“No question.”
So it fed him his courage back. He drew a deeper breath, reassessed himself and the pathetic ridiculousness, the childishness of the things stored in comp, the nature of the sealed compartments and the relics he lived among. So if she thought that, so if she felt that, then she would not laugh—and the others, these strangers they went to meet—she could handle. As long as she was with him; as long as she found nothing humorous in a man trying to be what he was not—who listened to voices instead of family, who had never had the strength to clear out all the debris of the past; who kept a secret voice that talked to a child who should have long ago grown up; excruciating things. A lifetime of illusions.
There was always the alternative, he reminded himself. He could wait for the military; in his mind he heard the laughter of the dockside searchers who might get into such privacies. Or the techs who might strip his mind down, when his scams caught up to him, discovering the twisted child he was. They would put it all together, taking it all apart; and the thought of that—of the questions; the exposure of himself—
He wore a patch, had sewn it on: LUCY, it said, white letters on a black, blue-centered circle; and that was as close as he dared come to the old one. It looked naked, too, without the swan in flight that belonged there. But someone might know Le Cygne, and Krejas; and he and Ross and Mitri had always agreed, in all the scams, to keep the Name out of it. So it was not possible now to go to station offices and say—I lied; change the name; put it the way it ought to be. That would finish everything.
And maybe, he thought, a lifetime would get him used to looking at the patch that way.
“Coming?” Allison asked him.
He walked into the restaurant arm in arm with Allison—one of those places he expected of Allison, ornate and expensive, where flash and fine cloth belonged, and stationer types occupied tables alongside spacers of the big ships, men and women with officers’ stripes: a lot of silver hair in the place. A lot of money. A waiter intercepted them—”Reilly,” Allison said; and the waiter nodded deferentially and showed them the way among serpentine pillars to the recesses of the place, deep shadows along the walls.
A silver company occupied the table he located for them, a company that rose when they arrived—Sandor did a quick scan of lamp-lit faces, heart thumping, hand already extending in response to offered hands and a murmur of courtesies—and found himself face to face with Curran Reilly.
No hand offered there. Nothing offered. “Curran,” Allison said, “Helm 22 of Dublin, my number two. Captain Stevens of Lucy. But you’ll have met.”
“Yes,” Sandor said, the adrenalin hazing everything else; and in belated time, Curran Reilly took the hand he offered, a dry palm clenched about his sweating one. A grip that he expected, hard and unfriendly like the stare. And other hands, then, earlier offeree?. “Deirdre,” Allison said, “number three”—a freckled, solid woman, dark-haired like all the Reillys, but with a grin that went straight to the heart, punctured his anger and half made up for Curran. Happiness. He was not accustomed to cause that in people.
“Neill,” Allison said of the third, another offered hand; a lank and bearded man with an earnestness that persuaded him Curran was at least unique in the lot. “Neill,” he murmured in turn, looked at the others. The waiter hovered, offering chairs. They settled again, himself between Allison and Deirdre, facing Curran and Neill.
“Would you like cocktails?” the waiter asked.
“Drinks with dinner,” Allison said. “That’s all right with everyone?”
Nods all about. The waiter whisked forth a set of menus, and for a merciful time there was that amenity among them.
He was buying; he reckoned that. The prices were enough to chill the blood, but he nerved himself and ordered the best, maintained a smile when his guests did. It was, after all, one night, one time—an occasion. He could afford it, he persuaded himself. To please these people. To give them what they were accustomed to having. On their own money.
The waiter departed. A silence hung there. “Got everything in order?” Curran asked Allison finally.
“All settled.”
“Megan sends her regards.”
A silence. A glance downward. Sandor had no idea who Megan might be; no one offered to enlighten him. “I’ll talk to her,” Allison said. “It’s not good-bye, after all. Well be meeting on loops.”
“I think she understands,” Deirdre said. “My people—they know. They know why.”
“Everyone knows why,” Allison said. “It’s forgiving it.” She laid her hand briefly on Sander’s arm. “Ship politics.” To the others: “—We got the outfitting done. First class.”
“What kind of accommodations have we got?” Neill asked.
The adjoining table filled, with all attendant disorganization. Sandor sat and listened to Reillys talk among themselves, plans for packing, for farewells, discussion of what supplies they had kid in. “Private cabins and no dunnage limit?” Deirdre exclaimed, eyes alight. “I’d thought we might be tight”
“No limit within reason,” Sandor said, breaking out into the Reilly dialogue—expanded at the reaction that got from the lot of them. “That’s one advantage of a small-crew ship, few as there are. Bring anything you like. Any cabin you like.”
“You and Allison plan to double up?” Curran asked.
It was not the question; it was the silence that went after it. The look in Curran’s eyes.
“Curran,” Allison said.
“Just wondering.”
The meal started arriving, wine first; the appetizers when they had scarcely settled from that. Sandor sat and smoldered, out of appetite with the temper that was boiling in him. “I’ll tell you,” he said, jabbing a serving knife in Curran’s direction as the waiter passed finally out of earshot, “Mr. Reilly, I think you and I have a problem. I’m not sure why. Or what. But it started up there in blue section this morning and I’m not going to have it go on.”
“Stevens,” Allison said.
“I think we’d better settle it.”
“All right,” Curran said softly. “The number one says you’re all right, that goes with me. Let’s start from zero.”
“My rules, mister.”
“Absolutely,” Curran said. “Chain of command. As soon as we get that lock off.”
“Ought to be soon,” Allison said. “How about that routing application?”
“Got it,” Curran said. His sullen face lighted instantly. “Clear. We’re routed to Venture and Bryant’s, Konstantin Company commodities, on Dublin’s guarantee.”
Sandor had ducked his head to eat and stay out of it. He looked up again. “You’re talking about our route and cargo.”
“Right.”
“You take it on yourself—”
“Part of the package.”
“No. Not part of the package. You don’t set up routes or make agreements.”
“Come down, man. We’ve got you a deal better than you could get. A deal that’s guaranteed profit. With a station commerce load that doesn’t cost you, and guaranteed rate for the delivery. How do you do better than that?”
“I don’t care what you’ve got. No. I decide where Lucy goes and if she goes.”
“Slow,” Allison said, patted his arm, once, twice. “Hold it. Listen: it is part of the package. I was going to tell you. It’s a good deal. The best. The Hinder Stars opening up again, the stations being set up to operate—you know what a chance it is, to get in on the setup of a station? Dublin herself is taking on cargo and looping back to Mariner. But we go out to the Hinder Stars. Toward Sol. You see how it works? That’s Sol trade: luxuries, exotics. We take a station load out and do small runs; and as the Sol trade starts coming in, we start picking up Sol cargo. We run small cargo at first, then see about doing that conversion that’ll boost her up to speed…”