Текст книги "Tripoint "

Автор книги: C. J. Cherryh

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

… busy and on a hair-trigger. Saby flipped other switches, engaging can-pickup robotics that moved the cans on their tracks way back in the tiers… he understood the board—he knew what process had just started; the carriages were picking up cans back there, sliding into the motorized track. The inspection brake at this console only slowed a can enough for the laser-reader to find the can customs-tags, and a deft hand to snatch off any remaining monitor plug… but then the tractor-chain caught the carriage and ran the can up to whatever rate of delivery the end-line brake was supposed to control.

If it wasn't latched down. Which left Saby's brake as the only regulator on a line not even designed for free-fall—God knew what motion the cans were going to pick up as they hit the chain…

Stupid, stupid, stupidplace to off-load, he said to himself, having the whole picture now, why crew had lined up along the exit track… human muscle, to keep those cans under control.

And no instructions… they'd done it before.

"You all right here?" he asked her. "You need help?"

" My job, "Saby said. " I got it. You know the board?"

"Half-assed. I'm going on the line."

"You can stand back-up. Stay out of the track!"

Danger, then. Danger of a glitch in the line—crew forward couldn't do anything but help those cans across whatever inevitable bump in the track the mate-up with the other hold might make—never done a handoff to another ship, but it couldn't be a perfect mate—always a glitch-point, even with dockside. He moved, followed the hand-rail, knew he was heading for a potential accident-point, if somebody was going to lose a hand, once the walls narrowed—worst of all when the cans were in the mate-up, where carriages this side released and carriages the other side had damned well better be ready and adequate—

Can passed him, another, caught by the moving chain, then—he saw both sway as they whisked past him on the last tractor-section, into the cargo-chute's section, into the dark—didn't want any swinging, a swing started here could impact the side-rails, slow the cans, make a jam-up on the line.

He found a place to hang, wall at his back, safety rail between him and the track—a crewman was working there, and he joined in, met can after can with his gloved hands, until he hit a rhythm in the moves, move of his foot, move of his body—breath came too short at first, raw fear. Then he acquired a feel for the fractional degree and vector the cans tended to sway, and it became saner—the panic almost left him. He had wind enough; he heard somebody else breathing into an open mike… he thought it was Saby. He could hear the terse slow-up and speed-up orders to Saby's station from some officer forward in the chute, and fell into the rhythm until he all but forgot there was anything else in the universe but those cans coming faster and faster. Then something happened up ahead that shouldn't happen, the whole track shook for no reason. He couldn't hear it, but he saw the shudder in the cans—" Damn!" he heard over the com, and somebody else said: " Track's warping, she's shot a rivet, ease back, ease back. "

Oh, damn, he thought, we're not going to make it; and Saby said:

"I got it slowed, I got it… Tom, get down there, get a look, tell me how bad. "

He didn't ask—Saby didn't have eyes for what was happening ahead in the chute, the rig was stressed past design limits, and somebody on com was yelling at Saby to keep it rolling, dammit, keep it rolling, and giving orders to shunt tier five-c off to last-loaded, they'd run that set of cans out if the rig held and they had time…

Something in that load, he said to himself, something high-mass they weren't sure the equipment could take. He hauled himself along the hand-rail, along the outbound chute, as far as a section where the cans had picked up a hell of a bobble.

Cans were still coming past him. Guys were working ahead, damping down the motion with their hands and bodies, the same as they'd done higher up the line—you didn't know what kind of mass was coming at you in a given can, whether you were going to meet foam rubber or foam steel in a load. It was terrifying, but the receiving zone was yelling hurry up, speed up.

"Saby!" he said. "They got a hand-span swing at the rate you're sending 'em now, you copy?"

"I copy. Get back here. "

"I'm all right, do you copy?"

" We got no damn time!" somebody else broke in. " Get on it, dammit, move it, move it up plus two, Saby, she'll take it—"

That was an officer talking, by the sound of it, and he didn't belong on com. He found a space next to a big guy as the cans' delivery rate began to speed up—the several of them acting as living buffers to keep the cans moving steadily.

" It'll be all right, "came over his com, over somebody's hard breathing.

Didn't even know who the guy was until he'd worked up a total sweat and a can swung back, knocking him into the wall. The big guy sent the can on its way with a shove, and a one-handed reach met his grip as he rebounded off the wall—hauled him out of danger of the track, to a hand-hold he could reach.

