His hand, like those of the others, reached involuntarily for a pocket, then stopped. It had taken those from Thromberg most of this trip to stop trying to pay her with the little slips of metal they called “’dibs,” but the reflex remained. Since ’dibs involved a complex exchange of work for goods, Linda took this as a hopeful sign Thromberg had remained more civilized than it appeared from her denizens. There was little else to go by.
Though if she turned around, she knew she’d see no one drinking yet. They were waiting for Leland to take and open his. In fact, they used to wait until she left as well.
Politeness? She wasn’t sure.
Different customs. Very. They hadn’t briefed the crew to expect such things. Mind you, they hadn’t been briefed about much. This was supposed to be a routine, if profitable, pick up and transport trip—not an exercise in diplomacy with passengers who seemed, at times, more alien than the Quill.
“Thanks,” grunted Leland, taking the tube and cracking the top seal with a thumb. He didn’t look around at the echo as sixty-four other seals were cracked. “Whatssir ’tinr’y?”
Linda worked this around, guessing “itinerary;” Leland’s broken speech was hard for her to follow at best. “We’ve dropped out of translight and are vectoring to the station, sir.
Captain Maazel—What was that?” That, being a solid thump felt through the floor plates, accompanied by a warning flicker of the interior lights. She grabbed for a hold on the seat rim, almost dropping her tray.
In case any missed the event, the shuttle’s alarm gave a brief, self-conscious bleat.
Leland took a casual swallow before answering: “Sommat hit the hull,” he said, as if the event was irrelevant. “When’r we dock’n?”
“I’ll ask.” Linda straightened, embarrassed by the placid looks from the rest of the passengers, and almost ran from the hold.
Those from Thromberg sat back and watched. They’d been told there were suits for everyone, plus a spare or two. As if any of them had believed that before boarding, Dave thought, then glanced at the port bulkhead to admire the flagrant wealth on display.
Probably the Earthers were scrambling into their suits in the forward compartment. His panic-threshold required something a little more imminently threatening than a thump on the outside of a well-maintained ship. After all, if they’d been seriously holed, it would be a little late for suits. Earthers didn’t seem very logical folks.
Another thud. This a bit louder, with a ssssshhhhhk at the end, as though something clung to the hull before being left behind. Like the other immies and stationers, Dave tilted his head, listening for signs the ’siders in back were reaching for their own suits, carefully stowed by their seats. Then it’d be time to move, all right.
“Mr. Leland.” Dave looked forward with the rest. The voice was the captain’s. She stood in the again-open doorway, this time partially suited up, two of the other crew behind her. Her expression made Dave tighten his grip on Annette’s hand. He felt Jean leaning closer on the other side. “Would you come with me, please?”
Sammie nodded, standing with an awkward lurch. “Pettersen,” he said, bringing one of the ’siders up the aisle to him, bag in hand. “Rest o’ you don’t fuss,” he growled, running his eyes over them all. Dave nodded, knowing the others did the same.
“What are we facing here, Mr. Leland?”
Linda sat shoulder-to-shoulder between her crewmates, Pavel and Lili Wong. The three weren’t directly involved in operations, so they waited, strapped into their seats along the starboard side of the little bridge, their backs to one of two emergency air locks, helmets ready in their laps. Pavel, to her left, had snapped on her helmet’s tether, muttering under his breath. Null-g was always a possibility—gravity generators were reliable but not perfect. She’d been more grateful than embarrassed. They were all distracted by the conversation and its cause.
The captain and the two from Thromberg had moved back from the ops stations, though their bodies still screened the displays. Linda didn’t need to see what was keeping the bridge somber and those less experienced swallowing repeatedly. The report had been whispered one to the other. What should have been the approach lane to the aft docking ring, their preferred access to Hamilton Station, was littered with debris.
Not just a hazard to ships.
The debris was from ships.
During the trip here, she’d looked over the stats. Hamilton Station was older than Thromberg by a handful of years, a difference reflected more in terms of interior decorating styles than any physical changes in design. What worked, worked. About a quarter of those carried by the shuttles were experts in station operations and should have no problem accessing Hamilton’s systems. Stationers. Linda couldn’t have told which they were.
Half were immigrants or their descendants. Immies. They had expertise of their own, as well as being willing hands. The rest? Not spacers. Not now. Outsiders, who’d existed during the blockade by attaching their ships to the exterior of Thromberg and bleeding off her power, air, and water. Parasites or survivors. Linda hadn’t made up her mind on that yet, thoroughly offended by the sight of so many star-ships turned into scrap, stuck seemingly at random to Thromberg’s hull. Outsiders were easy to spot: their coveralls showed wear from suit connectors—the kind of wear that only came after unimaginable use. For some reason, only older ones had volunteered for life on other stations.
Like the one standing between Leland and the captain, introduced as Torbjxrn Pettersen.
Tall, skeleton-thin, with ragged white hair that had likely been blond, he hadn’t spoken, only consumed everything on the bridge with quick furtive glances.
“What are we facing, Captain?” Leland seemed oblivious to the startled looks his suddenly educated voice attracted, turning to his companion. “Torbjxrn?”
Pettersen’s voice was equally cultured, but quieter, almost shy. “This is deliberate. They don’t want company.”
The captain leaned forward and consulted with the com operator, then straightened with a curse. “Approach to the stern ring is worse. We’ll have to move in slowly, that’s all.
This material is matching the station in speed and trajectory—shouldn’t be too difficult to do the same, and slide through the worst of it.”
The ’sider stiffened. Leland held up a thick-fingered hand to stop whatever Pettersen might have wanted to say, instead reminding them unnecessarily: “Other ships didn’t make it.”
“These are asteroid mining shuttles, Mr. Leland, as requested by your station administration,” Captain Maazel countered. “My crew and I are used to working in heavy dust and particle areas. These ships can take a substantial amount of impact if we do the pushing.”
Linda should have been reassured by this, but something in the rigidity of the ’sider’s back kept her hands clenched on her helmet. She hadn’t realized she’d meant to speak until hearing her own voice: “Captain, recommend we suit up the passengers before proceeding into the debris field. As a precaution.” Pettersen swiveled his head, washed-pale eyes expressionless.
Captain Maazel nodded, her attention on what she and the others watched. “Take Romanov. See there’s no panic.”
“No need,” Pettersen said, before Linda and Pavel could unstrap.
Leland explained: “If they need to suit up—they will. Let your people concentrate on getting us through this mess.”
To Linda’s disgust, Captain Maazel agreed, immediately gesturing them to stay as they were. It didn’t help when she took the ’sider with her, forward in the bridge compartment, to engage the three ops crew in private discussion.
Leland had stayed behind. He walked over to stand in front of Linda, most of his bulk trespassing within her personal space. She tried not to stare up his nostrils, which were bent and populated by large, black hairs.