Rimrunners (10 page)

landed her over the rim onto the floor. She would have been happy just to lie

there and breathe a moment, but he grabbed her by the collar and hauled her to

her feet. "Come on, come on," he said. "We got a narrow window here."

"I'm walking," she protested, trying to, on the narrow plastic mat along the

edge of the burn-deck—doors to the right, the main-deck a wall at their left,

lights on the right-hand wall. The hard push they were under kept buckling her

knees and making her vision come and go. Well more than one, maybe most of two

G's, she thought. That was most of the problem with her head and her legs. Or

the bashing against the wall had rattled her brain more than she'd thought.

"God—"

Black skeins of webbing hung in front of them, around the curve. Crew

safety-area, hammocks up and down it, empty black-mesh bundles strung vertically

along the left-hand wall. She limped ahead, walking more on her own now, just

sore from the G-stress and the cold, through the safety-area, curtain of

hammocks giving way into a rec-hall, crew members sitting on a low

main-deck/burn-deck bench along the wall, where the walkway mat spread out wide,

clear up to the swing-section galley. Sandwiches and drinks. Food-smell hit her

stomach hard, she wasn't sure whether it was good or bad.

A handful of crew stood up to look at her, not in any wise friendly.

"This is Yeager," the man holding her said, and turned her loose and said, "Good

luck, Yeager."

She stood there, just managed to stay on her feet for a few breaths, dizzy in

the G-stress, dizzy in the sudden realization they were turning her loose, that

they had bought the story, everything—

She had a chance, then—fair chance, exactly that, exactly the way you got when

you got swept up into the Fleet, volunteer or otherwise. You were the new skut

in the 'decks, you got the rough side of things, and you learned the way to live

or you died, end of it, right there.

Good luck, Yeager.

"What ship?" a woman asked from the bench, while she stood there in front of

everybody, maybe thirty, forty crew, varied as the Fleet was varied, a dozen

shades, most of them looking at her as if she was on the menu.

"Ernestine."

"Why'd you leave her?"

"I was a hire-on. They got a mechanical, couldn't take me further."

"You any good?" a man asked, one of the ones standing.

"Damn good."

Any way you want to take it, man.

Long silence, then. While her knees shook. She set her jaw and stared at them

with sweat cold on her face.

"You about missed board-call," a second man said.

"Had a problem."

Another long pause. "Makings on the counter," another man said, from further

down the bench, and made an offhand gesture toward the galley. "You want

anything you better get it now."

"Thanks," she said.

Permission to help herself, then. Handcuffs and all. She walked on to the

counter, did an instant soup out of the hot-water tap, got a packet of crackers;

she came and sat down at the end of the bench where there was a little room, and

drank her soup, deciding finally she was hungry and that food was what her upset

stomach needed. Her hands were still shaking. The salt stung where her teeth had

cracked shut on the inside of her cheek. The man next to her seemed less than

glad of her being there; he was no temptation to conversation, which was all

right, she had no interest in talking right now: the soup was uncertain enough

on her stomach; and she phased out, staring at the detail of the tiles, not

interested in advance planning at all. Her situation could be hell and away

worse. And all the planning she could do now had the shape of memories she had

just as soon keep far, far to the back of her mind.

A fool kid had volunteered herself onto Africa's deck, volunteered because

Africa was going to take what they wanted from that refinery ship at Pan-paris,

anyway, which was always the young ones, and that was her. Better choose, she

had thought then, because that way you were a volunteer and that was points on

your record; and because she hated her life and hated the mines and she wanted

starships more than she wanted anything.

And the fool kid had found herself in something she'd never remotely imagined,

and the fool kid had figured out damn fast how not to be a fool. The Fleet

taught you that straight-off, or it broke you, and she was still alive.

The fool kid had gotten part of what she'd wanted. She still reckoned that had

to be worth the rest of it… and still must be, since she'd just had her chance

at station-life, and here she was back again. If it killed her, she thought,

right now it was like something in her was back in connection again and a part

of her was alive that wasn't, on station.

And you couldn't make sense of that, but it was true.

She drank her soup, she kept her mouth shut except when a man two places down

the row asked her questions—like her side of the business on Thule.

Like it was behind her already; and that was a breath of clean air too.

"I killed a couple bastards," she said quietly. "They picked it. Me or them."

Fitch walked in. Her pulse picked up. She looked up very carefully while Fitch

made himself a cup of tea at the counter.

Fitch stood there to drink it and look at her, and after a moment he tossed a

key down three or four places down the row. It lay there a moment.

Finally one of them, older man, picked it up and tossed it down toward her.

The man next to her, the unfriendly one, picked it up and gave it to her.

"Thanks," she said. She fumbled around and got the cuffs off.

No one said anything. She certainly didn't expect a You're Welcome from Fitch.

She just pocketed the cuffs and the key. You didn't leave junk on the deck, and

nobody asked for it.

"Hour till," Fitch said. "Yeager?"

She looked up, fought the twitch that said stand up, reminding herself this was

a civ ship. "Yes, sir?"

"You like this ship?"

"Yes, sir."

"Like what you see?"

"Fine, sir."

Long silence.

"You being smart with me, Yeager?"

"No, sir. I'm glad to get off that station."

Fitch sipped his tea. And ignored her after that, thank God. Fitch left, and

some of the rest did.

"Is there a place I'm supposed to pick up a trank-pack?" Bet asked the man next.

The man shrugged, pointed with a forefinger and his cup. "Galley. Right there by

the hot, should be."

She got up and went and opened the cabinet, found the plastic-wrapped packs and

found the c-pack in a clip beside it. "Thanks," she said, coming back to sit.

