Tripoint (19 page)

He was suddenly, erotically, acutely, conscious of the scratches his clothes concealed, before he figured she didn’t mean that.

“Jump’s no novelty.”

“Yeah. You and me, merchanter-son. Jump’s still a bitch. I’m sincerely regretful of the circumstances, and I do hope you stay here where’s much safer, if you get my drift.”

The stars on her wrist meant Fleet. Meant a special fraternity of the breed, the ones that smelled their way through hyperspace, and
felt
the presence of ships they preyed on. That was the folklore, at least.

“Where’s the next port?”

“Pell, right now. If you’re real nice, who knows, they could let you off there. But—there’s else, pretty lad. And you don’t truly want to go there.”

“Mazian.”

“Did I say that name? That
is
a son of a bitch, Christian’s brother, and I’d never say that name to a stranger, myself. I’d not say a thing more, where you are.”

He felt cold and colder. “That’s the trade this ship keeps.”

“There’s trade and there’s trade, Christian’s elder brother. “ Someone was coming, and Capella straightened up, throwing a glance in that direction. “Be smarter.”

Christian walked up, took a stance, arms folded. “New tourist attraction?”

“Hey. He’s decorative. Scenery, Chrissy. Do you mind?”

They argued. He sat where he was, on his bunk, wanting to stay out of it entirely. Christian grabbed Capella by the arm, lost it when Capella jerked away, and the two of them ended up withdrawing down the corridor, not out of earshot.

His mind was on one word. Mazian. He’d wanted to believe… he didn’t know logically why he’d even care about his biological father’s honesty as a merchanter, when he’d had information to the contrary all his life. He didn’t know what he had possibly invested in the question that Austin Bowe might
not
be the villain Marie portrayed him to be…

Except his personal survival hung on that point. Except he didn’t know what was going to happen to him, or where he might end up. Mazian’s Fleet, as a destination… he didn’t even want to contemplate.

As for Capella’s bracelet. It was, just lately, a fashion, in some wild quarters, just a fad… like the star and dagger of the elite marines—some rimrunners had supposedly taken to wearing it, the ones still legal, the ones the cops couldn’t necessarily arrest on specific charges, but this woman hadn’t a glove over it or any shame. Far too young to have fought in the War… but you couldn’t rely on that, among spacers. Sometimes young meant… experienced. Sometimes young meant a deal more jumps, a deal more time in hyperspace, and you couldn’t tell, except, somehow, the myth said, the look in the eyes.

That, the bracelet and the fact Bok’s equation went with it, which wouldn’t be the case with some fad-following bar-bunny or a fringe-spacer wannabee. Navigator, engineer… rumors weren’t certain
what
the wearer was, except a Fleet that couldn’t use the stations any more still survived, still turned up to give merchanters’ nightmares and nobody knew how, unless they’d found jump-points the regular military couldn’t find or couldn’t reach.

And the wearers of that bracelet had, legendarily, something to do with that ability. All sorts of stories had come out, since the War. He’d grown up on them.
That
was the discrepancy in their ages.

Closest thing to a night-walker you’d ever meet in real life.

And regularly in bed with his half-brother, was what he was hearing in the argument in progress. In bed, more than one sense. Obligated, by what Christian said.

“Screw you,” Capella said, a little down the corridor, but clear as clear. “I don’t
owe
you, Chrissy, don’t try to pull that string. You won’t like what comes up with it.”

He held his breath. He didn’t know why. There was violence in the air.

Christian said, then, “You let him
alone
, Pella. That’s the bottom line. You keep your hands to yourself.”

“Sure,” Capella said. “Sure.”

That left him chilled, that did. He didn’t want to be the focus of a feud—let alone on this ship, with his half-brother, and that woman.

We were just talking, he wanted to yell, the age-old protestation. But he didn’t think the pair down there gave a damn for his opinion.

—vii—

NO MECHANICALS. NO PROBLEMS since they’d dropped into Tripoint. They had to take the
v
down all the way to system-inertial, with the load they had, which was a shame, because there was a real reason, in Austin’s opinion, to make a little haste through the jump-point, in this dark navigation sink between the stars; reason, but not reason enough that they shouldn’t take time to run the checks and catch their breaths.

A good few days, he figured, before
Sprite
could get itself tanked and loaded—which was some respite before they had to worry about
Sprite
being on their tail.

But they well might be, by now. He didn’t put it past Marie Hawkins. And he didn’t bet the cargo officer couldn’t move
Sprite
in her own directions.

