“Are you scared, sir?”
Of course he was scared, but did Ghormley need to hear it? He was saved by O’Neil’s voice.
“Got a leak, Lieutenant.” O’Neil’s headlamp bobbed. “We’ll just widen ’er out a bit—” Barin could feel through his bootsoles the impact of O’Neil’s blows on the sides of the crack. “She’s spalled off quite a lot—we should be able to—get—more—open—”
Barin started to ask if they had their safety lines hooked on, and realized that that was probably not a high priority at the moment. Should he bother to clip onto the tank beside him? If there was an explosion, it wouldn’t help much. It might even rip his p-suit apart.
“Can you see the pressure gauge from where you are, sir?”
“No—”
“It’s dropping,” said the EO. “We’ve got you on full monitoring now. It’s still dangerous.” Great. They’d get to watch him get blown away.
“Do we need a bigger hole?” Barin asked.
“Wouldn’t hurt,” the EO said.
“Will do, sir,” O’Neil said. He sounded calm enough. More shivering vibrations in the deck . . . Barin tried not to think of the effect on a puddle of cold gas of such vibrations—shaking it, dispersing it faster than it might have gone on its own, mixing it . . . he kept his eyes on the far end, where suddenly a large section of bulkhead seemed to fold back like paper, and he was looking out into blackness speckled with lights that might be stars or the worklights of the outside repair crews.
“Got it,” O’Neil said.
“Get yourselves out,” Barin said. “It’ll start flowing your way.”
“What about you?”
“Oh, I think Ghormley and I will stand here awhile and let things clear out—go on, now.”
The lights moved up the compartment, toward the airlock entrance, more slowly than he wanted. Probably O’Neil was making them stay on the safety line; airflow out that size hole wouldn’t be strong, but the deck down there was slick. Two reached the airlock, opened it, and went through; the others were almost there.
Barin turned his head to watch them, as they worked their way up the inboard bulkhead, the arc of his headlamp sweeping across the compartment.
“No! Don’t leave me behind!” Ghormley’s voice cracked; Barin looked back to see him plunge away from his position.
“No! Don’t—” He knew as he said it that once in motion Ghormley wouldn’t stop, that he had miscalculated again, this time in his judgment of men.
He had time for an instant of pity, for a thought of Esmay, and then the flash came, too bright to see.
Chapter Nine
Esmay stared at the same page she’d read many times before. She had nothing to do; with the ship overcrewed, no one needed her help. Hours and days ran together; she tried not to think about how long it was taking to get anywhere, how much time passed in which anything might be happening. The Fortune’s last datafeed, before going into jump, had included nothing substantive about the mutiny, only speculation as to its effect on prices.
Barin was out there somewhere. He might be in combat, and here she was, stuck on a ship that might just as well have TARGET blaring from its beacon. She held a mental argument with his grandmother, in which—since she had both parts—she could win. In real life . . . in real life, admirals had the power.
In the middle of her sleep shift, Esmay rolled over, tangling her legs in the sheet yet again. She pulled it straight with a muffled oath. This would never do. What’s done is done. What’s over’s over. She closed her eyes firmly, until speckles and smears of light rolled across the darkness, took a deep breath, and . . . she could feel Barin’s touch on her face, her neck, her body. She could smell him, taste him . . . he was calling her, longing and fear both in his voice, and then, in a great flash of light, he was gone. Esmay sat up abruptly, forgetting the geometry of her compartment, and banged her head smartly on the cabinet overhead.
Would she ever see him again? Was he thinking of her? Was he even alive? She snapped on the light, blinked back hot tears, set her jaw, and grabbed a robe. She could go shower.
She opened the door to find Betharnya standing just outside.
“I heard a thud,” the Betharnya woman said, in her odd accent. “I wondered if you were all right.”
“I’m fine,” Esmay said. “I’m going for a shower.”
“No one hit you?”
“No.”
“You have a lump on your head, at the hairline,” Betharnya said, with professional detachment.
“No one hit me,” Esmay said, suddenly angry. “You can look if you want to.” She flung the door aside, but the woman caught it in midswing and took a very thorough look inside.
“Ah.”
“Satisfied that I’m not hiding a lover?” asked Esmay.
“Yes. And that you are miserable.” Betharnya closed the compartment door quietly.
“It’s none of your business,” Esmay said, and headed for the showers, but the woman kept stride with her.
“It may be my business if you endanger us. You were having nightmares?”
“You were just standing around outside my compartment spying on me?”
“No. I was not. I was walking past, I heard mutterings and then a loud noise, like someone being hit, then a curse, then the click of a light switch, then the rustle of clothing, then you came out . . .”
“You couldn’t hear all that,” Esmay said.
“I have very good hearing. It is a curse.”
“It is a fake.”
“You are not so polite as you are at meals, Sera.”
“It is the middle of my sleep shift, I have had no sleep, I had a bad dream, and I whacked my head on the cabinet, and yes, you’re right, I’m upset. And miserable.”
“A shower is a very good idea, then,” Betharnya said. They had come to the door of the shower area. She turned away. “Don’t make it too hot,” she said over her shoulder.
“Are you just going to walk off?” Esmay asked. The woman waved a hand, in a gesture that could have meant any of several things, and kept walking.
Esmay walked into the shower room and saw herself in the mirrors above the sinks. The rapidly purpling lump was all too obvious. And entirely too much: she burst into tears, beating her fists on the smooth, cold edge of one of the sinks. Barin, Barin, Barin! No one came in; as far as she knew no one heard. Then she went into a shower cubicle and washed off the sweat and tears of her misery. Back in her compartment, she went to sleep and slept until the alarm rang.
“Who slugged you?” asked Basil at breakfast. She already knew what she looked like; she had seen it while getting dressed.
“Nobody—I woke up too fast in the middle of the night and whacked myself on the cabinet.”
“Did you put ice on it?”
“No—I didn’t even think of that.”
“You should always put ice on it,” Basil said quite seriously. “When my daughter falls down and gets a bump, my wife puts ice on it.”
Betharnya strolled in. “Ah, you have a wife?”
“You know I do.” But the back of his neck slowly turned a rich crimson; Esmay watched, fascinated.
“And you, Sera—your head is better?”
“Much better,” Esmay said. “If anyone needs any help, I’m quite able to stand a watch today.” She offered every day.
“No, no,” Goonar said, coming in with a plateful of something that smelled delicious. “You’re not standing any watches—you’re our guest.”
“Well, I should make myself useful,” Esmay said.
“Mmm. What you would be most useful for is probably not something you want to do,” Goonar said. “We could use some information on this mutiny business, for instance.”
“I don’t have any,” Esmay said. A chill ran down her back.
“Ah. Well, I didn’t expect you would, or that you’d tell us if you did. Loyalty’s a good thing to have, even to something you’re estranged from. Families change their minds.”