Chapter XI

Moving out.

Sandor sat at the familiar post, doing the familiar things—held himself back moment by moment from taking a call on com, from doing one of the myriad things he was accustomed to doing simultaneously. No tape on the controls this run: competent Dubliner voices, with that common accent any ship developed, isolate families generations aboard their ships—talked in his left ear, while station com came into his right. Relax, he told himself again and again: it was like running the ship by remote, with a whole different bank of machinery… Allison sat the number two seat, and the voices of Curran and Deirdre and Neill softly gave him all that he needed, anticipating him. Different from other help he had had aboard—anticipating him, knowing what he would need as if they were reading his mind, because they were good.

There she goes,” Allison said, putting Dublin on vid. “That’s good-bye for a while.”

Another voice was talking into his right ear, relayed through station: it was the voice of Dublin wishing them well.

“Reply,” Allison said to Neill at com; and a message went out in return. But there was no interruption: no move faltered; the data kept coming, and now they did slow turnover, a drifting maneuver,

“Cargo secure,” the word came to him from Deirdre. “No difficulties.”

“Got that Stand by rotation.”

“Got it”

He pushed the button: the rotation lock synched in, and there began a slow complication of the cabin stresses, a settling of backsides and bodies into cushions and arms to sides and minds into a sense of up and down. They were getting acceleration stress and enough rotational force to make the whole ship theirs again. “All right,” he said, when their status was relayed to station, when station sent them back a run-clear for system exit. “We get those systems installed. Transfer all scan to number two and we’ll get it done.”

“Lord help us,” Curran muttered—did as he was asked and carefully climbed out of his seat while Sandor got out of his. “You always make your repairs like this?”

“Better than paying dock charge,” Sandor said. “Hope they gave us a unit that works.”

A shake of Curran’s head.

They had time, plenty of time, leisurely moving outbound from Pell. The noise of station com surrounded them, chatter from the incoming merchanter Pixy II, a Name known all over the Beyond; and the music of other Names, like Mary Gold and the canhauler Kelly Lee. And all of a sudden a new name: “Norway’s outbound,” Neil said.

For a moment Sander’s heart sped; he sat still, braced as he was against the scan station cushion—but that was only habit, that panic. “On her own business, I’ll reckon,” he said, and set himself quietly back to the matter of the replacement module.

The warship passed them: as if they were a stationary object, the carrier went by. Deirdre put it on vid and there was nothing to see but an approaching disturbance that whipped by faster than vid could track it.

“See if you can find out their heading,” Allison asked Deirdre.

Station refused the answer. “Got it blanked,” Deirdre said. “She’s not tracked on any schematic and longscan isn’t handling her.”

“Bet they’re not,” Sandor muttered. “Reckon she’s on a hunt where we’re going.”

No one said anything to that. He looked from time to time in Allison’s direction—suspecting that the hands on Lucy’s controls at the moment had never guided a ship through any procedure: competent, knowing all things to do, making no mistakes, few as there were to make in this kind of operation that auto could cany as well. He did not ask the question: Allison and the others had their pride, that was certain—but he had that notion, from the look in Allison Reilly’s eyes when control passed to her, a flicker of panic and desire at once, a tenseness that was not like the competency she had shown before that

So she had worked sims, at least; or handled the controls of an auxiliary bridge on a ship the size of Dublin, matching move for move with Dublin helm. She was all right.

But he got up when he saw her reach to comp and try to key through to navigation, held to the back of her cushion. “You don’t have the comp keys posted,” she said. “I don’t get the nav function under general op.”

“Better let me do the jump setup,” he said. This time. I know her.”

She looked at him, a shift of her eyes mirrored in the screen in front of her. “Right,” she said. “You want to walk me through it?”

He held where he was, thinking about that, about the deeper things in comp.

(Ross… Ross, now what?)

“You mind?” she asked, on the train of what she had already asked.

So it came. “Let me work it out this time,” he said. “You’re supposed to be on alterday. Suppose you take your time off and go get some sleep. You’re going to have to take her after jump.”

“Look, I’d like to go through the setup.”

“Did I tell you who’s setting up the schedules on this ship? Go on. Get some rest.”

She said nothing for the moment, sitting with her back to him. He stayed where he was, adamant. And finally she turned on the auto and levered herself out of the cushion. Offended pride. It was in every movement.

