"Marie,—"
"Marie, Marie, Marie! We know his vector, I know that ship, I know what his elapsed-time is like, he's going for Tripoint, and on to Pell, and we can catch him there. He won't be expecting it."
"Out of the question."
"Hell with you!"
"Marie, let's talk sanity. He may not be going on to Pell. You may not know his schedule as well as you think you do. We're not going off in the dark with that ship. We're not equipped for that. No way in hell, Marie. No way in hell!"
She looked at the clock, jaw clenched, arms folded, as the minutes kept going. Let Mischa think he'd won. Let Mischa think he'd made his point.
"I can make the credit at Pell, Mischa. You load us for Pell and I can turn a profit." She lifted her hand. "Swear to God."
"Out of the bloody question."
"No, it isn't."
"For God's sake, that's across the Line, they'd charge us through the nose for a berth, we've no account there, and if you're right about Bowe, the kid will never see Pell…"
"The kid, the kid, the boy's got a name."
"Thomas Bowe-Hawkins."
Tried to make her blow her composure. But she knew what she was going to do, now. She knew. And when she knew, she smiled at him, cold and immovable as a law of physics.
"Pell," she said, "and we make a profit on the run. Or get yourself a new cargo chief."
"It's no bet."
"I'm not betting. I'm telling you. If it's not Pell—get yourself another cargo chief. I quit. I'll find a way to Pell."
"You're out of your mind, Marie."
"So you've said. To everyone in the Family. But you know how this ship was doing before, and how it's doing now. Cold, hard numbers, captain, sir. Iknow what I'm worth. I've got the numbers for Pell. No question I can make our dock charges andcome up in the black. Swear to God I can. Or I kiss you all good-bye, right here."
"Marie, this isn't even worth talking about. Go cool down."
"Cold as deep space, darling brother, and dead serious."
"That ship could be meeting some Mazianni carrier right out there at Tripoint in two weeks. We could run right into it."
"For what? Bowe told them he'd have a kid to trade them? They do those deals in the deep dark. Mazian's ships don't come in this far."
"We have rendezvous with our regulars, we have people's lives you're proposing to disrupt, appointments—"
"We'll get back on schedule. We'll all survive a little sexual deprivation."
"Try a sex life! It'll improve your mental health!"
"Mon-ey, Mischa. Mon-ey. Or poverty. Skimping to make ends meet, the way we did when dear Robert was running the cargo section. Because he willbe, again. Make your choice."
"You don't sit on this ship and not work."
"You weren't listening, Mischa, dear, I said I was leaving the ship. I'll find a way. I'm damned good. And goodships anywhere it wants to."
"As hired crew. You thinkyou'd like your shipmates on a hired-crew ship. Earn your way in bed, why don't you?"
"Because I don't have to. I can have passage on a Pell-bound ship in four hours, captain Hawkins, you watch me, because the numbers are in my head, and I'll use 'em, you'd better bet I will. I'm crazy Marie, aren't I?"
"You're talking like it."
"Fine! I'll put it to a vote in the Family, captain, sir, which of us this ship wants to have making the decisions. I'll tell you even Robert A. will vote to keep me, because hedoesn't want the job back, he doesn't want to lose his creature comforts. Neither do any of the seniors, and the juniors can't touch me! Let all the Hawkinses decide. I'll challenge you for the captaincy if I have to. And I have the right to call a vote."
"And make a fool of yourself! Everybody knows—"
"I'm sure you've told them often enough. Poor Marie. Poor crazy Marie. Poor crazy Marie who's the reason this ship runs in the black—"
"Poor crazy Marie who's the reason we lost Mariner for fifteen years! Poor crazy Marie who lost her nerve the only time she ever snagged a man, and started a riot that damn near ruined us! Anything you make for us is payback, sister, for what you cost us in the first place."
"Any trouble you had is because you sat on your ass for forty-eight hours. If you'd had the balls to do something before they got stupid drunk, I could have gotten out of there. But physicality just isn't your job, is it?"
"Maybe if you'd had a sex drive you could have handled what you asked for, damn you—duck out on us, ignore every piece of advice, no, you had to have your own pick, didn't you, and now he's got your kid? It's not my problem."
"Ask a vote, Mischa. Or I will."
Mischa didn't want it. That was clear. He stood there. And finally walked off across the bridge and stood staring at nothing in particular.
There were advantages to owning nothing, having nothing, wanting nothing in your life, except one man's hide.
And he couldn't have her kid.
Couldn't dispose of her kid. Or keep him.
That added something to the equation. She wasn't sure what, hadn't expected that reaction in herself, was still trying to understand why she gave a damn.
Because, she decided, if she'd had to hand one individual aboard Spriteover to Bowe for a hostage, it wouldn't be poor, people-stupid Tom, who was the first Hawkins to try to take her side in twenty some years.
Even if he had screwed it beyond all imagination.
Damn him.
—iv—
DREAM OF THE DARK AND NOWHERE, a lonely and terrifying no-thing, abhorring the fabric of the ship, and the ship almost… almost violating the interface.
The ship lived a day or so while the universe ran on for weeks, while the ship's phase envelope was the only barrier between you and that different space. You rode it tranked down, ever so vaguely aware of your own essence. When you were a kid the grownups admitted that the monsters you dreamed in transit were real, but (they said) the captain could scare the monsters off, because a kid believed in his imaginings, and a kid believed in adults just as devoutly.
But kid or adult, the mind painted its own images on the chaos—
Marie had told him pointedly there wasn't anything to meet out there but a body's own guilty conscience: if he minded what he was told he'd be fine and if he didn't he'd go crazy and be all alone with his misdeeds forever. He'd told that to the other kids and scared them. Aunt Lydia had said he was too smart for his own good. Aunt Lydia had said captain Mischa should have a talk with him, but Mischa had just said don't carry tales and don't talk about the dreams and don't make trouble, boy.
He dreamed about Marie sometimes. He'd dreamed about Mariner and the bar and the drunken men before he was twelve, then—it was between Fargone and Paradise, and he'd felt different things about Marie, sometimes scary, sometimes erotic, weaving back and forth in unpredictable ways, about all the things he'd heard happened, and about the things he'd read in tapes he wasn't supposed to have.
But he stole them, all the kids did, and they'd all tangled up…
That was only normal, aunt Lydia had said, when she'd found out. It was the first time she'd ever used that word about anything he'd done, and in spite of that, he didn't feelnormal. You didn't have dreams like that about your mother and feel normal.
But Marie had said, with rare (for Marie) calm, that he was growing up and he was confusing things, which was, for once, a better explanation than aunt Lydia gave. Marie gave him tapes, too, deep-tape, the same quality you used for school.
Only the tape gave him dreams and for a long time he dreamed about a robot, a wire-diagram woman who wasn't anybody in particular. She had a metal face, and he used to want her to sit on the end of his bunk and talk to him, not about sex, finally, just about stuff and about things he liked to do and where they traveled. She was a friendly sort of craziness, that lived in Marie's apartment and in his own quarters. Sometimes she had sex with him. And sometimes she just talked, sleeping by him, about ports they might go to someday.