Tripoint, page 30
part #6 of Company Wars Series
"Break it up!" somebody yelled. Male. Loud. Mad. "Damn you, break it up!" A hand grabbed his collar, a knee came up in his face, and from the deck, afterward, in a haze of pain, he saw Austin hauling Christian off the deck and up, Christian spitting blood and bleeding from the eyebrow.
"Mister," Austin said, shook Christian and shoved him against the wall. "Mister, you are drunk. Do you understand, you are drunk, reporting in?"
"The whole fucking crew—" Christian objected, and there was a crowd around them. Saby. Capella. Dockers, crew, all gawking, all suddenly melting away from the danger zone.
"The witnesses are your problem, mister," Austin said. "You did it. You fix it. Hear me? After undock and zone clearance. My office. Clean, presentable, and sober."
After which he let Christian go and stalked back into the open lift. The door hissed shut. The lift rose.
Tom blotted his lip with a bruised knuckle, felt whether teeth were loose. Saby touched his arm gingerly, meanwhile, trying to move him, but he stared steadily at Christian—he'd learned from the cousins not to turn his back. Christian stared back, mad, white, except the blood—Capella was trying to get him elsewhere, saying it was no good, it didn't matter, they had other troubles.
Finally it made sense to get away from the scene, let the business cool down. He walked off with Saby, left Christian to his own devices, went off to Saby's cabin and Saby's washroom, where he could clean off the damage.
He got a chance and he'd immediately done something to screw it. Didn't know all that he'd done, or why specifically Christian had gone for him, but he half wished Austin had knocked both of them sideways, at least not done that in front of the crew… it didn't make sense to him, except Austin didn't understand the impact of his actions—but Austin did. He'd no doubt of it.
He saw Saby in the mirror, behind him. Saw her looking upset.
"He's jealous," Saby said.
"Of you?" Talking hurt. Would. He rationed words.
"I brought him up," Saby said. "My aunt Beatrice is his real mama. She didn't want him, except the politics with Austin. I was ten. I did the best I could till I was, God, twenty-six and he was getting ideas. And I still feel responsible.—He needed a lesson this time, dammit, he has to get life figured—But things—got complicated last night, and then he walked up on us like that… I know what he thought: that I betrayed him, that I'd set him up—because I wanted you."
"Shit." He leaned an arm against the wall. Sniffed back what had been a nosebleed—thinking—no, feeling—what must have gone through Christian's insides. And he threw a glance at Saby, with a leaden foreboding that his lately-ordered universe was coming apart again. Couldn't last. Couldn't put together what so many screwed-up years had torn apart.
Complicated. Hell. Saby functioned for Christian as mama; and Saby's aunt, Christian's maman, hadn't wanted him? Another of Austin's little no-personal-protection accidents?
Damn him.
"Austin had to hit him, in front of the crew? And left me without a mark? What for God's sake does Austin think he's doing? The man can't possibly be that naive."
Saby hugged her arms across her, shook her head, and looked scared. "Christian screwed up. Christian knew it. Same rules—crew and hired-crew. You don't fight. At least—you don't get caught at it in lower main. Not when Austin's mad. And Austin… was mad."
"How'd he know I didn't start it?"
"A, Christian's an officer on this ship. It's his say, his resort to force. And, B, No question: he knows Christian."
Chapter Ten
—i—
GRAPPLES RELEASED—no take-hold had sounded, easy regulations on this non-Family ship, meaning crew was up and about… and, on his way from Saby's quarters, Tom found himself 10m short of the galley zone as that sound racketed through the frame.
He wasn't the only crew caught out—"Shit!" someone yelped. Crew around him started running. He made a fast sprint, along with twenty or thirty others, out of the hazard of lower main for the take-holds that lined the mess hall transverse—some in the corridor, some the other side of the divider, in the galley, in his case, far as he could get sideways, toward the galley counter, excusing himself past other take-holders, hand to hand clasp and a " 'Scuse me, thanks," as he slid past each individual, because you didn't stand loose for a second on this ship—no please and thank you and no warning when Corinthian moved, God help them.
