He shook his head. Did not even argue the point.
And Neill came to him, when they were minus eight hours from mark: “It was a mistake, what we did. We know that. Look,Curran never meant to get into that; he made a mistake and he won’t admit it, but he knows it, and he wishes it hadn’t gone the way it did. He just didn’t expect you’d go for him; and we—we just tried to stop someone from getting hurt.”
“To stop Curran from getting hurt.” He had not lost his sense of humor entirely; the approach touched it. He went serious again and flicked a gesture at the Dubliner’s sleeve. “You still wear the Dublin patch.”
That set Neill off balance. “I don’t see any reason to take it off.”
And that was a decent answer too.
“I’m here.” Sandor said, “within call. Same way I’ve run this ship all along. You’re safe. I’m taking care of your hides.”
They left him alone after that, excepting now and again a remark. And he lay down and went to sleep a time, until they reached minus two from mark and he had jump to set.
His crew had showed up, quiet, businesslike. “So we go for civilization,” he said. And with a glance at Allison, at Curran: “A little liberty ought to do good for all of us. Sort it out on the docks.”
He imagined relief in their faces, on what account he was not sure. Only they all needed the time.
And he was glad enough to quit this place, dark and isolated as the well-traveled nullpoints of Unionside had never been isolated.
He took his place at the number one board, began working through comp on silent… They might have stood over him, put it to a contest; they declined that.
Perhaps after the station liberty, he told himself, perhaps then he could get his bearings, mend what was broken, find a way to make his peace with them. A ship run amiss could become a small place indeed. They wanted different air and the noise of other living humans but themselves.
They were that close to safety; and if they could get into it, head home with a success to their account—then they were proved, and the record was clear; and everything might be clean again.
Then there was hope for them.
Chapter XV
… Venture system: a star with a gas giant companion and a clutter of debris belting it and the star. And a small, currently invisible station that had been the last waystop for Sol going outward. FTL had shut it down; Pell’s World, Downbelow… had undercut Sol prices for biostuffs, closer, faster. A rush for new worlds had run past it, the Company Wars had cut it off for half a century—But there was a pulse now, a thin, thready pulse of activity,
No buoy to assign them routing: they had been warned of that. Sandor dumped down to a sedate velocity closer to system plane than a loaded ship should—but there was no traffic.
“Lonely as a nullpoint,” Allison muttered, beside him. “If we didn’t have station signal—”
“Never expected much here,” Sandor said. “It’s old, after all. Real old.”
“Com’s silent,” Neill said. “Just noise.”
“Makes me nervous,” Curran muttered. “No traffic, no buoy, no lanes—can’t run a station without lanes. They’re going to get somebody colliding out here, running in the dark.”
“I’m going after a sandwich,” Sandor said. “I’m coming back to controls with it.”
“You stay put,” Allison said. “Neill, see to it for all of us. Anything. Make it fast.”
Neill slid out. Functions shunted: com and cargo to Deirdre, scan one and two to Curran; Allison kept to her sorting of images that got to number one screens, his filter on data that could come too fast and from confusing directions. Nothing was coming now… only the distant voice of station.
‘We’re coming up on their reply window,” Curran said.
“Ready on that,” Deirdre said.
Neill came back, bearing an armful of sandwiches and sealed drink containers. Sandor opened his, wolfed down half of it, swallowed down the fruit juice and capped it. The silence from station went on. No one said anything about it. No one said anything.
“Picking up something,” Curran said suddenly. “Lord, it’s military. It’s moving like it.”
The image was at Sander’s screen instantly. “Mallory,” he surmised.
“Negative on that,” Neill said. “I don’t get any Norway ID. I don’t get any ID at all.”
“Wonderful,” Allison muttered.
“Size. Get size on it.” Sandor started lining up jump, reckoned their nearness to system center. “Stand by: we’re turning over.”
“You’ll get us killed. Whatever it is, we can’t outrace it.”
“Get me a calculation on that.” He sent them into an axis roll, cut in the engines as drink containers went sailing, with a collection of plastic wrap, half a sandwich and an unidentified tape cassette. “Cargo stable,” Deirdre reported, and he reached up through the drag that tended to pull his arm aside, kept on with the calculations.
“We can’t do it,” Allison said. “We won’t clear it, reckoning they’ll fire. I’ve got the calculations for you—”
No word of contact: nothing. He flicked glances at the scan image and Curran’s current position estimate… saw number three screen pick up Allison’s figures on plot. The intersection point flashed, before the jump range.
“You hear me?” Allison asked sharply. “Stevens, we can’t make it. They’re going to overtake.”
“They still don’t have an ID pulse,” Neill said. “I don’t get anything.”
“They’re going to overtake.”
“What do you expect us to do?” Sandor stopped the jump calculation while they hurtled on their way. His body was pressed back into the cushion, his pulse hammering in his ears, drowning other sounds.
“Haul down,” Allison shouted at him. “Lord, haul down before they blow us. What do you think you’re doing?”
His mind was blank, raw panic. Instinct said away; common sense and calculations said it was not going to work. And excluding that—
“Stevens!”
“Cut it” Curran shouted at him. “Stevens, you’ll kill us all; we can’t win it.”
He looked at the Dubliners, a difficult turning of his neck. “Suit up. Hear? I’ll cut back. Allison, Deirdre, Neill, get below, suit up and hurry about it. Curran, I want you. The two of us— Get that Dublin patch off. Move, hang you all.”
He cut the power back—buying them time and losing some. The Dubliners moved, all of them, nothing questioning, not with a warship accelerating in pursuit. They scattered and ran, crazily against the remaining acceleration. The lift worked, behind him: only Curran stayed, zealously ripping at the patch.
“What’s the score?” Curran asked. “Set up an ambush for them aboard?”
“No. We’re the only crew, you and I. You signed on at Pell, got thrown off Dublin.” He reached to the board, put cabins two, four, and five on powersave. “Get up there and strip down their cabins; shove everything into yours. Move it, man.”
Curran’s face was blanched. He nodded then, scrambled for the corridor, staggering among the consoles.
The gap was narrowing. No hail, even yet; no need of any. The ship chasing them knew; and they knew; and that was all that was needed. It all went in silence. The other posts were shut down, all functions to the main board now.
“We’re suiting,” Allison’s voice came to him over com out of breath. “I’m suited. Now what?”
“Got all kinds of service shafts down there. Pick one. Snug in and stay there—whatever happens. If they loot us and leave us, fine. If they take us off the ship—you stay put.”