“Cabins are up the curve there,” he said, trying to pretend he had noticed none of the signals, trying to smooth it over with courtesy. It hurt enough, to offer that, to open up the cabins more than the one he had given to his sometime one-man crews. (“I sleep on the bridge,” he had always said; and done that, bunked in the indock sleeping area, catnapped through the nights, because going into a cabin, sealing himself off from what happened on Lucy’s bridge—there was too much mischief could be done.— “Crazy,” they had muttered back at him. And that thought almost ways frightened him.) “Take any one you like. I’m not particular. —Curran,” he said, turning from Allison’s cold face—and found all the others looking at him the same way.

(“Crazy,” others had said of him, when he occupied the bridge that way.)

“Look,” he said, “I’m running her through the jumps this go at it. I know my ship. You talk to me when it gets to the return trip.”

“I had no notion to take her through,” Allison said. “But I won’t argue the point.”

She walked off, feeling her way along the counter, toward the corridor. He turned, keyed in and took off the security locks all over the ship, turned again to look at Curran, at the others, clustered about the console where they were installing the new systems. He had offended their number one’s dignity: he understood that. But given time he could straighten comp out, pull the jump function out of Ross’s settings. And the other things… it was a trade, the silence Ross had filled, for live voices.

Putting those programs into silence—sorting Ross’s voice out of the myriad functions that reminded him, talked to him—(Good morning, Sandy. Time to get up…)

Or the sealed cabins, where Krejas had lived, cabins with still some remnant of personal items… things the Mazianni had not wanted… things they had not put under the plates. And the loft, where Ma’am and the babies had been…

“Curran,” he said, daring the worst, but trying to cover what he had already done, “you’re on Allison’s shift too. Any cabin you like.”

Curran fixed him with his eyes and got up from the repair. “That’s in,” Curran said. Being civil. But there was no softness under that voice. “What about the other one?”

“We’ll see to it. Get some rest.”

We. Neill and Deirdre. Their looks were like Curran’s; and suddenly Allison was back in the entry to the corridor.

“There’s stuff in there,” she said, not complaining, reporting. “Is that yours, Stevens?”

“Use it if you like.” It was an immolation, an offering. “Or pack it when you can get to it. There’s stuff left from my family.”

“Lord, Stevens. How many years?”

“Just move it. Use it or pack it away, whichever suits you. Maybe you can get together and decide if there’s anything in the cabins that might be of use to you. There’s not that much left.”

A silence. Allison stood there. “I’ll see to it,” she said. She walked away with less stiffness in her back than had been in the first leaving. And the rest of them—when he looked back—they had a quieter manner. As if, he thought, they had never really believed that there had been others.

Or they were thinking the way other passengers had thought, that it was a strange ship. A stranger captain.

“Going offshift,” Curran said, and followed Allison.

Neill and Deirdre were left, alone with him, looking less than comfortable, “Install the next?” Neill said.

“Do that,” Sandor said. “I’ve got a jump to set up.”

He turned, settled into the cushion still warm from Allison’s body. Lucy continued on automatic, traversing Pell System at a lazy rate.

Of Norway there was now no sign. Station was giving nothing away on that score.

A long way, yet, for the likes of a loaded merchanter, to the jump range. Easy to have set up the coordinates. He went over the charts, turned off the sound on comp, ran the necessities through—started through the manual then, trying to figure how to silence comp for good.

(I’ll get it on tape, Ross. For myself. Lose no words. No program. Nothing. Figure how to access it from my quarters only.)

But Ross knew comp and he never had, not at that level; Ross had done things he did not understand, had put them in and wound voice and all of it together in ways that defied his abilities.

(But, Ross, there’s too much of it. Everywhere, everything. All the care—to handle everything for me—and I can’t unwind it. There’s no erase at that level: not without going into the system and pulling units…

(And Lucy can’t lose those functions…)

“We got it.” Neill was leaning on the back of the cushion, startled him with the sudden voice. “Got it done.—Is there some kind of problem, there?”

“Checking.”

“Help you?”

“Why don’t you get some sleep too?”

“You’re in worse shape.”

“That’s all right.” A smooth voice, a casual voice. His hands tended to shake, and he tried to stop that “I’m just finishing up here.”

“Look, we know our business. We’re good at it.”

“I don’t dispute that.”

Deirdre leaned on the other side of the cushion. ‘Take some help,” she said. “You can use it”

“I can handle it”

“How long do you plan to go on handling it?” Neill asked. “This isn’t a solo operation.”

“You want to be of help, check to see about those trank doses for jump.”

“Is something wrong there?”

“No.”

“The trank doses are right over there in storage,” Neill said. “No problem with that”

“Then let be.”

“Stevens, you’re so tired your hands are shaking.”

