Текст книги "Merchanter's Luck "

Автор книги: C. J. Cherryh

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

“What would you do?”

“No more than I had to.”

She shook her head. Got up and cleaned the plate and tossed the cup, put things in the washer.

“Alli-son. I’m not willing to risk my life on your maybe.”

She looked back at him. “You’re my number two. Isn’t that your job?”

“If there’s reason—”

“My reason is a judgment call. And I’m making it.”

“On what percentage? It gets us into another spot like this one. On that understanding—just so we agree where we’re going—it’s my job. Right.”

She walked over and squeezed his shoulder, walked past and out of the galley.

Chapter XIV

That’s five minutes to range limit,” Allison said. Transmitting advisement to our escort.”

“Got it,” Sandor murmured back, busy at final adjustments. The reports from the other stations came in, routine and indicating all stable. It had an especially valuable feel, the familiar cushion, the rhythm of operations, his hands on the controls again, as if nothing had happened. Wild thoughts came to him, like stringing the next two jumps, seeing whether his Dubliner companions had the stomach for that—he imagined screams of terror and shouts of rage; and maybe they could not haul the velocity down —would become a missile traveling out into the Deep beyond any control, too much mass for her own systems and exponentially doomed… Or even minutely fouling up the schedule they had given to the military that still ran beside them. Being hauled down by Alliance military—that would give the Dubliners something to worry about… if it was worth falling into the hands of the military himself. He still preferred his Dubliners to either fate. Allison and Curran and Deirdre and Neill—Allison. Allison. It hurt, knowing what she had wanted; what, subconsciously, he had seen—that for her it was Lucy herself. She wanted what he wanted, the way he wanted—and the loneliness in her was filled without him. She had family. He had known. It was his solitude that gave him strange ideas. It was listening to stationer tapes and forgetting what family was, and where right and wrong was.

Forgetting Ross and Mitri and all the voyagers in the dark. For getting what Lucy contained… as if Dubliners could forget their own ways.

He had had time in the hours shut in his cabin—in the cabin that had been Papa Lou’s, amid the remnant of things that he and Ross and Mitri had not sealed away under the plates, taking everything that might have identified the Kreja name to customs —he had had time to reckon what had happened. He might have hated them. He reckoned that But it was too tangled for hate. It was survival, and maybe it had started out as something better than that.

He understood Allison, he reckoned: generous sometimes, and where it touched her Name, hard enough to cut glass. She would not have come to him in worthlessness, the way he would not have left Lucy and gone to her penniless; she came with her crew-mates about her, her wealth, her substance in the account of things. And he could not blame her for that.

Even—he had reckoned, with more painful slowness—there was worth in Curran Reilly, if he could only discover what it was. He believed that because Allison believed it, and what Allison valued must be worth something. He took that on faith. There was worth in all of them.

But he meant to break Curran Reilly’s arm at next opportunity.

And meanwhile he had come out of his cabin, nodded a pleasant good day, sat down at controls and proceeded with jump prep as matter of factly as if he were only coming on watch.

“Set it and retire?” he had asked of Allison, as blandly innocent a face as he knew how to wear, his customs-agent manner. “Or shall I take her through?”

“You’ll take her,” Allison had to say. There was no safe alternative, things being as they were with comp. And Curran’s face, a twist of his head and a look in his direction, had had the look of a man with a difficult mouthful going down.

No word to him yet of warnings. Maybe they felt threats superfluous. They were. Data came to him on schedule, to screens, to his ear, quiet voices and businesslike.

“Two minutes to mark.”

“All stable.”

“M/D to screen three. All on mark.”

“Scan to four, Norway’s moving.”

His heart did a turn. The image came up on screen four, Mallory was underway—had been, for some lightbound time.

“Message incoming,” Neill said. “Acknowledge?”

“Put it through,” he said… he said, and not Allison. The realization that the moment was thrown in his lap and not routed to Allison shocked him. But they had to: the military would expect him. ‘That’s a tight transmission,” Neill said. “Same mode reply… We’re receiving you, Odin”

“This is Odin command,” the answer came. “Captain Mallory sends her compliments and advises you there are hazards in the Hinder Star zones. Wish you luck, Lucy”

That was polite. The tone surprised him. He punched in his own mike. “This is Stevens of Lucy: do we expect escort at our next point?”

A silence. “Location of Alliance ships is restricted information. Exercise due caution in contacts.”