Knock on his office door. He was on a costing calculation, on various options. Inputting. He didn’t want interruption.

But the knocker also had the private key-code; the door opened without him keying it from the desk.

“‘Scuse,” Saby said, easing in against the wall. “Minute?”

He held up two fingers. Generosity.

“Thomas Hawkins?” Saby began.

One finger. Well-chosen.

“Talked to him,” Saby said. “You said.”

“Minute and a half,” he said.

“Not attitudinal. Smart. Scared. Says the bunk’s lousy but he likes the food.”

“Fine. He won’t starve.”

“I really think you should talk to him. At least once. You’ll always wonder.”

“Damn your dockside psych. No, I won’t always wonder.”

“He’s not what you think.”

“That’s twice. Fifteen seconds.”

“Scared of him?”

“Five.”

“Ignorance killed the cat, sir, curiosity was framed.”

“Time’s up.”

“Yes, sir,” Saby said. And slid out the door and shut it.

Kid had an uncanny knack: she said a hire was trouble, and trouble was what happened. She said an unlikely guy was all right and got them the best cargo pusher they’d had. She said take this woman, and he hadn’t listened, and the guy that they had taken instead, they’d been especially sorry of, down to finding him a permanent situation.

Now Saby went and stuck her young nose in a damned sensitive problem. Who set Saby to evaluating
that
personnel acquisition? Who assigned her downside, anyway? Saby wasn’t even on-shift.

Spare time occupation. And he could live without seeing Marie Hawkins’ kid. He could sleep at night without it.

He could sleep at night seeing the kid to the same permanent occupation the last machinist’s mate had found. The universe had nooks to put things in. Slam the door shut and the hell with the problem. Marie Hawkins had contributed genes to the kid. Maybe arranged for him to get aboard, put him up to it, who knew? One determined fool could do a lot of damage to a ship before they caught him at it.

Com beeped. “Austin,” he said.

“
You’re not afraid of him,”
Saby’s voice said.

“You’re on double watch, damn you!”

“
Yes, sir,”
Saby said. And cut the com connection.

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—i—

“CHRISSY-SWEET,” THE ARGUMENT in the corridor wound up, “if I want to go I go. If I want to stay I stay. You want me to go is not the question here. It is never the question. Not here. Not dockside. Capish?”

“I understand. I understand damned well. Go to hell!”

Things had gotten very far from reason. Tom sat still on his bunk and let the firefight go on without his input.

But Capella lingered, strayed to the brig frontage to lean on the cross-bars and smile sweetly.

“Tommy-person, don’t piss off your brother. I suspect he’s jealous.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t say a thing as Christian turned up in his barred view of the ship. Didn’t say a thing as he watched Capella pass out-of-field and on down the corridor.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” Christian said, he thought to him. “You know that?”

“Not by choice,” he said.

Suddenly the cable took up and snaked around his leg, dumping him first on the deck and then past the end of the bunk, slamming him against the wall.

“Dammit!” he yelled.

“Son of a bitch,” Christian said. “You keep yourself out of
Corinthian
business, you keep yourself away from
Corinthian
crew, you don’t ask questions, and you don’t listen to the answers if somebody hands them to you, you fuckin’ stay out of our business, you hear me?”

He got up. In the meantime somebody else had turned up in the area outside, with a wave of a shirted arm and a: “What in hell is this? I think you’ve got duties, mister. If you don’t,
find
some.”

“Sir,” Christian said, scowling, and got out of the way as the gridwork shot open and the new arrival walked into the cell—

Blond like Christian, tall—officer, you hadn’t any doubt about it, and that wasn’t by a longshot by reason of the black skintights, or the shirt, an off tone of shimmer red-purple. “Hawkins, are you?” the newcomer asked, hands on hips, occupying the way out, and he hadn’t any doubt who he was dealing with. He stood his ground and glared, tight-jawed, seeing no need whatever to answer.

“So are you Marie Hawkins’ little present,” Bowe asked, “or what?”

“I don’t know what you think I saw. I don’t know what there was to see. I don’t care about your business.”

“Stupid must be her genes. Not mine.”

“Yeah, real damn bright, the stuff at Mariner, you son of a bitch! You left a hell of a reputation on
my
ship!”

Bowe came closer, between him and an exit that wouldn’t help him, with the cable on his wrist. He understood the game. He stood and glared, and Bowe glared back. Taller than he was. As big. And with the home advantage.