Jamal had already clipped secure-sheets over the sink and the counter-top to secure his work area, and taken-hold at the bow wall behind the counter, which was the good place to be. Tink stood that side, too, massive legs braced, his shoulders against the wall and both hands, somewhat riskily, for a keypad/calculator… but the far side, the bow-side of the transverse, was about to be the deck, temporarily.
While his was about to become the ceiling. "Tink. I'm here. " From two, three niches along the take-hold bar.
"Yeah.—Looks like. " Tink made a grimace, seeing his face. "Ouch. How you doing?"
"I'm all right."
"You sure? You look like hell."
"I'm fine. " He caught a breath. "Jamal, I need in the worst way… I need to make a call after undock. I've got sheets and such to find—All right to do?"
"You all right, kid?"
"Fine. " Lie. Again. He was still out of breath, and dreading the shove. He wished he dared make the dash across—a couple of guys had risked it, and made it, but it was too dangerous on this ship. "Got some arranging still to do."
"Yeah, no problem," Jamal said. "But you stay out of—"
Bow-jets shoved Corinthian hard, and strained muscles he hadn't known he'd strained, located every bruise, up and down his arm and his ribs and back, before that burn abruptly redirected and added a nadir vector.
Tink grabbed a one-handed hold. Fast.
"Pilot's pissed," Tink said, rolling a glance overhead.
"At what?"
"You can't guess?"
About that time the shove came hard and fast.
"Shit!" someone said, as a pan escaped the sheet-restraint, hit the overhead and rebounded.
"Loose object!" Jamal yelled—they were inertial for the moment, jets at momentary shutdown, and things and people floated. "Damn her!"
Then, thank God, the passenger ring engaged, and added another component to further shoves from the jets. The pan settled. So did human feet, and hair and clothes.
There was swearing. There were sighs. Tink called across at him:
"We got a slow-go here at Pell. Lady Bea can kick our ass out, but we can't do more 'n one-point kips until we clear the zone, about thirty minutes out. How's the gut now?"
"I'll live. You think she's through up there?" He'd got the fact it was a woman at the helm. He heard the B, and it clicked into consciousness who was at the helm and why she wasn't happy. "God, I wish they'd announce moves."
"Pell's usually a three-burn… " a tech said from the take-holds down the wall, woman he didn't know.
And the third shove came.
"There we go. That's it. We're inert. " But everybody stood still at the handholds until the siren blast.
Then the company left the walls, and he went behind the counter where the galley corn-panel was, punched buttons for the universals of ship-com, the 01 that went to the captain's message file.
"Sir. This is Tom Hawkins. I urgently need to speak to…"
"Austin. " God, the thing had tracked him through the boards. "What?"
He'd composed a message. All the logic went straight out of his head.
"You apply the same standard. Me and my brother. Sir. " His tongue went stupid. Breath caught in his throat and he swallowed. "Sir. He caught us breaking regs. He had some justice."
Silence from the other end.
"It remotely strike you, Hawkins, that the captain might be busy?"
"I'm sorry, sir, I was just trying to message the system."
"About your policy assessments?"
"Sir,—"
"Where are you?"
"The galley, sir. Sir,—I do want to talk to you about this."
"Talk. Now. Fast. You're tying up channels. "
"I mean I've got to talk to you in private. I'm on the galley-com, sir, I want to talk to you before you talk to—"
"Hawkins. I have a ship moving at 1. 092 kips, exceeding Pell traffic speed limits, for which we have a Ik fine. I have a ship in count behind me and a caution on an inbound insystem hauler and two service craft, whose point-location is often a mystery unto themselves. Do you think we could postpone the personal business?"
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you. "
Dead connection after that. He pounded the wall with his fist, thinking…
"Trouble?" Tink asked.
… Christian was going to walk into Austin's office, remotely justified, and come out of there wanting to cut his throat.
Which wasn't smart policy, which wasn't what he wanted to live with, which wasn't the man he'd seen for about two beats when Christian was figuring out how and on what ship to dump him.
