merrill via com on what was going to

be quarters for four people, alternately, in the main stowage—so they just

spread their two hammocks down for padding on the stowage deck, and, it turned

out during the set-up, got themselves a brand-new bottle of vodka when Walters

and some of the guys showed up to pay off the fetch-downs.

"You sure ain't missing much," Walters delayed to say to them. "Place is dead,

places are closed up, about two bars and a skuzzy sleepover still open, and

that's it. Nothing alive out there but echoes…"

Made her feel sad, for some odd reason, maybe just that it was a slice out of

her life, however miserable, maybe that there was something spooky about it now,

knowing a piece of humankind was dying, the dark was coming just like they'd

said, taking the first bases humans had made leaving Sol System.

Like those names in the restroom they just painted over. Polaris, and Golden

Hind. God, Musa could probably remember Thule in its heyday.

And came back, a crewman on an FTL, to see it die.

"Bet?" NG asked her, nudged her arm, when the lock-door had shut, when Johnny

Walters was away to the docks, and she thought, for no reason, Everything we

ever did—the War, and all, they'll paint right over, like it never was, like

none of us ever died—

Mazian doesn't see it. Still fighting the war—

Hell. What's winning? What's winning, when everything's changing so fast nobody

can predict what's going to be worth anything?

She felt NG's hand on her shoulder. She kept seeing Thule docks, Ritterman's

apartment, the Registry—

The nuclear heat of Thule's dim star.

Curfew rang.

Walters' vodka, bed, privacy, all the beer they could reasonably drink and all

the frozen sandwiches they could reasonably eat, out of Services, next door.

Wasn't too bad, she decided, putting tomorrow out of her mind, the way she had

learned to do. Just take the night, get her and NG fuzzed real good—

Tell him later. The man deserved a little time without grief.

So they ate the sandwiches with a beer, chased them with vodka, made love.

Didn't need the pictures. Didn't need anything. NG was civilized, terribly

careful of her back—

Not worth worrying about, she said. And got rowdy and showed him a trick they

used to do down in the 'decks, her and Bieji.

"God," he said. He ran his hand over the back of her neck.

Nobody else had that touch. Nobody else ever made her shiver like that. Nobody

else, ever.

He was the one who got claustrophobic… but for a second she couldn't breathe.

Here and now, Yeager. This ship.

This man. This partner.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Fine," she said, and caught the breath, heavy sigh. "I just can't get stuff out

of my mind."

He worked on that problem. Did tolerably good at it after a minute or two, till

she was doing real deep breathing and thinking real near-term.—One thing with

NG, he didn't question much, and he knew the willies on a first-name basis. Knew

what could cure them for a while, too.

She said, somewhere after, when she found the courage: "Bernstein just left me

this nasty little list of stuff, topside, seems I'm the mechanic and you got the

boards." She tried to say what it was. And had another attack of pure,

despicable cowardice. Couldn't trust it. Couldn't predict what he'd do. Didn't

want a blow-up til she'd gotten a day or so alone with him, softened him up, got

an idea what was going on with him. "I hate it like hell. You're going to be

alone down there."

"Been alone before," he said. "Been alone on port-calls for years."

He didn't ask what the work was. She told herself that if he had asked she would

have gone ahead and spilled it right then. But he didn't. Wasn't even curious.

Thank God.

CHAPTER 24

« ^ »

Ms. yeager," Wolfe said, when she arrived on the bridge and looked around for

the mof-in-charge. The captain was not who she was looking to find.

"Sir," she said, and by way of explanation: "Mr. Orsini—"

Wolfe nodded. "Go to it, Ms. Yeager."

"Thank you, sir." She gave a bob of the head and took herself and her tool-kit

to the number one topside stowage, where she could draw an easier breath.

It wasn't Fitch in charge, thank God, thank God.

Not Fitch in charge anywhere else on the ship, she hoped, but there was no way

to find that out without asking, and she didn't figure asking was real politic.

Mofs were handling the matter, mofs had their ways of saving face, and if Fitch

was on board he was going to be twice touchy if they had him under any hands-off

orders regarding her.

Couldn't push it. Didn't even dare worry about it.

So she got down to work, clambered up the inset rungs to set a 200 kilo

expansion track between two locker uprights, hooked a pulley in, ran a cable and

a couple of hooks into the service rings of the better of the two rigs, and

hauled the thing up where she could work without fighting it.

You could figure how Walid might have died—considering there was no conspicuous

damage to the rig, no penetration at first glance that ought to have killed

him—but those that got blown out into space had been low-priority on rescue.

Nobody in authority on Pell had much cared about the survival of any trooper,

and the air only held you for six hours.

Six hours—floating in the dark of space or the hellish light of Pell's star.

Arms wouldn't work far enough to reach the toggles. Couldn't even suicide. The

rig had caught some kind of an impact—when it was blown out Pell's gaping wounds

into vacuum, maybe; it had survived the impact, but it was shock enough to throw

play into every joint it owned—

—and spring a circulation seal in the right wrist and a pressure seal in the

same shoulder. Scratch the six hours. You could lose a wrist seal and live

without a hand, but when you lost a main body seal, you just hoped you froze

fast instead of boiled slow—and which happened then depended on how much of you

was exposed to a nearby sun.

"Helluva way, Walid." With a pat on the vacant shell. "You should've ducked."

Lousy sensahumor, Bet—

Walid's voice. Clank of pulleys, skuts bitching up and down the aisles while

they suited up, the smell of that godawful stuff they sprayed the insides with…

A whiff of it came when she took a look at the seals. Even after a guy died in

the damn thing, even after the rig had been standing months and years in a

chilled-down storage locker, the inside still smelled like lavatory soap.

She took inventory on the Europe rig, real simple c.o.d., a lousy big puncture

in the gut, right under the groin-seal. Big guy, name of W. Graham, Europe's,

tac-squad B-team—Willie, she remembered, strong as any two guys, but no chance

at all against a squeeze or an impact powerful enough to punch right through

quadplex Flexyne.

God.

So, well, if you wanted to see how bad the joints were, the easiest way was just

to strip down and start building the rig around you joint by joint, freezing not

only your ass off, but various other sensitive spots, because the internal

heater wouldn't work until the rig was powered up, and you didn't want the power

on while you were making tension adjustments. You messed around with lousy

little pin-sized wrenches and screwdrivers and tried not to chatter your teeth

loose while you were getting the wrench or the screwdriver seated in little

inconspicuous holes, about three to five of them a joint, and you fussed and you

messed with one turn against another, and you tried the tension in this and that

joint, till it felt right.

While your nose ran.

But you warmed up, joint by joint. Joint by joint, starting with the boots, the

rig cased you in and linked up, joint with joint and contact with contact, heavy

as sin and about all you could do to lift a knee and test the flex, clear up to

the body-armor.

Tension-straps between two layers of the ceramic, each with their little access

caps, and their nasty little adjustment screws on the action, too, four or five

a segment, that pulled the sensor contacts up against bare skin, contacts that

were going to carry signals to the hydraulics—all those had to be tightened or

loosened, so they'd all loosen up to the right degree when you pulled the

release to get out of the armor, and go right back to the proper configuration

when you got inside and threw the master switch: you could feel all those little

contact-points, and they shouldn't press hard, but they shouldn't lose contact

either, and the padding that kept you from bumping up against those contacts too

hard in spots had to be tightened down or loosened up with another lot of fussy

little spring-screws.

Some damned fool had just got in and powered up. Probably fallen on his ass or

sprained something just trying to stand up.

She hoped to hell it had been Fitch.

Maybe it was that thought that brought him.

The door opened. And she was sitting there on the deck half-naked and

half-suited, with Fitch standing in a warm draft from the door.

Fitch looked at her, she looked at Fitch with her heart pounding. Dammit. The

man still panicked her.

"Yessir," she said. "Excuse me if I don't get up, got no power at the moment."

"How's it going?" Fitch asked.

Plain question. She rested an armor-heavy wrist on an armored knee. "Thing's a

mess," she said. "Fixable. Take me a little while. Few days on this one."

Silence, then. "Tac-squad, huh?"

"Yessir."

If you had a quarrel with a mof, you for God's sake didn't act up and you didn't

get snide, you just kept your face innocent and your voice calm and all

professional, no matter what you were thinking.

"Is that insubordination, Ms. Yeager?"

"Nossir."

"Hard feelings, Ms. Yeager?"

"I've had worse than you give, sir."

Fitch took that and seemed to think about it a minute.

Stupid, Yeager, real stupid, watch that mouth of yours.

"Smartass again, Yeager?"

"Nossir, no intention of being."

"Are you quite sure of that, Ms. Yeager?"

"Twenty years on Africa, sir, I was never insubordinate."

"That's good, Ms. Yeager. That's real good."

After which, Fitch walked out and shut the door.

Dammit, Yeager, that was bright.

God, NG's working alone down there. Where's Wolfe?

Who else is on watch?

She threw the four manual latches on the gauntlet, slid it off; threw latches on

the body-armor and on the chisses and boots. Fast. And scrambled up and put

clip-lines on the scattered pieces and grabbed her clothes.

"Got to check supply," was the excuse she handed the bridge when she went

through. "Be back soon as I can."

Down the lift, all the way to downside, and up the curving downside deck in as

much hurry as she could, past the deserted lowerdeck ops, up-rim toward the

shop.

And naturally she popped into Engineering on the way. "H'lo," she called out at

NG's back, over the noise of working pumps, and startled NG out of his next

dozen heartbeats.

"God," he said.

"Fitch," she said. "Just thought I'd warn you."

He leaned back against the counter. She stepped up onto the first of the

gimbaled sections that turned Engineering into a stairstep puzzle-board. "No

particular trouble," she said, and raised a thumb toward the topside, casual.

"Captain's up there too, what I saw."

"They come and they go," NG said. Worried, she thought. "Captain may have gone

dockside. Don't get off in places with no witnesses."

"I'm working right next the—"

The lift was operating, audible over the heartbeat-thump of the fueling pumps.

"—bridge. I better get to the shop. I'm picking up some stuff, if Fitch asks."

"He'll ask," NG said, sober-faced, and she started back to the corridor and

stopped again, with this terrible fear that Fitch intended something, that Fitch

could, for firsts, spill everything.

"I got something I got to talk to you about," she said. "NG—"

He looked scared. She was. Maybe they caught it off each other. And the lift had

passed the core, had made that little catch it did when it passed through.

"He'll try to hurt us," she said. "Whatever he says, that's what he's intending

to do. Whatever happens, don't believe anything till you ask me—hear me? You

hear me, NG? You got to trust me."

"What's going on?"

"I—" She heard the lift stop, downside. There wasn't time, wasn't time to do

anything but mess things up if she threw it out cold. The way Fitch might. "Just

for God's sake—He's trying to get to us. Whatever he does, whatever he says,

remember what the game is. All right?"

He stared at her.

She eeled past and out the door again, ducked fast into the machine-shop entry,

hitting the lights on the way.

Cold, God, your breath frosted. You got the cold right through your boots, off

the tilting deck-plates, and the air bit bare skin and clothed parts alike. She

cut the heat on, cursing the sum-bitches who'd decided to powersave, and

hurried, grabbed a few extra clip-lines, typed, Flexyne? on the terminal, and

got inventory and location of tubing and sheets.

Flexbond?

Location of that, too. She blew on her fingers, entered six clip-lines and

wondered what was going on next door, wondered whether she just ought to walk

back in, whether it was Fitch at all, whether he was next door with NG, what in

hell was going on over there…

God knew what she'd babbled, sounded like a fool, or worse .

