Gave orders to someone. He had a pounding headache and a shortness of breath, and he got an elbow onto the bunk, enough to lever himself out of the angle he'd wedged himself into. He rested there getting his breath, trying his hardest not to throw up.
Shadow loomed over him. He rolled over to protect himself, saw Tink and another guy about the same size.
"Tried to tell you," Tink said with a sorrowful shake of his head.
By which he figured Tink wasn't there to kick him while he was down.
The opposite. "You need Medical, kid?" Tink asked, patting his shoulder.
He didn't think so. His ears were ringing, his head hurt and the legs still wouldn't work predictably, but he shook his head to the question and tried to get all the way up.
Legs buckled. Tink caught him.
"Get a cold towel," Tink said, and, "No, they ain't got 'em in here, down in the galley."
"I'm all right," he insisted, but Tink looked at his eyes one after the other, said he should get flat and wait for the towel.
Didn't want to. Wanted to be let the hell alone. But Tink didn't give him that option.
Bowe's orders. Son of a bitch, he kept thinking, son of a bitch who'd hurt Marie—Marie'd told him, told him details he didn't want to know—before he knew what sex was, he'd known all about rape, and after that, sex and Marie and Bowe were all crosswired, the way it wasn't in normal people, he understood that. And now this huge guy with the snakes, and Capella, and Christian, and the damned holocards and subspace and the scratches, and Bowe… it felt as if something had exploded in the middle of him, right in the gut, pain Bowe had handed out, or Marie had, or whatever in himself had deserved to be in the mess he was in. He sat there half on the floor and started shaking, and the big guy, Tink, just gathered him up and hauled him onto the bunk and covered him up.
"Shock," Tink called it. "You'll be all right, just breathe deep."
Might be. Might well be, an accumulation of images, an overdose of reality. But deep breaths didn't cure it. No matter where he looked, he was still where he was, he was still who he was, nothing cured that.
—ii—
YOU COULD FIGURE, YOU COULD damned well figure, Christian thought, with the echo of Austin's steps still recent past his vantage point. He folded his hands tightly under his armpits—he'd learned, at fourteen, the pain of bashing one's fist at Corinthian'swalls, or his personal preferences against Austin's whim of the moment. He'd gotten the orders, the same as Tink had: Thomas Bowe-Hawkins was going on galley duty, Austinwasn't talking, Austin had just had every button he owned danced over and hopped on by Thomas Hawkins, and it didn't take a gold-plated genius to know Austin wasn't in a mood to discuss the Hawkins case, Austin wouldn't be in a mood to discuss the Hawkins case in a thousand years, with him, ever, end report. Austin was headed back to his lordly office, Capella was on bridge duty, running calc, Saby was on report andon duty—everybody who'd taken a hand in the brother-napping fiasco was on report or on duty.
" Christian,"came the call over his pocket-corn.
Correction. Everybody but Beatrice. Maman wanted to talk to him, bless her conniving soul, maman had just heard the news, and he'd right now as gladly have taken a bare-ass swim in the cold of the jump-point as go discuss half-brother with Beatrice.
"Christian, immediament, au cabinet. "
Now, Beatrice wanted to see him, in her sanctum sanctorum, her office, down the corridor and around the rim from Austin's precincts. Beatrice was evidently turning Corinthian'shelm and Capella's course-plotting over to Travis an hour and a half early for the purpose—one supposed they weren't running blind and autoed at the moment.
So he took the lift topside, to the inner ring, soft-footed it past Austin's shut door, to Beatrice's office. He took a deep breath, raked his hair into order, and presented himself, perforce, to maman,—who got up and poured two drinks.
Stiff.
He took his. He sat down. Beatrice sat down. He took a drink. Beatrice took a drink and stared at him. Life had left few marks on Beatrice, except about the eyes, and right now they were sleep deprived and furious.
"This Hawkins," Beatrice said as if it was a bad taste, "this Hawkins. What do you know about it?"
"What should I know about it? I brought him aboard because I hadn't any choice…"
"You could see this coming, with that ship inbound. You had to take every action to make this Hawkins a problem—"
"I hadn't any instructions that said leave a man to freeze!"
"We're not talking about that. You're in a position to make judgments, you're in a position to observe—I'm telling you use your head. That boy is a threat to you, do you understand? Austin won't see him, no, of course Austin won't so much as look at him—does this say to you he's not interested? This boy's had nothing but Hate Austin poured into his veins. And does this deter him? No. Altogether the opposite. Does a man tell Austin no? Does he?"
"Not damned often."
"And this boy?"
"This boyis older than I am."
"Bravo. You notice the point. This woman. This boy.—Austin does not take kindly to 'no. ' It's a major weakness in him."
"So what do you want me to do?"
"Use your wits. This is not our friend. And there are degrees of rebellion that won't amuse, do you see? Find them. Make them. Deprive this Hawkins of any reasonable attraction in this business. We have too much at stake here for self-indulgence, of his fancies or of yours."
He didn't ask how he was to do this. Beatrice wasn't long on details. Beatrice wasn't long on sleep right now, clearly, and about time Travis took over out there. Bad jump. He saw the signs of it. He took down half his drink. Beatrice took all of hers. He set his glass down and got up and went for the door.
"Damn Saby," Beatrice said, having, apparently belatedly, remembered another offender on her agenda.
He stopped, his hand on the switch. " She'sinvolved?"
"Saby's character judgments. Ouí. Certainement. What else but my sister's child? Saby the judge of character. Chut!" Beatrice took up his glass, lifted it, silently wished him out the door and out of her thoughts.
The air was clearer outside. Ideas weren't. Maman's perfume was still in his nostrils, along with the scent of brandy. It clung to a man that dealt with her.
Corinthian'salterday pilot. Perrault and not Bowe.
And tenacious of her position.
Maman never wanted a kid, that was sure. Probably Austin hadn't been thrilled, in so many words. But maman when she came aboard and knew Austin in the carnal and the ambitious senses, had made the professional sacrifice…
Beatrice always did know Austin better than Austin knew himself.
Gave Austin a new experience, laid out of sex maybe imminently before birth, shoved him off on ten-year-old Saby and put a fresh coat of gloss on her nails.
So Beatrice was worried. Never ask whose ass was threatened. With Beatrice it wasn't a question. Beatrice was worried and Beatrice was pissed at him for not freezing his Hawkins half-brother into a police puzzle.
And hedidn't know why he hadn't, except the whole business had caught him off guard, and he'd made a fast decision, a decision he'd stuck by when it got complicated, and when, in Corinthian'spredeparture hours, it had looked less than sensible.
But nobody'd told him to kill anybody. Nobody'd told him it was a requirement. And, dammit, Austin had shot a couple of fools, but not on dockside—he'd seen Austin be scarily patient with guys who'd crossed him in bars and on the docks, when he'd thought Austin wouldn't take it… that was the example he'd had, and where did everybody get so damned know-everything when he'd played it by the rules he'd been handed?