He stared at the screens. Reached and wiped everything he had asked to see. The no-sound command went out with it. It always would. It was set up that way.

“Why don’t you get some rest back there?”

“I’ve got the jump set up,” he said. He reached and put the lock back on the system; that much he could do. “You two take over, all right?” He got up from the chair, stumbled and Neill caught his arm. He shook the help off, numb, and walked back to the area of the couches to lie down again.

They would laugh, he thought; he imagined them hearing that voice addressing a boy who was himself, and they would go through all of that privacy the way they went through the things in the cabins.

He should never have reacted at all, should have taken the lock off and let her and the others hear it as a matter of course. But they planned changes in Lucy; planned things they wanted to do, destroying her from the inside. He sensed that And he could not bear them to start with Ross.

He was, perhaps, what the others had said, crazy. Solitude could do that, and perhaps it had happened to him a long time ago.

And he missed Ross’s voice, even in lying down to sleep. What he discovered scared him, that it was not their hearing the voices in Lucy that troubled him, half so much as their discovering the importance the voices had for him. He was not whole; and that had never been exposed until now—even to himself.

He did not sleep. He lay there, chilled from the air and too tired to get up and get a blanket; tense and trying in vain to relax; and listening to two Dubliners at Lucy’s controls, two people sharing quiet jokes and the pleasure of the moment. Whole and healthy. No one on Dublin had scars. But the war had never touched them. There were things he could have more easily said to Mallory than to them, in their easy triviality.

Mallory did not know how to laugh.

They reached their velocity, and insystem propulsion shut down; Allison felt it, snugged down more comfortably in the bed and drifted off again.

And waked later with that feeling one got waking on sleepovers, that the place was wrong and the sounds and the smells strange.

Lucy. Not Dublin but Lucy. Irrevocable things had happened. She felt out after the light switch on the bed console, brightened the lights as much as she could bear, rolled her eyes to take in the place, this two meter by four space that she had picked for hers… but there was a clutter in the locker and storage, a comb and brush with blond hair snarled in it, a few sweaters, underwear, an old pair of boots, other things—just left. And cold … the heat had been on maybe since last night, had not penetrated the lockers. A woman’s cabin. Newer, cleaner than the rest of the ship, as if the ship had gotten wear the cabin had not.

Pirates, Stevens had said; pirates had killed them all. If it was one of those odd hours when he told the truth.

There was nothing left with a name on it, to know what the woman had been, what name, what age—not rejuved: the hair had been blond. Like Stevens’ own.

Or whatever the name might have been.

And how did one man escape what happened to the others? That question worried her: why, if pirates had gotten the others-he had stayed alive; or how long ago it had been, that a ship could wear everywhere but these sealed cabins. Questions and questions. The man was a puzzle. She stirred in the bed, thought of sleep-over nights, wondered whether Stevens had a notion to go on with that on the ship as well, in cabins never made for it.

Not now, she thought; not in this place. Not in a dead woman’s bed and in a ship full of deceptions. Not until it was straight what she had brought her people into. She was obliged to think straight, to keep all the options open. And keeping Stevens off his balance seemed a good idea

Besides, it was business aboard—and no time for straightening out personal reckonings, no time for quarrels or any other thing but the ship under their hands.

The ship, dear God, the ship: she ached in every bone and had blisters on her hands, but she had sat a chair and had the controls in her hands—and whatever had gone on aboard, whoever the woman who had had this room and died aboard—whatever had happened here, there was that; and she had her cousins about her, who would have mortgaged their souls for an hour at Dublin’s boards and sold out all they had for this long chance. She could not go back, now, to waiting, on Dublin, for the rest of a useless life.

Hers. Her post. She had gotten that for the others as well, done more for them than they could have hoped for in their lives. And they were hers, in a sense more than kinship and ship-family. If she said walk outside the lock, they walked; if she said hands off, it was hands off and quiet; and that was a load on her shoulders— this Stevens, who figured to have a special spot with her. They might misread cues, her cousins, take chances with this man. No, no onboard sleepovers, no muddling up their heads with that, making allowances when maybe they should not make them. It was not dockside, when a Dubliner’s yell could bring down a thousand cousins bent on mayhem. Different rules. Different hazards. She had not reckoned that way, until she had looked in the lockers. But somewhere not so far away, she reckoned, Curran slept in someone’s abandoned bed and spent some worry on it And the others-She turned onto her stomach, fumbled after an unfamiliar console, punched in on comp.

Nothing. The room screen stayed dead.

She pushed com one, that should be the bridge. “Allison in number two cabin: I’m not getting comp.”

