Blown to cold space. So was Joey Schmidt and Yung Kim and a
thousand more, at least.
Damn Mallory.
So here she was, taking a berth on a spook ship, one that might be on Mallory's
orders to boot. So maybe it was fair pay to old debts, if they ended up saving
her neck. She imagined Teo shaking his head about what she was doing, but Teo
would say, Shit, Bet, dead don't count. And Teo would never blame her.
She tossed over onto her belly and tried to not to think, period, just tried to
go away, just go nothing, nowhere, like when the G-stress was going to hit soon
and the missiles were going to fly and if you were a skut in a carrier's
between-decks, you just rode it out and let the tekkies keep the ship from
getting hit.
Damn right.
Fourth day. She got up, stumbled across the clutter in the apartment and checked
the public ops channel on Ritterman's vid to see when the board-call was posted.
M/D 2100, it said. Fill 97% complete.
Thank God, thank God. Mary Gold was in, now, Mary Gold had made it into Thule's
system during the night; and the vid said: Condition hold, which meant that Mary
Gold was taking a slow approach, lazing along and probably damn mad and
desperate, figuring on a fast turn-around and instead finding out they could be
weeks down on their schedule—the same way that Bryant's Star Station, next on
Mary Gold's route, was going to find its essential supplies a month late; and so
was everybody else down the line. A little schedule slip at a place like Pell, a
huge, modern station—that was nothing. But here…
It was a question, what the reason was on that priority of Loki's, whether it
was just using it, hell with the stations and the trouble it caused. Or whether
there was an urgency about its getting outbound.
And urgency with that kind of ship meant…
She thought about Africa, she thought about the chance of finding herself on the
wrong side of things in a firefight.
Of getting blown to hell with a spook, that was what would happen. By her own
ship, her own old shipmates.
She shoved thoughts like that out of her mind, she had her breakfast of chips
and sat and read, and checked the comp for messages.
Ads, all ads, like always. Not one call for Ritterman, nothing but those overdue
tapes, in all the time she'd been here.
Popular man.
She got down to serious packing finally. She'd made herself wait for that, the
way she always made herself wait for things she wanted too much. She had another
bag of chips, she had a shower, she trimmed her hair, and finally she started
putting her personal kit together, the last thing, the very last to go into the
duffle.
The door buzzer sounded.
She stopped still. She stood there in the bathroom just breathing, that was all,
afraid it was somebody with a key. So—so if it was, Rico could vouch for her,
she'd been with Ritterman, she'd come in here when she knew she was shipping
out—had her stuff in stowage here, hadn't seen Ritterman in days, never asked
where he was, he'd always said just walk in—
Second push at the buzzer.
Third.
But they went away.
She let go her breath. And brought her little bag of personal things out into
the living room and finished packing, watching the time.
The phone beeped.
God. She held her breath again until whoever it was gave up.
She stood there, thinking about how to move, where to move: fast was the only
way, fast and direct and if somebody was waiting outside in the hall or down by
the lift, just to see who came out—
Oh, God, she'd given Rico's as an address for the Registry.
If somebody had asked for her at Rico's, if Rico had told them some woman with a
black eye had gone off with Ritterman, they could be looking for her, instead of
Ritterman—
And they were going to find Ritterman once they got in here.
She checked her pockets to be sure of the card, she grabbed up the duffle and
she left, down the dingy metal hall, heart pounding, down to the lift.
Nobody. Thank
thousand more, at least.
Damn Mallory.
So here she was, taking a berth on a spook ship, one that might be on Mallory's
orders to boot. So maybe it was fair pay to old debts, if they ended up saving
her neck. She imagined Teo shaking his head about what she was doing, but Teo
would say, Shit, Bet, dead don't count. And Teo would never blame her.
She tossed over onto her belly and tried to not to think, period, just tried to
go away, just go nothing, nowhere, like when the G-stress was going to hit soon
and the missiles were going to fly and if you were a skut in a carrier's
between-decks, you just rode it out and let the tekkies keep the ship from
getting hit.
Damn right.
Fourth day. She got up, stumbled across the clutter in the apartment and checked
the public ops channel on Ritterman's vid to see when the board-call was posted.
M/D 2100, it said. Fill 97% complete.
Thank God, thank God. Mary Gold was in, now, Mary Gold had made it into Thule's
system during the night; and the vid said: Condition hold, which meant that Mary
Gold was taking a slow approach, lazing along and probably damn mad and
desperate, figuring on a fast turn-around and instead finding out they could be
weeks down on their schedule—the same way that Bryant's Star Station, next on
Mary Gold's route, was going to find its essential supplies a month late; and so
was everybody else down the line. A little schedule slip at a place like Pell, a
huge, modern station—that was nothing. But here…
It was a question, what the reason was on that priority of Loki's, whether it
was just using it, hell with the stations and the trouble it caused. Or whether
there was an urgency about its getting outbound.
And urgency with that kind of ship meant…
She thought about Africa, she thought about the chance of finding herself on the
wrong side of things in a firefight.
Of getting blown to hell with a spook, that was what would happen. By her own
ship, her own old shipmates.
She shoved thoughts like that out of her mind, she had her breakfast of chips
and sat and read, and checked the comp for messages.
Ads, all ads, like always. Not one call for Ritterman, nothing but those overdue
tapes, in all the time she'd been here.
Popular man.
She got down to serious packing finally. She'd made herself wait for that, the
way she always made herself wait for things she wanted too much. She had another
bag of chips, she had a shower, she trimmed her hair, and finally she started
putting her personal kit together, the last thing, the very last to go into the
duffle.
The door buzzer sounded.
She stopped still. She stood there in the bathroom just breathing, that was all,
afraid it was somebody with a key. So—so if it was, Rico could vouch for her,
she'd been with Ritterman, she'd come in here when she knew she was shipping
out—had her stuff in stowage here, hadn't seen Ritterman in days, never asked
where he was, he'd always said just walk in—
Second push at the buzzer.
Third.
But they went away.
She let go her breath. And brought her little bag of personal things out into
the living room and finished packing, watching the time.
The phone beeped.
God. She held her breath again until whoever it was gave up.
She stood there, thinking about how to move, where to move: fast was the only
way, fast and direct and if somebody was waiting outside in the hall or down by
the lift, just to see who came out—
Oh, God, she'd given Rico's as an address for the Registry.
If somebody had asked for her at Rico's, if Rico had told them some woman with a
black eye had gone off with Ritterman, they could be looking for her, instead of
Ritterman—
And they were going to find Ritterman once they got in here.
She checked her pockets to be sure of the card, she grabbed up the duffle and
she left, down the dingy metal hall, heart pounding, down to the lift.
Nobody. Thank
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