“Understood, Odin command.” On the number four screen, Norway was in decided motion, gathering speed with the distinctive dopplered flickers of a military ship on scan.

“Odin’s just braked,” Curran said. “Losing them on vid.”

“Up on scan,” Deirdre said, and that was so: the image was there, the gap between them widening.

“Twenty-four seconds to mark,” Allison said. “Jump point minus fifteen minutes twenty seconds.”

He checked the belts, the presence of the trank on the counter. His eyes kept going back to that ominous and now closer presence coming up on them. Norway could lie off and make nothing of their days of passage when she woke up and decided to move. He tried to ignore that monumental fact, bristling with weapons, bearing down by increments scan was only guessing. He went about his private preparations as his crew had begun to do: settling in, being sure of comfort and safety for the jump to come.

“Minus ten minutes,” Allison murmured. “Hang, what’s Mallory up to?”

“She won’t crowd us,” Sander said. “She’s not crazy, whatever else.”

He put the trank in. Began to glaze over… His concern for everything diminished. He stared at the scan image for an instant, hyper and fascinated, recalled the necessity to track on other things and focused his mind down the tunnel it required. “Take her through,” he said to Allison—caught the roll of a dark eye in his direction… suspicion; question—’Take her,” he said again, as if nothing else had happened, as if it were only the next step in checking out his novice crew. Allison’s face acquired that panic the situation deserved, one’s first time handling jump. He shunted control to her board and she diverted her attention back where it had to be. “Eight minutes,” he said, reminding her. He was crazy: he knew so. The trank had blurred all the past, created a kind of warmth in which he was safe with them simply because they had no alternatives. Relinquishing things this way, he was in command of all of them… and Allison Reilly had failed another prediction. He sensed her anger at him; and Curran’s hate; and the perplexity of the rest—smiled a trank-dulled smile as they flashed toward their departure—

“Five minutes,” he said, on mark. Allison gave him another look, as if to judge his sanity, diverted her attention back to the board.

The seconds ticked off. His Dubliners, he thought. Possibly they would begin it all again where they were going. Maybe they would do more than they had already done. In one part of his soul he was cold afraid. But he was always afraid. He was used to that. He knew how to adjust to things he was afraid of, which was to grin and bluff—and he had that faculty back again.

“Minus forty-five seconds.”

“All stable,” Curran said.

“We’re going,” Allison said, and that was that: she had uncapped the switches.

(Ross… it’s not me this time. But she knows what she’s doing. In most things. Let’s go, then. The first time—without my help. She’s good, Ross… they all are. And I don’t know where we go from here. They don’t know either. I’m sure of that. And I think they’re scared of what I’ll make them be…)

The vanes cycled in, Lucy tracking on the star that gave them bearings, and they went—

–in again, a pulse down that made itself felt all along the nerves…

And no need to move, no need: Allison was there, giving orders, doing everything that ought to be done. “Dump,” she ordered: comp, on silent, was blinking alarm. Sandor performed the operation, neat pulses which slipped them in and out of here and now, loaded as they were, shedding velocity into the interface, while the dark mass lent them its gravitation, pockmark in spacetime sufficient to hold them… friendly, dangerous point of mass…

They made it in, making more speed than they had used at the last point… Allison’s choice. “Will she handle it?” she asked on that account.

“Ought to,” Sandor said. “In a hurry, Reilly?”

No answer.

“It’s lonely here,” Curran said. “Not a stir anywhere.”

“Lonelier than the average,” Allison said. “Didn’t they say they were monitoring all the points?”

No answer from any quarter. Sandor took the water bottle from beside the console, took a drink and set it back again. He unbelted.

“Going back to my quarters,” he said. “Good luck with her, Reilly.”

“Alterday watch to controls,” Allison said. “Change off at one hour.”

Maybe there was something she wanted to say. Maybe—he thought, in a moment of hope—she had come to her senses. But there was nothing but fatigue in her face when she had gotten up from controls. Fatigue and a flushed exhilaration he understood. So she had gotten the ship through: that was something to her, He had forgotten the peculiar terror of a novice; had taken Lucy into jump for the first time when he was fourteen. Then he had been scared. And many a time since then.

He walked to his quarters without looking back at her and Curran and the others, solitary… back to the museum that was his cabin, and to the silence. He closed the door, keyed in on comp with the volume very low.

