Tripoint, page 5
part #6 of Company Wars Series
In a lifetime, maybe her only chance at this ship. Only chance to win. Only chance to risk everything. He knew how much that meant. "Read you," he said, already a traitor to Mischa. "No question. " Betraying Mischa was easy. But he wanted Marie to get the bastard—just not… not the way he still feared she might try.
She let him go. He walked away, to escape her closer questions about Mischa and his intentions, and decided on rec and the commissary, he didn't really care.
But once he thought about it, he knew he ought to eat: jump took too much out of a body. He decided he'd better, hungry or not, and wondered if Marie had—but Marie had probably ordered in, probably had one of the junior techs bring something to her: you could do that if you were sitting Station. He should have asked her. But he wouldn't, now, didn't want back in Marie's reach.
Cousins were thick, going and coming around the commissary area, which was no more than a district in lower-deck. He hadn't, himself, checked the boards. He didn't expect assignment different than Mischa had given him. Saja had to know that he was spoken for. He hoped to God no one else had the idea what Mischa had set him to do, but rumors about Corinthian's presence were running the corridors—he caught whispers, furtive stares.
And had cousin Roberta R. ask him, brilliantly, as he eased his way through the gathering around the stack of sandwiches, "You hear about Corinthian in port?"
Then cousin remotest-thank-God-removed Yuri Curtis Hawkins added in a not discreet undertone that he'd heard they'd had thirty in hospital at Mariner the last time the ships met, and maybe they should snatch themselves some Corinthian crew and "show them a thing or two."
"Yeah, right," another cousin said, "from the station brig, big show."
He shouldered his way past the comments, got his sandwich, ignoring the lot, but Yuri C. said, "Hey, Bowe-Hawkins, what's your idea?" and somebody else, Rodman, drawled, "Bowe-Hawkins, I hear they inbreed on Corinthian, what d' you think? You got all those crossed-up genes?"
"I think that ship's armed, it's not a regular merchanter, and we're not in a damn good situation if it gets pissed, cousin, thanks for the personal concern."
Hoots and catcalls for the exchange. He wasn't popular with Yuri or with Rodman, whose eye he'd blacked, in their snot-nosed youth. He didn't care what Rodman did or said. He cared only marginally about Yuri C. or Yuri's two half-sibs, and Roberta was no hyperspace engineer. He took his sandwich, got his drink and took his lunch to the quiet of his own quarters.
It was peace, there. He settled sideways and cross-legged on his bunk, sore from the temper fit in the gym, and ate his sandwich—he couldn't even identify the flavor. Jump did that to you, too, left you with a metallic taste that was mineral deficiency.
But he was thinking—if Marie could tag Corinthian with illicit trading, smuggling, whatever—there was everything Marie wanted, on a platter.
Damned right he wasn't going to take on Rodman Hawkins. He wasn't crazy, the same way Marie wasn't. You could put up with a hell of a lot to get something you wanted as badly as he wanted the question settled, wanted Marie straightened out, or something finally resolved.
So she'd wanted to keep Austin Bowe's kid, Marie had, back when the choice had been possible. She hadn't aborted him.
And a while ago she'd requested the only companionship she'd ever asked of him.—Well, not asked, but at least not rejected when he offered. That was something. That was entirely unlike Marie.
And, damn Mischa's holier-than-thou-ism, he so wanted Marie to be right this time, he so wanted Marie to have the vindication that would let Marie score her point, win her case, prove whatever Marie had needed all these years to prove.
Damn, if Marie could get her life straightened out, if Marie could stop the pain that made her do the things she did…
If he could just once in his life help her…
He sat there eating the sandwich and drinking his soft drink while Sprite glided toward rendezvous. He told himself he was a mortal fool for believing Marie. But telling himself, too, that he didn't owe Mischa a damned thing.
Least of all… loyalty.
Take-hold sounded. Sprite was approaching the slow-zone.
Coming into the region of controlled approach. Insystem velocities.
After this they were well within Viking's time-packet—realtime with station com.
—vi—
MILLER TRANSSHIP SAID AN HOUR. They'd said it an hour ago, when the voltage regulator on their only 20k can transport went fritz and died the death.