Tink looked startled.

"'S all right," Tom breathed, "I'm all right, Tink, thanks."

Wasn't time to talk. Cans were passing them, fast as nightmare, now. Oscillation at the warp-point had proliferated, and all he could do was keep one hand to the safety-hold, a straight-arm block to damp the motion in his area ever so little, next man to take a little more swing off, and on to the next, like assembly-line robots.

Couldn't let it stress the clamps. The track had already bowed under a mass-heavy can at too much v, no telling when another might come down the line– hopethe crew in the hold were reading labels.

Oscillation grew worse. A can hit the wall, acquired a real nasty motion, slowed.

" Hold it!" somebody yelled. " Got a hang-up, hold, hold, hold!"

Cans bumped, all the way down the line. Tom hauled himself back, panting, shoulder to shoulder with Tink.

Then Austin's voice came on, and channel A's indicator flashed, general override. " We're dear, we haven't got damn forever, Saby, let's get a move on. "

The cans started to move again. Tom held his breath—one can had to nudge another into motion, all the way back from Saby's station, where she could let loose cans to the inertial line, that was all.

Bump, bump, bump, cans came out of the dark, nudging each other with a swing they had to damp, and the line moved, faster, faster, faster. He thought—nightmare flash—about that hostile ship out there… time lost, maybe fatal time.

He'd gotten the shakes into his knees, scared—exhausted, he wasn't sure.

Patrick, Capella'd said.

Patrick. Noise in the dark.

Runny blues and reds, sound that went through the bones… he couldn't remember. Except Capella saying, A freighter screaming…

He shoved at cans as they came, one after the other, the rack assembly moving uninterrupted, now, cans one behind the other, a moving wall of shadowed white.

Somebody screamed, on A, screamed, where official voices went back and forth. He heard Christian, then, somewhere, he had no idea where.

" Just stay clear, stay back, it's all right. Patch it, patch! dammit, he's losing air—"

"Got it, got it. It's just his finger. "

" What's our time?" somebody else asked, and Christian answered, " Just do it, dammit. Keep your damn hands clear, we're one row to go. "

Almost through. They could make it. Suddenly he couldn't get enough air, touched the air-flow regulator—but cans came in, bumped a slower can, set it in motion. Careful, careful, he wished Saby, don't lose it, don't lose it—he ignored his shortened breath, shoved as cans passed, to the limit of his strength and his grip on the hand-hold bar.

Bumping in the line had started another oscillation, cans endangering workers along the walls—he flattened, had enough room until the effect dissipated down the line. Cans bumped one another, threatened another jam, and then didn't—Saby was controlling the feed back there, finessing it, best she could…

" Captain. Sprite's moving this way. "

Sprite's…

Moving.

" Oh… shit!" Tink said.

He didn't know he'd moved, but he had, he didn't realize Tink had made a grab for him, but he'd slung Tink's hand off—didn't know where he was going, but he shoved with his foot on a can and shot forward, the walls a blur in his vision as he richocheted off cans, off the wall, grabbed for a handhold where the railing climbed to the release zone. Brain caught up to body, then—he wanted escape, wanted forward, where ship's officers were, where Austin was, where the truth was, as much as they hadn't told to him, who that ship was, that was coming at them.

Bright lights now, vacant stretch of hand-rail, at the top of the cans now, the cargo-lock mate-up area, cans bumping in the guide rails, where the line started a process to shunt the cans on Corinthiansrails off into the mated rail in the other hold—both cargo locks standing wide open, all the way into the hulk they were dealing with.

Com D light was blinking. Saby wanted him. Maybe Tink did. Breath was ragged. The suit regulator wouldn't give him more oxygen.

Betrayal, then, Tink's voice, on Universal: " All hands, Hawkins is in Michaels' rig.– Tom, you got to get back here. "

Save the ship. He knew that. He understood. Tink had to get him.

" Tom!" Saby's voice. Saby couldn't leave her post. Wouldn't. Too many lives… " Tom, come back, Tom, I need you! I need you, dammit!"

" Tom! "Tink's voice, again, anguished. "– Captain, he's coming your way! I can't catch him…"

The whole ship wanted to stop him. In front of him, glaring light, Corinthian'scargo-lock console, as he hand-over-handed toward the officers there.