A prolonged silence.

Everything unraveled, the presumed safety of being in Pell System, still in civilized places… the reckonings that there were probably sane explanations for things when all was said and done… she flung herself out of bed with her heart beating in panic, started snatching for her clothes.

A maniac, it might be; a lunatic who might have done harm to the lot of them… She had no real knowledge what this Stevens might be, or have done. A liar, a thief—She looked about for any sort of weapon.

“Allison.” Neill’s voice came over com. “Got lunch ready.”

“Neill?” Her heart settled to level. In the first reaction she was ashamed of herself.

In the second she was thinking it was stupid not to have brought her luggage into the cabin; she had a knife in that, a utilitarian one, but something. She had never thought of bringing weapons with her, but she did now, having seen what she had seen… sleeping in a cabin that could become a trap if someone at controls pushed the appropriate buttons.

“You coming?” Neill asked.

“Coming,” she said.

It was better, finally, Sandor reckoned, with all of them at once in the bridge sleeping area, with trays balanced on their laps, a bottle of good wine passing about. It was the kind of insane moment he had never imagined seeing aboard Lucy, a thing like family, unaffordable food—Neill had pulled some of the special stuff, and the wine had been chilling since loading; and it all hit his empty stomach and unstrung nerves with soothing effect. He listened to Dubliner jokes and laughed, saw laughter on Allison’s face, and that was best of all.

“Listen,” he said to her afterward, catching up to her when she was taking her baggage to her quarters—he met her at the entry to the corridor, loaded with bundles. “Allison—I want you to know, back then with the controls—I wasn’t thinking how it sounded. I’m sorry about that”

“You don’t have to walk around my feelings.”

“Can I help you with that?”

She fixed him with a quick, dark eye. “With ulterior motives? I don’t sleepover during voyages.”

He blinked, set hard aback, unsure how to take it—a moment’s temper, or something else. “So, well,” he said. “Not over what I said… Allison, you’re not mad about that.”

“Matter of policy. I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“It’s hard, you know that.”

“I don’t think I’d feel comfortable sharing command and bed. Not on ship. Sleepover’s different.”

“What, command? It’s home. It’s—”

“Maybe Dublin does things differently. Maybe it’s another way on this ship. But it’s not another way that quickly. You know, Stevens, I’ll share a sleepover with an honest spacer and not care so much what Name he goes by, but on ship, somehow the idea of sharing a cabin with a man whose Name I don’t know—”

“You handed me half a million credits not knowing—”

“I rate myself priceless, man. One of a kind. I don’t go in any deal.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I’ll bet you didn’t.”

“Allison, for God’s sake, you twist everything up. You’re good at that.”

“Right. So you know you can’t talk your way around me.” She thrust past with the baggage. He caught a strap on her shoulder, peeled half the bundles away, and she glared back at him through a toss of hair. “Don’t take so much on yourself, mister.”

“Just the baggage.”

“I don’t need your help.” She snatched at the straps he held and failed to get them back. “Just drop them in the corridor. I’ll come back and get them.”

“You can’t take any help, can you?”

She walked off. “From the man who took a half million credits with never a thanks—” She stopped and looked back when he started after her with the bag, almost collided. “You choke on the words, do you, Stevens?”

“Thanks,” he said. “That do it?”

“Just bring the bags.” She turned about again, stalked one door farther and opened the compartment, tossed her belongings through the door and stood aside outside it, a wave of her hand indicating the way inside.

He tossed them after the first. “What about thanks?” he said.

“Thanks.” She shut the door, still outside it.

“Look, you think you have to go through this to tell me no? I can take no. I understand you.”

“What’s the real name?” Quietly asked. Decently asked.

“Think it’d change your mind?”

“No. Not necessarily. But I think it says something about no trust.”

“First name’s Sandor.”

A lift of both dark brows. “Not Ed, then.”

“No.”

“Just—no. Nothing further, eh?”

He shrugged. “You’re right. It’s not dockside, is it?” He looked into dark eyes the same that he had seen one night in a Viking bar, and he was as lost, as dammed up inside. “Can’t break things up when they get tangled.”

“Can’t,” she said. “So you understand it: I might sleepover with you when we get to Venture. I might sleepover with someone else instead. You follow that? I came. But if you reckon I came with the loan, figure again.”

“I never,” he said, “never figured that.”

She nodded. “So we take this a little slower, a lot slower.”

“So suppose I say I’d like to take it up again at Venture.”