Get a part from supply, Miller said, as if it was that easy. No big delay.
Hell.
Christian Bowe slammed the receiver down on the hook and went back to the table in Fancy's, while Fancy Leeman himself was strolling among the tables. Big guy, Fancy was, and you didn't ask about the name—Fancy caught his eye and Christian made the fist and thumb, signaling one more refill.
"So?" Capella, chin in hands, looked up, a flash of dark eyes in pale blue glitz-paint. Tattooed snake up one arm, tattooed skull and rose on her right buttock—but that wasn't on display.
Christian sighed and subsided into the chair. "Hour."
"Hour! It's been an hour! Let's just screw it. Come on, Chrissy-sweet."
"A round's coming. We give it that long."
Capella sighed. Traced a circle in the condensation on the table. The hand had a fortune in rings. The wrist had a band of stars in tattoo, and below it, Bok's Equation, in ornate letters. Navigator's mark, in certain quarters.
The hand captured his, amid the circles of two prior rounds and one double ice water.
"Chrissy."
"Christian."
Lavender lips quirked. "Chris-tian, they're not going to get that sum-bitch moving till alterday. You know that, I know that, they're going to crawl clear into next shift, they'll be Beatrice's problem, anyway. Why sit? Music is happening. Dancing is going on."
Beatrice was sleeping. Or whatever. Austin was definitely barricaded for the night. The drinks came. They went down too fast for prudence.
"You can call them from the next bar," Capella said, nudging his leg with her foot.
They had a fair amount of the cargo taken care of. Capella was right, the transport was probably screwed for the next few hours. Late mainday was a bad time to have a mechanical; mainday techs already had their work schedule full, they'd bitten off about what would send them off duty on schedule. If something more came in they'd just pile it up and let it wait for alterday, no matter how they told you they were 'going to get to it.' It never happened. It was unions. And they weren't going to budge on their hours requirements, not if they held their breath and turned blue.
Damn and damn. Austin could go kick ass and maybe get something accomplished. But Miller Transship's mainday management and Austin's mid-rank kid weren't heavy enough push to get things accelerated another hour or so. Capella might. That tattooed bracelet carried cachet with some techs, but it made other people nervous, and at Viking you didn't know, you just didn't know what loyalties or what agency you might be dealing with.
Besides, Capella was in a mood, Capella was ready to go off-shift, and the third drink had fuzzed things a little—hazed the blinking neon, brought a little less imminency to the situation, hell, Austin had said don't bother him with cargo problems, handle it, and wasn't it dealing with it, when you knew damned well they weren't getting anywhere? They had fifty cans yet to move. Then they could onload and use any trans port. What came out of Miller's was no problem. Hire anything. Anybody. They were well within schedule as was.
"One more call," he said, and went across the room to the phone.
Station line. It was clearer than the com with the music going full bore. He shielded one ear and listened to Miller's chief tell him one more time that they were doing what they could, they'd gotten the part, well, yes, but with the union rules, they just couldn't get a crew on.
"Yeah, I know that dance," he said. "Look. I'm going to be traveling the next while. I'll keep calling. You get somebody's ass in there. Call in debts. You like dealing with us. You call in debts."
"Look," the answer came back, "there's a limit to what we can do—"
"Look, sir. "
"Yes, sir, Mr. Bowe, I understand that. I'm sorry, but—"
"Senior captain's going to be in there, if this doesn't get moving."
"Yes, sir. I know. We're working."
He hung up, walked back to the bar and signed the tab. Capella showed up at his elbow and they left for the next bar, Capella doing this odd little step down the deck-plate joints.
Crazy as they came, but hyperspace operators of Capella's ilk were, if possible, crazier than pilots, stayed high the whole ride and did as they damned well pleased—danced to a beat they claimed to hear in space, claimed to hear the stars, the echoes of the planets. Mean as hell, Capella was, but that was the high she gave when she tripped, the way she was tripping now—she'd take him, she'd take anything if he funked out, and watching over their junior apprentice hyper-jock and keeping her out of jail was Assignment Two. Austin wouldn't like him if he let that happen, either… Capella wouldn't be wrong, the hyper-jocks were never quite wrong, for the very reason the senior, book-following navigators and engineers never quite listened to them.