"Hawkins!"

Christian.

He had no direction with the com. He scanned the 360° of helmet display, looking, but had no warning as someone snagged the back-pack, spun him around to rebound against the wall. "Son-of-a-bitch! What are you doing?"

He fended off the hold, but it wasn't only Christian, it was two, three of them, grabbing hold, starting an inertial tumble. They bumped cans, richocheted off to the wall of the chute, back again. A section of tractor-chain ground against his helmet, bump, bump, bump, until somebody hauled them out of it and anchored their collective mass along the rail.

" Cut his regulator!" somebody shouted, C. BOWE was the name on the helmet closest, the one with his hand on his oxygen supply.

He panicked, swung to free himself, claustrophobic as if the oxygen had already stopped.

"You lied to me," he panted, and struggled to get a hold on the rail. "You all fucking liedto me, you son of a bitch– what ship, what's going on out there?"

Someone else was yelling—he couldn't hear it; then " Hold it!"

Austin's voice. " Hold it, dammit, that's high mass– brake on, damn you, cut it—"

Something happened. " Shit!" somebody yelled, but he was still fighting for air, found an arm free and got a hold on the rail, as a jackstraw debris of metal rods flew everywhere.

" Brake! Brake! Can's ruptured—"

Crewmen were yelling, rods were flying everywhere, into the line, into the moving cans, rebounding. A piece slammed him side-on, knocked him against the wall with no surety his arm wasn't broken, but he got his glove to his regulator, tried to get the air-flow up.

" Patch!" somebody screamed—suit rupture—and nobody was watching him, they were shutting the cargo doors, far as they could with the racks mated, trying to stop the debris.

He couldn't breathe. He drifted, trying, with clumsy fingers, to adjust the external regulator. Last impact had thrown him against the cargo-lock console, piece of metal rammed right through the shelter wall and into the console board, more of the jackstraws in slower, entropic motion now, companions in his drift. He fended them, tried to calm his breathing.

" Austin!" he heard Christian calling. " Austin, use your com, dammit!"

" Captain was otherside, "somebody said, " in the other lock!" and Christian:

"Shit, open the doors, open the damn doors!"

" Austin. "That was Beatrice, somewhere. " Austin, answer com!"

" Yeah, "came back, through heavy static. " I got a problem. "More of it, but it broke up.

Crew were trapped over in the other hold—trapped with a ricocheting mass of steel—and he'd done it. Hehad. He caught a hand-hold, no one caring, now, no one paying attention to him.

" What's happened?" somebody asked, not the only voice. You didn't chat on Universal when an emergency was in progress, you shut up. He thought that last voice might be the bridge asking information, but nobody answered. He tried to, on general: "Can of rods ruptured. " Air still wouldn't come fast enough. "Doors are shut, bridge—doors are shut, and that's my ship out there, dammit!"

" Tommy?" Capella's voice. " Tommy, it's closing– it'sSprite and us both the sumbitch is after,– Tommy, d' you hear me? That's the truth. "

Mind went scattershot, a dozen trails of logic—sounds in the dark, colors running—freighter, freighter screaming…

Capella, leaning close, whispering… touch of lips… saying… telling him…

" Tommy, we got to have the card, now, Tommy… Austin's got to input. Hear?– Do it now, Tommy!"

Limbs jerked, half paralyzed, moving to what he couldn't but half remember, just Capella's voice and the gut-hitting feeling that he might have been immensely, irremediably wrong in his instant assumptions, Marie's assumptions, beaten into him, dinned into him…

Not what he'd seen on this ship.

" Where's Austin?" the bridge was asking, and he listened sharp, wanting to hear, when somebody, a voice he'd heard before, answered:

"Captain's caught otherside. The other hold. They're trying, Bea, they did an emergency close, and they got to jack the damn doors. "

" Shit, "he heard, Capella's voice. " Captain? You copy?"

The outer cargo hatch had closed on the mated rails. Crew was jacking it open, using levers at either side of the doors, others trying to scrape past the doors and under the cans blocking them to reach the hulk's hold.

Tom slung himself that direction along the safety rail, no one stopping him on his careening course—was so shaken he strained his arm catching himself on the landing. But a man squeezed through ahead of him—he re-angled his body and hauled himself through, risking the LS kit on his back… felt it scrape as he entered the hulk.