You got to trust me—

God! If that won't make a man check his pockets—

She took her lip between her teeth and stood there shivering a second, then made

up her mind and ducked out into the corridor again, down the curve past

Engineering. The door was open and Fitch was there, all right, she saw him

talking to NG, NG standing there paying all his attention, the way you better do

with Fitch—

She couldn't hear anything, couldn't read lips: NG wasn't saying anything and

she couldn't see Fitch's face. She just went on past, down to the lift and up

again the long ride to the bridge.

Her coming up here got a bare turn of the head from the officer on duty—not even

sure who it was. She had a momentary, desperate thought about going straight to

the captain and telling him how Fitch was pushing them—but that might not be a

good idea.

She stopped, turned, took a deep breath.

"'Scuse, sir, is Mr. Bernstein or Mr. Orsini aboard?"

"Not at the moment," the officer said.

"Would you mind, sir, putting out a call? I've got a problem with the fix."

"Mr. Fitch is on duty."

"Yessir, but Mr. Orsini said call him specifically."

"I'll advise Mr. Fitch of that."

Shit.

She said, "Thank you, sir," restrained the hand from a salute, and walked off

very politely, down to the locker.

Not real smart to try to talk to Wolfe, right after the man had said a solid no.

Better get back to work, long enough to make it look like she did have a

problem, then try to get downside again.

No probability that Wolfe was aboard, unless he had been in downside ops and

just not advertising the fact. But the stowage and sickbay were the only topside

areas that were swing-sectioned like the bridge, only places you could get to up

here, only places you'd want to get to up here, the mofs' quarters being all

upside down or sideways as long as the ship was in dock and the ring was locked

down, which meant ordinary doors were upside down and a step beyond the swing

sections would put your foot on the overhead. Wolfe might have a cot downside,

in ops or the purser's office, captains not tending to stay in dockside

sleepovers like ordinary mortals, captains usually spending their dock time in

places like the Station Residency, where service was fancy and the high and the

mighty didn't have to rub up against their crews on liberty.

And if Wolfe was on his own liberty-tour, off having pork and real whiskey or

whatever captains ate that the 'decks never saw, well, hell if that cold bastard

was going to want to hear that Bet Yeager had the willies about Mr. Fitch.

Dammit, Orsini knows Fitch is on-ship right now, Bernie's got to know—Bernie's

got to care… Bernie's got to be smart enough to figure what can happen…

Probably a stupid panic, Fitch never pushes anything that'll get shit on him,

he's smarter than that, that's always the trouble. If Bernie was smart enough to

get a hands-off and a no-talk order down from Wolfe, then Fitch won't dare open

his mouth to NG—

Please God.

She shut the locker door again, attached the clips to the nearest ring, and sat

down to work on the damn rig again, familiar feel, familiar smell that set off

memories just handling it, waked up old ways of dealing with things—fond

thoughts of how Fitch could just turn up dead somewhere—except, dammit, ask

anybody on the ship who'd have most reason to want Fitch dead and the answer

would always come up NG Ramey; and even if nobody gave a damn about Fitch taking

a long fall, you couldn't axe somebody that high up unless you could really make

it credibly an accident that just couldn't be anything else.

God, isn't Fitch going to come back topside?

What's going on down there?

While she sat there adjusting little damn tension screws…

And hell if that sonuvabitch mof on the bridge had ever called Orsini, just

count herself lucky if maybe he wouldn't even bother to call Fitch.

Oh, God, Bernie, check back in, you know Fitch is out for blood—get your ass

back on this ship, get Orsini back here—

Nothing. Just nothing, while she adjusted screws and took pieces off and put

them on again, sick at her stomach, thinking and thinking of ways to get at

Fitch.

Get him to hit her, maybe, get him somewhere near the safety limit in the

corridor out there—

Sorry, captain, he was shoving me and I just moved—

What if he didn't die?

She heard the lift work again, heard it reach topside, and sat and patiently

adjusted screws and thought, I got to have the Flexyne, shop's got to be warmer

now, I can go down there and get some tubing, get a chance to talk to NG—no

knowing if it was Fitch just come up, but he can't be still talking down there…

Damn, if I go down there I got to tell NG everything…

Got to find him in a decent mood, I got to—

God, I hope he didn't hit Fitch.

She hooked the left gauntlet up with the left arm, flexed the fingers—whole arm

exhausted just from the resistance in the damn thing.

If I try to make up what I'm going to say I'll just screw it up—I just got to

tell him, is all, whether or not Fitch's done anything, either patch it up or

head it off—

She safety-clipped the sleeve, closed the lid on the tool-kit.

The door opened. She looked up at Fitch, Fitch walked in and looked over what

she was doing, the scattered pieces of the rig.

"Having a problem, Ms. Yeager?"

The airlock opened, distant echo through the ship. She tried to collect herself

and remember what exactly she'd said to the mof out there, said, "Mr. Orsini

didn't indicate whether he wanted a patch or a fix, sir."

"How's it coming, so far?"

From Fitch, a quiet and civil question. It rattled her. She made a second try

after scattered wits, got a breath. "I dunno, sir, nothing particularly wrong

with the rig, except it must've hit something pretty hard, probably—"

"How much to go on this one?"

"I dunno, sir, depends on whether I go for a clean fix or a dirty one."

"How well's a dirty one hold?"

"'Bout the same. Just a matter of—"

"How long?"

—Doing it right, she had been about to say. Pride. Something like that. Fitch's

attitude pissed her. But she said, "On this one… maybe eighty, a hundred hours.

I want to get into the pumps, check—"

"What about the other one?"

"I dunno, sir. Longer than that."

"You need some help?"

"I don't think we got it," she said. "You know or you don't know, you go to

fuckin' around with the joint screws, you can get everything out. You ever had

it in adjustment, you got a chance; you ever had somebody messing with the

screws, you got no starting point to depend on, you got a real mess. Sir."

Muscle in her knee started twitching from the angle she was sitting at; one in

her arm was trying. Or it was the cold. Or it was Fitch standing there staring

at her.

"I want this one working," Fitch said, "tonight. I want the other one

working—tomorrow. Do you need any help, Ms. Yeager?"

Listen to me, you son of a bitch…

But you didn't say that.

"I can't do that, sir. Can't promise that."

"I don't care how you do it, Ms. Yeager. I want this equipment fixed, I want it

fixed dirty and working, I want both working by tomorrow, you understand me, Ms.

Yeager?"

"Can't do it."

"We're not talking about your getting any sleep, Ms. Yeager. Or taking any

breaks. I want this thing fixed, and I want it now, Ms. Yeager."

"I don't know if the other one can work, I don't know if any of these damn pumps

aren't blown, I don't know how many of the circulation lines ruptured when that

rig took a hole, I got no notion whether all the motors work, or whether we got

some of those damn little screws stripped out, in which case that rig may not go

into adjustment, sir, until I machine something and take the damn seating

apart—"

"Just do it, Yeager."

She sat there on the floor staring up at him, too mad to shake at the moment,

wondering was he after getting her logged with something, was he just being a

sonuvabitch, or . .

"There some kind of problem, sir?"

"Not your worry, Yeager. Say we've got a little difference of opinion with

station management."

Scratch the notion of just quietly screwing it up.

"Say we've got a real problem here," Fitch said between his teeth. "Say we need

that equipment, Ms. Yeager. We need it, and we may need it to work."

Pulse steadied into a slow, heavy beat, trouble-sense working on more than Fitch

of a sudden.

"Mind to say, sir?"

Fitch stared at her like she was a spot on the deck. She stared back, jaw set,

with this notion, this sudden notion, that she might be real important to Fitch…

and that Fitch didn't like that and didn't like her and didn't like anything

about it, but she was what he had.

"You fond of people in this crew, Ms. Yeager?"

"Some."

"You sleeping with Ramey, Ms. Yeager?"

She gave Fitch the long, cold stare, thinking, God, what's he after? "Happens

so," she said. "Yessir."

"Make you a deal, Ms. Yeager. You get me what I want, by tomorrow, we clear the

file on Mr. Ramey. Do you like that idea?"

The man's an absolute crazy.

"How do you feel about that, Ms. Yeager?"

"I'd say that was a takeable deal, sir, except I'm going to need that help. I

could need a good machinist, maybe just somebody to put me together a four-ply

of Flexyne, to order…" Lying, because that was what the man wanted to hear. She

started ticking off the items on her fingers, thinking desperately, the while,

Can I believe this sonuvabitch? Can I believe a thing he says? What's he up to

and what's he trying to do?

Or what's wrong out there?

"You got Merrill."

"… plus a live body." With a gesture toward the Europe rig. "For that. Sir."

"Custom fit."

"Only way it works." She opened up the tool-kit again and rammed her hand into

the gauntlet, threw the manual toggle. Made a fist. "Precision fit. Or you fall

on your ass or throw something. Sir.—Who's supposed to wear it?"

Long moment of quiet in the locker, just the distant heartbeat of the fueling

pump.

Fitch said, "You and me, Yeager."

Pieces and facts just went off, out of reach. She looked up at him and didn't

see anything but Fitch being outright crazy.

"Yessir," she said, then, with this terrible feeling that belonged with the

smell and the feel of the rigs. Different than the shells you wore on ordinary

business. Damn different. Didn't have to make sense why the mofs ordered it.

Didn't have to make sense why this one did. They told you go kill some sons of

bitches and you went and did that, before they got you first. You didn't ask

why. You didn't ask who. You just did it.

But I got friends on this station—

Crewmates out there, too, with their asses on the line.

NG downside, no knowing what Fitch had said—

"Does NG know?" she asked Fitch. "Did you tell him where I come from?"

Fitch gave her a cold stare. "Like that, would he?"

"What did you tell him?"

"That if he wants to stay alive he's going to sit that station hours on and

hours off. We've got six people left on this ship and everybody's on,

twenty-four solid. Or this ship's going to die here. He is. Your friends out

there. And you. Hear me?"

"Yessir," she said. "I got you clear."

"Then get it the hell fixed, Yeager."

Fitch went out the door, Fitch shut it, and she grabbed the gauntlet and the

forearm and started mating up lines and shoving in push-clips, thinking how the

back hurt, thinking how the back was going to hurt a damn lot more—

Wishing that was all there was to think about.

Damn it, damn it, damn it, going to die in this one, Yeager, this whole thing's

got the taste of it, everybody in one big fuckin' hurry, where in hell is

everybody, what kind of mess has station got us in and why is the fuckin' pump

still running if we got station troubles so bad?

Fitch is lying. Fitch is fuckin' lying, when did the man ever do anything but

what served Fitch?

Going to die in this one, going to die, going to die, and what in hell's NG

going to think about it?

Think I screwed him over, that's what, what else is he going to think?

Dammit.

She safety-clipped the finished arm, got herself up on her knee and hauled

herself up to her feet, headed out the door and through the bridge pulling her

sleeve to rights.

"Yeager!" Fitch yelled at her back.

She got to the lift, pushed the button and looked back at him coming her

direction. She held up five fingers. "Five minutes. Five minutes downside. You

want that fuckin' rig fixed, sir, you stay off me, stay off my friends."

While the door opened.

She walked in, she faced about. Fitch stood there with his face turning red.

The door shut and the lift engaged.

He could stop it from the bridge, she reckoned. There were a lot of things he

could do from the bridge.