“Hello, Sandy,” it said. That was all he wanted to hear. “How are you?”

“Fine,” he said back to the voice. “Still alive, Ross.”

“What do you need, Sandy?”

He cut the comp off, on again. “Hello, Sandy. How are you?”

He cut it off a second time, because while they could not access the room channels from the bridge without the keys, someone would see the activity. He stood there treasuring the sound, empty as it was. He could get one of the instruction sequences going, and have the voice for hours—he missed that But they would grow alarmed. His quarantine gave him this much of Ross back; in that much he treasured his solitude.

He showered, wrapped himself in his robe, went out to the galley—found Allison and Curran, still dressed, standing waiting for the oven he wanted to use. He stopped, set himself against the wall, a casual leaning, hands in pockets of the robe, a studious attention to the deck tiles.

A clatter of doors and trays then. He looked toward them, reckoning that they were through. Watched them pour coffee and arrange trays for the rest of them. “Here,” Allison said to him, “want one?”

He passed an eye over them: four trays. “I’ll do my own, thanks. It’s all right.”

“Galley’s yours.”

He nodded, went to the freezer, pulled an ordinary breakfast. His hands were shaking: they always did that if he was late getting food after a jump. “Did the jump real well,” he said to Allison, peace offering while she was gathering up the trays.

Small courtesies had to be examined. She looked up, two of the trays in her hand while Curran went out with the other two. Nodded then, deciding to be pleased. “Better,” she said, “when I can do all of it.”

She had to throw that in. He nodded after the same fashion, not without the flash of a thought through his mind, that it was several days through the nullpoint and that they might have something in mind. “You’ll be all right,” he said, offering that too.

She went her way. He cooked his breakfast, shivering and spilling things until he had gotten a spoonful of sugar into his stomach and followed the nauseating spoonful with a chaser of hot coffee. That helped. The tremors were at least less frequent. The coffee began to warm his stomach—real coffee. He had gotten used to the taste of it, after the substitutes.

The oven went off. He retrieved his breakfast, sat down, sole possessor of the galley and the table. It was a curious kind of truce. They retreated from him, as if they found his presence accusatory. And he went on owning his ship, in a solitude the greater for having a ship full of company.

When? he kept wondering. And: what next? They could go on forever in this war. He kept things courteous, which was safest for himself; and they knew that, and played the game, suspecting everything he did.

He wandered back to the bridge when he was done. He had that much concern for the ship’s whereabouts. The Dubliners sat on the benches at the rear, having the last of their coffee—a little looser than they had been, a little more like Krejas had run the ship, because it was safe enough to sit back there with Lucy on auto. Not spit and polish enough for some captains; not regulation enough: there was a marginal hazard, enough to say that one chance out of a million could kill them all before they could react —like ambush. Unacceptable risk for Dublin Again, carrying a thousand lives; with ample personnel for trading shifts—but here it was only reasonable. Four Dubliner faces looked up at him, perhaps disconcerted to be caught at such a dereliction. He nodded to them, went to the scan board—heard a stir behind him, knew someone was afoot.

Nothing. Nothing out there. Only the point of mass, a lonely gas giant radiating away its last remnant of heat, a star that failed… a collection of planetoid/moons that were on the charts and dead ahead as they bore, headed toward the nadir pole of the system. Nothing for vid to pick up without careful searching: the emissions of the gas giant came through the dish. But no sign of anything living. No ship. That was nothing unusual at any null-point. But Mallory had made a point of saying that the points were watched.

He straightened and looked at the Dubliners—Curran and Allison on their feet, the others still seated, no less watching him. “Got our course plotted outside the ring,” he said quietly, “missing everything on the charts. Old charts. You might keep that in mind. In case.”

“You might come across with the keys,” Curran said.

He shrugged. Walked the way he had come, ignoring all that passed among them.

“Stevens” Curran’s voice pursued him.

He looked back with his best innocence. No one moved. “Thirty-six hours twenty-two minutes to mark,” he said quietly. “What do you think you’ll find where we’re going? A station Pell’s size? Civilization? I’d be surprised. Do you want to start this over—try it my way this time?”

“No,” Allison said after a moment. “Partners. That’s the way it works.”

“Might. Might, Reilly.”

“If we go at it your way.”

