Текст книги "Tripoint "

Автор книги: C. J. Cherryh

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The further he got from the moment the more it seemed crazy to have taken Hawkins into his own quarters, behind locked doors. Hell if he'd have done that with hired crew. Austin would skin him if the guy didn't stick a knife in him for his trouble. Stupid, what he'd done. Gave him cold chills just thinking about it.

But he hadread Hawkins. He'd been absolutely confident. He'd known and he'd guessed right—the way he'd gone from gut-level irritation to body-sense understanding what Hawkins was doing. Next was guessing what the son of a bitch was going to—

Hands touched his back.

He yelled and spun around with an elbow for the offender.

Capella was faster than that, and a centimeter out of range.

"Don't walk up on me! This is the bridge, not a—"

"Not what?"

Capella had logical business on the bridge, the mainday chief having every right to be where she was.

Meanwhile, among the techs, Bowe, Perrault, and eclectic, not a head had turned. Everybody on the bridge knew the situation between the captain's-son-mainday-chief-officer and the lend-lease navigator. He grabbed Capella's wrist and got her started in the officeward direction—and let go once she was launched. Hold onto Capella when you weren't joking and you were asking for a broken arm.

Which he wasn't. He led the way off to the central corridor, back to his office, and near enough to Austin's quarters and Beatrice's that he signaled quiet until he'd triggered the door.

"Need a favor," he said. "You know where they put older brother's effects, in downside Ops."

"Yeah. The safe."

"You know the combination."

"You want his stuff?"

"Yeah. But I can't get down there as easily."

Capella gave him a suspicious stare. "Yeah?"

"Dockside's on me this trip. And older brother's taking a walk while we just can't be responsible."

"Wait, wait, brake it, mister."

"Passport. Papers. ID. I want it."

"Christian-person. Walk like… cold, or walk like… off?"

"I mean I'm letting him go, shoving him off at Pell."

Capella's brows went together. Bang. "Straight to the cops. If Sprite'son our tail… if that ship comes in while we're there—"

"They had their full offload and load yet to do and we're wasting no time here. We'll be offloaded, loaded and out before they make a ripple at Pell."

"You're betting the ship. You're betting the whole fucking ship."

" I'm protectingour asses. He's trouble. He's major trouble on board."

"You're jealous."

"I'm not jealous."

"Hell you aren't."

"Crew's complicated enough."

Family was complicated enough. That was the truth. Austin never listened. Zeroed in on this Hawkins. Never once saw he'd done the best he could, bringing Hawkins aboard, never wanted to talk about the solution—oh, no, thatwasn't Christian's business.

"You know," Capella said, "there are places Hawkins could be besides Pell."

He glumly shook his head, to all Capella's… associations. And to all the other places Hawkins could end up.

Including the deep-cold dark, stabbed in some crew fight. He didn't know why he couldn't have arranged that option—he could have put it off on some sumbitch like Edgar Hogan, or Tolliver, who could probably be arranged to do it, and to pay for it—except there was suddenly a line between him and Capella there hadn't been a moment ago, and a caution there'd never needed be before. If he'd crossed that line himself, somewhere, he'd not known it had happened—in that warehouse, maybe, or down in the galley just now.

Because Capella would kill—and he discovered he wouldn't. Couldn't. He didn't know whether that was a fault or a virtue, when their collective lives depended on it; or whether it was strength or weakness, when he knew the universe helived in wasn't neat, or clean, or inclined to give anything for free the way it was in those damn books Capella read.

He did everything Austin wanted. He worked his butt off to get one well done out of Austin all his fucking life. But, oh, Hawkins got Austin's attention—got Austin's complete attention, cheap, on the going market.

And the guy was everything… intelligent, reasonable, easy to like… that he fucking wasn't.

"Chrissy, Christian-sweet. You want advice? Don't—don't do this. It's too risky to let him out. The cops, that's one. And Austin, if he finds out you had anything to do with it—"

"You give me advice," he said, "on something you know about. I'm telling you. We want him off this ship, we want him the hell invisible, to us and to the cops. For the ship's sake."