One of them wasn't to get those rigs operational, not by any finagle in hell.

CHAPTER 25

« ^ »

She hit the downside corridor running, sprinted the up-curving deck, dived into

Engineering and came up onto the stairstep deck-plates with a clatter that

brought NG face-about and frightened-looking before she got to him.

"I got five minutes," she said, holding up the same hand. "Fitch gave me that

much. I got to tell you—Fitch is saying the ship's in trouble, they need me to

fix this stuff—"

Damn, it wasn't getting to the point. She stalled, dead, and he stood there

staring at her…

Scared for her, she thought, and she halfway choked on that thought.

"Fitch give me this deal," she started to say. But that wasn't it either.

"They got this job…"

Third bad try.

"NG… I dunno if you got any notion… Hell, I'm not merchanter, you understand

me?"

Militia came to her tongue, last desperate lie. But she didn't say it. Make a

man a fool once. Not twice. Not and ever expect him to forgive you.

"… I was with Mazian."

She wanted some cue where to go next, and he didn't react, he just had this

glazed-over, scared look.

She said, "Never wanted to lie to you, never wanted to load it on you, what I

come from. I figure you're the most likely on this ship to want my hide,

probably with good reason…"

Maybe he'd gone away, gone out-there again. Maybe he wasn't even listening

anymore. He didn't look mad, just numb.

She reached out and touched his hand. It was cold and hard as the counter it

rested on. "Want you to know," she said, "I never lied to you about anything

else, never did anything I thought would hurt you. I never would, hear me?" She

shook at his arm. "NG. Hear me?"

Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. He pulled his hand and looked away from her.

She could have said her ship-name too. It had been a point of pride all her

adult life. But Africa had a rep with the merchant trade, a bad one. She'd

learned that, on Pell docks. And maybe he didn't need to know that yet, maybe he

just would rather not know.

He didn't say anything, didn't look at anything in particular for a second, then

discovered the slate in his left hand and studied it as if he was going to find

some answer there.

Logical as anything. Some things had to rattle around awhile before you could

even start to think.

So she figured it was just a case of walking out quietly, letting him alone and

letting it settle as much as it ever could—Merrill was coming in, Merrill and

Parker both were going to be working down here, he wasn't going to be alone,

thank God.

But he caught her arm as she was going. She stopped, wanted to grab onto him—but

he didn't invite that, just put his hand on her shoulder, just a quiet "don't

hate you, Bet…"

But it had as well been a "not sure I can say anything beyond that, either."

He let her go. She looked back when she got to the door.

She said, because she didn't want to leave him in all that quiet, "Is Merrill

up? Fitch was going to call him."

"Fitch said there was shop-work, said we're going twenty-four on."

She nodded. So he could be civilized, get the job done, shove the personal stuff

over till the mind could cope. It was a relief, of a kind.

"What's happening out there?" he asked.

"Dunno," she said. "They got these busted-up armor-rigs, they got some damn

problem they think they need this stuff, real fast—Fitch says. Not everything

Fitch says is making sense—"

You hearing me, man?

—Fitch says there's trouble onstation, Fitch says there's just six guys on this

ship, everybody else is off. I got this terrible feeling it's no accident who's

left aboard."

His face had that scared look again.

"Do what Fitch says," she said. The adrenaline was running out. She was getting

the shakes, feeling sick at her stomach. "I got to go. Fitch gave me five

minutes down here. I got to go back. Stay out of trouble. I need you, understand

me? For God's sake, I need you."

"What deal?" he asked, suddenly getting words out.

Then he had been tracking, sharper than she thought. Her heart thumped over a

beat. She started to lie…

Remembered in time what she'd just said about lies.

"Clean slate," she said on autopilot, gone numb herself, while her brain was

trying to figure out how much he'd understood, what he understood, whether there

was anything she could say in two seconds that could make any difference. "You

and me, clean slate. Fitch says. Says it's station trouble.—But if we got

station trouble—why in hell is the pump still going?"

"Yeager"! Fitch's voice rang out over the general com.

She saw NG's face, cold and shocked, as she spun around and ran out the door,

headed down the corridor as fast as she could.

He could've heard, God, I think he heard that—

"Ten minutes," Fitch said when she got topside.

"Sorry, sir. But we got some stuff straight. NG's straight with it. He's all

right. Promise you."

Fitch just gave her the eye a second. Then: "Twenty-four hours, Yeager."

"Yes, sir."

She moved. She got to the locker and she moved double-time—dirty job, Fitch

wanted.

So you did any damn thing that luck might let hold six hours.

Which was as long as you could last anyway, without a reserve pack.

And they didn't come with any.

One of the circulation pumps was blown, she'd expected that, thank God the next

valve on the line had shut before it froze. Jim Merrill had that one to

fix—wide, hard stare from Merrill when he opened the door on number one topside

stowage and found out exactly what the Flexyne was for, and where the pump he

was supposed to fix came from.

"Shit," he said. "They expect us to fix these things?"

So nobody'd briefed Merrill, at least. Maybe a lot of crew had known what was in

the topside locker, maybe for years.

Maybe just for this run. She didn't know. He gave her what he'd brought, she got

up and gave him the dead pump. "Fast as you can turn it around," she said; and

she had to ask: "How's NG doing down there?"

"Being a sum-bitch, what's he ever doing?"

"Shit."

"He said—" Merrill sounded as if he wasn't sure what he was walking into.

"Said—ask you what in hell's going on up here."

She looked at Merrill with this sudden dumb-ass hope for the situation and

wished she had an answer. But NG'd asked, dammit, he was at least talking to

Merrill, he was still working down there.

"Tell him," she said, "—tell him he knows everything I do. Tell him keep his

head down. Tell him I got no notion whatsoever of dying in this place."

"What's going on?" Merrill asked.

"Fitch says station trouble. You figure it. Fitch still out there?"

"On the bridge," Merrill said. "Outside.—What kind of trouble, f' God's sake?"

"Dunno. Got no idea. Captain's missing since morning, crew's been sent off—"

"Crazy," Merrill said. "Whole thing's crazy."

And when she didn't say anything else, Merrill left. She heard the lift go

downside while she was measuring the new line.

Thule's pump was still running, Thule was still pouring her small tanks into

Loki's, fast as the antique machinery could push it. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Nobody's been back to the ship. You'd expect crew to come aboard and stow stuff

they'd bought, if there wasn't something wrong… You could get robbed on Thule

docks. You didn't carry stuff around, more than just your necessary cred-slips.

Trouble, Fitch said, and station was still going on with the fill, like it

wasn't anything to do with that department of station affairs—

Maybe somebody bashed somebody, maybe we got law trouble here, going to try to

strongarm somebody out ofnstation lockup. Loki wouldn't take any shit off

station-law, not in any skuz place like this—

But why's it only Fitch aboard, where'd that other officer go, where's the

captain, why in hell did Fitch send everybody off-ship but me and NG and Parker

and Merrill, just Engineering types—

Just us that ain't exactly his good-list…

Send everybody out for a show of force on the docks, maybe!

Who ever said Fitch is telling even half the truth!

She got the line fixed, the seal in, the pump seated, one she'd borrowed out of

the Europe rig, working on the notion of getting at least one rig test-ready.

She powered-on the plastron section, tested the valves at the seal-points, and

the systems stood it.

Bet your life it would.

—Trooper joke.

Merrill brought her a sandwich up. She ate it, stuffing her mouth occasionally,

chewing while she worked. She caught a little sleep, unintentional, just enough

to bump her nose on the helmet she was holding, and to wonder where in hell she

was and what she was doing half-frozen with a helmet in her lap.

She wasn't counting hours, just working as fast as she could without making

problems—she had this grease-pencil tally written on the deck, of systems

checked and to-be-checked, a skut's memory in place of the computerized tick-off

on a slate with built-in prompts, had a lot of cobbled-together, hand-made

pieces because supply didn't have them, had one tension-screw slipping on the

right shoulder, so she borrowed one out of the left hip; a couple in the right

elbow, so she borrowed them out of the left.

Trades like that.

She went out and asked Mr. Fitch for a hot tea and another tube of Flexbond.

Fitch looked around from his station at the boards, snarled at her, told her get

her ass back to work, but the tea showed up anyway, Merrill brought it.

One favor out of Fitch, she thought.

Merrill brought something else, too, said quickly, in a low voice, leaning close

to her, "Fitch's keeping systems live," and handed her a little

dozen-times-smeared note in grease-pencil.

It said: Malfunction not minor. Take any chance get out. Ask Merrill.

It also said: The other thing—Mostly I think I knew. Ok

—NG

She looked at Merrill, cold inside as well as out.

"What's he talking about?" she whispered.

Merrill put his mouth up against her ear. "Systems has been telling command all

along we got a problem. Systems is saying this ship's going to blow clear to

hell if we go on running like this. "Now we got a five-day fill here. Hell of a

lot of mass we're taking into that tank. What in hell's the captain doing,

that's what we're trying to figure…"

Wasn't minor, wasn't minor, what happened coming in…

"But what else can we do? I know we got a problem. But they can't fix it here."

"We don't need a full tank to get to Pell! They were supposed to do a partial

here and get us on to Pell with a light load, where we can get a fix on that

damn thing, that's what Mike understood, that's what Smitty and Bernstein

understood. What's this five days crap, that's what mainday Systems is asking.

Why've they got the ship cleared, and what's this stuff about armor? They put

the whole crew off, like they don't know out there that that fill's still going?

D' they think Systems won't talk, or Engineering doesn't have to know what mass

we're hauling? Systems says—not sure who's in charge here. Command's gone crazy.

Systems says—maybe jam the airlock. Get us off this ship…"

She got this colder and colder feeling. She wiped the bit of plastic to a smear,

twice, to be sure. You could die for what was written there.

She whispered, "Don't know, don't know. Tell NG—tell him twenty-four hours. Tell

him for God's sake wait. Trust me. I'll find out."

Merrill caught a mouthful of air. "I'll tell him," Merrill said. And opened the

door to go.

Face-on with Fitch.

"We got a problem, Mr. Merrill? Ms. Yeager?"

"Nossir," Merrill said, and ducked out.

"We got a clear run on number one," Bet said, fast, before Fitch thought of a

second question. "I got the patch on number two there, going to run the rough

adjustments off me, far as I can, save you some standing, sir. Then I got to

have the body that's going to wear it—about two hours to fit it. Best I can do."

Fitch stood there looking at her. She wondered if guilty thoughts showed that

much.

"You sure you don't have a problem, Ms. Yeager?"

"Nossir," she said. Her voice was going. It cracked when she was trying to keep

it steadiest. "Nossir, everything's fine."

"You sure Engineering doesn't have a problem?"

"Nossir. Not any problem."

"We're running behind," Fitch said. "You understand me, Ms. Yeager?"

Time-sense was gone. "Yessir," she said, thinking, I got to sleep. I got to

sleep, I can't think like this—

She was shaking when Fitch shut the door. She drank the tea and slopped it.

Lying to me. Man's lying.

What in hell's he want out of me, why in hell'd Wolfe hand me to Fitch and

leave"?

Going to make a damn mistake, like to make one with Fitch, like to adjust that

rig for him, damn, I would…

She had crazed thoughts, like Fitch pulling a gun, like Fitch just killing her

outright once she was through and taking the rig for one of his cronies—

Who's my size, that'd stand for Fitch"?