Bowe stared at him. Finally: “This isn’t
Sprite
, boy. And there’s a wide universe out there that doesn’t give a damn what you want or whose mistake you are. You keep out of my way. You don’t cause any trouble. And I might let you out on some civilized dockside…”

“Yeah. And otherwise?”

“You watch that mouth, son.”

“Go to hell. I’m not your son.”

A hand exploded against his head. He hit the wall, rebounded and hit Bowe with all the force he had.

Or tried to. The cable snagged. Bowe cuffed the other ear, he hit the wall again and slid down it onto a tucked and trapped leg, half deaf. He went for Bowe’s knees and hit the wall a third time.

Freed the knee. He came up yelling, “You son of a bitch, I’ll kill you!”

Bowe got him in an arm lock and shoved him at the wall, face-first.

“Will you, now?”

“Damn you!” He had one hand linked to the cable. He twisted half about, got the other fist wound in Bowe’s shirt, and Bowe rammed a fistful of coveralls up against his throat and shoved him at the wall again, hard head, yielding panel…

“I don’t think so,” Bowe said. “Call it quits, boy?”

“No!”

Another bounce of his skull against the panel. Blood wasn’t getting to his brain. He was going out. He brought a knee up, tried for Bowe’s throat, and his skull met the panel again.

“You’re being stupid, boy.”

“You don’t win,” he said. Everything was grey. “You don’t win.”

Bowe dropped him. Legs buckled every which way, and the boot soles resisted on the tiles, pinning him against the wall and the bunk as he fell. He tried to grab the bunk with his free hand, and couldn’t get purchase to get up. Bowe walked out.

Gave orders to someone. He had a pounding headache and a shortness of breath, and he got an elbow onto the bunk, enough to lever himself out of the angle he’d wedged himself into. He rested there getting his breath, trying his hardest not to throw up.

Shadow loomed over him. He rolled over to protect himself, saw Tink and another guy about the same size.

“Tried to tell you,” Tink said with a sorrowful shake of his head.

By which he figured Tink wasn’t there to kick him while he was down.

The opposite. “You need Medical, kid?” Tink asked, patting his shoulder.

He didn’t think so. His ears were ringing, his head hurt and the legs still wouldn’t work predictably, but he shook his head to the question and tried to get all the way up.

Legs buckled. Tink caught him.

“Get a cold towel,” Tink said, and, “No, they ain’t got ‘em in here, down in the galley.”

“I’m all right,” he insisted, but Tink looked at his eyes one after the other, said he should get flat and wait for the towel.

Didn’t want to. Wanted to be let the hell alone. But Tink didn’t give him that option.

Bowe’s orders. Son of a bitch, he kept thinking, son of a bitch who’d hurt Marie—Marie’d told him, told him details he didn’t want to know—before he knew what sex was, he’d known all about rape, and after that, sex and Marie and Bowe were all crosswired, the way it wasn’t in normal people, he understood that. And now this huge guy with the snakes, and Capella, and Christian, and the damned holocards and subspace and the scratches, and Bowe… it felt as if something had exploded in the middle of him, right in the gut, pain Bowe had handed out, or Marie had, or whatever in himself had deserved to be in the mess he was in. He sat there half on the floor and started shaking, and the big guy, Tink, just gathered him up and hauled him onto the bunk and covered him up.

“Shock,” Tink called it. “You’ll be all right, just breathe deep.”

Might be. Might well be, an accumulation of images, an overdose of reality. But deep breaths didn’t cure it. No matter where he looked, he was still where he was, he was still who he was, nothing cured that.

—ii—

YOU COULD FIGURE, YOU COULD damned well figure, Christian thought, with the echo of Austin’s steps still recent past his vantage point. He folded his hands tightly under his armpits—he’d learned, at fourteen, the pain of bashing one’s fist at
Corinthian’s
walls, or his personal preferences against Austin’s whim of the moment. He’d gotten the orders, the same as Tink had: Thomas Bowe-Hawkins was going on galley duty,
Austin
wasn’t talking, Austin had just had every button he owned danced over and hopped on by Thomas Hawkins, and it didn’t take a gold-plated genius to know Austin wasn’t in a mood to discuss the Hawkins case, Austin wouldn’t be in a mood to discuss the Hawkins case in a thousand years, with him, ever, end report. Austin was headed back to his lordly office, Capella was on bridge duty, running calc, Saby was on report
and
on duty—everybody who’d taken a hand in the brother-napping fiasco was on report or on duty.