"Marie Hawkins is not to ignore. If she comes spreading tales—and a witness climbs out of some drainpipe—"

"Not a shred of evidence. None. Nothing they can use. She'lllook the fool. What will Spritehave? One of their own crewmen? Back where he belongs, with his maman? What a crime! What a disaster! His mother claims kidnapping. But with what evidence? His word? No, I want the stuff, Pella, dear. You've got the access. Use it on my behalf and I won't tell about the brandy."

"You son of a bitch."

" Fils de Beatrice, absolument. "He caught Capella's arms as they came about him, as Capella's teeth came very near the sensitive spots of his neck. "Does it occur to you that Austin's preferences run in a pattern?"

"Absolutely. " Capella's hands, freed, wandered to his lower back, arms pulled him close. Hips moved. Teeth grazed his ear. "Like father like son. Take ten, Chris-tian, duty can spare it. A whole boring month in hyperspace…"

Austin would skin him, the higher brain said. Lower brain was taking over rapidly, now was now and the couch in his office was a convenient immediate destination.

Himself on the bottom this time, Capella taking over—while he was thinking, distractedly, of older brother stuck in that cell, older, easy-to-like brother—and he came back to here and now with Capella shoving his hands out of play above his head and trailing kisses progressively below his neck. The risk of running toward jump without him on duty, the risk of violating orders, saying screw-you to Austin and knowing his own judgment about Corinthianwas as valid—not that Austin would consult him. That was what sent him toward a dark, suicidal high, half-wishing physical harm was a real risk at Capella's hands.

Never fucking listened to him…

—vi—

AT ABOUT MAINDARK, MAINDAY SHIFT change on this alterday ship, the lights briefly faded, tribute to a lately hostile sun, and a voice that might be Christian's came on over the general com, saying, Take hold. They were starting acceleration toward a jump at 0448: 32h, shift to alterday crew slightly before that.

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 Corinthianwas 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 Spriteon 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 meoff 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."

"You could say."

"So maybe that's it. " Tink cast a nervous glance down the corridor. "Tom, I got other places to get to, I got to hurry. We got jump at Oh Five, just short. Can't collect the tray, just kind of dump it in the shower when you're through, all right? And latch the door? I got a lot of stations to get to, before. But I come here first."

"Yeah," he said, "yeah, thanks, Tink. Sincerely, thanks."

He took the tray back to his bunk, sat down, dug in to the synth eggs-'n-ham, which wasn't bad, but peculiar. It had leafy stuff in it, that wasn't algae. Strong-flavored stuff. Maybe it was another thing they got off a living world, like a real spice. He'd had a few—just a few.

But he figured it had to be all right—Jamal kept the galley so clean, if green stuff turned up it was legit, and safe, and probably expensive. And once you thought that, it began to taste fairly good.

Not surprising, he told himself, what Tink had said. He'd had a halfway instinct about it, that he couldn't trust Christian's motives.

So Christian had him beaten to hell so he could get him to believe what he was going to say.

So he'd been a fool when, for about a dozen heartbeats, he'd leaned on Christian Bowe, believed he'd found someone in the universe who gave a damn slightly more than Marie gave.

Stupid, he said, to himself. He was ashamed, outright angry that he'd given serious credence to Christian's persuasions.

But hell if he'd let on. He'd be far more foolish to let on to Christian that he knew what he did know—and he had confidence in what Tink had told him. Tink didn't have any motive to lie to him. Christian did. Tink hadn't looked at all comfortable telling him what he'd told him—Christian had been so, so smooth, not a flicker of conscience in his delivery.

All of which argued that he had an ally in Tink, if he wanted to put it on Tink's shoulders, but he could get Tink in a helluva lot of trouble on that account, too, and he didn't damn want to, for Tink's sake.

He ate the pastry, thinking about that. It was as good as it looked, dark, with a rough, smoky flavor different than any chocolate he'd ever had. He thought it might just be real, and he wasn't sure if everybody got it, or just people Tink wanted to do it for.