Kill him first. I could. This thing could. Just walk out there, do everybody a

favor—

But the captain put me here. Captain knows about that wobble NG's talking about—

Damn. Damn! What's the hurry-up on these rigs? What changed, since we made

dock"?

Who'd risk blowing the ship, if all he's got to do is break Wolfe's neck,

promote his own faction, and cruise on into Pell?

CHAPTER 26

« ^ »

She slept again, just a sprawl on the deck while she waited for Merrill to bring

a finished job up, lay down with her cheek against the icy deck-surface and went

out cold a precious quarter, maybe half-hour, because except that, it was done.

It was a mistake, maybe, because she came awake with Merrill shaking her, and

couldn't remember for a couple of beats where she was, couldn't get her arms to

work to get herself off her face, because her back wouldn't take her weight.

Just dead, gone. And the back hurt and the joints hurt and the cold had made her

stiff.

"You all right?" Merrill was asking her. "You all right, Yeager?"

After a while you got from being afraid you were going to die to wanting to get

it over with. She crawled up off her nose, butt-high, elbows on the deck and

just rested there a second while Merrill told her how NG was all right with

waiting, NG and Mike Parker both, but on an in-case, they were going downside to

work on the outside lock controls, two Systems guys used to throwing around

giga-numbers out there trying to hotwire a security circuit—

God. "Fitch'll know," she hissed at Merrill, scared somehow Fitch had the place

bugged, Fitch was right outside. "Dammit, where's the captain?" Merrill was

downside, Engineering was right alongside ops, right down there next the lock,

they'd hear it if anybody came or went.

"No news," Merrill whispered. "Nothing. Like there wasn't anybody out there…"

"Crew's got to know they got the ship closed up, dammit, aren't they going to

wonder? Aren't they going to ask? What the fuck are they doing out there?"

"Nobody knows," Merrill said. "We've called the bridge, Mike asked to get a call

out, tried that. No go. Two on the bridge and us."

"Fitch out there?"

"Goddard."

Hughes' operator. "Shit." She sat up, crashed back against the wall, banged her

head. "Fitch's sleeping!. Screw that! Tell 'im I need 'im, tell Goddard get him

up, it's time to do that body-fit."

You stripped down to fit the rig, you started with the boots and you built up

from there, and it was cold, damn, it was, no locker on the ship had good vents.

Gave her a good deal of satisfaction, Fitch standing there in his underwear—not

bad scenery, either, even if he was a sonuvabitch, kept himself right in shape

bouncing crew off the walls. Few scars, real good one on the ribs, probably a

knife in some sleepover, probably deserved it, she thought, tightening up little

screws.

Put a little black crud on the braces inside the boot, clamp the boot shut and

adjust until all three braces left a stain on the skin. Not neat, gugged up the

suit-surfaces something awful, but if you had to fit a neo it was easier than

asking did it touch: it always felt like it touched, till you knew better.

Besides, it was Fitch.

Left boot, right boot, left shin, right shin, knees and chisses.

While Fitch stood there with a com-plug in his ear listening to stuff she'd have

given a deal to hear.

And with a damnable lack of attention to the discomfort, like what he was

hearing was a hell of a lot more real to him.

Lower body. She flat had to sit down in a minute and take a break. Her hands

were shaking so her fingers couldn't keep the driver in the damn little

invisible slots.

And of a sudden Fitch moved, knocked the fragile driver out of her fingers,

hurt, dammit, so she sat down hard on her backside, not sure for a second he

wasn't coming past her.

But you couldn't walk fast in that weight. Fitch activated his com, said, "No

answer," to whoever was listening, and repeated it, louder: "No answer, dammit,

do what I said…"

She picked herself up, rapped on the armor-leg to get his attention, started to

work again—flex here, turn there, sir, hold it there, sir…

Push it, sir, or it'll stop you there…

Damn, she'd like to set it about one tick looser.

But give Fitch one thing, Fitch had his mind on business and you told him to

hold and he held, no twitches, no complaints. Fitch wasn't real rested either,

eyes looked like hell.

"Think this thing's going to work," she confided in him, what little voice she

had left. "Ran a systems-check, it didn't blow…" And jumped to the question she

was after. "We prepping for fire, hard vacuum—what?"

"Anything," Fitch said. "Anything it has to."

"You ever stood up in one of these, sir?"

Dead silence.

"Power goes on, you got to relax. That's the main knack to it. Minute you tense

up, you got the rig taking orders, you twitch, like you're going to fall, rig's

going to over-react and you'll lose it. Some like it set real loose, some want a

hair-trigger react-time, you got your choice, sir—this one's set fast, I can

take it down half."

"I'll take your judgment on it," Fitch said, downright civil.

"How much time you got to try this?"

"I don't know," Fitch said. He never looked at her while she was working, she

never took liberties with the situation. "Maybe none." Fitch took a breath and

let it go, said, into the com, "I got that."

"We got a weapons interface," she said. "We can patch right into the rig's

systems, if you got a gun with an I/O plug, ranging, tracking, auto-fire,

anything you got."

Pure smartass arrogance. Lucky if the ship carried side-arms that good.

Hell if Fitch was going to let her near anything of the kind if they did.

"We got plain sidearms," Fitch said after a moment, "be lucky if we get a

target."

Different Fitch than she'd ever heard… tired man, mostly civil man, with a

muscle tic in his right arm and skin cold as a corpse right now.

Hell of a pair they made, Fitch complaining, finally, hoarsely, "What the fuck

you doing, Yeager?" when she was shaking so bad she couldn't get the screwdriver

seated. "Sorry, sir," she said. She was shaking, he was shivering, the thing

kept slipping, Fitch being turned at a godawful angle at the time, while she was

trying to get the main body joints to max-set.

Somehow, she was mostly on auto by then, she got the plastron put together, got

the right sleeve and gauntlet on, and she bit her lip and did little screws

until Fitch himself made a com-call to Goddard for hot coca and sandwiches.

Breakfast or supper, she didn't even remember. Mike Parker brought it up, didn't

say anything. She remembered dimly that Parker and NG were down there committing

an act of mutiny, that all Fitch had to do was discover that somebody'd screwed

with the lock downside…

Five quick guesses who'd go up on charges.

She didn't have any appetite left. She just chewed and swallowed big lumps,

washed them down with coca and wished it was beer.

Wished it was a good stiff drink of the vodka down in their makeshift quarters,

most of all. But if alcohol hit her system right now she'd just be gone, out,

zee'd in ten seconds.

Something came in that Fitch didn't like. She watched him listening to Goddard

or whoever-it-was, frowning, shaking his head a little.

"I got that," he said to Goddard, which was as much as he had ever said.

"What's going on, sir?" she finally asked, just to have tried.

Fitch gave her a cold look, said, finally, "Just an on-going problem.—Let's get

the rest of it. Promise you, if this thing runs, you get a sleep break."

If this thing doesn't run, she thought, thinking about pumps and servos blowing,

filters going, all over the rig, I'd rather shoot myself.

"Let's get it then," she said, and picked up the right sleeve, to mate it up.

All those little joints, all those little screws, right down the elbow and wrist

and finger-joints.

She was half-blind when she finished. She really thought about powering Fitch on

without a warning, because Fitch was shaky-wobbly himself, and she had this

vision what Fitch could do when the wobbles hit the body sensors.

But she didn't—didn't want to start a war where one wasn't, right now, didn't

want to take a halfway civil Fitch and make a fool out of him.

"Tell you, sir," she said, in the croak of a voice she had, "you been standing

long enough, if we got time, you better get some rest. If you power on when you

got the shakes it'll throw you, don't want it to pitch you on your ass."

"Where's the switch?"

She showed him. He threw it, threw it back off damn quick, because it rattled.

"It runs," she said. "Wobbles is you." And being diplomatic, as Teo would say:

"Most take a fall, straight off. Rather you didn't, sir. Better you get some

sleep."

"When it runs," Fitch said. "Runs means when it works, Yeager. Works means when

it works for me, so you show me the switches, you show me the technicalities,

you show me the systems, so we both know it works, then we'll both talk about

getting some sleep. Hear me?"

Damn you, I do, sir. "Yessir. I hear you."

First thing you did, if you were instructing somebody, you put your own rig on.

Fitch objected. "No need," he said; and she said, "There is, sir. Or I can call

out the instructions from outside this locker till you got that rig under

control. Sir."

Do him credit, Fitch did get the idea what she was talking about. And Fitch

listened when she said Relax, and stood there watching while she stripped down

and got into her own rig the right way.

She rattled and chattered too, when she powered on. She damped it down. "That's

your adjustment, number three switch, sensitivity on the pickups. If you get the

chatters you just screw it tighter till it stops. If you rattle loud enough you

can draw fire."

Fitch didn't think that was funny.

"You got gyros that keep your balance," she said, no missed beat. Fitch was a

helmeted, faceless form, bracketed in green-glowing readouts from her faceplate

display, 360° vision compressed and projected in a green shadow band on the top

and bottom of her faceplate—Fitch's slight movement getting his hand and

alternately his body bracketed in a stutter of yellow, his sounds amped up with

a decibel readout ticking and flashing in her lower left. She took his hand and

guided it to the first of the controls under the collar.

"You can see your hand, bottom 360 display, you got to get used to the

distortion. This is lock, this is gyros, this is free-movement, three position

switch, first over, see the blinking display, right corner of your screen, tells

you that's switch two, position B, that's stabilizing on, A is lock, C is free.

Got that?"

"A is lock, B is gyros, C is free."

"Rig tends to feel like it's out of balance. Different center of gravity, but

don't forget those big boots under you. Put it on B, the gyros keep your balance

and you got to really fight it to kneel or fall down. I'd advise you keep it on

B a while. Switch three's your sensitivity. I'd put it 85%. It's going to wear

on you some, but better that than falling down. I keep mine at 150, amp to the

rig's max at 300, but I been using these things twenty years. You don't need

switch four, we got no base station, so that's no good.—Feel steadier at 85?"

"Cumbersome," Fitch said. "Stiff."

"You can designate sections for different amps, but it's overall sloppy. Put

three up to 90, just up a point or two as you feel like it, but be careful when

you start passing the hundred mark. Higher you set that amp-switch, that's the

way the rig reads all your muscle twitches. At a hundred it'll move that much

faster, hit that much harder, grip that much tighter. It's incremental. At 150,

a guy can break a gunstock with a squeeze, and most guys never set the total rig

over 250. You move gentle, handle everything like it was blown glass, don't

jerk. Everything you do is amplified. Mass is more. When you get moving, you got

to allow more to stop. Running stride's a float, light as you can, max-set

walk's a lot the same. You got to be light on your feet. If you fall, don't

fight it, don't jerk, fall won't hurt you, just take it and get back up.

—Going to take the gyros off, now. Relax. Just stand. Lift the arm. Gently."

"Damn!" Fitch said, when the rig hummed and flexed. A little jerk. Her arm and

his crashed together and he broke a locker handle stumbling backward and

forward.

She caught him, steadied him. She could hear the breathing, heavy gasps over the

helmet-com.

Man not used to not being in control.

Man exhausted, mad as hell, and maybe a little scared.

He jerked, a rattle and stutter all up and down the joints, he lurched free and

swung the arm further than he wanted, but he caught himself.

"That's pretty good," she said. "If you swing like that, you got to brace back

harder than you would. Mass again. —Who're we supposed to use these on, you mind

to say, sir?"

He didn't say anything for a minute. But she could hear the breathing.

"Suppose you just do your job," Fitch said, "explain the rest of these switches

and stick to business."

