He wasn’t sure at this point that Marie wanted him back.
Justifiably.
—ii—
THE LOADING OPERATION WAS A steady flow of data on Austin’s office monitor, a steady stream of canisters thumping through the cargo access port, contiguous at the moment with the passenger ring, so it sounded through Corinthian’s ring structure like some monstrous heartbeat.
Machine parts was the principal load they were taking; also radioactives, medical and industrial, transshipped; chemicals, organic and otherwise; minicans of rejuv, lately legal, tapes, transshipped; minicans of personal goods and small commercial freight, transshipped and some originated at Viking—no maiclass="underline" they hadn’t a bond for that, and he didn’t want the background check. But this was the payout cargo, this was the one where Miller bought on spec and they rebought, and sold at their destination; this was the one that paid the bills and kept them running. It was an eclectic load, and a few minicans went up the lift and into the ring, where they’d jury-rigged passenger accommodations into warm-cargo space.
The further you got from Earth the pricier Earth goods got, simple proposition, but the further you got from civilization, the pricier, too, the sweet taste of the motherworld. And pay they would, in credit and in various ways.
If—
Com beeped. “Excuse me, sir,” the voice said, from the bridge. “Marie Hawkins. On the com. For you. Do you want to take the call?”
Damn the woman!
Tell her go to hell? Let her have the frustration?
Better hear the threats, he thought. Better give the woman the satisfaction. Five got ten she wasn’t calling with Mischa Hawkins’ blessing and go-ahead. The woman was still on the docks somewhere. Corinthian had gone on the boards as Departure: 1400h. And if she was out there—and he’d bet she was—she knew.
“Quillan?”
“Sir?”
“She’s at a phone. Probably within sight of our dockside. Get a team looking.”
Not a damned word from Mischa Hawkins. The cops hadn’t arrested anybody after the set-to, just tagged the ships involved and a judge had slapped both Corinthian and Sprite with thousand credit fines, with a warning.
Damned right a warning. “You keep your people clear,” he’d phoned Sprite to say. “And we will.”
“Aye,” Quillan said. “Put her through, sir?”
“Put her through,” he said, and heard the click. “Marie Hawkins?”
“You son of a bitch,” Marie Hawkins said. “How are you, Austin?”
“Oh, getting along. How have you been?”
“Just fine. Alive. Saner than you’d like. I just wanted to call and thank you.”
“That’s nice.” You wondered where she’d planted the bomb. Or if she knew they had her kid. “Did you have something more in mind? It’s been a few years, Marie. Things got a little out of hand. I apologize for that.”
“You’re senior captain now. Congratulations. And a—is she your wife?”
“Nothing official. It’s just not our style.”
“Beatrice Perrault.”
What in hell was the woman after?
Beatrice at least was safe, on duty. Christian was below, inside the ship.
“Beatrice, yes. I hear you’ve moved up to cargo officer. Congratulations. How do you like the work?”
“Love it. I owe you so much. My start in life. My son.”
Did she know? He had no idea.
“Would you like to come aboard, Hawkins? Have a drink, discuss mutual interests?” He didn’t think so. Possibly she was taping the call, for playback to authorities. He didn’t expect an acceptance. “There’s time before undock. You’ve noticed we are pulling out.”
“I’ve noticed,” Marie Hawkins said.
“So what about the drink? Apologies?”
“I don’t think so.”
She hung up. He shouldn’t have pushed.
“Captain, we—”
“—didn’t have time. Damn it, watch the frontage! If she’s calling from one of the bars, we can still catch her. Haul her in, if you can do it without a fuss. Relay that.”
“We’re looking.”
Damned crazy woman. Mischa Hawkins probably didn’t know where she was, or they’d cheerfully reel her in. Sprite was on warning with station authorities, and Hawkins had sent one terse message: Call us if you have any contact with any Sprite crew. Neither of us can afford this.
Nobody’d raised hell with station offices yet about the missing son—so they hadn’t figured where Thomas Hawkins was, yet. Probably they thought he was keeping company with Marie.
Which meant if they didn’t find Marie, they couldn’t know to the contrary; Marie probably thought her kid was with the group the cops had turned back to Sprite and told stay off the docks—Marie wasn’t interested in being found, and so long as Marie stayed out of Sprite’s reach, nobody was going to know Thomas was missing.
If they couldn’t catch her—she was still doing Corinthian a favor, just staying out there. Best hope they had of getting out of here.
—iv—
“CHRISTIAN.”
Christian cut his eyes toward the overhead and leaned his back against the wall. Where it figuratively was, already, with Austin.
“Sir.”
“You stay inside the ship. That’s an order, boy.”
“I was just going…”
“Maxie’s seeing to it. I want a double-check on the warm-hold count. Get on it.”
“That’s Maxie’s job!”
“See to it, damn you! I’m fall up with your excuses!”
“Yes, sir,” he said, and when he heard the com click out, pounded the paneling with his fist.
Saby put her head out of ops and stared.
“What?”
“What, what, Austin’s what, he’s on my case, is what.” He stalked to the office, shoved past Saby and sat down at the console.
Punched keys. Not his favorite job. Maxie’s job, and, thanks to brother Thomas and his crazy mother, no last tour on dock-side, no chance to slip back to the shop for the earrings Capella had lusted after, no chance to go back to the vid shop for the tapes he’d eyed… you didn’t load up on stuff while you were on liberty, you waited till the last minute, if you didn’t want to pay delivery.
Cheap cost, on this occasion.
Saby shot him a feed from her terminal. Lots and lots of boring serial numbers and clearances.
“So is anybody asking about this kid?” Saby asked.
“How would I know? Austin’s not talking. Beatrice is hung over as hell and on station. Damned Family-ship prig.”
“I’d be scared,” Saby said. “In his place, I’d be damned scared.”
“He’s a Family Boy. Ship-share, all the best, don’t you know. I wish I’d left him. Say he must’ve hid out after the fight, we wouldn’t have this problem.” He set the computer to scan for WH’s and location, the sole intellectual function the job needed for the pass.”His mother’s out there looking for
Austin, Austin’s hiding aboard, hauls the whole damn crew in, it’s damned ridiculous. Now my half-brother’s gone poking about in Miller’s and we’ve got ourselves a problem,”