Whatever—it was good. Whatever—Tink didn't need to apologize for being absent. Whatever—Tink had no reason to tell him what he'd told him, except some sense of fairness, except maybe everything he thought he read in the man was true—because Tink didn't read out to him as vengeful, or a habitual or purposeful liar. He'd do a lot for Tink. He hadn't metanybody like Tink, on Spriteor on the docks, and Tink had a piece of his priorities, if Tink ever somehow needed something he could do.

But he could think of a thousand reasons for Christian to lie, and to want him off the ship—if only for the reasons that Christian had plainly admitted to him as his reasons.

It made… not quite a lump in his throat, but at least welling up of feeling he hadn't expected to apply, on this ship. Didn't know why he should be surprised. Even Marie'd double-crossed him, in her way—played him for a fool, ditching him on the docks the way she had.

The truly embarrassing thing was, he couldn't learn. Cousins had caught him in sucker-games, and you'd think he'd get cleverer—he had, give him credit, grown more reserved with them. But the harder Marie had shoved him away the more desperate he was to get close to her—

Kid mentality. Panic instinct. Once, in a corridor downside she'd told him she wasn't speaking to him, and walked off-he'd followed, gotten slapped in the face, and kept it up, and gotten slapped… he'd been, maybe, five, six, he wasn't sure, but it came back to him sometimes with particular clarity, the smothered feeling, the feeling he had to hold on to Marie, and he'd known he was making her madder, he'd known she was going to hit him every time he caught her, but he kept doing it, and grabbing at her clothes and screaming his head off—she kept hitting him, until Marie got a better grip on her panic than he had on his—it waspanic, he'd figured that out somewhere years later, panic on her side, panic on his.

God knew. They did it to each other, simply existing. He'd gone to that warehouse in some confused sense of responsibility for Marie he would have thought he'd learned not to have.

She'd kept him, Mischa had said, for reasons that had scared him—that ought to scare anybody with a conscience and a responsibility—but had Mischa done anything to protect him'

Not one solitary thing.

A half-brother who wanted rid of him. A father who wished he'd never existed.

He wasn't anybody Spriteexpected anything from, either,—hadn't Mischa said so? He'd screwed up. Everybody expected it. Why in hell shouldn't he deliver? Only major time he'd ever helped Marie, he'd screwed up.

And why spare Christian, or his father? Why cooperate with anyone at all, except to spite the powers that created him? Try helping them, maybe. Worst thing he could think of to do to anybody.

Didn't want to hurt Tink, though, really didn't want to hurt Tink, or get him arrested, or lose his license—he didn't even know the guy but a couple of days, but Tink didn't deserve it. Wasn't fair that he couldn't think about Corinthiananymore without remembering specific faces, guys like Tink, guys like those sons of bitches he'd like to find when he didn't have a cable on his wrist, but he didn't want to kill them, just…

Wasn't damned fair. Corinthianhadn't been faces to him. Hadn't been people like Tink, at all.

Which meant he should disappear fast when he got to Pell, just out the lock and out of port, no note to the cops, nothing that could screw his father the way he deserved.

Chapter Six

—i—

NUMBERS WERE SPIELING OUT TOWARD jump, arbitrary destination at this point, but crew of both shifts on last-minute errands needed the time to reach secure places. The bridge was all shift-changed. The last, the pilot switchover, was quick, exchange of a couple of words of report, and Beatrice settled into her post, still mildly pissed, you could tell it in the set of her jaw.

Mildly pissed was more worrisome than raging hell in Beatrice's case, and Austin kept an eye on the aristocratic, pale-skinned arrogance that was one damned fine pilot smiling with perfect friendliness at her outgoing shift-mate.

Mildly pissed meant that some event had made la belle Beatricea little happier about the cause célèbre Beatrice wasn'ttalking about, namely Hawkinses. She wasn't giving him advice, he had hadall the advice he wanted, and he strongly suspected the meeting between Beatrice and Christian, that he was sure he wasn't supposed to know about, had had something to do with a handful of dockers trying the new boy on board, somethingto do with Christian's pulling said new boy aside—for a talk, presumably.

From which, exit Tom Hawkins with new clothes—expensive clothes. Christian's. They were about the same size.

