GRAPPLES RELEASED—no take-hold had sounded, easy regulations on this non-Family ship, meaning crew was up and about… and, on his way from Saby's quarters, Tom found himself 10m short of the galley zone as that sound racketed through the frame.
He wasn't the only crew caught out—"Shit!" someone yelped. Crew around him started running. He made a fast sprint, along with twenty or thirty others, out of the hazard of lower main for the take-holds that lined the mess hall transverse—some in the corridor, some the other side of the divider, in the galley, in his case, far as he could get sideways, toward the galley counter, excusing himself past other take-holders, hand to hand clasp and a " 'Scuse me, thanks," as he slid past each individual, because you didn't stand loose for a second on this ship—no please and thank you and no warning when Corinthianmoved, God help them.
Jamal had already clipped secure-sheets over the sink and the counter-top to secure his work area, and taken-hold at the bow wall behind the counter, which was the good place to be. Tink stood that side, too, massive legs braced, his shoulders against the wall and both hands, somewhat riskily, for a keypad/calculator… but the far side, the bow-side of the transverse, was about to be the deck, temporarily.
While his was about to become the ceiling. "Tink. I'm here. " From two, three niches along the take-hold bar.
"Yeah.—Looks like. " Tink made a grimace, seeing his face. "Ouch. How you doing?"
"I'm all right."
"You sure? You look like hell."
"I'm fine. " He caught a breath. "Jamal, I need in the worst way… I need to make a call after undock. I've got sheets and such to find—All right to do?"
"You all right, kid?"
"Fine. " Lie. Again. He was still out of breath, and dreading the shove. He wished he dared make the dash across—a couple of guys had risked it, and made it, but it was too dangerous on this ship. "Got some arranging still to do."
"Yeah, no problem," Jamal said. "But you stay out of—"
Bow-jets shoved Corinthianhard, and strained muscles he hadn't known he'd strained, located every bruise, up and down his arm and his ribs and back, before that burn abruptly redirected and added a nadir vector.
Tink grabbed a one-handed hold. Fast.
"Pilot's pissed," Tink said, rolling a glance overhead.
"At what?"
"You can't guess?"
About that time the shove came hard and fast.
"Shit!" someone said, as a pan escaped the sheet-restraint, hit the overhead and rebounded.
"Loose object!" Jamal yelled—they were inertial for the moment, jets at momentary shutdown, and things and people floated. "Damn her!"
Then, thank God, the passenger ring engaged, and added another component to further shoves from the jets. The pan settled. So did human feet, and hair and clothes.
There was swearing. There were sighs. Tink called across at him:
"We got a slow-go here at Pell. Lady Bea can kick our ass out, but we can't do more 'n one-point kips until we clear the zone, about thirty minutes out. How's the gut now?"
"I'll live. You think she's through up there?" He'd got the fact it was a woman at the helm. He heard the B, and it clicked into consciousness whowas at the helm and why she wasn't happy. "God, I wish they'd announce moves."
"Pell's usually a three-burn… " a tech said from the take-holds down the wall, woman he didn't know.
And the third shove came.
"There we go. That's it. We're inert. " But everybody stood still at the handholds until the siren blast.
Then the company left the walls, and he went behind the counter where the galley corn-panel was, punched buttons for the universals of ship-com, the 01 that went to the captain's message file.
"Sir. This is Tom Hawkins. I urgently need to speak to…"
" Austin. "God, the thing had tracked him through the boards. " What?"
He'd composed a message. All the logic went straight out of his head.
"You apply the same standard. Me and my brother. Sir. " His tongue went stupid. Breath caught in his throat and he swallowed. "Sir. He caught us breaking regs. He had some justice."
Silence from the other end.
" It remotely strike you, Hawkins, that the captain might be busy?"
"I'm sorry, sir, I was just trying to message the system."
"About your policy assessments?"
"Sir,—"
"Where are you?"
"The galley, sir. Sir,—I do want to talk to you about this."
"Talk. Now. Fast. You're tying up channels. "
"I mean I've got to talk to you in private. I'm on the galley-com, sir, I want to talk to you before you talk to—"
"Hawkins. I have a ship moving at 1. 092 kips, exceeding Pell traffic speed limits, for which we have a Ik fine. I have a ship in count behind me and a caution on an inbound insystem hauler and two service craft, whose point-location is often a mystery unto themselves. Do you think we could postpone the personal business?"
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you. "
Dead connection after that. He pounded the wall with his fist, thinking…
"Trouble?" Tink asked.
… Christian was going to walk into Austin's office, remotely justified, and come out of there wanting to cut his throat.
Which wasn't smart policy, which wasn't what he wanted to live with, which wasn't the man he'd seen for about two beats when Christian was figuring out how and on what ship to dump him.
Say it right: Christian could have left him in that warehouse to freeze, and nobody would have found him. Christian, Saby had said it, had gone to a lot of effort to get him shipped out, never mind Christian could have walked him into a lot rougher situation than a ticket out of port and out of their lives. Christian was fighting for his place on this ship, was what Christian was doing…
Beatrice didn't want him. Ibrought him up.
And he understood Christian in that light a lot more than he'd ever understand the man who'd raped Marie.
"Tom?"
"I need to check on something," he said. "Tink, cover me."
Maybe Tink wanted to ask. He didn't want to answer. He ducked down the straightway of the galley back toward lower main, where alterday crew was headed for the lifts.
He looked to find Christian anywhere in the traffic. He knew where his cabin was. He thought about going there. He checked near lower deck ops, and then at the nearby lifts, where the next shift was cycling up by the carload. He slipped into that lot, nervous, waited his turn, one trip after the other, then jammed into the car with the rest and stared at the level indicator instead of the faces around him. Crew stared… the cuts and bruises, it had to be, or the question what he was doing, going topside. "He clear?" somebody finally asked. And: "Think so," somebody else said. "—Mister, you got a clearance?"
"Appointment," he muttered, as the lift banged into its topside lock. "Captain's office. " The door was opening. He wanted out. Fast. "Excuse me."
A hand caught his shoulder.
"Hold it, Hawkins."
He saw seniority in the grey hair. He said, "Yessir," and figured he'd just routed himself back in the brig. The guy shoved him against the wall by the lift doors.
"Appointment, is it?"
"My brother's supposed to be up here. I need to talk to him."
"Is that so?" The officer—Travis, the pocket emblem said—turned him back to the next arriving lift. "Right back downside, mister. Stayto lower decks."
Second lift opened. He faced, suddenly, blond hair, bruises, scowling face.
"Inside," the officer said, and jerked at him by the arm, sending him past Christian, into that lift. "Downside. Go. Now."