Legs wobbled under him. Spacer-boys didn't run distances.
Do anything you like in null- g, maybe sprint the length of lower main, but no races on dockside. Only thing in his favor, Christian and the guys from Martindidn't have station-legs, either. And terror was on his side.
Nobody overtook him. If they'd lost track of him somewhere, they'd have had to factor in the chance he'd dived into a shop or a bar, or taken a lift up to the station's upper levels, and once they did that, Pell was a huge station, not easy to search with any degree of quiet. He ought to go to the cops, he ought to, but no way in hell was that an option. Best was the lifts, while he was still ahead of the search and they hadn't a chance to post watch by the doors.
He had the credit chits Christian had given him—a gift to salve Christian's conscience or just property Martinwould have taken from him to pay his bills aboard, he didn't intend to find out. He had the passport Christian had given him—maybe that was conscience-salving, too, because Christian could have stranded him for good and all if he had just handed that over to Martincrew.
He took it out of his pocket. It was the right official cover. But it didn't have the thumb-dent on the edge his had. He opened it and it was just color repro inside, a good, professional forgery.
The wind went out of him, then. He wasn't sure where he was walking. He flipped through the pages, dodged pedestrians, told himself he was a fool, he'd seen the folder, he'd believed it—but no customs agent was going to pass it at close inspection. Christian had switched it on him, maybe had the real one and the fake in his pocket, and he was on Pell without a legitimate passport to let him go to the station offices, or apply for work. His license was there, all repro, nothing he could legitimately take to any ship's master.
He bumped into a man—excused himself. He was lightheaded and close to panic, and, with that near-incident, he shoved the passport into his pocket and kept walking, half-blind, heart beating in great, heavy thumps.
Stupid, he kept saying. Stupid, stupid. The only worse thing that he'd escaped… was being on Christophe Martin.
—ii—
NOT GOOD, WAS ALL CHRISTIAN could say to himself as he reached Corinthian'sdockside. Not good, in the way an oncoming rock wasn't good.
Michaels had seen to the details—had the cargo crew taking care of business, setting up with Pell transport. A glance around told him at what stage routine was at the moment and Austin couldn't fault him for that—Michaels was on his job and it wasn't as if he'd kited off with things undone.
What he haddone was a trouble he couldn't even graph. It wasn't supposed to have happened that way. Things weren't supposed to have skewed off like that, they had no right not to have gone the way they should.
"Chris-tian."
Capella's voice. He waited. Capella overtook him at the edge of the ramp.
"Well?" Capella said.
"Son of a bitch," he said.
Capella didn't even start with: What happened? She dived straight to: "Where is he?"
"I don't know! How should I know? The damn fool bolted, kited off, I don't know where he is!"
"Fine. Fine. Withthe passport?"
"He thinks. " He patted the pocket where he had the real one. "He's not going anywhere without this. He'd be a fool to go to the cops. He knows it."
"Yeah," Capella said, implying, to his ears, that people had been fools before. That she was looking at one.
"He wasn't in any danger, Martin'sa fair ship—he just—took off when he saw the guys waiting, I don't know what got into his head. We've got to find him."
"We've got to find him," Capella echoed. "Yeah."
He wanted to hit her. He knew better. That bracelet wasn'ta forgery. "Pella, we've got a problem. We've got a major problem out there. Yeah, it's mine, but it's the ship's problem if we don't get him before the cops do. We can't go out of here and leave him loose—God knows what he'd do. We've got to use this port."
"Well, maybe we should stand here, I mean, if he wants Corinthians, he can just walk right up to the ramp and ask."
"Don't be an ass!"
"I'm not the ass, Chris-baby."
"Chris-tian."
That was Austin. He'd left the pocket-com on.
" Youtold him!"
"Not this spacer," Capella said. "Was your trail that immaculate?"
"Chris-tian."
He thumbed the com up. "Yessir, I hear you."
"Do you want to come aboard, Christian?"
No shouting. No cursing. Panic hit him. He wanted Austin to yell at him, swear at him, just simply bash him against a bulkhead and beat hell out of him. He'd never heard Austin so calm about something he'd done.
No, he didn't want to come aboard. He wanted to take a bare-ass walk in deep space rather than come aboard.
"Yessir," he said past the obstruction in his throat. He threw a condemned man's look at Capella, an appeal to the living. "Organize a search. Find him. Get him back."
"With what promises?" Capella hissed. "A pay raise? Promotion to tech chief?"
He couldn't stay to argue. Capella was his only hope. He mounted the long ramp, got his wave-through from customs, and walked the tube to the airlock.
Austin didn't meet him there. The inner lock was shut— optional, and Corinthiangenerally opted, not relying wholly on ' station security. He coded through into lower main. Austin was standing down by ops, waiting with arms folded.
"Sir," Christian said when they were face to face. He still expected Austin to hit him.
"Where's your brother?" Austin asked him.
"I don't have a—" The answer fell out, faster than he wanted. He shut up. Austin waited.
And waited.
"He was trouble," he said to Austin's steady stare. "He'd be trouble. He's too scrubbed- clean, he'd find out we're not and he'd go straight to the cops, some time we'd never know it."
"So?" Austin said. And waited.
"I set it up with Martin, down the row. Trip to Sol. They'd leave him there. He'd stay gone."
Another silence, the longest of his life. "I have a question," Austin said finally.
"Sir?"
"Who appointed you captain?"
"Nobody. Sir."
"Who told you your judgment was more important than mine?"
"Nobody, sir."
Another silence. He'd never dealt with Austin in this mode. He'd never seen it in his life. He didn't want to see it again.
"This ship doesn't agree with your judgment, then."
"Nossir. " He saw himself busted to galley scrub. For years. He saw Austin selling him to the Fleet. Beatrice wouldn't like it. But Beatrice herself might be on the slippery slope with Austin right now.
"I have a suggestion," Austin said.
"Sir. " He asked what Austin wanted, he did what Austin wanted. He only hoped to stay alive. Hitting him would have blown off Austin's temper. He prayed for Austin to hit him and call it quits. This… didn't promise forgiveness. Ever. No confidence in him. Ever again.