“This isn’t Dublin. You don’t get your way. You signed onto my ship and my way is the way she runs. Majority vote wasn’t in the papers. Cooperative wasn’t. My way’s it. That’s the way it works. You sit down and figure out who’s on the wrong side of the law.”

He walked off and left them then, went back to his own quarters—entertained for a little while the forlorn hope that they might in fact think about that, and come to terms. But he had not hoped much, and when no one came, he curled up and courted sleep.

A suited figure rumbled through his vision, and that was himself and that was Mitri. He opened his eyes again, to drive that one away; but it rode his mind, that image that came back to him every time he thought of solitude. He shivered, recalling a boy’s gut-deep fear, and cowardice.

(“Ross,” he had called, sick and shaking. “Ross, he’s dead, he’s dead; get back in here. I can’t handle the ship, Ross—I can’t take her alone. Please come back—Ross…”)

The feeling was back in his gut, as vivid as it had been; the sweating cowardice; the terror—He swore miserably to himself, knowing this particular dream, that when it latched onto his mind for the night he would go on dreaming it until Lucy’s skin seemed too thin to insulate him from the ghosts.

He propped himself on his elbows in the dark, supported his head on his hands… Finally got up in the dark and turned up the light, hunting pen and paper.

He wrote it down, the central key to comp, and put it in the drawer under the mirror, afraid of having it there—but after that he could turn out the lights and go back to bed.

Mitri gave him peace then.

He slept the night through; and waked, and fended his way past Deirdre and Neill at breakfast. In all, there was a quiet over all the ship, less of threat than of anger. And a great deal of the day he came and sat on the bridge, simply took a post and sat it– because it was safer that way, for the ship, for them. He took his blanket and his pillow that night and slept there, so that there was that much less distance between himself and controls if something went wrong.

“Give it up,” Allison asked of him, on her watch.

He shook his head. Did not even argue the point.

And Neill came to him, when they were minus eight hours from mark: “It was a mistake, what we did. We know that. Look,Curran never meant to get into that; he made a mistake and he won’t admit it, but he knows it, and he wishes it hadn’t gone the way it did. He just didn’t expect you’d go for him; and we—we just tried to stop someone from getting hurt.”

“To stop Curran from getting hurt.” He had not lost his sense of humor entirely; the approach touched it. He went serious again and flicked a gesture at the Dubliner’s sleeve. “You still wear the Dublin patch.”

That set Neill off balance. “I don’t see any reason to take it off.”

And that was a decent answer too.

“I’m here.” Sandor said, “within call. Same way I’ve run this ship all along. You’re safe. I’m taking care of your hides.”

They left him alone after that, excepting now and again a remark. And he lay down and went to sleep a time, until they reached minus two from mark and he had jump to set.

His crew had showed up, quiet, businesslike. “So we go for civilization,” he said. And with a glance at Allison, at Curran: “A little liberty ought to do good for all of us. Sort it out on the docks.”

He imagined relief in their faces, on what account he was not sure. Only they all needed the time.

And he was glad enough to quit this place, dark and isolated as the well-traveled nullpoints of Unionside had never been isolated.

He took his place at the number one board, began working through comp on silent… They might have stood over him, put it to a contest; they declined that.

Perhaps after the station liberty, he told himself, perhaps then he could get his bearings, mend what was broken, find a way to make his peace with them. A ship run amiss could become a small place indeed. They wanted different air and the noise of other living humans but themselves.

They were that close to safety; and if they could get into it, head home with a success to their account—then they were proved, and the record was clear; and everything might be clean again.

Then there was hope for them.

Chapter XV

… Venture system: a star with a gas giant companion and a clutter of debris belting it and the star. And a small, currently invisible station that had been the last waystop for Sol going outward. FTL had shut it down; Pell’s World, Downbelow… had undercut Sol prices for biostuffs, closer, faster. A rush for new worlds had run past it, the Company Wars had cut it off for half a century—But there was a pulse now, a thin, thready pulse of activity,

No buoy to assign them routing: they had been warned of that. Sandor dumped down to a sedate velocity closer to system plane than a loaded ship should—but there was no traffic.

“Lonely as a nullpoint,” Allison muttered, beside him. “If we didn’t have station signal—”

“Never expected much here,” Sandor said. “It’s old, after all. Real old.”

“Com’s silent,” Neill said. “Just noise.”