She stared at him a moment, and some of the tenseness went out of her shoulders. “All right,” she said. “All right. I like that idea.”

“Like?”

“I’m just not comfortable with it the other way.”

“Might change your mind someday?”

“Ah. Don’t push.”

“I’m not pushing. I’m asking whether you might see it differently.”

“The way you look at me, Stevens—”

“Sandor.”

“—makes me wonder.”

“I understand how you feel. About being on the ship. Maybe my talking like that, in front of the others back there—is a good example of what you’re worried about. I didn’t think how it went out. I know you know what you’re doing. I just had my mind full… I’ve just got some things with the ship I haven’t got straight yet. Things—never mind. I just have to get over the way I’m used to doing things. And dealing with the kind of crew I’m used to getting.”

She tightened her mouth in a grimace that looked preparatory to saying something, exhaled then. It seemed to have slipped her. “All right. I understand that too. You mind fixing comp in my quarters while we’re at it?”

His heart did a thump, attack from an unexpected direction. “I’ll get it straightened out. Promise you. After jump.”

“Security locks?”

They seemed like a good thing when I had unlicensed crew aboard.”

“Well, it’s a matter of the comp keys, isn’t it?”

It was not a conversation he wanted. Not at all. “Look, we haven’t got time for me to get them all down or for you to memorize them. We’re heading up on our exit.”

“Is there something I ought to know?”

“Maybe I worry a bit when I’ve got strangers aboard. Maybe that’s a thing I’ve got like you’ve got attitudes—”

Her back went stiff. “Maybe you’d better make that clear.”

“I don’t mean like that. I’m dead serious. That’s all I’ve got, those keys, between me and people I really don’t know that well. And maybe that makes me nervous.”

The offense at least faded. The wariness stayed. “Meaning you think we’d cut your throat.”

“Meaning maybe I want to think about it.”

“Oh, that’s a little late. A little late. We’re on this ship. And we’re talking about safety. Our safety. If something goes wrong on my watch, I want those keys. None of this nonsense.”

“Look, let’s get through jump first. I’ll get you a list then.”

“Through jump, where we’re committed. I don’t consider the comp a negotiable item.” She jabbed a thumb toward her cabin door. “I want my comp in there operative. I want any safety locks in this ship off. I want the whole system written down for all of us to memorize.”

“We haven’t got time for that. Listen to me. I’m taking Lucy through this jump; I don’t want any question about that. I’ll see how you handle her; and then maybe I’ll feel safe about it. You look good. But I’m reckoning you never handled anything but sims in your life. And I’m sleeping on the bridge if I have to, to see no one makes a mistake. I’m sorry if that ruffles your pride. But even I haven’t a good notion of what Lucy feels like loaded.”

“Don’t you?” Suspicion. A sudden, flat seizure of attention.

“I’ll take the locks off when I know who I’m working with.” He thrust his hands into his pockets, started away, to break it off. Instinct turned him about again, a peace offering. “So I’m a bastard. But Lucy’s not what you’re used to, in a lot of senses. I haven’t nursed her this far or got you out here to die with, no thanks. I’m asking you—I want you all on the bridge when we go into jump.”

“All right,” she said. A quiet all right. But there was still that reserve in her eyes. “You watch us. You see how it is. Sims, yes.”

“And backup bridge. But you catch me in a mistake, you do that.”

“I don’t think I will,” he said softly. “I don’t expect it.”

“Only you’re careful, are you?”

“I’m careful.”

They approached jump, a sleep later, a slow ticking of figures on the screen—a calm approach, an easy approach. Sandor checked everything twice, asked for data from supporting stations, because jumping loaded was a different kind of proposition. Full holds, an unfamiliar jump point—there were abundant reasons to be glad of additional hands on this one, “Got it set,” he said to Allison, who sat number two. “Check those figures, will you?”

“Already doing that,” Allison said. “Just a minute.”

The figures flashed back to him.

“You’re good,” he said.

“Of course.” That was the Dubliner. No sense of humility. “We all are. We going for it?”

“Going for it.—Count coming up. Any problems?—Five minutes, mark. Got our referent.” He reached for the trank and inserted the needle. There was no provision on this one but a water bottle in the brace, for comfort’s sake. No need. They would exit at a point named James’s, and laze across it in honest merchanter fashion; and then on to Simon’s Point, and to Venture.

The numbers ticked on.

“Message from Pell buoy,” Neill said, “acknowledging our departure.”

No reply necessary. It was automated. Lucy went on singing her unceasing identification, communicating with Pell’s machinery.

“Mark,” Sandor said, and hit the button…