Say it right: Christian could have left him in that warehouse to freeze, and nobody would have found him. Christian, Saby had said it, had gone to a lot of effort to get him shipped out, never mind Christian could have walked him into a lot rougher situation than a ticket out of port and out of their lives. Christian was fighting for his place on this ship, was what Christian was doing…
Beatrice didn't want him. I brought him up.
And he understood Christian in that light a lot more than he'd ever understand the man who'd raped Marie.
"Tom?"
"I need to check on something," he said. "Tink, cover me."
Maybe Tink wanted to ask. He didn't want to answer. He ducked down the straightway of the galley back toward lower main, where alterday crew was headed for the lifts.
He looked to find Christian anywhere in the traffic. He knew where his cabin was. He thought about going there. He checked near lower deck ops, and then at the nearby lifts, where the next shift was cycling up by the carload. He slipped into that lot, nervous, waited his turn, one trip after the other, then jammed into the car with the rest and stared at the level indicator instead of the faces around him. Crew stared… the cuts and bruises, it had to be, or the question what he was doing, going topside. "He clear?" somebody finally asked. And: "Think so," somebody else said. "—Mister, you got a clearance?"
"Appointment," he muttered, as the lift banged into its topside lock. "Captain's office. " The door was opening. He wanted out. Fast. "Excuse me."
A hand caught his shoulder.
"Hold it, Hawkins."
He saw seniority in the grey hair. He said, "Yessir," and figured he'd just routed himself back in the brig. The guy shoved him against the wall by the lift doors.
"Appointment, is it?"
"My brother's supposed to be up here. I need to talk to him."
"Is that so?" The officer—Travis, the pocket emblem said—turned him back to the next arriving lift. "Right back downside, mister. Stay to lower decks."
Second lift opened. He faced, suddenly, blond hair, bruises, scowling face.
"Inside," the officer said, and jerked at him by the arm, sending him past Christian, into that lift. "Downside. Go. Now."
Hand propelled him inside. Christian dived in beside him, mad. The lift doors shut, on the two of them alone, and the lift sank.
"So?" Christian asked.
"I didn't want what happened. I'm sorry. I don't want to get in your way…"
"You had a good time, you and Saby?"
"We—" He couldn't justify anything. Christian was looking for offense, and his face and his ribs were already sore. "We didn't plan anything. We ran into each other—"
The lift hit bottom. Crew jammed aboard, pinning them to the back of the car.
"I don't want another fight," he said. They were face-to-face against the back wall of the lift car as the door shut and the lift started up again. "I don't want to argue with you."
"Yeah. Keep your concern."
"He didn't do right. He wasn't right, lighting into you like that—"
"Just shut up, Family Boy. I don't need your damn condescension, all right?"
The door opened. The crowd in front vacated the lift. Christian shoved his way through and he tried to follow, but Christian turned around, furious, the other side of the threshold. "Get to hell out of my life, Hawkins!"
Shocked faces, around Christian. He'd started forward, to leave the lift. It seemed useless, then, with Christian opposed, to pursue anything with anyone in command.
Downbound crew flooded in, pushing him back against the rail. The doors shut, the lift went down and let out downside. The other passengers got off. He did.
Straight face-on into Saby.
"Tink said—" Saby began, and grabbed his arm as they worked their way outward, against the five or six upbounds trying to get in the doors.
He wasn't coherent. He waved a hand, made a helpless gesture as they got clear, back at the corridor wall. "No luck. Waste of time."
"I could have told you," Saby said. "Tom, let me talk to him."
"Not Austin. Christian. Damn him. Attitudinal son of a bitch. "
"Him, too. " Saby made a flustered gesture and punched the lift button. One car had gone. The other was downbound. "He's being a fool."
"You don't go up there!"
Saby turned around with a furious stare. "I'm going up there because this is my shift, and I'm late!—And leave it to me who I talk to!"
"It's my life, dammit!"