"I got no problem with that, sir, except we got hundreds of switches, I take it

our time is limited, and if I knew precisely what we got to deal with, I could

figure out what functions you better know. Sir."

Silence. Then: "Suppose you don't be a smartass, Yeager, and you got a notion to

stay alive. Let's just learn to move this thing."

"Yessir," she said hoarsely, with the wobbles in her joints and the readouts

blurring and a real tight grip on her temper. "You got a good initial balance on

your switches. Let's try walking."

He managed it fine at 95 and a hundred, upped it to 110 and did tolerably

well—managed to stand the first time at 110 with the gyros when she hit him in

the gut; didn't fare so well on the second try without—hit the lockers, but he

didn't hit her hands hard when he bounced forward on the recovery.

"You got a real aptitude, sir." She adjusted her amp, shoved him at 130. He hit

the lockers, bounced forward, she bounced him back, he got better at staying on

his feet.

"You want to find out about the targeting, sir? Question of weapons?"

She kept after him, put her suit on lock finally and just rested, drilled him on

the basics, droned through the standard new-skut lecture, sometimes with her

eyes closed, but he couldn't know that.

"You got four settings, one's for right-handers, one's for left, some don't

care, number one's autofire, skip that, we ain't got it, set it to 2, see the

yellow bracket pop up on your foot there, sir, that's a fiber-optics in your

right glove, gives you a fair idea what you got your gun generally pointed at.

You can adjust the focus, rig understands spoken commands, you say Program On,

Target, Manual, you say Cancel to stop it—" Flutter of grid and markers across

her own rig's faceplate, that stopped with Cancel. "You can tell it left/right,

up/ down, tell it Set when you're happy—"

"Got it," Fitch said. Fitch wasn't sounding real focused himself.

"Think we got the basics," she said. She hoped. "Give you the verbals next try

if I got time. Toggles are more reliable, some voices the pickup just doesn't

get a hundred percent, don't know why somebody can't make a programmable that

can tell sit from shit.—You want to get out of that thing, now, sir?" She didn't

wait for a confirmation, she didn't want to hear no, she just came up and guided

his hand to the master release. "There's your tension-straps. Left is on, right

is off, you let 'em up and you unlatch, ever'thing just exactly like a

hard-suit, once she's built and mated, same direction on the latches—sleeves

first, top, boots and breeches—hold on, there, let me get the hanging-hooks,

sir."

She unscrewed the sleeve-rings, helped him unmate the right one, he got the

left, got his own top-section off, helmet and all, once she had it hooked, and

he ducked out of it, sweat and grease to the waist, while she got her own joints

unscrewed and unmated, and her own hooks on the shoulder-rings.

Fitch looked like he was going to fall on his face, white and sweating and

wobbly as he wiped off and started to get his clothes on.

No sympathy, you sum-bitch. Her back reminded her of old debts, and oh, God, she

wanted a beer.

Fitch was mopping his face, standing there with his clothes half together while

she was putting hers on. "All right, Yeager, you're off. You got maybe six

hours."

She blinked, too stupid to find the catch in that.

"Get!" he said.

She zipped up. "Can I draw a beer, sir?"

"Screw any skuz you want, drink, get some sleep, any way you can, long as you

can get your ass up here cold sober when I want you. Hear me?"

"Yessir! Thank you, sir."

"Get!"

She shoved her feet into her boots, wobbled her way out onto the bridge where

Goddard was still on watch, got into the lift, propped herself against the wall

and leaned there with her head pounding and her knees trying to melt under her.

She didn't even go to the locker where their quarters was set up, she went

staggering on up the curve, into Engineering, up to where NG was working, and

startled hell out of him.

"Got a six-hour," she said. "We got Fitch's sweet goodnight. How you doing?"

CHAPTER 27

« ^ »

She wasn't navigating well, was just about fit to lie there in the seat at

number three boards, breaking a half-dozen regs—Bernie'd die, she thought,

sipping a cold beer NG had gotten her out of Services, beer and not the vodka,

because beer seemed more like food and there was more of it. Her hands would

hurt if she weren't halfway numb, her back did hurt, she was afraid to take one

of Fletcher's pills, as tired as she was, and she had the feeling a lot of

things were going to hurt, if she sat still any time at all.

But NG was there. That was what she wanted most. NG was still speaking to her,

he was standing there against the counter-edge with this desperate look, like

he'd earnestly like things to make sense more than they did.

There was that lock downside, that was an option, one he'd risked his neck

on.—"We've got a way out," he'd whispered to her, before he went down to

Services for the beer. "It'll work."

And she'd said, not sure she wasn't wrong: "Not yet."

"When? When you're stuck topside?"

"Don't do it," she'd said. "Don't do it. It's not that simple. Something's wrong

out there. Something is wrong, I got it listening to com up there."

NG didn't look happy. But he listened to her. He leaned against the counter now

and said, "Better?"

"Lot," she said, and he just stood there. Waiting.

Because she said so.

Man, you never asked, did you, what ship I come from, what I've done, where I

been? You never said about yourself, either.

So what're you thinking? That you can throw all that away? But past is never

past, man, past is, that's all; all you can ever get at is now and will-be.

You find that so, out there, where you been?

I damn sure have.

She found the beer hard to hold onto: it took concentration to keep her fingers

closed on the cup, she was that close to going out.

Crew was going to find out what she was, and there had to be a few with old

grudges—on a spook ship, probably a lot of them. Terribly dirty trick, bringing

NG out of his hole, getting him halfway acceptable, and then having it turn out

she'd lied to everybody—

Where's that leave him? God—

But NG waited, he sat there on this ship that saner crew like Parker and Merrill

were complaining about and ready to duck out on, the whole crew ready to mutiny

if they hadn't done it already out there—and they were sitting still on her

say-so, too, she didn't know why. They might be worried about the consequences

of guessing wrong, but if NG decided to go eetee he didn't always think five

minutes down the line, damn sure he didn't play team with anybody—

—didn't used to, at least.

Cup slipped. She clamped down numb fingers, got it to her mouth, drank off the

last couple of mouthfuls of it and let her arm rest then, just staring at him.

Didn't ask me what I'm going to do.

Can't tell me anything either—what's going on out there, where crew is…

"Merrill and Parker," Goddard's voice said over general com. "Report to

dockside."

She jerked awake, running that through her hearing again. Merrill and Parker

were hauling themselves up from their pile of blankets over in the corner,

scared-looking.

"What in hell?" Mike Parker asked, looking in her direction as if she might be

holding some secret.

"Dunno," she said, trying to get the chair tilted forward, trying to get up,

with NG's help.

But Parker went to the com over at the entry station and tried to ask Goddard

why and what-for and just what in hell was going on, anyway.

Goddard just repeated the order, told them get their stuff, get, go.

"What about Yeager and NG?" Parker asked, God save him, mad and keeping after

it. "Do they get a relief, sir?—Have we got some kind of problem on this ship?"

"They keep to stations," the answer came back.

Parker kept trying. Goddard just shut him down. Parker looked at both of them,

said, "Son of a bitch!"

She held onto NG's shoulder, feet and hands so numb she couldn't stand up,

except NG was providing the balance sense.

"I'm going to ask questions when I get out there," Mike Parker said.

But she stood there thinking, Questions don't matter, then, what crew thinks

doesn't matter, or they wouldn't turn Merrill and Parker out, now that they're

through with them, they know too much—what's going on in here—

She thought, We're the last, aren't we? Fitch's personal favorites…

As Parker and Merrill got themselves out the door before somebody changed the

orders. Footsteps outside got lost in the noise of the pumps. In a minute or

less the lock cycled, and they were alone in Loki's downside.

"We can still get out of here," NG said, holding onto her.

"They'd kill us," she said. That was the only sense she knew. "We got no defense

for running. I don't know what the hell's going on out there, but something is,

something is dead wrong—"

Bad choice of words. NG got her to a chair arm, got her to sit down. She put her

arms around his neck, he put his arms around her and she hung there with her

head spinning.

"I tell you," she said, "they're all crazy."

But she wasn't as scared as she ought to be for a second or two, wasn't half as

scared as made sense, maybe because she'd seen more than made sense, topside,

and it was all still rattling around—

Fitch, being civil—

Fitch, saying to Goddard, one supposed, No answer—

Goddard, sending one of their two Systems engineers and their only bona fide

on-duty machinist out onto the docks to whatever trouble was supposedly going on

out there, and leaving the ship their two gold-plated problems…

Three, counting Fitch—

Four, if you threw in that sonuvabitch Goddard. A Systems man, a scan operator,

an ex-Marine tac-squad sergeant and the mainday first officer—

"Goddard's longscan," she mumbled against NG's shoulder. "Goddard's a longscan

operator, for God's sake—"

NG looked her in the face.

Understood her, she thought.

Scared. He ought to be.

"If we get a warning," she said, "you get the hell off this ship. You hear me?

We got two armor-rigs up there, working just fine. You got those hard-suits in

that locker out there. Get one in here. If we get an alert you get it on and if

we get a strike warning you get the hell off this ship, off the dockside,

period, you don't stop to think. At that point, nobody's going to care. Fitch

won't care. Things'll be too busy."

Black of space, gaping behind a seal-window. Whirling paper, whirling debris,

trail of dust and freezing air going out a hole so fast you didn't even see most

of it, just—

—felt the explosion, felt it in the dark, felt it when you shut your eyes at

night, when you got too tired and you were by yourself and you started

remembering—

"You think it is a ship?" NG said.

"I damn well think it's a ship. They want that armor fixed, that's why I'm here,

and they don't trust me worth shit. There never was any problem with station.

That's why Fitch can talk about six hours, twenty-four hours, they know it's out

there, they know how fast it's coming. Fitch was talking to somebody, saying

Don't answer. We sit at this dock like a merchanter with a problem, not saying a

thing. Spook tactic long as I've known anything."

"Till they get a clear look at us. And that's damn far out. We're a sitting

target and they won't care about the fact there's a thousand-odd innocent people

out there—"

"You don't think we can run. You think the ship absolutely can't do it."

"Fifty/fifty," NG said. There was this look in his eyes, man remembering, maybe,

what human beings tranked down to forget in jump. "Don't know. I've worked on it

till I'm blind and I don't know. You get a deformation when you drop out, we've

tried to write a program that goes back to the boards to tell the difference,

but fifty/fifty the sensors are just screwed up—We told Wolfe, no guarantees,

run low mass, minimal stress—"

Detail just muddled up in her skull, the whole room kept turning around, she

only knew he was scared, and she was, and beyond her not knowing any answer,

there might not be any answer.

Couldn't bluff, NG was right, couldn't depend on any Fleet ship not firing on

them only because they were sitting at a station dock—because they weren't

dealing with anybody on either side who had an overwhelming lot to lose. The

Fleet didn't: couldn't hold a place like Thule, just didn't have the ships. Even

the Alliance didn't care about Thule except as metal that had to be junked; and

the people were all Q-zone refugees Alliance wished it didn't have. Only some

Pell lawyer was likely to complain if Thule got blown, but it didn't help them

after the fact.

Antique station. Nothing to hold onto.

"One damn pump," she remembered suddenly. Thule dock. Cheese puffs. Ritterman.

Herself and Nan Jodree standing in the Registry watching the screen. "One pump

at this station that can handle a starship. We're sitting at it. More than

that—our tank can drain this station dry and it takes the skimmers weeks to

refill it. If that's what's going on out there, if there is a ship, if its tanks

are low as ours and they blow us—they've blown the pump, they've blown what

we've drunk down, they're stuck here—it's more than forcing us out, they've got

to take this ship."

