“Hell of an accuracy, sir.”
“Can you do it?”
Capella when that grin cut loose was the devil. The very devil. You didn’t know.
“Maybe.”
“I’d suggest you figure it, second chief navigator.”
“You are one son of a bitch, captain, sir.”
“Yeah. I am. How good are you?”
“Damn good.”
“Then do it.”
“Yes, sir. “
Never a way in hell he could have gotten that berth within the Fleet—point of fact, there hadn’t been a way in hell he’d have wanted one, in his adult life, when they were losing ships faster than they could reckon what they’d lost, and attitudes inside the Fleet were responsible for that trend. He could still name a couple of the captains he’d have shot as soon as deal with, and the feeling was still, he was sure, entirely mutual.
He’d never truly known where Capella fit in that mosaic, until just now that he’d nudged Capella into action: Don’t question me, second chief, just obey the order. And that straight look and that ‘sir’ out of their nameless navigator…
Satisfying, that he could get ‘sir’ out of this woman, who’d had the career that had slipped away before he was old enough to chase it, in any sense that the War could be won or that there was time left to reconstitute the old order. He’d seen nothing past the impending debacle, once upon the omniscience of his youth, seen nothing worth obeying or believing, fool that he’d been; and now his son was staring into another Götterdämerung, nothing of fire and fury, just a niggling increase of regulations—he could see that from where he sat, watching anachronism on her way to the navigation console.
He’d had his moral victory, maybe, maybe could slip out of this mess… maybe escape all the rest of the little regulation-generated disasters, so long as he lived, on a ship that had thrown in its lot with what was changing. Little ships couldn’t get the profit margin, with the new regulations, couldn’t keep ahead of the Family ships and the state-sponsored combines.
So what did a small-hauler do, but go on serving the ports they could, getting cargo where they could, even doing what obliged them to take personnel the Fleet dictated they take?
No way to refuse the honor, of course, no objection possible, and no assurance the divisions inside the Fleet weren’t going to play out one day on their own deck, for interests a mere merchant captain didn’t guess, and against opposition said captain might not find out about until it was too late.
Unless, say, the second chief navigator saw it, too, saw the same wall coming, and the same Götterdämerung.
Yes, sir, that word was, and he watched her settle in, all business, listened to her, on A-band, engage Beatrice, and tell Beatrice she’d have certain data, and she should trust it blindly, no matter how extreme it seemed.
Beatrice half-turned in her seat. He nodded. Beatrice settled back. So they were going with it. Beatrice would handle it. He had confidence, too, in the Fleet’s gift—granted you knew which faction she belonged to.
—v—
ACCEL GREW HARDER, JOINTS POPPED. Fingers twined with fingers. Couldn’t think of anything, not at this g-stress, just company.
“Want the light?” Saby asked.
“No. Dark’s fine. I know who I’m with. “ Light just confused the eyes with here and now, and didn’t solve what went on in the dark space.
Didn’t silence Marie. She lived there, at the edge of jump. Like Rodman. Like Roberta R. Like the kids.
Just wondered… where they were going. What they were going to do.
“Tink says… back through Tripoint. Non-stop, I take it?”
Silence out of Saby for a few breaths. Her quarters. Her bed. Her fingers twitched in his. “We’re hauling. Not light mass on this leg. My bet is, we’ll deliver.”
“Deliver to what?”
“Where we have to.”
“Level with me. What do we haul? What are they after, this ship they’re talking about?”
“Don’t know. Don’t know who this ship’s working for. “ Another twitch of the fingers. “But while they’re searching… we can move cargo. They can try to find us.”
“That’s crazed. You just dump it out there, or are we meeting somebody, or what?”
“Just a place. Spooky place. Dead ship. I don’t like it. But stuff’s waiting there for us. Always is.”
“Those were the cans at Viking.”
A moment Saby just lay still. “Yes,” she said. “Sorry to say, that’s what you found.”
“Stuff they raided?” Indignation was hard, this close to the edge, under the heavy hand of acceleration. “That’s your trade? Stolen goods?”
“Stuff from a long time back. Old stuff. It’s the dates, the dates you don’t want to question. Ships we deal with don’t raid anymore. Don’t want the attention. Long as we sell them food, medicines… import Scotch.”
“And arms.”
“Food. Medicines. Mostly food. Plants. Live plants.”
“Live plants.”
They maintained a separate silence a while, hands joined.
“That’s the damned oddest thing I ever heard,” he said.
“Truth,” Saby said.
“I guess. “ Best offer he had. “If you say so—yeah, I believe it.”
Chapter Eleven
TWO HOURS TWENTY MINUTES. The whole difference. The whole… damned… difference between Corinthian’s system exit and Sprite’s entry, the height and depth of Pell Star system apart.
Nothing to do at that point but to continue on in, with Sprite running full-loaded as she was. Nothing to do but maintain a quiet calm, a sweetness to the offered sympathy of cousins and, of course, Lydia. Less likely… sympathy from Mischa, whose expression of regret had a certain lack of conviction, but Mischa had at least made the gesture.
“We tried, Marie. All we could do.”
It was all they could have done, a heartbreakingly hard run through Tripoint, everyone on long hours and short food and sleep. Tempers had frayed, understandably so. And there had been recriminations about missing Corinthian.
Not from her. And they waited for her opinion. Maybe with bated breath.
Spirits aboard had picked up when their cargo sold during their run-in toward station, no languishing on the trade boards while the ship ran up dock-time, no waiting to sell this part and that lot of cans… Dee Biomedical bought the whole lot sight unseen, the publishing data-feed, the biomedicals, neobiotics, and biomaterials, with damage exceptions, which, Marie knew from her boards, there were none: every one of the cans came in registering, constantly talking to the regulation devices.
Not one can even questionable. And profit clear—Pell had no tariff on biomedicals of Cyteen origin, when Pell could get them.
Faces started to smile. People started to be pleasant to each other in the corridors. The seniors who’d been fuming mad about transshipping the government contract now thought that, of course, it had all been their idea.
But ship activity at dock? Pell didn’t have that kind of information available to an inbound ship. Get it at the Trade Office once you dock.
Information on Thomas Bowe-Hawkins? His mother wanted to know?
Oh, there was a record of that. Listed with exiting crew on Corinthian. And listed with returning crew.