His first sight in the hulk's cargo lock was loose cans, debris floating, white powder in clumps and clouds, adhering to surfaces, obscuring vision throughout the cargo chute.

He had no idea now what he was doing, except they were trying to get crew out past him, one man that could move himself, that tried to help his rescuers. White powder, God knew what, clung to his visor no matter how he wiped. Loose rods shot past, still potent with v.

Then a suited body drifted toward him along the stalled row of cans. He grabbed its arm, not able to see who it was, whether the man was alive or dead, or who it was—he wasn't moving, was all, and he hauled the man back to the cargo lock, through the whiteout of dust, and passed the man through the gap to the men on the other side—one life maybe they could save.

" Captain?" he was hearing on hail. " Captain? Seven minutes. Closing fast. "

And a second voice, Capella's, he thought, desperate: " We need that key-card. Look in the console key slot, Tom, somebody. Fast. "

He knew what he was looking for. He tried to go in that direction, when a rod bounced past, hit the wall noiselessly, ricocheted and vanished into the powder-storm. And crew hauled suited bodies past him, a man with a piece of iron through the torso, then one with a helmet gouged and splintered across the faceplate.

TRAVIS, the helmet said.

Only name he'd made out, on anybody. Wasn't Bowe. He found himself shakily relieved it wasn't Austin, as he grabbed a rail and tried to get along the wall.

A suited figure caught up with him in the obscuring dust. BOWE, the helmet said. c. Smeared with blood. Christian looked straight at him. He started to ask… where Austin was… and his com crackled with,

"Damn you, you Hawkins bastard, get out of there!"

A rod shot between them. Rebounded. Hit a can, richocheted again, came back.

He was drifting, on a rebound. Grabbed something.

" Four minutes, "he heard, in the ringing of his ears. Motion alert, was flashing in his faceplate. " Get out of there, "com said, male voice this time, " Get out, now, we're screwed, leave it, leave it, leave it. "

And Capella's: " Get the card, damn it!"

His back hit the cans. He bounced off, saw a crewman near him, trying for a hand-hold, and he held out an arm, mindless free-fall reflex. The man grabbed him and he grabbed the rail as they grazed the wall in a conjoint tumble toward the bright light, spotlights all he could see in the white-out, except dark beads like frozen oil spatting against his faceplate.

He shoved off, dragging the man with him, grabbed the console rim and stopped their random motion as green seconds bled time away from him in the faceplate display. The man he'd rescued had hold next to him—crew had reached them, trying to pull both of them away; but the man shoved them off, shoved a card into the console they both clung to.

C. BOWE showed grey through the paste of white dust on the opposing helmet. He could see Christian's face, intent on the card, not on him.

Other voices on Universal sputtered with static. Somebody was yelling, " Close the doors. Kick the cans clear! Shut the cargo doors! Fire window is forty-eight seconds—"

Christian jammed the card down, firm contact, groped for the input slate and the electronic stylus scissor-jointed over it.

Wrote an H. A.

Hand shook, dithered in a fit of shock. V.

"O," Tom said, furious with his own spasm of shaking. Christian's hand wasn't making it. He grabbed the hand, forced a shaky circle. Shakier C. Son of a bitch, it wasn't just himself and Austin knew Capella's code.

Lights flashed. Display above the input said, in red letters:

ENEMY IDENTIFIED. TARGETING. POSITIVE.

He flashed on Sprite'scorridors. Marie at her console. But he believed Patrick was real, and Patrick was first on the old hulk's list. His voice in the dark said so.

While Spritewas out there. Coming toward them. TARGET LOCKED, he saw on display, through a white haze.

FIRE INITIATED.

The hulk's frame shook. He felt it through the hand-grip. Stared at his brother's face, Christian staring at him.

Felt something pull at him, trying to pull them away. He held onto the console. But he saw suit lights then, coming around behind Christian, to take him away.

Christian went. But hewasn't leaving. Wasn't moving. No. Information was here. On thisreadout. It was all the truth he had.

" Tom, "Saby said. Hands tugged at him, failed to move him. " Comeon, Tom, dammit, it's fired, it's all we can do. "

" Tom. "Tink's voice. A new hand pulled and he couldn't hold on any longer. His gloved hands lost their handhold, and they carried him back toward the doors, through the drifting white.