That bastard Wolfe knew our chances when he brought us in here. Tanks nearly

dry. Major mechanical with the drive. No way to run.

So you pull into station, you drink down all the available fuel and you defy the

sonuvabitch on your track to come after you and take it back.

We're supposed to stop a station boarding with two armor-rigs and Loki's guns,

dead broadside?

Fuckin' hell!

CHAPTER 28

« ^ »

She slept awhile, she didn't even remember lying down. She just woke up in a

back-tilted chair with a blanket over her, staring at the lights.

Remembered too much, then, twisted over to see where NG was, and found him

folded over at the next station counter, taking a nap of his own, probably with

the auto-alarm set. He'd put her kit and a change of clothes on the counter by

her: she got up carefully, stiff and sore as hell—and made her trip to the head.

Not easy to do a thorough scrub in that cubby, from a recessed tap, but it

helped.

NG had set her stuff up for her, took care of her, NG, who never took two

thoughts beyond his own necessities—

Maybe, she thought, maybe he was more upset than he showed, and he was putting

everybody off their guard so he could do something stupid like go after Fitch—

But a man with his thinking in a muddle didn't steady down the way he had,

didn't suddenly start tracking on his job the way he'd been doing, now, she

added it up, ever since he'd found out he couldn't shake her or Musa or Bernie

off his tail.

Like he'd been drifting in his private space until he got this beacon—Somebody

else out here, man, somebody solid—pay attention, now—I got information for you—

Maybe it'd been like that for her, she thought, the last several years. Maybe

that was what made him impossible for her to let alone: he was the voice in her

dark too, saying I know what you've seen. You don't have to make sense. You

don't have to explain a thing. It's not a requirement here…

Hell of a time to figure things out, Yeager.

She came back into Engineering with that thought, she came and bent over his

chair with the intention of waking him up, telling him that, telling him at

least how she felt—

But it was too embarrassing, and she went muddle-headed when she thought about

talking to him like that. Maybe he didn't feel like that, maybe what he felt was

something crazier, or saner, and it wasn't fair to push personal stuff on him.

People opened their mouths and put personal loads on each other, and embarrassed

each other beyond anything they could ever patch, was all they were likely to

do, when everything was already all right and it could go along forever as long

as people didn't say stupid things to each other.

So keep your mouth shut, Yeager, just wake him up and be nice, you got to leave

pretty soon. Last thing you can do is duck out on him without a goodbye.

She bent down, blew on the hair at his temple, moved back when he woke up, to

save her jaw.

"Was going to give you a nice wake-up," she said, "but you move too quick."

He rubbed a stubbled face. He looked like hell. He muttered something, dragged

himself up, patted her on the shoulder, and went to gather up his own kit by the

door, headed for a wash-up.

So she sat by herself, she watched the little numbers on the screens until he

came back, which wasn't long. He hadn't shaved, just washed up a bit, and he got

them a couple of soft drinks and a couple sandwiches out of the locker at

station one.

She drank. She couldn't face eating. She tucked the sandwich in her pocket.

"I'll keep it for later," she said, and deliberately didn't look at the time.

Take care of yourself, she wanted to say. But that sounded too much like

goodbye. She wanted to go over things with him, to make sure he was agreeing

with her, but that was her nerves it was for, no good for his.

"Yeager," com said. "Report topside. Five minutes."

"Damn," she said.

NG reached out and grabbed her hand. Held on a second.

"Got to answer that," she said, and stood up and pulled away before she did

something, said something, they didn't have the time to deal with. "I got to get

Fitch settled—"

"Don't trust him. Don't trust him."

"Yeager! Battle ready! No fuckin' time, Yeager"!

"Oh, shee-it!" Her heart jumped, the body did, she left the chair-arm and turned

around and grabbed him, hard, said: "That's it, that's all of it—get off this

ship"!

The siren started. She tore away and ran, banged the edge of the doorway, jumped

for the corridor deck and sprinted for the lift.

Didn't tell him goodbye, didn't even look back until it was too late and she was

headed around the curve, and only a fool would ignore that siren and delay for a

backward glance.

She wanted to tell him to suit up, wanted to stand over him and be sure he did.

He could be a fool, damn him, she'd told him too much—

God, the clock by ops showed less than six hours, there could be something loose

scan hadn't counted, hadn't spotted, hadn't anticipated—

Damn Goddard! Damn Fitch! You dealt with the Fleet, you dealt with carriers and

rider-ships, too many pieces loose in any situation to take chances with—

She hit the lift, she hit the button and after that it moved at its own rate,

nothing you could do but stand there while it climbed and lurched past the core…

Thump, thump, thump of the fueling pump, louder than the siren for a few

seconds, whole floor of the lift shaking—

If that bastard Fitch is conning me, if he just wants me to move—

The ship rang and shook as if a hammer had hit it. She grabbed for the

safety-rail and white-knuckled it, taste of blood in her mouth where she had

bitten her lip—

God! Have we been hit, or was that fire?

Little ship, pinned to station, could be us doing the firing—

Could be—

The lift stopped at the top, opened on the bridge. She headed out as the siren

quit, passed Goddard yelling at her, Goddard sitting at his post, a khaki blur

to her as she ran. It was the topside locker she was headed for, and that was

standing open, Fitch was in there already suiting up.

"What was it?" she said, jerked the zip open and started peeling, fast.

Fitch said: "Friends of yours."

"The hell!—Is it Africa?"

"They've used every ID in the book. We don't know a hundred percent who it

is.—Shit!"

"Easy, back it up—you're going to strip those damn ring-seals." She grabbed

after Fitch's problem, but he got it, shoved her off, and she stepped into her

own armor-breeches, threw the lever that seated it solidly around her, rammed

her feet down into the boots and worked her toes into those while she came up

under the hanging top-section and wriggled her arms and her body up into it,

helmet and all.

Solid mate. Throw the latches. Sleeves last, mating at the mid-shoulder, left

and right, tension engaged, screw the rings tight and not too tight.

She beat Fitch by a second, seals and all. She heard her own breathing and

Fitch's, felt a shock rock the ship and saw the audio reading jump.

She muttered: "Was that them firing or us?"

"Us." Fitch turned, flat-footed the way a neo learned to move, powered-on and

lurched after balance.

Firing every time the station's rotation gave them a target. "We're assuming

they want the fuel we're holding?"

"Say it's a good assumption."

"What've we got on us? Rider, carrier, or both?"

"Suppose, Yeager, you just leave the thinking to somebody else."

"What they're going to do, sir, they're going to knock hell out of this station,

leave us with a major problem, like a couple thousand people with no fuckin'

life-support, sir—"

"That hasn't bothered you before now, has it, Sgt. Yeager?"

She got a breath, kept her body loose, kept on the track. "They're going to

chaff our fire, sir, after which they're going to punch a major hole in Thule

Station, after which there's none of our guns any fuckin' use, sir."

"We understand the situation, Yeager, trust us we know our options—"

"Twenty years on Africa, tac-squad sergeant, sir, I ran these operations from

the other side. You got yourself a boarding situation, sir, and my advice—"

"Twenty years on this ship, out-fighting you and your murdering friends—and you

can take your advice to hell, Yeager!"

"My advice, sir, is get ready to blow the tanks they want and the pump, let 'em

kmow that, and get ourselves out on that dock and get ourselves some room, sir,

because they got no trouble getting into this ship, from inside or outside, I

can swear to that, sir."

Just the breathing. Then finally: "Ship out there is probably India. It's using

a merchanter ID. That's a rider-ship inbound. Maybe two of them."

"It's Ganges or it's Tigris, we got two AP's and two rigs and either of them's

got at least thirty, at least one whole tac-squad with the weapons-sync we

haven't got, and they aren't fools. They can use an insystemer dock, they'll get

their squad on station, core or rim—rim, if they know Thule, they'll punch right

through the section-seals, and meanwhile we may have the other rider coming up

under us and a second squad coming right through our hull into Personnel with

another thirty guys, that's what."

Fitch didn't like that. Didn't say a thing.

"So you give the orders, sir, whatever you want from here."

Two little blips on station-scan, other side of station, one more on long-scan,

only the best-guess of position. Absolutely. Goddard didn't like having her

standing behind him, Goddard probably didn't like being there himself. "We're

going to dockside," Fitch told him, on outside-speaker. "You're on your own.

Tanks go at your discretion."

"Yessir," Goddard said, and glanced away for a second to flip a switch. "Good

luck, sir."

Hadn't heard the lock cycle. Usually you heard the hydraulics work, it even got

through the pump-noise, and she hadn't heard a sound. She kept thinking, He's

waiting, we're still firing, he's waiting to the last minute—

God, God, NG, get out—

"Where's crew?" she asked Fitch when they got into the lift. "Station shelter?"

"Deep as we can get them." The lift started down. "Holding Central at gunpoint.

We got some faint hearts. You ought to be right at home with that situation."

"As happens," she said, calm and quiet. "Yessir." She fired a shot of her own.

"You volunteer for this?"

"I got my pick of crew," Fitch said.

"Tanks are rigged?"

"Tanks are rigged. Goddard's got that business."

"Goddard going to get clear?"

Silence.

Son of a bitch, she thought. And didn't say anything. Couldn't say anything.

The lift touched bottom. She kept thinking, walking out behind Fitch, I could

kill this bastard.

Take him apart.

Joint by joint.

"You going to order Goddard clear, sir?"

"Goddard's in command up there. It's his choice." Fitch opened up the

weapons-stowage. "This is what we've got."

AP 200's, shells, caps, remotes. She picked up a remote and a roll of fine wire,

spotted a box of Gibbs-caps and reached for it. Fitch got his hand in the way

and took charge of the remote.

"We got heavy demolitions? Station's got to have, sir, miner-supplies."

Fitch didn't answer her. Fitch passed her an AP and a handful of slings of

shells.

"Demolitions," she repeated. "Sir. Where?"

"We're taking care of that."

"Dammit, sir, you trying to commit suicide, or what?"

Fitch shifted around, looked her direction. Clumsy. And she wasn't. Damn right

she wasn't. Maybe Fitch was thinking about that. Likely Fitch was thinking all

along about that.

"Do these rigs have a direct comlink with theirs?"

Reasonable question. "Yes, sir, they can have. Riders are probably trying to

pick up Loki's internal stuff. Might get a bit of it. Just keep to channel B,

between us. They probably haven't got the 'ears they'd need for that, not on a

rider-ship."

"Can you get into their comlink?"

Second reasonable question. "Can't mimic their ID, sir. I can talk to 'em, I can

hear 'em, but I'll show up as another number on their board the second I go onto

Fleet-com, and I'll show as Africa. They thought of that a long time ago."

"Don't think they'd welcome you?"

"Nossir. My codes aren't current and they'll blow me to hell on a special

priority. That relieve your mind, sir?"

"No end," Fitch said, picked up his stuff, laid a hand on her shoulder and

pushed. "Out."

She moved, slung her AP and her shells over her left shoulder, tucked the wire

and the caps in a third shell-sling and headed for the lock, thinking right then

that there was an outside chance, she could go onto India-com, she knew names,

lot of old drinking-buddies on India and they knew her and they knew Teo and

Bieji Hager. They might at least wait-see, damn, she could go on that band and

Fitch wouldn't know—

Tell them watch out for a schiz Systems man and get him out alive—

On India. Take NG into the 'decks.

