Chapter Seven
—i—
THE GALLEY DIDN'T SHUT DOWN on approach to dock, no, it was up to its elbows in business. Tink was doing special pastries for the security detail that had to remain aboard… because of him, Tom thought glumly, neither Tink nor Austin being privy to Christian's plans.
And the pans of food for two hundred plus crewmen during their outbound hours… all had to be ready. They went into the freezer.
Meanwhile the mess-hall vid screens had come on, with what might be a canned view of Downbelow, with its perpetual clouds, greenhoused, he understood, so you could rarely see the continents or the oceans. The indigenes below that cloud cover looked heavenward in hopes of a glimpse of their lord Sun. Made amazing large-eyed statues to do the job for them in the case someone lapsed in duty, he supposed—divine stand-ins.
When he'd been a kid he'd dreamed of Downbelow. Never looked to see it, seeing how the War brought a border between them. He never…
"H' lo, there," a voice said, out of other dreams, the deep, echoing dark of hyperspace. Blond, in an officer's fatigues—Capella arrived, drew a cup of coffee.
And said hello, for God's sake. Hello didn't mean an assault. No reason for his gut to go to jelly or uncertainty to rise right through his knees.
"Feeling better, are we, Tommy-person?" She came and leaned elbows on the counter to sip her coffee. "H'lo, Jamal, hi, Tink. Smells good in here. Pasta stuff?"
"Pasta," Jamal said. "No samples."
"Spoilsport.—Tommy-person. " She reached across the counter and touched the back of Tom's hand with her little finger. "Tommy-person. You can come scrub myquarters anytime. Some of us appreciate quality."
They were about to dock. He was about to leave the ship. And Capella came to harass him a last time. Parting gesture. He hadn't seen her since system-drop. He was seeing black from second to second, was acutely aware of his own skin, and the touch of ghostly fingers in his sleep.
"Eh?" Capella asked. "What do you think, Tommy-person?"
"I don't think the captain would approve."
"Do you do everything he says?"
"Right now I do. Yes, ma'am."
"Ma'am," Capella laughed, and he remembered Saby hadn't liked it either. "Oh, come on, Tommy-pretty. You can call me chief, on duty, and I'll call you Hawkins. On my own time, and we are on my own time, here, Capella's just fine. " Her finger traced down the bone above his index finger. "I bet they could spare you for a cup of coffee and a small sit. Especially if I pull rank. How about?"
"I can't."
"Jamal?"
"I don't—"
Christian… arrived in the door and paused there, just the single beat it took to say Christian hadn't expected Capella to be there, and he didn't like what he was seeing. He had an instant guilty feeling, and he didn't immediately know for what; a fear Christian might take jealous offense, and screw the escape, if he ever intended it—a fear Capella's purpose wasto screw it. It was quiet in the galley. Jamal and Tink had stopped work, and didn't say a thing.
"Time for older brother to go back in his box," Christian said cheerfully, walking up to the counter. "Put the toys away, Cappy."
"Aww," Capella said, and shoved away from the counter—tossed the cup into the disposal. She looked at him—she had a wicked look, a naturally predatory look. He didn't even think she intended it. Or it was supposed to tell him something he didn't know how to read. She gave him a theatrical sulk, and a lift of the chin, flashed a dazzling grin at Christian Bowe. "I'll take him back."
"Not a chance. " Christian had a key. Tom let him unlock the bracelet, endured Christian's proprietary hand on his shoulder, asking himself what he should believe. "I'll handle it. See you. The promise stands."
"Going to cost you," Capella said.
And didn't say a thing more as Christian nudged him into motion.
But he couldn't go without a look at Tink and Jamal. Couldn't say a good-bye that wasn't supposed to happen—that from second to second he wasn't sure was going to happen, or that he wanted to happen. He only looked to fix their faces in his mind, and chanced to see a very different Capella standing by the counter, a Capella all business and grim as hell's gates.
Christian swung him around abruptly, took him the familiar route back to the brig. A quiet route. The lowerdecks crew were doing their last minute scurrying about, and half the passenger ring would be securing for dock, crew and stations that belonged there gathering thick in docking stations, corridors crowding up along the take-holds.
There were lewd comments, offers to take 'the new boy' onto the docks. Christian didn't spare a glance, just hurried him around the turn to the brig, a corridor full of its own offers and comments… worrisome comments from dockers at take-holds up and down, waiting for the grapple-to and the lock to open. Rough crowd. Rude crowd. They held it down when Christian said stow it, but Christian didn't have to wait out the docking in an open-fronted cell, and it wasn't aimed at him.
Besides which, Capella had made Christian mad, and Christian wasn't talking to him, until Christian took him inside the brig and to the far rear by the bath, face to face with him.
"What did Capella say?"
"Didn't. I don't know what she wanted. She hadn't gotten that far. " His back was against the wall. It wasn't a position he wanted in a fight. At least the cable wasn't on, this time.
But Christian didn't shove him further. Instead, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a dozen passports, Union red and Alliance blue. Thumbed open the topmost, red.
To his picture, his name. His passport, his papers, all the freedom to pass customs and take hire, even to prove his identity and origin. Everything was in that red folder. He reached for it—but Christian snapped it shut and held it with the others.
Christian's terms. Everything was, and Christian was smug and smooth.
"After," Christian said. "After we walk out. Duty officer carries the papers on all the dockers, that's the way we work. They go out first. It's going to look like you slipped through… I was taking you to Medical, right?"
"I guess."
"You hit your head during dock. Only on the way to Medical, you broke and ran for it, and mixed in with outbound crew. Probably you faked the bump. Got it? Only that's just the story I tell about how you got out, am I doing this in small enough words, slower brother? I do things like always, take these guys out and you just come along with me through customs… these guys have zero percentage in calling me a liar. They have to deal with me tomorrow, and they won't notice a thing when papa asks, how's that?"
"I need my papers."
"What I've got here," Christian said, pocketed the passports, and reached in a side pocket for a short stack of notes, Alliance cash. "That's two hundred, immediate save-your-ass cash. I can give you a name, a ship that'll take hire. Name's Christophe Martin. I'll walk you down there, myself. Get you hired, get you papers, Martin's going out tomorrow."
"Where?"
"Viking. Meet your approval?"
Breath came short. "Yeah. " He suddenly had to revise everything. The two hundred, he hadn't imagined—and the recommendation to another, outbound ship, immediately, without having to hang around Pell. It was everything he could hope to get on his own, heaped up and running over, if he could get his hands on those papers.
It only didn't add on Christian's side, on thisship—the passport missing, on a guy who also turned up missing from Christian's escort… Christian was going to catch hell for it, was what it looked like.
Maybe that was why Capella had wanted to talk to him, maybe that was why the voice in his dreams kept saying Don't trust Christian… and maybe becausethe warning had come in hyperspace it threaded its way into his waking mind without any denying it… that voice was Capella, too, he was sure it was, and he couldn't help doubting, and couldn't figure what Christian was doing.