“Makes me nervous,” Curran muttered. “No traffic, no buoy, no lanes—can’t run a station without lanes. They’re going to get somebody colliding out here, running in the dark.”

“I’m going after a sandwich,” Sandor said. “I’m coming back to controls with it.”

“You stay put,” Allison said. “Neill, see to it for all of us. Anything. Make it fast.”

Neill slid out. Functions shunted: com and cargo to Deirdre, scan one and two to Curran; Allison kept to her sorting of images that got to number one screens, his filter on data that could come too fast and from confusing directions. Nothing was coming now… only the distant voice of station.

‘We’re coming up on their reply window,” Curran said.

“Ready on that,” Deirdre said.

Neill came back, bearing an armful of sandwiches and sealed drink containers. Sandor opened his, wolfed down half of it, swallowed down the fruit juice and capped it. The silence from station went on. No one said anything about it. No one said anything.

“Picking up something,” Curran said suddenly. “Lord, it’s military. It’s moving like it.”

The image was at Sander’s screen instantly. “Mallory,” he surmised.

“Negative on that,” Neill said. “I don’t get any Norway ID. I don’t get any ID at all.”

“Wonderful,” Allison muttered.

“Size. Get size on it.” Sandor started lining up jump, reckoned their nearness to system center. “Stand by: we’re turning over.”

“You’ll get us killed. Whatever it is, we can’t outrace it.”

“Get me a calculation on that.” He sent them into an axis roll, cut in the engines as drink containers went sailing, with a collection of plastic wrap, half a sandwich and an unidentified tape cassette. “Cargo stable,” Deirdre reported, and he reached up through the drag that tended to pull his arm aside, kept on with the calculations.

“We can’t do it,” Allison said. “We won’t clear it, reckoning they’ll fire. I’ve got the calculations for you—”

No word of contact: nothing. He flicked glances at the scan image and Curran’s current position estimate… saw number three screen pick up Allison’s figures on plot. The intersection point flashed, before the jump range.

“You hear me?” Allison asked sharply. “Stevens, we can’t make it. They’re going to overtake.”

“They still don’t have an ID pulse,” Neill said. “I don’t get anything.”

“They’re going to overtake.”

“What do you expect us to do?” Sandor stopped the jump calculation while they hurtled on their way. His body was pressed back into the cushion, his pulse hammering in his ears, drowning other sounds.

“Haul down,” Allison shouted at him. “Lord, haul down before they blow us. What do you think you’re doing?”

His mind was blank, raw panic. Instinct said away; common sense and calculations said it was not going to work. And excluding that—

“Stevens!”

“Cut it” Curran shouted at him. “Stevens, you’ll kill us all; we can’t win it.”

He looked at the Dubliners, a difficult turning of his neck. “Suit up. Hear? I’ll cut back. Allison, Deirdre, Neill, get below, suit up and hurry about it. Curran, I want you. The two of us– Get that Dublin patch off. Move, hang you all.”

He cut the power back—buying them time and losing some. The Dubliners moved, all of them, nothing questioning, not with a warship accelerating in pursuit. They scattered and ran, crazily against the remaining acceleration. The lift worked, behind him: only Curran stayed, zealously ripping at the patch.

“What’s the score?” Curran asked. “Set up an ambush for them aboard?”

“No. We’re the only crew, you and I. You signed on at Pell, got thrown off Dublin.” He reached to the board, put cabins two, four, and five on powersave. “Get up there and strip down their cabins; shove everything into yours. Move it, man.”

Curran’s face was blanched. He nodded then, scrambled for the corridor, staggering among the consoles.

The gap was narrowing. No hail, even yet; no need of any. The ship chasing them knew; and they knew; and that was all that was needed. It all went in silence. The other posts were shut down, all functions to the main board now.

“We’re suiting,” Allison’s voice came to him over com out of breath. “I’m suited. Now what?”

“Got all kinds of service shafts down there. Pick one. Snug in and stay there—whatever happens. If they loot us and leave us, fine. If they take us off the ship—you stay put.”

“No way. No way, that.”

“You hear me. You get into a hole and wait it out. I know what I’m talking about and I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m not hiding in any—”

“Shut up, Reilly. Two of us is the maximum risk on this and I picked my risk… two of us of Curran’s type and mine—looks like smugglers. You want to get Deirdre and Neill killed, you just come ahead up here. You got the hard part down there, I know, but for God’s sake do it and don’t louse it up. Please, Reilly, think it through. That ship’s a Mazianni carrier. They have maybe three thousand troops on that thing. Do what I tell you and make the others do it. We got a chance. They don’t hang around after a hit. Maybe you can do something; maybe there’re people left at Venture. Maybe other ships coming in here—If nothing else, they may leave.—And Reilly—you listening to me?”