The lift arrived. Saby ducked in with a last few upbound crew. The doors shut. He stood there, having embarrassed himself, generally, having made a public scene with Christian, up and down the lift system, and disagreed with Saby, in public.
There was nothing but a shut door to talk to. There was nothing to do but walk back to the galley where he'd agreed to be. Forever.
Right now he wanted to strangle Christian. He'd blamed Saby. He'd blamed himself. He'd blamed Marie and Austin and fate.
But right now he saw only one person responsible for what had happened to Christian, and to him, and for the misunderstanding with Saby, and every damn thing else.
Wasn't Saby's fault she'd been drafted as surrogate mama to a jealous brat whose universe insisted every problem was somebody else's fault.
He slammed his fist into the paneling as he walked. It hurt as much as he remembered. He pounded it two, three, four, five times, until the corridor thundered and the pain outside equalled the explosion inside his chest.
Somebody put his head out of ops and ducked back again. Fast.
He hit the wall four more times, until his knuckles showed blood.
Nobody asked. Nobody came out. He got as far as the next traverse, with the mess-hall in sight, when the siren sounded, and the PA thundered, "Take-hold, take-hold, long bum in one minute. This is your warning. "
He didn't run. He walked, deliberately, counting the seconds, down the mess-hall center aisle, made it to the comfortable side, the stern wall, this time, where Tink and Jamal were getting set.
"Fix it?" Tink asked.
"Waste of time. Waste of effort. Nobody listens."
Tink raised his brows. He remembered he was supposed to be seeing about bed-sheets. "Yeah," Tink said, and held out a bag of candy. "Lot of that going around today. Have one. Have two."
He did. His hand was skinned. He figured the knuckles would turn black. He ate the chocolate. Jamal had one, the three of them alone in a galley redolent of spices and, rare, expensive treat, bread baking.
The burn started, smooth, clean, steady, this time.
Mainday crew was the heavy load for the galley, the dockers, who seemed to keep whatever schedule they fancied—but figure that the horde would hit the galley hall for supper once the burn cut out. Sandwiches out to the working stations. Everybody to feed before they made jump.
Gentle burn. Reasonable burn.
"Easy does it now," Tink said. "Pell is the most reg-u-lated place in the ports we do. You sneeze and gain a tenth of a k in their zones, you got a fine. One k ain't nothing. Pilot knows."
"Runs in the genes," he muttered, while that 'ports we do' hit the conscious part of his brain, the assumptions he'd made, the questions he'd asked himself and not asked, because the routes were so laid down by physics and what points a ship could reach from where they were that he'd assumed Earth, Tripoint, and Viking. From Pell, they could make Earth, spooky enough thought, strange, overcrowded place. But that had been where Christophe Martin was bound. Christian wouldn't ship him where Corinthian was already going. From Pell… if they went really off the charts they could reach the Hinder Stars, the old bridge of stars the sub-lighters had used for stepping-stones out from Earth—shut down, now, dead,
… civilized powers couldn't keep the Mazianni out of them, and the Military had dismantled the stations.
So they said.
"Tink. " He felt stupid asking, at this late date. "Where are we going?"
"Tripoint. Just Tripoint to Viking."
So mundane it shook him, after the giddy speculation he'd just made. He wasn't even sure he'd have believed it, if it hadn't come from Tink.
"Where's the Fleet connection?" he asked. It was just the three of them in the galley, Tink, Jamal, himself.
And a silence.
Then: "Tripoint," Tink said. That was all. The silence outweighed curiosity, reminding him Tink wasn't innocent. Saby wasn't. Nobody on this ship was. Now he wasn't, because he'd voluntarily come back aboard.
He'd been in a position, while he was free, to do everything Marie would have done—whatever it might have cost him. But he hadn't. Hadn't wanted to—thinking about himself. Then Tink. Then Saby, after which… he guessed now he was where he wanted to be, scared, lost—queasy at the stomach as the burn kept up, getting them up to the v Pell would let them carry in its inner zones.
And very, very lonely, just now. Cut off from everything and everyone he'd grown up with. From everything he'd been taught was right and wrong, good and bad.
