“Financial arrangements on both sides of the Line have been— loose, true. And you fall into a peculiar category. I perceive you’re an excellent dockside lawyer. Most marginers are. And I’d reckon if your log and ledgers are put under subpoena… we’ll find they don’t exist, in spite of regulations to the contrary. In fact you’ll keep no more records than the Mazianni do. In fact it’s very difficult to tell a marginer from that category of ship—by the quality of the records they keep. What do you say, Captain? Could that account for your economics in a cross-Line run?”
If ever in his life he would have collapsed in fright it would have been then, under that quiet, precise voice, that very steady stare. His heart slammed against his ribs so hard it affected his breathing. “I’d say, sir, that I’m no pirate, and having lost my family to the Mazianni, I don’t take the comparison kindly.”
The eyes never flinched, never showed apology. “Still, there is no apparent difference.”
“Lucy doesn’t carry arms enough to defend herself.” His voice rose. He choked it down to a conversational tone as quickly, refusing to lose control. “You admit she can’t make speed. How is she supposed to be a pirate?”
“A Mazianni carrier could hardly pull up to a station for trade and conversation. But there is a means by which the Mazianni are trading with stations, in which they do scout out an area and the ships trading in it, mark the fat ones, and pick them off in the Between. Marginers undoubtedly figure in that picture, trading in the nullpoints, picking up cargo, faking customs stamps. Would you know any ships like that?”
“No, sir.”
“She moves fast when she’s empty, your Lucy”
“You can inspect her rig—”
“We have an unusual degree of concern here. The allegations made against you include a possible charge of piracy.”
“That’s not true.”
“We advise you that the Alliance Fleet is making its own investigation, apart from Pell Dock Authority. That investigation will take longer than three days. In fact, it will be ongoing, and it involves a general warrant, along with a profile of your ship and its internal identification numbers, a retinal print and voice print, which we’ll take before you return to dockside, and all this will be passed to Wyatt’s Star Combine and Mariner through diplomatic and military channels. Should it later prove necessary, that description will be passed to all ports, both Union and Alliance, present and future. But you won’t be detained on our account, once that printing has been done.”
“And what if I’m innocent? What kind of trouble am I left with? That kind of thing could get me killed somewhere, for nothing, some stupid clerk punching the wrong key and bringing that up, some ship meeting me at a nullpoint and pulling that out of library—you’re setting me up for a target.” He cast a desperate look at Quen. “Can I appeal it? Have I got a choice?”
“Military operations,” Talley said, “are not under civil court You can protest, through application to Alliance Council, or through a military court. Both are available here at Pell, although the Council has finished its quarterly business and it’s in the process of dispersing as ships leave. You’d have to appeal for a hearing at the next sitting, about three months from now. Military court could be available inside a month. You’d be detained pending either procedure, but counsel will be provided, along with lodging and dock charges, if you want to exercise that right. And you can apply for extensions of time if you need to call witnesses. Counsel would do that for you.”
“I’ll see what counsel says.”
“That would be wise,” Quen said. An aide had come in, padded round the outside of the U and slipped a paper under her hands. She read it and spoke quietly to the messenger, folded her hands over the paper on the table as the messenger slipped out again. “There is an intervenor in the case, Captain Stevens, if you’re willing to accept.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Reilly of Dublin Again has offered his onboard legal counsel. This would be acceptable to Pell.”
The blood drained toward his feet “Am I free to make up my own mind in the matter?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’d like to talk to them.”
“I think our business with you is done, pending your appointment with the military identification process.”
“But maybe I don’t want to go through that. Maybe—” He stared into a row of adamant faces. Stopped.
“Captain,” Talley said, “you have your rights to resist it. The military has its rights to detain you. Your counsel can interview you in detention and advise you. If you wish.”
He thought of jails, of a Dubliner arriving to fetch him out, one of Allison’s hard-eyed cousins. “No,” he said. ‘I’ll go along with the ID.”
That ought to do it, then,” Quen said, and looked aside at Talley. Talley nodded, once and economically. “Sufficient, then,” Quen said. “Our hopes, Captain Stevens, that there’s nothing but a mistake involved here. You’re free to address the board in general. We’ll listen. But I’d advise selecting your attorney before you do that. And prepare your statements with counsel’s advice.”
“I’ll reserve that, then.”
“Captain,” Talley said, “if you’d go with the officer.”
“Sir,” he said, quietly, precisely. “Ma’am.” He turned and walked out with the security officer, through the outer office and into the hall, trying in his confusion to remember where he was and which way the lift was and to reckon where he was being taken now. He was lost; he was panicked, inside corridors which were not Lucy’s, a geometry which was not the simple circle of dockside.
There was a small office down the corridor, two desks, a counter full of equipment. He stood, waited: a technician in militia blue showed up. “General ID,” the officer said, and the tech took him in charge, walked him through it, one procedure and the next, even to a cell sample.
It was done then, irrevocable. The information was launched, and they would send it on. The tech gave him a cup of cold water, urged him to sit down. “No,” he said. Maybe it was the look of him that won the sympathy. He failed at unconcern-looked back at the officer who had acquired a companion.
“Your party’s waiting for you,” the second officer said, “out by the lift.”
Allison, he thought, at a new ebb of his affairs. He should have accepted jail; should have refused the typing. He had fouled things up. But confinement—being shut up in a cell for Dubliners to stare at—being shut inside narrow station walls, in places he knew nothing about—
The officer indicated the door, opened it for him, pointed down the hall to the left “Around the corner and down.”
He went, turned the corner—stopped at the sight of the silver-coveralled figure standing by the lift, a man he had never met
But Dubliner. He walked on, and the dark-haired young man gave him no welcome but a cold stare, C. REILLY, the pocket said, on a broad and powerful chest. “Curran Reilly,” the Dubliner said.
“Where’s Allison?”
“None of your business. You’re through getting into trouble, man. Hear me?”
“I’m headed down to the exchange. I’m not looking for any.”
“You hold it.” An arm shot out, blocking his arm from the lift call button. “You got any enemies in port, Stevens?”
“No,” he said, resisting the impulse to swing. “None that I know about. What’s your percentage in it?”
Curran Reilly reached in his coveralls pocket and pulled out several credit chits, thrust them on him and he took them on reflex. “You take this, go get breakfast, book into the same sleep-over as last night. You don’t go to the exchange. You don’t go near station offices. You don’t sign anything you haven’t signed already.”