"I guess," he said. "You could tell the captain I'm not a fool. You could let me loose. I'm on this ship, I assure you I don't want to sabotage anything."
"Not my say," she said, with a lift of the shoulder. "But I'll pass it along."
"You ever talk to the captain direct?"
"Sure. You want me to tell him something?"
He was sorry he'd asked. He didn't want to. He didn't know why he'd opened his mouth. But Saby was the least threatening human he'd met aboard and he wanted to know where the chain of communication was. "Yeah." He tried to think. "Say hi. Love the food. Tink's a human being. The bunk's lousy."
Saby laughed.
"I'll do that. Anything you particularly need?"
"Change of clothes. Shower. Shave."
"Shower works. There's a shaver on the panel."
He held up the cable. "Key."
"Not authorized. Sorry."
"I'm stuck in these clothes. I don't have my kit. I don't have anything but what I'm in. They didn't encourage me to pack."
"Do what I can. Has to be cleared."
"You mean the captain has to clear it."
"Do what I can," she repeated, and gave a shrug, and started away.
"Sera,—"
"Ms," she said. "Ms. Perrault. " She'd stopped, just in view. Looked at him. He looked at her, with the disturbed feeling… maybe it was the dream… that he desperately wanted her to come back, he wanted her to talk, and fill the silence and be reasonable… because she did seem humanly sympathetic. Sane. Somebody who might believe he wasn't crazy, or explain to him that his father wasn't.
She knew his father. Even sounded easy in the relationship. Friendly.
A whole several breaths she stood there, and he couldn't think what to say to keep her talking, and she didn't find anything. Then she walked off with all the promises of help he'd had since he'd come aboard this ship… promises that suddenly, on a friendly voice and an infectious grin, suddenly had him weak in the knees and wanting her to stay for one more look, one more assurance he wasn't alone down here, she wasgoing to appeal to the captain on his behalf and get the man who'd, after all other considerations, fathered him… to come down here and become a face and a presence and listen to his side of things.
And pigs will go to space, he told to himself, without any knowledge what pigs were, beyond creatures that built flimsy houses. He'd no more knowledge what was the matter with him, beyond shot nerves and jangled hormones, or whatever had made him scratch himself bloody in an erotic dream that had gotten wholly out of hand. He didn't have any miraculous truth to communicate to Austin Bowe, he didn't have any just cause to trust Tink orSaby Perrault-Cadiz-whoever-she-was, and damned sure not his so-claimed half-brother, who clearly didn't like him on sight. He'd been set up before in his life—earliest education he'd gotten, not to pin hopes on a cousin suddenly just too damned friendly, and too unreasonably on his side.
He wobbled back to his bunk, vengefully jerked the cable out of his way, sat down in despair and punched the mattress with his hand, there being nothing else in reach.
He hated them, he hated them one and all, Tink and Saby and Christian and Capella and every other name he knew along with his father's.
And along with that hate, he was scared, scared, and messed-with, and pushed-at. The scratches stung, he was soaked with sweat at the armpits and around the waist, he wanted a shower, he wanted a shave, he wanted free of the damned cable.
At which he gave a two-handed and useless jerk, pure fit of temper.
"Mmm-mm," someone said from the grid in front, and there, straight out of his dream, wasCapella, sleeveless, bare arms on the bars, star-bracelet in plain evidence. "Just doesn't do any good, Christian's-brother."
"Go to hell!"
"Been. " The star-tattooed hand made a casual loop. "Bored with hell. Corinthian'smore fun. How's the stomach?"
He was suddenly, erotically, acutely, conscious of the scratches his clothes concealed, before he figured she didn't mean that.
"Jump's no novelty."
"Yeah. You and me, merchanter-son. Jump's still a bitch. I'm sincerely regretful of the circumstances, and I do hope you stay here where's much safer, if you get my drift."
The stars on her wrist meant Fleet. Meant a special fraternity of the breed, the ones that smelled their way through hyperspace, and feltthe presence of ships they preyed on. That was the folklore, at least.
"Where's the next port?"
"Pell, right now. If you're real nice, who knows, they could let you off there. But—there's else, pretty lad. And you don't truly want to go there."
"Mazian."
"Did I say that name? That isa son of a bitch, Christian's brother, and I'd never say that name to a stranger, myself. I'd not say a thing more, where you are."
He felt cold and colder. "That's the trade this ship keeps."
"There's trade and there's trade, Christian's elder brother. " Someone was coming, and Capella straightened up, throwing a glance in that direction. "Be smarter."
Christian walked up, took a stance, arms folded. "New tourist attraction?"
"Hey. He's decorative. Scenery, Chrissy. Do you mind?"
They argued. He sat where he was, on his bunk, wanting to stay out of it entirely. Christian grabbed Capella by the arm, lost it when Capella jerked away, and the two of them ended up withdrawing down the corridor, not out of earshot.
His mind was on one word. Mazian. He'd wanted to believe… he didn't know logically why he'd even care about his biological father's honesty as a merchanter, when he'd had information to the contrary all his life. He didn't know what he had possibly invested in the question that Austin Bowe might notbe the villain Marie portrayed him to be…
Except his personal survival hung on that point. Except he didn't know what was going to happen to him, or where he might end up. Mazian's Fleet, as a destination… he didn't even want to contemplate.
As for Capella's bracelet. It was, just lately, a fashion, in some wild quarters, just a fad… like the star and dagger of the elite marines—some rimrunners had supposedly taken to wearing it, the ones still legal, the ones the cops couldn't necessarily arrest on specific charges, but this woman hadn't a glove over it or any shame. Far too young to have fought in the War… but you couldn't rely on that, among spacers. Sometimes young meant… experienced. Sometimes young meant a deal more jumps, a deal more time in hyperspace, and you couldn't tell, except, somehow, the myth said, the look in the eyes.
That, the bracelet and the fact Bok's equation went with it, which wouldn't be the case with some fad-following bar-bunny or a fringe-spacer wannabee. Navigator, engineer… rumors weren't certain whatthe wearer was, except a Fleet that couldn't use the stations any more still survived, still turned up to give merchanters' nightmares and nobody knew how, unless they'd found jump-points the regular military couldn't find or couldn't reach.
And the wearers of that bracelet had, legendarily, something to do with that ability. All sorts of stories had come out, since the War. He'd grown up on them. Thatwas the discrepancy in their ages.
Closest thing to a night-walker you'd ever meet in real life.
And regularly in bed with his half-brother, was what he was hearing in the argument in progress. In bed, more than one sense. Obligated, by what Christian said.
"Screw you," Capella said, a little down the corridor, but clear as clear. "I don't oweyou, Chrissy, don't try to pull that string. You won't like what comes up with it."
He held his breath. He didn't know why. There was violence in the air.
Christian said, then, "You let him alone, Pella. That's the bottom line. You keep your hands to yourself."