"Slow down, you."
Capella danced back and grabbed him, whisked him into the next bar and onto the dance floor.
Capella was hell and away more fun than Miller Transship. Capella was a drug, a natural high—glitz flickered in the strobing lights, found patterns on her skin. The snake on her arm came alive and its eye on her wrist glowed metal red, leaving trails of fire. The bracelet of stars and Bok's Equation glowed green—they could do that in the tattoo shops on Pell.
It drew attention. One drunk sod with a Knight patch on his sleeve wanted to dance with Capella, wanted to get up close, and there was damn all for her companion to do but object to that if Capella minded, but Capella grabbed the drunk and skipped away, contrived to maneuver him right off the dance zone and right into a tableful of Lodestar's finest, who didn't like their drinks spilled.
"Come on," Capella laughed, grabbed his hand and ducked for the door before the riot spread beyond Lodestar's vicinity.
Sunfire was the next bar, all gold and neon reds, big glowing sun holo in the middle of the bar, and mirrors everywhere, sending the images up and down at angles to the original. The bar served up a specialty about the same colors, with a kick like a retro, and the dance floor was up a step, where if you weren't sober you'd slide right down the edge. They were doing this number that involved back to back and turn, and then front to front and up close—
Which between the dizziness of the mirrored suns and the warmth of bodies and the shortness of breath, made the slanting edge a precarious thing.
Out onto the dock, then, carrying a couple of drinks—he'd remembered to sign the tab, that sober, at least, but they knew deep-haulers on leave, and they'd have tagged Corinthian, seeing the patch on him and on Capella—there had to be a hundred Corinthians on the dock at the moment, and somebody'd have signed the tab, if they'd have blown it, or they'd have gone to Austin, which you didn't want to happen…
Meanwhile he'd gotten crazy enough he was linked arm in arm with Capella and trying to do her skip-step and pattern down the deck-plates.
"Chris!" someone female yelled from behind him.
Which confused his navigation, since the female he was with was beside him.
Which let him know he wasn't thinking clearly, and that reminded him…
"Hell. I haven't called Millers."
"Christian!"
Familiar voice. Crew. Cousin.
"Oh, screw it," Capella said, as he veered about. "She's no fun."
He blinked, sweating in the cold chill of dockside. A drop of condensation came down, splat! off some pipe overhead. That was Sabrina, ten years senior, and dead, dead serious, he saw that on her face.
"Christian, where in hell's your com?"
He felt of his pocket. Pulled it out, and disengaged his arm from Capella.
The red light was on. God knew how long. Must have been beeping from time to time—somewhere under the music in the bar.
"You and Capella," Saby said. "Deaf as rocks, both of you. Sprite's inbound."
Took him a couple of heartbeats. He was at a low ebb.
"Shit all," Capella said, in the same second he placed the name and realized this was a definite emergency.
"Austin know?"
"Austin's on it. What's this about Miller? What's this about a transport down?"
"They're next-shifting it, I've been trying to move them. " His navigational sense was shot to hell. He was on green dock, he could figure that. He ran a hand through his hair, blinked at Saby's righteous sobriety. "Electrical problem, they tagged it, they know what it is. It's the damn Viking unions, Miller could do the job themselves, except nobody can touch it."
"We may be pulling out of here," Saby said. "Austin's furious, nobody can find Beatrice. I'd just get your rear down to Miller and tell them get the next shift up early, put it on our tab. We're on recall, everybody with no business out. I'll call in, say I've found you."
"We've got cargo on dock," he said, in the beginning of a cold, sober sweat. Austin was going to kill him. If worse didn't come down. "We got cans on the dock."
"Beatrice—" Saby began, but that was nonsense.
"Find Beatrice, if you can, and good luck—Capella, you get down to Miller and tell him his trade is on the line, don't tell him why, tell him it's major trouble, and if we get screwed we'll take him with us."
"Where are you going?"
