But a man with his thinking in a muddle didn't steady down the way he had, didn't suddenly start tracking on his job the way he'd been doing, now, she added it up, ever since he'd found out he couldn't shake her or Musa or Bernie off his tail.
Like he'd been drifting in his private space until he got this beacon—Somebody else out here, man, somebody solid—pay attention, now—I got information for you—
Maybe it'd been like that for her, she thought, the last several years. Maybe that was what made him impossible for her to let alone: he was the voice in her dark too, saying I know what you've seen. You don't have to make sense. You don't have to explain a thing. It's not a requirement here…
Hell of a time to figure things out, Yeager.
She came back into Engineering with that thought, she came and bent over his chair with the intention of waking him up, telling him that, telling him at least how she felt—
But it was too embarrassing, and she went muddle-headed when she thought about talking to him like that. Maybe he didn't feel like that, maybe what he felt was something crazier, or saner, and it wasn't fair to push personal stuff on him. People opened their mouths and put personal loads on each other, and embarrassed each other beyond anything they could ever patch, was all they were likely to do, when everything was already all right and it could go along forever as long as people didn't say stupid things to each other.
So keep your mouth shut, Yeager, just wake him up and be nice, you got to leave pretty soon. Last thing you can do is duck out on him without a goodbye.
She bent down, blew on the hair at his temple, moved back when he woke up, to save her jaw.
"Was going to give you a nice wake-up," she said, "but you move too quick."
He rubbed a stubbled face. He looked like hell. He muttered something, dragged himself up, patted her on the shoulder, and went to gather up his own kit by the door, headed for a wash-up.
So she sat by herself, she watched the little numbers on the screens until he came back, which wasn't long. He hadn't shaved, just washed up a bit, and he got them a couple of soft drinks and a couple sandwiches out of the locker at station one.
She drank. She couldn't face eating. She tucked the sandwich in her pocket.
"I'll keep it for later," she said, and deliberately didn't look at the time.
Take care of yourself, she wanted to say. But that sounded too much like goodbye. She wanted to go over things with him, to make sure he was agreeing with her, but that was her nerves it was for, no good for his.
"Yeager," com said. "Report topside. Five minutes."
"Damn," she said.
NG reached out and grabbed her hand. Held on a second.
"Got to answer that," she said, and stood up and pulled away before she did something, said something, they didn't have the time to deal with. "I got to get Fitch settled—"
"Don't trust him. Don't trust him."
"Yeager! Battle ready! No fuckin' time, Yeager"!
"Oh, shee-it!" Her heart jumped, the body did, she left the chair-arm and turned around and grabbed him, hard, said: "That's it, that's all of it—get off this ship"!
The siren started. She tore away and ran, banged the edge of the doorway, jumped for the corridor deck and sprinted for the lift.
Didn't tell him goodbye, didn't even look back until it was too late and she was headed around the curve, and only a fool would ignore that siren and delay for a backward glance.
She wanted to tell him to suit up, wanted to stand over him and be sure he did. He could be a fool, damn him, she'd told him too much—
God, the clock by ops showed less than six hours, there could be something loose scan hadn't counted, hadn't spotted, hadn't anticipated—
Damn Goddard! Damn Fitch! You dealt with the Fleet, you dealt with carriers and rider-ships, too many pieces loose in any situation to take chances with—
She hit the lift, she hit the button and after that it moved at its own rate, nothing you could do but stand there while it climbed and lurched past the core…
Thump, thump, thump of the fueling pump, louder than the siren for a few seconds, whole floor of the lift shaking—
If that bastard Fitch is conning me, if he just wants me to move—
The ship rang and shook as if a hammer had hit it. She grabbed for the safety-rail and white-knuckled it, taste of blood in her mouth where she had bitten her lip—
God! Have we been hit, or was that fire?
Little ship, pinned to station, could be us doing the firing—
Could be—
The lift stopped at the top, opened on the bridge. She headed out as the siren quit, passed Goddard yelling at her, Goddard sitting at his post, a khaki blur to her as she ran. It was the topside locker she was headed for, and that was standing open, Fitch was in there already suiting up.
"What was it?" she said, jerked the zip open and started peeling, fast.
Fitch said: "Friends of yours."
"The hell!—Is it Africa?"
"They've used every ID in the book. We don't know a hundred percent who it is.—Shit!"
"Easy, back it up—you're going to strip those damn ring-seals." She grabbed after Fitch's problem, but he got it, shoved her off, and she stepped into her own armor-breeches, threw the lever that seated it solidly around her, rammed her feet down into the boots and worked her toes into those while she came up under the hanging top-section and wriggled her arms and her body up into it, helmet and all.
Solid mate. Throw the latches. Sleeves last, mating at the mid-shoulder, left and right, tension engaged, screw the rings tight and not too tight.
She beat Fitch by a second, seals and all. She heard her own breathing and Fitch's, felt a shock rock the ship and saw the audio reading jump.
She muttered: "Was that them firing or us?"
"Us." Fitch turned, flat-footed the way a neo learned to move, powered-on and lurched after balance.
Firing every time the station's rotation gave them a target. "We're assuming they want the fuel we're holding?"
"Say it's a good assumption."
"What've we got on us? Rider, carrier, or both?"
"Suppose, Yeager, you just leave the thinking to somebody else."
"What they're going to do, sir, they're going to knock hell out of this station, leave us with a major problem, like a couple thousand people with no fuckin' life-support, sir—"
"That hasn't bothered you before now, has it, Sgt. Yeager?"
She got a breath, kept her body loose, kept on the track. "They're going to chaff our fire, sir, after which they're going to punch a major hole in Thule Station, after which there's none of our guns any fuckin' use, sir."
"We understand the situation, Yeager, trust us we know our options—"
"Twenty years on Africa, tac-squad sergeant, sir, I ran these operations from the other side. You got yourself a boarding situation, sir, and my advice—"
"Twenty years on this ship, out-fighting you and your murdering friends—and you can take your advice to hell, Yeager!"
"My advice, sir, is get ready to blow the tanks they want and the pump, let 'em kmow that, and get ourselves out on that dock and get ourselves some room, sir, because they got no trouble getting into this ship, from inside or outside, I can swear to that, sir."