"I think—" she began to equivocate. It wasn't ordinary for her.
"I know," he said, cutting her off. "I know. Period. If Spritegets here, what action do you suggest, second chief navigator, to prevent a search of our records?"
"It's our deck, sir."
"That's fine. We can lose docking privileges pending our release of those records. This isn't the War, second chief navigator. We may be necessary to the Fleet, but our little hauling capacity isn't necessary to Pell Station, and our brother and sister merchanters aren't just apt to rally round Corinthianin a quarrel with other merchanters, does that occur to you, second chief navigator?"
A Fleet navigator wasn't an entity to piss off. You agreed to take on the inevitable Gift from the Fleet and you agreed not to ask questions; you agreed that was grounds for very severe action in certain quarters. In effect, you took a ticking bomb aboard, and you hoped to hell nothing ever set it off: there was nothing but Capella's personal inclinations and physical restraint to keep said navigator from walking out on that dock, finding this Patrick, and turning coat in five minutes. It was a hell of a chance to take.
But it had gotten, thanks to Capella and Christian and Marie Hawkins, down to a similar hell of an alternative.
"Yes, sir," Capella said, equally quietly, "it does occur to me. But if we don't get Hawkins back… we're still screwed, no matter whether Spritecomes in here or not, which isn't proven they will, sir, that's my thought."
"I am so glad, I am so very glad we agree on that, second chief. But take it from me that we aregoing to board call tomorrow on schedule, that this is the course we're taking, and that, while I have thought of spacing Christian, I expect his ass in that airlock, safe, sober, and in your company. After that, I expect your professional talents to be on, period, capital letter, On. Can we agree on this, second chief?"
No blink, just analysis, like the face she wore on the bridge.
"Yes, sir," she said.
"Good. That's real good. Because I appreciate the seriousness of what's happened out there. And I value officers who do. Ahead of my son, at this moment. Do you copy that?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's all, then."
Capella nodded a courtesy, turned with a touch more precision than the habit of the crew, and walked… you could see the military in the backbone, the way you could see her move around her station on the bridge, economy of everything.
Damn-all worst woman in the available universe for Christian to take to bed. Marie Hawkins was safer. Much.
He'd said, just now,—he was sure Capella had heard him: Choose a side. Get the hell to them, or take orders from me.
It remained to see, it did, how much she'd fill Christian in—how much she'd dare fill Christian in, if she meant to stay on Corinthian—because Christian wasn't going to be an automatic choice to succeed to the captaincy, not now, not since Viking, and damned well not since the stunt he'd pulled here… was still pulling, staying clear of him, not coming in to report, himself. There were times to revise priorities, there were times to be sure messages got through… you didn't hand off to a bedmate not even remotely connected to the crew, if Christian had even made the decision that brought Capella in to report what couldn't go over com.
He didn't take it for a given. Not now. Not any longer. And that touched a personal investment he hadn't thought he had in Beatrice's unasked-for offspring. It affected him. It made him personally, painfully angry.
He stood there, asking himself why he gave a damn, and since when.
—vi—
LONG TRIP THROUGH THE LIFT system, alone for some of the trip, but they didn't talk—too many drinks, probably, Tom decided, a headache coming.
And an inevitable reckoning, tomorrow, the prospect of which, now that the music had died, and Saby's manner had gone remote and still, didn't sustain the mood for bed-sharing. He wasn't up to intricate personal politics. He wished he was gone enough to skip the excuses and the assurances, just to go face-down and maybe get some sleep that might, in the face of a not very pleasant tomorrow, desert him all too easily.
They reached the Aldebaran'sdoors. Saby screwed the access code twice, couldn't find her manual key card, and swore, going through all her pockets.
"I'm sorry," she kept saying. "Damn."
"It's all right," he found himself saying. "Maybe we could phone Corinthian'sboard. " It could only, he told himself, mean a shorter station stay. "Central'd have to put us through."
"Oh, hell," Saby said. "No. Let me think. It's eight-six-one…"
"Five?" He'd watched her code it a dozen times. "It's not bottom row."
"Eight-six-one… You're screwing me up. Eight-six, eight-six, eight-six—"
"Five."
"It's not five."
"Eight-six-five-one—"
"Two-one. Eight-six-two-one-nine-nine-one. " Saby leaned on the wall and coded it into the pad. The light turned green, the latch opened, they were in, and the same code worked all the way to the room.
The card, figure it, was on the table. Right by the door.
"Damn," Saby said, and took it and put it in the coveralls she probably was going to wear tomorrow. She looked tired and out of sorts, and went to the bath and ran one ice-water. And a second one.
"Cheers," she said, bringing him his.
He was sitting on his bed. She was standing. They drank the ice-water they hadn't gotten. Saby laughed, then, tired-sounding.
"What's funny?"
"Nothing," she said. "Just a thought."
"Fools that trust Corinthians?"
A frown. "No."
Sexual tension was gone, no echoes but a remote regret it hadn't, couldn't, have lasted. Maybe, he thought, that was her rueful laughter. He asked, cool and curious, "—Were you supposed to seduce me?"
"No. Not. Nada. " She squatted down, peered up at his face, bleary-eyed herself, and shook at his knee, an attention-getting. "Tom, it's going to be all right. Believe me."
"Yeah.—Truth. Who really got the tab tonight?"
"The captain. Cross my heart. " She did. Almost fell on her rear. She didn't look like a conspirator.
"What? Fatherly generosity?"
"Christian shouldn't have done what he did. That's all. " She patted his knee and got up, turned out the light, then, before she wobbled over to her bed and threw back the covers, evidently at the limits of her sobriety. They never had gotten undressed together—just took the boots off. Shared a room. She sat down in the night-light and kicked her flimsy shoes off, one foot and the other—he shoved his own off and hauled back his sheets. Horizontal for eight hours seemed very attractive right now.
So, with regret, did the woman crawling into covers. Pretty backside, when he looked that direction. Pretty rest of her. Not highly coordinated, getting her blanket over her fully-dressed rump.
"Damn nice guy, Tom. You are. Wish you were just a little, little bit not so nice."
God, now, now, she invited him, when his skull had started to fog from the inside and the rest of him hadn't a desire for anything but face down in the pillow.
But, hell, Bed Manners, his Pollyspacer used to say, and taught him ways at least to see she got to sleep.
So he hauled himself up off the mattress, came over to sit on her bed. She hadn't left much room at the edge and she was fading, but he'd made the trip—he took her hand in his—pretty hand, limp hand. Fingers twitched. Eyes opened.
He leaned over and kissed her mostly on the mouth. Her fingers twitched again. He figured he'd done his bit for politeness and told himself bed was waiting on the other side of the room, but… but she was so damn pretty, she was so damn crazy, he just sat, her hand in his, thinking how with his Pollygirl you didn't need much to figure what she was thinking.