Tripoint (39 page)

“We all have hard lives,” he said, Marie’s coldest sentiment, and got up to walk out. “No, I don’t want to bunk with Saby. She’s got her own problems. I’ve got mine. Galley’s just fine. Brig’s all right. I like the door locked.”

He thought Austin might pull the you’re-not-dismissed shit on him. Might get up and knock him sideways, or lock the door.

“Marie’s coming here, you know,” Austin said, before his hand hit the switch. It stopped him cold, short of it, and he looked around at Austin’s expressionless smugness.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know her. She’ll be here—maybe three, four days, maybe on
Sprite
, maybe on something else. I’m surprised you’re surprised.”

“She can’t. No way in hell. “ His hands had started to shake, he didn’t know why. He jammed them in his waistband, trying to hide the fact.

Austin just shrugged. “We’re out of this port. Glad you made it back.”

“You son of a bitch. She’s nowhere on this track. She wouldn’t leave
Sprite
, no way she’d leave
Sprite. “

Another shrug. “Take L14 for a berth. It’s clear, nobody in there. You’ll have to move some galley supplies, the bunk lets down, probably needs linens. Water lines need turning on. You’re competent to do that, aren’t you?”

“Probably,” he said.

“You’re permitted to Saby’s cabin. The galley. The laundry. If I see your ass near an ops station, we’ll discuss it. But you didn’t want that, anyway.”

“No, sir,” he said, and the door opened, letting him out.

Marie wasn’t coming here. He hadn’t been that close to finding her, when he was loose out there. He couldn’t have been that close.

The shakes got worse on his way to the lift. He had a knot in his throat that didn’t go away on the ride.

No guard. No surveillance. He had a cabin assignment, not the barracks bunk he’d feared he might have, with hired-crew, who wouldn’t go easy on a Bowe in disfavor, crew who clearly took orders from Christian—and not a bunk with Saby, which he was going to have to explain, downside, when the offer did explain why Saby’d so cheerfully shoved him topside to talk to Austin.

Saby just didn’t know. Saby got along with Austin. And good for her. But he dreaded meeting her, when the lift door opened—and she was right by ops.

“Thanks,” he said, uneasy, not wanting to have to explain, not comfortable meeting that clear-eyed stare of hers. “Thanks for taking my side. I—didn’t want to involve you. I’ve got a bunk assignment, it’s not that I didn’t want the other—” A lie. “Just—I don’t want you hurt.”

“It’s no problem, with me, there’s nothing to worry about…”

“I don’t want to worry. “ He wasn’t doing well with the lie. His whole mind wasn’t on it, and then was, and he knew it wasn’t working. “I don’t know what I think, all right? I’m not thinking real clearly right now. Too much input. Too many inputs. I just c-couldn’t—”

“Tom. “ Saby took his face between her hands, rose up taller and kissed him, very sweetly, on the mouth. “Shut up. All right?”

“I didn’t—” He wasn’t doing better with his voice. Nobody’d ever kissed him that fondly, nobody’d ever forgiven him any least thing he’d done or not done or been suspected of thinking. Of a sudden his chest was as tight as his throat and his wits went every which way—suddenly everything good around him was Saby, Saby, Saby. Saby—who’d for some reason just kissed him, and for some reason didn’t look like once was enough. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do next, or what had just turned inside out in him, so that a minute ago he could reason that he was infinitely better off in this universe without Saby and the next she was everything, absolutely everything worth living for.

“It’s all right, Tom. Can I possibly write? Leave notes on your door? Messages through Tink, maybe.”

“Don’t
do
that to me!—I’m in L14, all right?”

“That’s a damn closet!”

“It’s home. It’s my home. “ He snatched a retreating hand, held it as if it was glass. “I want a
place
, Saby, I want somewhere that’s mine, I don’t care how big it is, or what it isn’t, I just want a place. But you can come there. I want… “He couldn’t shape it. He hadn’t a chance of the hope he had. He wasn’t worth it. An instant ago, losing Marie had him shaking with panic and now he couldn’t see anything but Saby. He told himself no, what he’d felt last night wasn’t real—but now it was and Marie wasn’t.

“Want what?” Saby asked, relentlessly, and squeezed his fingers. “I’m free tonight. My bunk or yours?”

“God.—Yours. “ He couldn’t possibly subject Saby to a let-down bunk. He hadn’t any sheets. He wasn’t prioritizing clearly. “I just—”

“You’re crazed. “ She stood on her toes and gave him another kiss. “PDA is positively against the regs, you know. Crew’s coming in.”

“Yeah. But the hell—” He gave her one back, the kind they’d shared in the night…

Then a hand caught his shoulder, spun him—he thought instantly, life-long sensitivity about officers and public display—of some officer catching them; then in one split-second saw blond hair and saw Christian, before Christian’s fist slammed his jaw, Saby yelled in outrage, and his back hit the wall panels.

He came off them for a grab at Christian, Christian hit him in the gut and then he landed one solid hit and another before Christian grabbed his shirt and they swung about,
bang
! into the echoing panels. Saby was yelling, some other female was yelling, futile hands were trying to drag them apart and then both females were trying to kick them apart while he was trying to keep a grip on Christian and get him stopped—minor hits on his back, minor kicks in the leg, which only let Christian get an arm free. Christian half-deafened him—

Somebody kicked him in the head, then in the ribs, kicked Christian too, for what he could figure, and a noise of male voices started yelling encouragement and laying bets.

He wasn’t going to lose this one, didn’t know what it was for, but he knew the stakes. He hit, he punched, he held on and tried to pin Christian flat while blows came at his midriff. He smelled alcohol. He heard Saby yelling for Michaels, for somebody, anybody, to get it stopped, but the bets were flying too fast. Christian hit him across the temple, he hit Christian in the jaw, then dropped an arm across Christian’s throat and tried to keep him down, cut off his wind, end the fight, while Christian kept trying to batter him loose.

“Break it up!” somebody yelled. Male. Loud. Mad. “Damn you, break it up!” A hand grabbed his collar, a knee came up in his face, and from the deck, afterward, in a haze 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.”

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—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
?”