or sober. “Cheaper than station brig, Chrissy-lad. Which we could all be in if we screw this. You got to sober up, spaceman. We got to get a watch on that ship when it comes in. Anybody comes around the dock, we just arrange a distraction.”
“We get the cargo moving,” he said. That was the absolute priority. Couldn’t just leave those cans on the dock. Austin was applying personal diplomacy to the mechanics, he was willing to bet that— Corinthian was as good as down-timed herself while Millers’ transport was stalled, stupid half-ass company owned theirs, which was why they dealt with them, but they were creaking antiques—
Didn’t want just any transport drivers in that warehouse anyway.
Emergency had him sweating in the cold air. A ship showed up that he’d never expected to meet—one they’d taken care for years not to meet. The karmic feeling, things happening that shouldn’t be.
And would Austin run, from Marie Hawkins? From a crazy woman? Hell. That wasn’t the Austin he knew.
He used the next public phone. He called into ship-com. He hoped not to deal with Austin.
“ Where the hell is your com ?” Austin’s voice came back to him.
“Sorry, I was in a noisy environment.”
“/ have a damned good idea where the hell you were, Christian. Save it. Did you get the message ?”
“Yes, sir.—But we’ve got a transport down. They’re trying to fix it. I didn’t think you wanted to be—”
“I’m awake. I’m bothered. I’m mad as hell and I’m calling Miller. We’ve moved the count up, we’ve got a serious problem, and I suggest you get your ass down there and get that cargo moved. Yesterday! I’m reassessing your file, mister, the same as any crew member who can’t do his job! You doubt me? You want to tell me how I owe you a living?”
“No, sir. I will—I’m doing that. No, sir, I know you don’t. “ The nerves twitched. They remembered. Austin meant exactly what he said, and it wasn’t necessary he have liberty again for the next three years if he pissed Austin any further. End report.
Capella had gotten sober, too. Entirely.
----
Chapter Two
Contents - Prev / Next
—i—
APPROACHING INNER SYSTEM WAS a matter of hours, at a high fraction of c .
Dumping that velocity while they could still graze the interface was a relatively easy matter.
Working at station-proximity speeds to get a high-mass freighter into a rotating station, on the other hand, was a tedious, nerve-wracking operation. Always be aware of the nearest take-hold point. Stay out of the lift except on business. Stay out of fore-aft corridors. Keep belted when seated or asleep.
Meaning that trim-ups might be rare when a long-hauler was following the computer-directed approach—no pilot flew docking by the seat of the pants—but stations were debris-generators, thick with maintenance and service traffic and escaped nuts, bolts and construction tiles, and, while in the zone of greatest risk a freighter pilot was no-stop, come hell or the Last Judgment, or absent anything but damage to the docking apparatus (meaning any pusher-jock in a freighter’s approach path was a bump and a noise and a gentle course-correction), the possibility of evasive maneuver did exist. That meant the children battened down in the cushioned Tube in the loft, in which they could take most any vector-shift; and crew off and on duty found themselves a definite place to Be for the duration.
Which in Marie’s case was her office; and in a junior computer tech’s, it was the bridge. Load the file, wait for the check, load another file, wait for the check.
It left too much time for said junior tech to think, between button punches, in his lowly station sandwiched in with seven other cousins at the tail of the bridge.
It left too much time to rehearse the session with Mischa, and the one with Marie, comparing those mental files for discrepancies, too, but you never caught them out that easily. They didn’t outright lie in
“We get the cargo moving,” he said. That was the absolute priority. Couldn’t just leave those cans on the dock. Austin was applying personal diplomacy to the mechanics, he was willing to bet that— Corinthian was as good as down-timed herself while Millers’ transport was stalled, stupid half-ass company owned theirs, which was why they dealt with them, but they were creaking antiques—
Didn’t want just any transport drivers in that warehouse anyway.
Emergency had him sweating in the cold air. A ship showed up that he’d never expected to meet—one they’d taken care for years not to meet. The karmic feeling, things happening that shouldn’t be.
And would Austin run, from Marie Hawkins? From a crazy woman? Hell. That wasn’t the Austin he knew.
He used the next public phone. He called into ship-com. He hoped not to deal with Austin.
“ Where the hell is your com ?” Austin’s voice came back to him.
“Sorry, I was in a noisy environment.”
“/ have a damned good idea where the hell you were, Christian. Save it. Did you get the message ?”
“Yes, sir.—But we’ve got a transport down. They’re trying to fix it. I didn’t think you wanted to be—”
“I’m awake. I’m bothered. I’m mad as hell and I’m calling Miller. We’ve moved the count up, we’ve got a serious problem, and I suggest you get your ass down there and get that cargo moved. Yesterday! I’m reassessing your file, mister, the same as any crew member who can’t do his job! You doubt me? You want to tell me how I owe you a living?”
“No, sir. I will—I’m doing that. No, sir, I know you don’t. “ The nerves twitched. They remembered. Austin meant exactly what he said, and it wasn’t necessary he have liberty again for the next three years if he pissed Austin any further. End report.
Capella had gotten sober, too. Entirely.
----
Chapter Two
Contents - Prev / Next
—i—
APPROACHING INNER SYSTEM WAS a matter of hours, at a high fraction of c .
Dumping that velocity while they could still graze the interface was a relatively easy matter.
Working at station-proximity speeds to get a high-mass freighter into a rotating station, on the other hand, was a tedious, nerve-wracking operation. Always be aware of the nearest take-hold point. Stay out of the lift except on business. Stay out of fore-aft corridors. Keep belted when seated or asleep.
Meaning that trim-ups might be rare when a long-hauler was following the computer-directed approach—no pilot flew docking by the seat of the pants—but stations were debris-generators, thick with maintenance and service traffic and escaped nuts, bolts and construction tiles, and, while in the zone of greatest risk a freighter pilot was no-stop, come hell or the Last Judgment, or absent anything but damage to the docking apparatus (meaning any pusher-jock in a freighter’s approach path was a bump and a noise and a gentle course-correction), the possibility of evasive maneuver did exist. That meant the children battened down in the cushioned Tube in the loft, in which they could take most any vector-shift; and crew off and on duty found themselves a definite place to Be for the duration.
Which in Marie’s case was her office; and in a junior computer tech’s, it was the bridge. Load the file, wait for the check, load another file, wait for the check.
It left too much time for said junior tech to think, between button punches, in his lowly station sandwiched in with seven other cousins at the tail of the bridge.
It left too much time to rehearse the session with Mischa, and the one with Marie, comparing those mental files for discrepancies, too, but you never caught them out that easily. They didn’t outright lie in
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