Sure, he'd thank her for that.

She followed Fitch out the lock, down the ramp, onto docks she had bad dreams

about.

Section-seals-were in place, like walls at either end of the section. Personnel

access to get through those was down at the coreward edge of the seals, airlock

passage in the arch of the seal-doorways. Four section-seals on Thule, to

separate the docks and keep a decompression from going station-wide. Up above,

she could see the constant yellow flash of movement in the hoses, the pump still

shoving its load into Loki's gut.

They said Mazian still had ways of supplying himself, said he had some deep

base, maybe old Beta Station itself, where nobody in his right mind would go—but

supply lines only went so far, and Fitch said India was that desperate. That

meant India was likely being shoved, run, pushed off her regular supply points,

off in the deep—and that meant Alliance ships able to keep her from moving on

stations.

Little Loki could have gone on as she was, sat silent while India refueled and

provisioned herself off Thule—and Loki instead put herself in the way of

trouble. Chance was, Loki hadn't known India was coming in, just had the bad

luck to be going into dock, leaving a heat-trail India could pick up like a

beacon, and Loki couldn't run.

But chance also was that Wolfe had known India was in the game. Chance was, when

they'd dodged out-system in a hurry that had killed a man, when Wolfe had been

on the general com after that, saying they'd had a carrier-class bogey—Wolfe had

known what he was playing tag with.

They'd talked with some Alliance ship, Wolfe had said that much. They'd traded

information, after which Loki had jumped to Thule.

Old spook, her systems chancy to the point of suicide—a mostly-stripped station

due for demolition—

Easy equation, the way high commands did math.

"Know something?" she said to Fitch. "We were supposed to have help here. And we

sit out there waiting. But we got to have fuel, we don't get this ship out of

here without it, so we decide to move on our own, we were going to go in, raid

that fuckin' tank, blow the pump and get out, hell with the stationers. But it

wasn't our support showed up, it was India—am I right?"

No answer from Fitch, she thought. Then:

"Half-right. We come in on inertial approach, close and quiet as we can. We

could've blown that pump, could've ordered station to do it. If we could get

that fuckin' carrier out of the equation our last rendezvous could have spared

us enough to get us to 'Dorado, but it wasn't and they couldn't. So we come in

here with a problem, Ms. Yeager, and it hasn't gotten anything but worse. Right

now, we got those riders sepped off at low V. The way they're acting, the speed

they used getting here, we're right and they're that low, no mass in those tanks

to speak of. So we're playing dumb little merchanter—like they can move in here

real fast and easy and make a little ship like us spit it up again. Only by now

they've got a look at us up close, now they know they got a real problem unless

they can take us, and they know it's a trap that's going to close. That what you

want to know?"

Made sense. For the first time she got the feeling Fitch was on the level.

"Meaning we got help possible?"

"Meaning we've caught ourselves a Fleet carrier. Meaning that sonuvabitch Keu is

dead V at this star and we're blowing every skimmer Thule's got, disabling the

section-seals, we're going to take out that pump, and we're sitting here

throwing missiles at those rider-ships they can't throw back, because they don't

want to blow the pump or our tanks. We've been getting amnesty-offers for the

last half hour."

Fitch surprised her. You got him started and the man could talk.

"Keu won't keep his word," she said. "Kreshov might, he's one captain in the

Fleet that might, but not Keu —You trusting Mallory, by any chance?"

"Not by choice," Fitch said.

Funny as hell. Spook officer and an Afriker with the same opinion. She almost

appreciated Fitch for that half-second

"Don't trust you, either," Fitch said then. "But you've got Ramey to think

about. Ship blowing up's not the worst thing that could happen to Mr. Ramey—not

with his particular problem. Boy can't take orders. How long do you think he'd

last, on India?"

She didn't say anything. Didn't think it called for it.

"Just insurance," Fitch said. They got to the seal-door airlock, likeliest

access with the giant seal-doors disabled from Central. Fitch waved a hand in

the general direction of the lock, invited a fool to go ahead, try to open it.

"You want to critique the job, Yeager, you go right ahead."

"Hell, no, sir, if Mr. Bernstein or Mr. Smith had anything to do with those

airlock controls, I got every confidence. I just want to do me some basic

wiring, if you don't mind, sir, a half-dozen AP rounds, just put their caps in

and peel their backsides off."

Fitch hitched his shell-slings up on his shoulder. "You want to do that, I'm

going to take me a little walk over there."

She halfway grinned. "Know what mof stands for—sir?"

"Yeah," he said, and walked off. The com said: "It stands for, I stand over

here, and you wire it, Yeager."

CHAPTER 29

« ^ »

Something blew, you could feel it through the deckplates, and a nervous skut

with a glove off, that being faster, doing wiring on a job like this one—really

hated to hear sounds like that.

But the air stayed.

Thank God for favors.

In spite of which, she had her tether-hook fastened to the nearest metal strut,

because decompression was a real likelihood, and there was an equally good

chance of something like a missile coming right up through the deckplates or the

blast-wall, a hello from India's number two rider that they knew was out there.

Touchy little job, Fitch was right, you called it a grape-cluster, nobody

remembered why—a little group of AP shells with their back ends peeled off and

bare wire stuck under their end-seals, right over the little black dot where the

contact was. You twisted the tails together for good contact all the way down

the bunch, finished it off with a little Gibbs-cap in the middle of the wires,

then you just bent the twist-tail of the cluster and hooked it over something

convenient.

Mostly you hung them head-high, on girders and such. And in this case, made

extra-long twist-tails and a good solid knot in those tails to make sure they

held fast.

Another explosion, off in some other section.

She kept at it, with the bare hand freezing, because Thule's power was down, and

bitter cold air coming through the vents on the rig, because they had six hours,

longer if they didn't ask anything out of the circulation, and longer, too,

because she wasn't asking anything out of the armor while she was sitting here

making fussy little wire-tails and worrying more about static charges than she

was about the booms and blowups around the rim.

At least Fitch wasn't a nag, man sat down and shut up and just watched the way

he said, saving it too, faceplate up, talking back and forth to Goddard, maybe

clear to Central and Wolfe or Orsini, on Loki's sealed-line phone, there at the

pump-station.

She took another cap, turned its tiny edge-dial, set it as number three, was

wrapping it in when the dock quaked and Fitch stumbled up to his feet.

She wound the tail, laid it down, unclipped her safety and jammed her right

glove on, then grabbed up her gun and the rest of the shells. "Program," she

said, "Vent seal, amp 220, gyros."

Second blast as she was standing up. Readout said this one came from dead ahead.

Loki's berth—either Loki or the station wall around it.

Dammit!

She ran for Fitch's position behind the main pump housing, came in heavy-footed

and needing the gyros on the stop. "They're in, sir, that was the ship took that

hit—Get Goddard and NG off, tell them get down here!"

"I just did," Fitch said. "Goddard's on his way out. Your damn merchanter-boy

isn't answering his com, Yeager."

"Shit!"

"There's the phone. You're patched into general com up there, you tell him get

his ass out here."

She grabbed the phone, unplugged the line and shoved the plug into the

com-patch. "NG? NG, it's Bet. Answer your damn page!"

The deck shook. Readout said behind her. Airlock, then. She saw Fitch ducked

down behind the pump-housing, figured if the tac-squad was worth anything they'd

probed the airlock before they sent anybody through, and they were just going to

blast through the layers, one after the other. Took a minute or so more. "NG?

Never mind answering, just get suited and get the hell moving! Come on, dammit!"

Flicker of bracketing on the ramp, somebody in a hard-suit.

She hoped it was NG, she didn't think it was.

Goddard's voice said, "I can't raise the son of a bitch."

Could've ducked out before this, maybe nobody was paying attention. Maybe he was

on the docks and scared to answer…

Maybe he was gone-out, ducked into some hole on the ship—not tracking on here

and now—

That damn hole in back of the storage-rack—

God!

"NG, get out of the ship!"

Flutter of bracketing as Goddard got into cover with Fitch, Goddard carrying an

AP and a couple of shell-slings, give him credit for that much, the son of a

bitch—

She wanted to kill him.

"NG!"

Wanted her hands on NG at the moment, wanted to shake him till he rattled, damn

it, damn his spook ways—

"NG! Get out here!"

More shocks in the readout, marker-dot flashing on the airlock at her back. You

didn't need to face a thing in a rig. But she kept looking toward the ramp,

hoping for a damned fool to show up.

Dot still flashing, sound-reading coming up, secondary dot intermittent with

brackets as Goddard was trying to get his gun loaded—

No more time to spend, no more. She unplugged the line, squatted down with Fitch

and Goddard, pulled her safety-clip and attached to the buffer-skirt support on

the pump-housing, only thing she could see that might hold. Fitch followed suit,

got Goddard clipped.

NG, dammit!

Puff of fire at the airlock, sudden vapor following that—

"God!" Fitch's voice.

Air freezing as it met hard vacuum.

As the dockside blew out the airlock.

She got a grip on the buffer herself, as dust and junk flew past, as the rig's

pickups registered a whistling howl of escaping air—

"You got to get them when they show!" she said to Fitch and Goddard. "Got Loki

at our backs, another damn squad coming behind us—"

Things left the ground and flew, stuff hit the seal-wall and stuck under the

wind-pressure, stuff skidded and rolled across the decking, a couple of shipping

cans flew like so much foil-scrap, and lights started going out, old-fashioned

floods popping in the vacuum, other things started exploding, less and less

audible as the air went away.

No way the tac-squad was standing in the path of that storm. They were hooked

in, tucked down, never in the rigged airlock when it blew, just out there

waiting for Thule to bleed to death.

Same as they were.

Coming through the first instant it was safe, and she had the remote, Fitch and

Goddard had the AP's, and when the India team came through they met a barrage

and started handing it back, firing as they went for the cover of girders on

either side.

She let them. She hit 001 on the keypad, and the clusters blew, head-high, about

the time wave two came in, straight into the AP fire, and the three-team came

through—

002, 003.

Didn't want to look at what it did.

Faceplates were where you didn't want to get it.

"We got 'em," Goddard gasped.

She said, "We got 'em up our ass, dammit!" She unclipped, grabbed up the

shell-slings and her gun and stood up. "We got one ship down there to deal with,

we got more of 'em coming up our backsides—they breached the ship, they got to

come here, dammit—"

She didn't care where Fitch and Goddard were going, she heard Fitch's, "Wait,

Yeager," and she didn't stop to argue, she ordered the rig to max and headed up

the ramp for Loki's airlock.

Airlock blew out, all of Loki's air hit her like a fist, knocked her down, the

gyros brought her up and she rode the limb-movements, synched with them and had

the rifle up before the rest of her was, was halfway up when vibration on the

ramp told her something heavy had hit it running—

Gut told her it was armor, brain didn't have time to debate it: hands knew where

to put the shell and the conscious brain got the fact a target was bracketed

before it knew it had already pulled the trigger.

Conscious brain wondered was it a hardsuit or armor before the explosion went

off in the guy's face.

Before she knew a shell had hit her and knocked her flat and the rig was

bouncing her up again, headed for Loki's insides…

Didn't stop for grace.

Didn't stop when she came face-on in the airlock with half a tac-team who maybe

for a couple of critical ticks didn't reckon an oncoming rig belonged to a spook

ship—till she got another one and took a shell from him, and yelled

Program-gyros-off, while she was wondering if that leg was breached, it wasn't

moving right.