"On target," Beatrice said, without looking at anyone. "Five minutes, mark."

Beatrice was, face it, jealous—jealous of her position, which never was threatened exceptby her damnable moods. So her personal effort had produced a shipboard Bowe offspring. It hadn't been hisidea. Ten years of immature brat whose whereabouts had to be assured before the ship moved, thank God for Saby or the Offspring would have gone smack against the bulkhead for sure. Ten more years of juvie phobias, psychoses, and damn-his-ass attitudes before the brat was supposed to turn into an adult with basic common sense.

Which meant knowing when to take a wide decision and when to realize he didn't have all the information and he should ask before he did something irrevocable.

But, oh, no, Christian wouldn't ask. Christian knew everything.

Christian was full of bullshit.

Christian had been tormenting Hawkins, probably from the time he came aboard, right down to the instant he caught him at it, and now Christian was a sudden source of wardrobe and brotherly sympathy?

Don't mind papa, he beats up on all of us?

Double bullshit.

Christian had gotten Hawkins' temper up in the encounter they'd just had… and he'd gone on to try that temper, quite deliberately—only prudent, considering Hawkins had had that particular mother for a moral and mental guide, Marie Hawkins whispering her own sweet obsession into young Hawkins' ear, guiding his steps, maybe right onto Corinthian'sdeck, who but Hawkins could possibly know?

Hawkins' back had hit the wall and he'd come up yelling I'll kill you. Which was the truth. Maybe only for that moment, and maybe only in extremity, it was the unequivocated truth—but extremities occurred, moments did happen, desired or not, and Hawkins was a bomb waiting all his life to find such a moment.

It made him unaccountably angry, that Marie Hawkins had done that to the boy. He couldn't be sure, of course, that he could write the whole of Hawkins' reactions down to Marie Hawkins' account, but when Hawkins had come away from the wall shouting what he had, his own nerves had reacted off the scale, just… bang. Kill him. Grab him and beat his head against the wall until he yells quit.

And afterward, reverberations in himself far out of proportion to the quarrel, shaky-kneed reaction that hadn't let up for half a damned hour after he'd walked out of that cell and back to the territory where the captain ruled as lord and master of Corinthian.

He didn't know why. He wasn't accustomed to react like that to a confrontation, not with crew, not with Beatrice, not with Christian.

So he didn't know why he felt a personal hurt for Hawkins' reaction. Maybe that Marie Hawkins had done something off the scale of his personal (if more rational) morality, doing that to the flesh of her own flesh—couldn't say he was surprised. Marie Hawkins hadn't become a lunatic afterthey'd spent forty-eight hours barricaded… she'd been crazy before they'd ever shared a bed, and it might be, to his observation, a genetically transmitted imbalance.

So why did Marie Hawkins' unfair action get him in the gut? What did he fucking care about Marie Hawkins or her kid?

Most spacer-men never met their offspring. And vice-versa.

Which seemed, from where he sat, now, an eminently sensible idea. He hadn't had a sister. Not even a female cousin. He'd have been spared shipboard offspring in the lateral orthe vertical sense—if Beatrice hadn't double-crossed him and tossed her contraceptive.

Damn the woman. She'd had no right, no bloody right, to do that in the first place, and none at all, now, to play the jealous fool with him over a woman he cared absolutely nothing about and the offspring he'd never remotely planned to deal with.

"Mark. Three to jump," came from Beatrice.

Go on dockside separately, they did, he and Beatrice, that was the agreement. They didn't account to each other for their bedmates, they trusted each other for basic good taste—and suddenly Beatrice went green-eyed jealous over a cold-natured Family bitch whose primary interest the first and only night they'd slept together was in seeing him fried?

He had an uncomfortable idea precisely on what inspiration Beatrice's birth control had failed, now that he thought of it. And why Corinthian'schief pilot had inconvenienced herself at least long enough to deliver that statistically rare failure into the universe, Beatrice talking, like a fool, about personal curiosity, and biological investment, and primal urges…

Bull shitif Beatrice had primal urges that didn't involve Beatrice's immediate and personal convenience.