“I’m hearing you.”

“Comp access code’s in my cabin. Top drawer.”

“Hang you, Stevens.”

“Sandor. It’s Sandor Kreja.”

Silence from the other side. He could hear her breathing, soft panting as with some kind of exertion.

“You’ll be taking water with you,” he said. “You don’t use that suit oxygen unless you have to. You might have to last a day or so in there. Now shut that com down and keep that flock of yours quiet, hear?”

“Got you.”

He cut the acceleration entirely. The stress cut out; and with equal suddenness his contact with Allison went out. He felt cold, worked his hands to bring the circulation back to them.

He had it planned now, all of it, calm and reasoned. He looked up as Curran came back, out of breath and disheveled. “Just talked to Allison,” Sandor said. “They’re going into the service shafts and staying put. I gave her the comp code. You keep your mouth shut and swallow that temper; we’re going to get boarded and we’ve got no choices. You’re my number two, you don’t know anything, we’ve got a military cargo and we’ve run together since Viking. We’re running contraband gold and we’d run anything else that paid.”

Curran nodded, no arrogance at all, but a plain sober look that well enough reckoned what they were doing… So here’s the good in the man, Sandor said to himself, in the strange quiet of the moment. He’s got sense.

He turned a look to the screens. The com light was flashing.

“Belt in,” he said to Curran. “They’re coming on.”

There was the muted noise and shock of lockto. Allison lay still in the light G of their concealment, in absolute dark, felt Deirdre move slightly, a touch against her suit, and Neill was back there behind Deirdre. Her fingers rested on the butt of one of the ship’s three guns—they had gotten that from the locker… taken two and left one, in the reckoning that any boarders might suspect a completely empty weapons locker. Likewise the suits: two were left hanging. They must have done something about the cabins topside, she reckoned; they must have.

A second crash that resounded close at hand: and that was the lock working. Allison shivered, an adrenalin flutter that made her leg jerk; Deirdre could feel it, likely, which sent a rush of shame after it. It would not stop. She wanted to do something; and on the other hand she was cowardly, glad to be where she was.

And Curran and Stevens up there—Sandor. Kreja. She chased the name through her mind, and it meant nothing to her, nothing she had known. Curran and Sandor. They thought they were going to die. Both of them. And she had followed orders because she was blank of ideas, out of her depth. Like hiding in her cabin while her unit tried to settle things with the man who had title to the ship. Like not knowing answers, and taking too much advice. She had a new perspective on herself, hiding, shivering in the dark while she threw a cousin and a man she had slept over with to the Mazianni, men who would keep their mouths shut and protect them down here—

Not for the ship, not for the several million lousy credit ship, but for what a ship was, and the lives it still contained, down here in the dark.

Another sound, eventually, the passage of someone through the corridors, not far away, sound carried clear enough into the pressurized service shafts, into her amplified pickup. They could come out behind the invaders, maybe cut them down with their pathetic two handguns if surprise was on their side—But a thousand troops to follow—what could they do but get themselves hauled down by the survivors?

She added it up, the logic of it, a third and fourth time, and every time Stevens/Sandor came out right. He knew exactly what he was doing. And had always known that she did not. She lay there, breathing the biting cold air that passed through her suit’s filters, with a discomfort she did not dare stir about to relieve, and added up the sum of Allison Reilly, which was mostly minuses– No substance at all, no guts; and it was no moment to try to prove something. Too late for proofs. She had to lie here and take orders and do something right. Grow up, she told herself. Think. And save everything you can.

They were topside now, the invaders. Suddenly she began thinking with peculiar clarity—what they would have done, leaving some behind to secure the passage between the ship, some to guard the lift. Going out there would mean a firefight and three dead Dubliners.

That did no good. She started thinking down other tracks. Like saving Lucy, which was for starters on a debt, and hoping that the most epic liar she had ever met could con the Mazianni themselves.

He had a fine survival sense, did Stevens/Kreja. Supposing the Mazianni left him and Curran in one piece-Supposing that, they might need help. Fast.