" Tom. "Capella's voice, then. " Tom, Sprite is not, so far, a target, repeat, not, so far, a target. "

" Who's in command down here?" he heard somebody ask, and Christian answer:

"I guess I am. "

" Not yet. "Another voice came faintly, scratchy with static. " Not yet, you don't, kid.– Where's the damn hostile, can somebody find the hostile?"

" Fireball, "came from the bridge, smugly. " Any minute now. "

Still couldn't get enough air. Tom let Saby and Tink pull him ahead, along the railing. He just breathed, his visor dusted over so the lights fuzzed.

" There it goes, "a female voice said. " Austin. You copy? Got the bastard. "

" I copy, "Austin said. " Thank you, Beatrice. "

He tried clumsily to adjust the air-flow. People talked to Medical, then, talked about broken arms and a suit puncture, one man dead. They said the cargo doors were shutting. But motion imminenthad just gone off his faceplate display.

Nothing seemed real to him. Crew movement was all drifting now, leisurely. He heard Beatrice Perrault say,

" Evidently the robot respects a freighter ID. Or its direction, as nav believes. Sprite is, at any rate, sacrosanct. That gives us a new problem. "

"Screw that," Tom said. New panic closed on him. Indignation. He shoved to get clear. "They're not attacking my ship. " He couldn't break Tink's grip. He shoved the channel selector with his chin. " Austin, damn you, that's my ship, dammit, that's my mother's ship—"

" Put Hawkins in contact, "Austin said faintly. " Beatrice. Dan. Do it.—Tom. "

"Sir. "

"That's a word I like to hear. We still have them outgunned, Thomas Bowe-Hawkins. Remember that. Tell mama hello. "

"Yes, sir," he said.

" Stand by. "Voice he didn't know. But after that:

"Go ahead, Hawkins. Talk them out of shooting. Or going away. The old hulk doesn't like either one. "

Chapter Twelve

—i—

" TOM, "SAJA SAID, A FACE ON THE vid. "Tom. Tell me again. Tell me why it's your choice. "

"Yeah, well… " Breath still felt as tight as it had in the suit. "Dammit, tell Marie I want to talk. I'll tell her. All right?"

" She says,…"

"Yeah, screw what she says until she says it to me. Tell her get the hell on the com and talk to me. Now."

Silence, then. He sat there, on Corinthian'sbridge, with Saby and Christian standing over him, and Austin sitting—a broken leg, four broken ribs and a broken arm, was Austin's tally, give or take. One man hadn't been lucky. Came of fools interfering with operations. Came of a mistake he'd never in his life forget.

But they'd delivered the last of the cargo. Austin insisted. Said he'd never failed a contract and he wasn't starting now. Flour and blood every damn where, iron rods floating all over the hold. Couldn't get that out of his memory.

Hadn't even realized his ankle was broken. He'd been that scared. That numb.

New image came on. Marie stared at him. He stared back, a light-second removed.

"So?" Marie said. " You staying withCorinthian?"

" Yes, "he said. " —Met a girl, Marie. "

" A girl. "Marie snorted. " You damn fool. "

"Yeah. I know. But you'd like her, Marie."

"Austin there?"

That surprised him. That really surprised him. He looked at Austin. Austin turned his chair, reached across the board and put the aux com live.

"Hello, Marie. What can I do for you?"

While, across the bridge, missiles were armed and the scan was locked warily on Sprite.

"Hello, Austin. You want him?"

Austin shrugged. "Not my choice."

"What do you want?"

"To get clear. That's all. You speaking for Sprite, now, Marie? I hear so."

"Damn right. "

"Well, captain Hawkins, you're clear, you're free. My navigator says you could even cut a deal. I'll give you a password, in fact. Tell Miller Transship you want the deal I had. Whisper the word Tripoint. Somebody'll be in contact, if you're polite. Just sit at Viking and wait."

"You're out of your mind. "

"It's clean money, all legitimate salvage. Real old dates. And we're out of this route, for good. Got another offer. So it's all yours, captain Hawkins. Comfortable living. I do suggest you upgrade your armament, if you take the offer. And rig a cutoff for that damn ID."