He'd been disinterested, then intrigued by the birth process, and subsequently bemazed by the unique life they'd generated—which he didn't think of then as a power game.

But that life unfortunately didn't spring to full-blown intelligence, rather languished in fetal helplessness, doddering inconvenience, juvenile silliness, juvenile rebellion, and finally juvenile half-assed confidence in its own damned ability.

Hawkins was a shade older than Christian. A shade more deliberate (Christian planned by the second), a shade more reluctant to open his mouth (Christian had no brake on his), a damned sight more apt to studied ambush (Christian was subtle as an oncoming rock), and, to an unanswered degree, capable of deceit.

Get the truth out of Hawkins. That was essential. The boy'd lied about his license, knew a comp tech was persona non grata on a hostile ship. He'd thought that through, at least.

Get Hawkins to figure out the rules of the real universe, and that included the basic folly of bucking a ship's captain. The kid needed an understanding of practicalities.

"Mark one," came from Beatrice.

Kid. Hell. Christian was a kid. Hawkins… wasn't.

By what degree not a kid and with what intention currently in his mind remained to be seen, but it wasn't a juvie temper fit that had sent Hawkins away from that wall headed for his throat, it was a man pushed to the limit he was willing to be pushed, and he knew to a fair degree, now, where the flash point was with Hawkins.

Hawkins himself didn't know. But Hawkins would discover it. Hawkins would learn, in the process, what his options were—because—he himself had realized it at an instinctive level in the moment when he'd sent Hawkins to the galley—you couldn't turn Hawkins loose and expect him not to come back at you. You learned, running hired-crew, who would and who wouldn't be safe under what conditions. You bet your life on your decisions in that department, your life, your livelihood, and the ship and everyone in it on your understanding of human nature. You learned to assess who had brains and who was just fucking mean, and howthey'd move when they moved—you knew it even if the man himself didn't know.

And this Hawkins could maybe forget an ongoing personal grievance for maybe a day, a week, however long it took things to sort out around him. But this Hawkins, when he'd made you a serious case, didn'tforget, didn't give up, once he had his feet under him. Never give Tom Hawkins room to lay plans. Never give Tom Hawkins the idea you were going to do harm where he had an allegiance.

"Mark ten seconds to jump. Eight… seven…"

Son of abitch. Hawkins was.

"… six… five… four… three… two… one…"

Gone.

Bad luck to you, Marie Hawkins.

—ii—

SPRITEDROPPED IN… electronic impulses probed the dark.

Found no echoes, no substance but the nearest radiating mass.

Which didn't surprise Marie.

Didn't have a hope Bowe was here. She knew his habits. Knew the way he thought. He wouldn't take the chance. Hadn't tracked the man for twenty years without understanding howhe worked and what his tactics were.

So he was out of Tripoint, maybe spending a day or two he knew he could afford, but he wouldn't cut the margin fine enough to compromise the gap between them. He wanted all the loading time at Pell he could get. He'd run through Tripoint fast enough to make him comfortable, not fast enough, of course, that it could possibly seem to his crew that he was running from a confrontation with little, unarmed Sprite, and with Marie Hawkins.

But he'd struck at her—personally. Spitefully. She was supposed to lose her composure—possibly make bad decisions. Push the Family into a dry run?

Lose money, maybe fatally for Spriteand its operations? The Family wasn't crazy and Sprite'scargo officer knewthe Pell market, though she'd never been there. She knew it because it was part of the web, she knew it the way she'd known the specific figures of adjacent markets for twenty years, always holding herself ready to divert Spriteon short notice if she found Bowe in reach.

Planned ahead, damned right.

Sorry, Austin. I'm not a fool.

And I've gotthe votes in Spritecrew. Mischa didn't want an election called.

" He's not here,"Mischa called down to say.

Bravo, Mischa, late again. I know that.

"Marie?"

"I hear that. " She bit her tongue short of the acid remark she wanted to make. She left Mischa nothing, nothing to take hold of. It drove him crazy.

"We're transiting the point as fast as we can. Exit as soon as we run the checks. "