Visions of cans in the warehouse, half of them re-labeled and half not. Visions of a broken transport stalled God knew where between Corinthian and Miller Transship's warehouse with God knew what aboard, and he didn't want to guess.
Sprite.
Hawkinses.
He had a brother on that ship. Half-brother, at least.
He was, on one level, curious. On another, he wasn't. Not until they got those cans labeled.
"Tell Austin," he said to Saby, "I'll be in the warehouse, I've got the com on, I'm listening. Just let me straighten this out."
"Christian,—"
"I'm fine, I'll fix it."
"Hell," Capella said. "Listen to the woman."
"Christian,—"
"We are exposed as hell," he said to Saby, walking backward, a feat proving his sobriety, he decided, considering his recent alcohol intake. Austin didn't want excuses. It was his watch.
He couldn't screw this. "I'll fix it. Tell Austin I'll fix it, there's no problem."
"Answer your damn com after this!" Saby yelled at him. A loader was working somewhere. Human voices were very small, on the dockside, easily overwhelmed by the clash and bang of metal.
Capella caught his arm and spun him about.
"Better bribe the mechanics," Capella said, with her curious faculty for realism, drunk or sober. "Cheaper than station brig, Chrissy-lad. Which we could all be in if we screw this. You got to sober up, spaceman. We got to get a watch on that ship when it comes in. Anybody comes around the dock, we just arrange a distraction."
"We get the cargo moving," he said. That was the absolute priority. Couldn't just leave those cans on the dock. Austin was applying personal diplomacy to the mechanics, he was willing to bet that—Corinthian was as good as down-timed herself while Millers' transport was stalled, stupid half-ass company owned theirs, which was why they dealt with them, but they were creaking antiques—
Didn't want just any transport drivers in that warehouse anyway.
Emergency had him sweating in the cold air. A ship showed up that he'd never expected to meet—one they'd taken care for years not to meet. The karmic feeling, things happening that shouldn't be.
And would Austin run, from Marie Hawkins? From a crazy woman? Hell. That wasn't the Austin he knew.
He used the next public phone. He called into ship-com. He hoped not to deal with Austin.
"Where the hell is your com?" Austin's voice came back to him.
"Sorry, I was in a noisy environment."
"/ have a damned good idea where the hell you were, Christian. Save it. Did you get the message?"
"Yes, sir.—But we've got a transport down. They're trying to fix it. I didn't think you wanted to be—"
"I'm awake. I'm bothered. I'm mad as hell and I'm calling Miller. We've moved the count up, we've got a serious problem, and I suggest you get your ass down there and get that cargo moved. Yesterday! I'm reassessing your file, mister, the same as any crew member who can't do his job! You doubt me? You want to tell me how I owe you a living?"
"No, sir. I will—I'm doing that. No, sir, I know you don't. " The nerves twitched. They remembered. Austin meant exactly what he said, and it wasn't necessary he have liberty again for the next three years if he pissed Austin any further. End report.
Capella had gotten sober, too. Entirely.
Chapter Two
—i—
APPROACHING INNER SYSTEM WAS a matter of hours, at a high fraction of c.
Dumping that velocity while they could still graze the interface was a relatively easy matter.
Working at station-proximity speeds to get a high-mass freighter into a rotating station, on the other hand, was a tedious, nerve-wracking operation. Always be aware of the nearest take-hold point. Stay out of the lift except on business. Stay out of fore-aft corridors. Keep belted when seated or asleep.
Meaning that trim-ups might be rare when a long-hauler was following the computer-directed approach—no pilot flew docking by the seat of the pants—but stations were debris-generators, thick with maintenance and service traffic and escaped nuts, bolts and construction tiles, and, while in the zone of greatest risk a freighter pilot was no-stop, come hell or the Last Judgment, or absent anything but damage to the docking apparatus (meaning any pusher-jock in a freighter's approach path was a bump and a noise and a gentle course-correction), the possibility of evasive maneuver did exist. That meant the children battened down in the cushioned Tube in the loft, in which they could take most any vector-shift; and crew off and on duty found themselves a definite place to Be for the duration.
