A more formal warning and certainly more information than they’d gotten with Austin Bowe on watch, Tom thought, deciding that, over all, Christian seemed more reasonable than his father by a wide margin.
Immediately after that announcement, the siren sounded, and if a spacer was conscious, semiconscious, or sane, he grabbed after the belts and fastened them.
Then he tugged the blanket up against the chill that seemed a permanent part of jump, and snugged down for a secure rest. Acceleration began, with an initial slam that hit all the floating organs, and then a steady pressure—familiar as a sense of moving, getting up to speed, toward Pell, he told himself, and maybe toward freedom. He began to turn that promise of Christian’s over and over in his mind, yes, it could be true, Christian might have the reasons he cited; or, no, it wasn’t true, it was a set-up and he ought to tell somebody who could get word to the captain something was going on that he wouldn’t approve—
But then, third side… he couldn’t get away by staying on the ship, and, fourth, even if it turned out to be a set-up, he might still turn the tables on whoever set him up (likely Christian) and get to the police.
Except—fifth—Christian was absolutely right about going to station police, it scared him, the way Lydia, damn her screwed-up meddling, had once had him terrified of being left on station; but there was a reasonable adult fear in it, too—depending on the seriousness of what Corinthian was involved in, it was a way to get tangled up in Pell’s Legal Affairs office, in a cross-border incident, called in at least as a witness in some God-only-knew court case that could drag on and involve drugs he didn’t want to take, when all he remotely wanted to do was get a ship to Viking and have a reasonable chance of meeting Sprite on a port call, give or take a year. Viking was an immediate port for Pell, there had to be numbers of ships going and coming, all the time. If everything Christian said was true and he had his papers, he could be out of there maybe in hours from the time he hit Pell docks, and have all of it behind him.
But—six—he could talk his way into free passage, maybe; but a year’s wait, on Viking, even eating out of vending machines, was, God, he didn’t know, 15000c, at sleepover rates, if he starved himself and stayed in the cheapest places he could find. That was the next worry. Either Christian would keep his word and bid him farewell on Pell’s dock, scenario a, and he was on his own, to get transport… or, scenario b, back to the set-up… Christian might have something in mind else. Like double-cross. Like…
Like setting him up to be killed, so nobody would ask questions.
Could Christian do a thing like that? It was the most logical thing for Christian to do, if he didn’t come with a conscience, if Austin didn’t intend to let him go, ever, if…
God, he’d lost count. But scenario three, or eight, or whatever—if Christian was right, and Austin might try to work him into crew, beat hell out of him until he learned to say yessir to Austin the way Christian did—
But after that, Austin wouldn’t let him go, either, he’d just be on better terms with Austin. Which he by no means wanted. Christian and Christian’s mother damn sure didn’t.
So they agreed on something. The question was what they actually intended for a solution to the tangle.
He just wanted to go to sleep. God, he desperately wanted not to think.
But then he had a colder, more awful thought, and pulled open the panel beside the bunk.
No trank to keep him sane. No packets. He’d used them all. Nobody’d resupplied the locker. On Sprite, they checked and rechecked them, made sure every one was refilled.
Christian was in charge, on mainday. Christian was running things and Austin wasn’t on duty.
Now he really couldn’t sleep. Accel was hell enough and most times you could sleep through it, if you didn’t mind feeling in two directions at once, but right now the knowledge of that empty panel and the lack of a com in the brig combined to upset his stomach. He kept rolling Christian’s motives over and over, told himself, one, it was a long time until 0448h, and the minute someone started stirring about he could get attention to the problem. And, two, maybe if Christian was trying to scare him, he could get other attention at shift change…
Maybe the dark-haired girl would come back. Even Capella. It was no good lying and sweating, there’d be a chance to talk to someone, surely, they weren’t going to go without a final check.
This, in the ship that didn’t sound but cursory warnings when it moved.
It was an hour before they went inertial. He got up then, risking his neck, God, stiff and sore, every movement he made—maybe the ribs were cracked from the fight, maybe not, but that was minor compared to the chance of being left with no supplies down here. He yelled. He banged the walls, he yelled again at every remote sound he heard, hoping someone would hear.
Eventually he heard someone walking in the corridor, and screamed to anyone out there that he hadn’t any trank, dammit, he needed help, he needed somebody to tell the captain…
Tink came walking up, with a tray—with trank and the nutri-packs on it, along with breakfast, or supper, or something, and one of Tink’s decorated pastries.
Relief flooded through him and left a flutter like electric shock.
“We weren’t going to forget you,” Tink said. “We weren’t going to forget you, no time we ever forgot the brig.”
“I didn’t know you were in charge. God, I’m glad to see you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Galley always sees to stations. Always a snack first—first class stuff, here.”
“It’s wonderful. “ He tried to make light of it, feeling foolish. “Thanks, Tink. “ But he was shaking so when he took the tray through the opening in the bars that the liquid shook in the cup. “Sugar-flowers. That’s real pretty.”
“Made it special. I’m real sorry I left you alone yesterday. I am. Wouldn’t’ve happened if I hadn’t left.”
“Not your fault. It’s all right, Tink.”
Tink looked troubled… beyond ‘it’s all right. ‘ “Scuttlebutt was… there was an order.”
“On what?”
Tink evaded his eyes. Found an interesting spot on the floor to the far side of the bars. “Like, it was just an order.”
An order. And Tink just happened to need to change a filter?
“Tink?”
Tink still didn’t look at him, quite.
He felt a twinge of regret. Of disappointment. Of anger, for Tink’s sake… and his own.
“Yeah,” he said, “I copy. Thanks. Thanks, Tink. Really, thanks.”
“I didn’t know they was going to do that!”
“You didn’t know my brother was going to do that. I should’ve figured it.”
“He ain’t a bad officer,” Tink said. “He’s a layoff, but things get done.—And he’s fair, most times. The captain’s got him bothered.”
“About what? What’s enough, to go to that trouble? Tink, Tink, he’s saying… he’s saying he’ll get me off at Pell. That I can go free. Is he lying?”
Tink looked at him then. A long, troubled look.
“What’s the truth, Tink? I swear… I swear I won’t say where I heard it, just tell me, and I’ll believe you.”
“The junior’s a nice guy,” Tink said. “He really is. Tries to take the crew’s side. Stood between the hire-ons and the senior. Michaels. Michaels is who you don’t cross. But the junior’ll always hear you, if there’s a side you got, you understand me? I don’t figure what he did, it ain’t like him to set somebody up like that, except he’s got some notion you’re a problem—on account of your mama. I hear she’s got a grudge with the captain.”