She fired up as her opposition came up on gyros, got him in the groin and blew

him out the inner door, as his AP tore hell out of the bulkhead and you couldn't

see anything for smoke.

Spatter and soot all over her faceplate. She was still moving, leg still worked,

loose, but it worked, she felt cold there and maybe the autoseal was working,

didn't know, heard Fitch panting and gasping, "Goddard's dead—"

She walked Loki's downside deck, she had a rattle in her armor, wasn't sure

whether that tension screw in the left shoulder hadn't gone, wasn't sure that

leg wasn't freezing in vacuum, she was getting that body-display that meant

armor problems, whole left leg blinking red, shoulder blinking yellow…

They got to the lift shaft. The door was open, the car wasn't there, just lines

hanging in the dark of the shaft, the kind troopers used for a fast drop.

"Core," she said to Fitch, "they got in from the ship core."

She wanted, dammit, to stop and get on ship-com, see if she could raise

Engineering, but there wasn't time, was a chance of any damn thing happening—

Explosion somewhere. The ship quaked.

"That might be the tanks," Fitch said.

"Shit!" She grabbed one of the hanging lines, pulled up the latch-down on her

left shoulder, clamped it on the cable. "Going to the core—" She pulled Fitch a

line close, threaded his hoist, wrapped her line under her right leg, pulled the

lever down and held it.

Teeth slipped a little on the cable, scary as hell when you were halfway up.

Scary as hell when you thought about somebody getting into that shaft above or

below and potshotting you on that cable. Had to use the night-glows, no way to

see in the dark and cold what they were doing or where they were going, and it

was help enough for somebody waiting at the core-access with a rifle—

Fitch was coming up all right, she saw the other cable tight, saw the cable

attachments coming up fast above her on the support struts for the core-access

bulkhead, good clear attachment, no gymnastics needed: she ordered the gyros,

swung her feet up and planted her boots on the lip, leaned forward and made it,

facing into absolute dark past the dim edges of the open access.

Graffiti on the wall, something painted—

Fitch bumped her, went back off the edge as she grabbed him, damn good thing she

was holding the support. Her rig complained, the left arm slipped, but it hauled

him up and his gyros got him steady.

Lot of dark. No sound except their own breathing, nothing from the pickups.

Total vacuum.

The core access was standing wide open. Somebody had to have used an emergency

crank to get both doors like that—big white circle and slash spray-painted

across the lock controls—

—where you could see it only coming from this direction.

Fitch grabbed her arm, sudden shock of rig against rig.

Goddard's sign-off, maybe, when they rigged the tanks to blow?

Warning Loki crew out?

No pump, she thought. No vibration through the deck. It had stopped.

The core went straight back from here, whole length of the spine, long, dark

void. The glows and the night-sight got just the beginning of the conduits, the

start of the grid that was the in-dock walkway along the downside.

She stood still, spooked. Fitch wasn't moving either.

Shaft of light came into the core. Floods from the rider-ship, she thought for a

heart-pounding second, then she realized it was sunlight coming through a wound

in Loki's shielding, blaze of light and glare bouncing off surfaces down the

walk, glancing and dazzling off ice, so that the display and the readouts

struggled to cope with contrast. The light made huge shadows out of the two

giant conduit-bundles as Thule's rotation carried the sun past their zenith.

Moving bars of light and shadow touched the walkway and showed blazing white

shapes lying on it, the walkway itself showed bent and melted—and iced…

Eyes wouldn't make sense out of it.

The glare from the star passed, moved up the wall, glare dimming to twilight.

She jerked a metal utility clip off her rig, threw it onto the grid.

No sparks…

Fitch caught her arm, no force against her amped rig, nothing but noise, a

scrape of ceramics. "Yeager, we got nothing to do here, let it be, we got two

rider-ships and a fuckin' carrier unaccounted for, come on, Yeager!"

You couldn't yell out to anybody, to see if anybody was still alive in here, you

couldn't do anything, there wasn't any air to carry the sound, and the whole

core was a trap, whole tac-squad wiped out—except the point-men that had gotten

through and gone down the lines—

Not Goddard's work, couldn't be Goddard's work—

Power on that scale—Hell of a job. Cable from Loki's whole damn electrical

system, run right to that grid.

"Yeager!"

"Program," she said to the rig. "Fleet-com."

She got sputter back, got the hiss of distant voices, not the clear transmission

of a rider-ship com close by:

"Number one? Number one?"

Some poor skut was lost out there, distant across station.

She heard, more distant still, full of breakup, "… Charlie niner one, that's

forty."

And after a few seconds: "We copy forty—" . She cut back to channel B on manual,

said to Fitch, "Just dropped into Fleet-com. They're 'lagged from each other,

they're moving."

On the retreat. Fast.

Standard ops. Rider-captain's standing orders, always—cover your carrier. If a

situation goes to hell, tac-squads are on their own, cover your carrier—

No way out for them now. They're trapped. They know it. Carrier's stuck in

system.

"Time to get ourselves deep in station," Fitch said. "We're going to hear from

that carrier, round-trip, damn soon. Keu's not going to take this real

passive.—Come on, Yeager, dammit…"

She ignored the pull on her arm, muttered, "Go to hell. Sir." And tried to

think, tried to remember where you could detach the main cables, and figure how

you could set up that kind of a trap and spring it without being where you could

see when to throw a switch, and you could, from Engineering—but not without

monitoring the core didn't have and there hadn't been time to set up. So it had

to be the dirty way—a hands-on job, where you could see your targets, get them

all where you wanted them. Then throw the power on. And maybe go with it.

She walked out on the grid, turned her helmet light on, heard, "Damn fool," out

of Fitch, and just kept walking, sweating, hoping like hell the cable had burned

itself away, which, by all she could figure, it had—

She scanned the shadows, sweeping her light from side to side, scared to keep to

the grid, which might be melted through and loose, a broken connection that she

might accidentally bridge with a step—scared of that and scared to step off the

walkway and risk running into that cable in the dark.

Sun swept slowly past again, threw light and shadow onto the wreckage of the

core: gridwork and pipe and the glare of sun on ice where a conduit had sprayed

surfaces, ice-glare on bodies, ice coating white armor—

Long hanging shapes from one core-bundle, pieces of burned hose—

Or free-hanging power cable.

Surfaces glazed in ice, bodies embedded in it, shadow again as the sun passed

the area.

She looked around, swept her light past the ominous shape of cables, saw motion

bracketed, spun around with the AP in hand, fire-bracket and motion-bracket

overlapped as her hand centered—

Civ hardsuit! God!

Shot slammed into her, knocked her down, smoke hanging in a cloud as she came up

again, motion in the smoke, smoke from her shot, smoke from his—

She froze with the gun aimed up, he froze with his level, a nerve-twitch off,

that was all that had missed him—a figure up against the forward bulkhead, man

with a rifle and no lights, just sun-bounce shining off the girders, off his

suit-surfaces, a hardsuit that never would have survived a direct hit.

He had to have figured it out, then, or he was out of shells: he wasn't firing

again, was just wedged in there, into what cover the bulkhead and the shadow of

the struts afforded.

"NG?" She tried Loki's frequency. She wasn't sure he could hear, wasn't sure NG

was hearing anything or seeing anything that wasn't years back, some other

boarding—

People in armor—

She let her gun down, lifted her left hand, walked back along the grid with a

stutter in her motion, shaking in every joint—

Signed to him, Come out.

She saw him lift the gun again.

And stop.

She beckoned again. Slowly NG started hauling himself up under the hardsuit's

stationside weight.

Her motion-sensor suddenly bracketed something else—Fitch standing in the core

access doorway, she hoped to hell it was Fitch.

NG staggered as far as the walk. She got his arm, helped him up onto the grid,

patted his shoulder as she steered him toward the door.

Fitch said, "Get our asses out of here, dammit."

Fact was, she suddenly realized, Fitch didn't know the reverse toggle on the

cable-grip.

Fact was, Fitch was mad as hell about it.

Till they got downside and halfway across the docks and had sudden contact with

Orsini coming in on their com, telling them that something big had just dropped

into system, using Mallory's ID.

She grabbed NG, brought his helmet into contact with hers, yelled it at him till

he understood it, "Norway's dropped into system! Riders deployed! We got help,

understand? India's low-V, Keu hasn't got a chance."

First time, maybe, NG was really sure which of them was which.

He damn sure wouldn't have put his arms around Fitch.

CHAPTER 3O

« ^

Lines of refugees again, scared people, headed out into the patch-together tube

that crossed Green dock, waiting, with their meager belongings, line moving only

now and again, but you couldn't tell them to wait anywhere else, people had a

ship waiting out there that could take them, and people wouldn't follow

instructions and take numbers and wait for the next shuttle out, they just

jammed up and made their line and wouldn't leave it.

It was worth a riot to argue with it. Wolfe said let 'em, Neihart, whose ship

was the biggest that had come in, said let 'em, Mallory was God knew where.

The jam-up in the corridor played hob with ship's personnel trying to get back

and forth, you had to bust people out of their priorities, which meant upset,

panicky stationers, but people got out of the way of Loki crew, figuring, Bet

supposed, they were about one jump worse than Mallory's bunch and only one

better than Keu's.

They got out of her way when she went down to the docks, they moved their

baggage over and gave her a clear path.

But she stopped when she recognized a man in line and recognized the woman next

on.

Man looked up, worried-looking.

"Mr. Ely," she said. She didn't put out her hand till he did: a lot of

stationers weren't anxious to be friends.

"Ms. Yeager," he said, and: "My wife, Hally Kyle."

"Ms. Kyle, pleased to meet you." She saw Nan Jodree offer her hand, too, at her

left, turned and took a cold-as-ice, still steady grip.

"Good to see you," Nan said. "Good to see you, Bet."

"Tried to find you," she said. "Mate of mine said he'd seen you on the list, but

things were pretty scrambled."

"Going out again," Nan said.

"I got to bust ahead of you," she said. "I do apologize, I got to be on this

one. Going back to Pell, too, they're going to ferry us, at least our front end.

All that matters of a ship, anyhow… You all right?"

"We will be," Ely said. "You? We were worried about you, Bet."

"I'm fine," she said. They were sounding the board-call. "Damn, I got to get

down there—See you at Pell!—Nice meeting you, Ms. Kyle."

Bernstein was upset, patches all over, jury-rigged messes patched into the

can-hauler's hull, three weeks to do that linkup, and Smith said it was all

right, Bernie said it was a hell of a mess, Musa said he'd seen worse—

Mostly, she figured, it was better than they'd been going to do, on their own.

Better than they had done, getting into Thule.

Lot of the boards were shut down. Systems was mostly dark. Most of the ship just

wasn't there, her tail-section due to take a ride into Thule's sun, along with

Thule Station.

Piece of history going away.

She walked up to NG, said, "How's it going?"

NG made this little frustrated shrug, said, "What I got's fine…"

That'd been the strange thing, NG'd had his chance, Neihart had heard what he'd

done, offered him a berth, Bernie'd said. On Finity's End.

NG'd said, "No. Thanks."

Bernie'd been a little off-put, Neihart's trying to steal his Systems man, but

Bernie had said to her and Musa, "I don't understand him."

NG didn't explain himself, to her or to Musa, never mentioned it.

She said, now, finally, because her conscience hurt her, "Heard you had an

offer."

He said, shaking his head, "Bernie outbid them."

« The End »