"Name's Masad," the man said, and indicated the man on his left. "Joe. Johnny."

The one past that.

"Bet," she said.

Other crew came through the section. And the jump-warning sounded.

"Better get hammocked-in," Masad said. Olive skin. Fortyish. Shaved head. "You

got any problems?"

"No," she said, and got up and offered a hand for other cups—hard to do, a

lets-be-friends move; but she was smarter than she'd grown up: the surly brat

who'd signed onto Africa had gotten hell and away smarter nowadays. And a little

friendly move won things with strangers, sometimes. So they handed theirs over,

she chucked them all in the galley bin, then walked with them down-ring, found

herself a vacant hammock, stepped in, wrapped up and snugged the tabs closed.

Then she carefully put the c-pack in her breast-pocket and took her trank-dose.

Going out of here, she told herself, while the bell kept ringing and the ship

drove toward jump. She had no idea where they were going. It could even be Pell.

But she felt the trank take hold and felt herself drifting, old familiar

feeling, live or die, you never knew how or if you'd come out when the ship made

transit.

The burn stopped. They went weightless for a few seconds, inertial. And slowly

the G started pulling her down horizontally instead of vertically. Main-deck

orientation, now. The light that had been shining in her eyes was clearly, by

body-sense, truly in the overhead, and her back was to the deck.

Going out of here.

Goodbye, Thule. Goodbye, Nan and Ely. You give stationers a good name.

Blow the rest of you to hell.

CHAPTER 8

« ^ »

The fog cleared, the bell that signalled system-drop was ringing, but that was

for the tekkies to handle, they were making their dumps.

Dark spot again. The bell had stopped, the mind kept trying to make it into

Africa's crowded lowerdeck, tried to smell the same smells and hear the same

sounds and hear the major cussing them awake: not the same, with the black mesh

in front of her face, the glare of light in her eyes, not Ernestine, either,

with its cubbyhole cabins—

No doubt it was shipboard, everything told you that, sounds, smells, the muzzy

feeling of trank downbound now, knocked her for a long, deep one, it had. She

found her mental place again, remembered when and where she was, remembered—

V-dump, then. Another half-nightmare. She heard the wake-call ringing, at least

she thought it was, she fumbled after her c-pack and got the foil torn.

Fingernails broke doing that, three of them on the same hand, a bad sign—she

lost the rest of them pulling the tube out, and sucked down the citrusy stuff in

the pack bit by bit, fighting nausea, trying to get her head clear.

"Move, move, move!" someone was yelling and you never argued with a voice like

that. She gulped the last, stuffed the foil in her pocket and fumbled the catch

open, rolled out and held on, with the jumpsuit hanging on her and her hands

like claws clutching the black netting. Steady one G main-deck. Loki was

inertial now. If the bridge expected maneuvers, they wouldn't order crew up and

about.

Undo the floor clip, the one that held at your butt, undo the end clips and furl

the hammock in its elastic lines, into the latch-bins that were the mess-hall

bench while specific crew-calls pealed out over the general com, but none of

them said Yeager.

Thank God, one part of her said; and another part said: This is odd. We're

star-to-star on this track, did those dumps feel light? Was I that far out, or

are we still carrying that much V in a station-zone!

And no take-hold?

Spook ship. We've short-jumped, we're nowhere near the star, and we've dumped

and we must be doing a real quiet run-in, that's what we're doing.

Where in hell are we?

There was a dizzying quiet, ship-quiet, full of pumps and fans and systems

cycling, heartbeat of a healthy ship. Crew passed her in a business-like hurry,

some probably on call, other crew on private emergencies, things like finding

the head, like getting to the galley, on a priority of duty and off-duty crew.

Her own lower gut told her what her own priorities were, and she followed crew

members into the first door down the corridor.

Not like Ernestine's cabin-style cubbies, but not damn bad either, she thought,

looking around: plastic sheeting tight-stretched between the bunks, downside and

loft with a buffer-net up there for safety—but you got the view.

And toilets downside, that was what she was interested in, fast as she could get

there. She fell in the nearest, shortest line and stood there rubbery-legged

with her back against the wall, and distracted herself by cracking the rest of

her fingernails off.

Every one of them brittle, breaking down to the quick. Gums were sore. Hair came

out when she raked a hand through it, a web of blond hairs in her fingers.

Short rations too damn long, and the time in jump took it out of you, used up

nutrients, made your knees pop and your joints brittle. She'd seen it happen. It

had never happened to her. Not like this—and it scared her. The thought that a

spook was prone to far, fast moves, that they might kite out of here again—that

also scared her. You lost more than fingernails if you got worn down like that.

Hit the galley, pour down the c-rations if she could get them, anything to get

her weight back up.

Her gut kept cramping. Another crew member came up behind her and didn't bump

her out of line on privilege, which could happen to a new skut on Africa, damn

likely. You didn't get favors. You didn't get anything but hell.

All right, she decided about that man—Muller, G., was the name on him—and asked,

while they were waiting: "Where are we? Venture? Bryant's?—'Dorado?"

Muller looked at her like that was some kind of privileged information, like

asking made him wonder about her.

So she shut up, she ducked her head and she waited and gritted her teeth until

she made it through the line.

Back up to the galley, then. She waited her turn, picked up the sandwich and hot

tea the cook was handing out, and she sat down along the wall where a

squat-level ell between main-deck and burn-deck made one long galley bench, sat

and sipped her tea and ate the best sandwich she'd had in half a year.

Better than the vending machines on Thule, damn sure.

She sat there, no idea where she was assigned; no real hurry about matters, she

figured, the ship must be on some kind of sit-and-wait, spook-like, maybe at