"Go to hell. "

"Go to hell yourself, Marie. Love you."

"Tom?"

He punched the switch. "Marie. Yeah?"

Marie didn't say anything right off. Just stared. Punched a few buttons. Maybe the image-capture. It looked to be. He pushed that button on Corinthian'sboard. Froze that look, that motion, for keeping, for the rest of time.

" You stay out of trouble, "Marie said. " Keep yourself honest. Hear?"

"You take care of yourself," he said. "Mama. You take care."

—ii—

DREAM OF A POINT OF shifting mass, three-body problem. Tricky spot, the navigators said.

Never been a star. Never could be. Complex motion, forever shifting, the third mass tending to widen the gap by very small amounts over centuries.

Navigators said the Point wasn't stable—said the close binary mass followed Sol on its strange course, maybe some ancient association with Sol and its planetary companions in the long-ago past, in their frantic pace across the long, long gulf Sol was crossing—all of human history in that passage.

And the third mass at Tripoint… was a newcomer, maybe swept up out of Pell, who knew? Scientists wrangled, nothing proved, nothing known for certain—they talked about probes, to reach down into the high-g depths of what might, almost have been a star.

Easy, most of all, to lose things in the triple mass. Easy to miss ships, easy to pick up the brown radiance of any of the three Points, blotting out all else that might lie behind it.

Tom could hear one deep sound, at least, going away from them. Sat there, while Saby slept the sleep that made hyperspace bearable.

Spritewas on its way.

So were they—to a Place, Capella swore, where there was cargo to be hauled, a place the Fleet had found, that they'd been supplying all along, but they'd not needed to know—until now.

Where? was the burning question in the crew. But Capella wasn't talking.

Said, the Fleet had never surrendered. They never would.

Said, Some things you got to take on faith.

Austin said they put up with her.

Christian said…

Christian said they could sell surplus crew to the Fleet, and older brother should watch his step, and not screw anything really essential.

They made one seven-light jump, toward the place they were going.

Arrived, not at Pell, or Viking, but at another dark mass and a fuel dump.

So where they were going now was far, far from places they knew… he didn't know of any two-jump that lay on ordinary routes.

Some Mazianni hideout, it might be. Austin was still worried, he caught that, in things he'd overheard. But rumor had always said the Fleet had places nobody knew.

Mostly, he regretted Pell. He wanted to go back if only once, wanted to recover that time with Saby. That walk in the spacefaring forest. He wanted to see a rainstorm, even from water-jets.

Saby had kept the leaf safe for him. He sat on the bed looking at it… you could sit a long time, in the strangeness of jump-space. He hadn't duties. Computers weren't reliable right now. It was the interface the ship engaged. Time wasn't. Logic wasn't. Colors and sounds came and went.

The music, Capella called it. He heard it. At least… it sounded that way.

A shadow arrived in his vision. How long and when didn't matter in this space. Capella was there. She sat down on the bed. He folded the leaf back into its paper safekeeping.

"More of those," she said.

"What, more of those?" Sometimes, with Capella, you had to start in the middle of conversations.

"Where we're going," Capella said. "More of those."

"You're not serious."

"Absolutely. Always. Well, sometimes. But this is true, Tommy. " She reached out, patted Saby's foot. " 'Scuse. Sweet dreams."

"Forests?" he asked.

"Might be."

"Can't be."

Capella shrugged. Tucked her knee into the circle of her arms. "All that Earth was," she said. "Will be again. Six more jumps."

"Six. My God."

"There'll be fuel dumps. We'll be fine. " Capella looked at him sidelong, tilted her head and looked at the overhead as if she could see through it.

Maybe she could. He was still discovering things.

"Do we come ever back from there?" he asked. The territory beyond was dark to him, a complete, uneasy unknown. Except, suddenly, the idea of forests. Green. Damp. Alive.

"I've been there," Capella said. "Truth is,—I found this place."

"You?"

"Heard it, in the dark.—D' you hear that?"

Something. He wasn't sure. Felt it, more.

"What was it?"

"Dunno," Capella said. "There's things you can't explain. Keeps you wanting to go again. Listen. Listen to it. There's a whole universe out there."

He did listen, for a long while. Capella went away again. The whole ship was theirs. Visit any cabin. Open any door. No one knew.

Forests, the woman said.

END