She came down finally on the side of caution—both kinds. Caution with the captain (perhaps he’d see that an imposter would hardly send a message to a home that wasn’t hers) and with her family (so they couldn’t reveal information they didn’t have).
“I’d like to send a message, but I don’t want to tell them when I’m arriving. As you said, my parents would not approve of my . . . er . . . choice of conveyance.”
“I’m not prepared to lie for you, young woman.”
“No, sir. Could you send: ‘You were right; I’m on my way home,’ and then ‘Love, Brun’?”
“Tell me one thing—why do the society papers say your name is Carvineau when your papers say it’s Meager?”
“My mother’s name is Meager; all the children use the maternal last name on identification until we’re twenty-five. It’s supposed to be safer.”
“Ah. Well, Ms. Meager, consider yourself warned against any further brawling; you are confined to quarters except when on duty in the galley—I’m taking you off general duty and making you the cook’s assistant—and as I said, your identification and other materials will be turned over to Station militia when we reach Rockhouse. Do you have anything further to say?”
“No, sir.”
“Right then. Get to work.”
She had plenty of time locked in her tiny cubicle with its blank walls and hard bunk to realize how close she had come to complete disaster. And how close it still was . . . suppose the mate decided to come after her, too? He didn’t, but she slept badly the rest of the trip.
Chapter Sixteen
Brun discovered that Rockhouse Major turned a different face to transient crew suspected of impersonating rich girls. Her captain had contacted Station militia, and she found herself and her papers in a dingy, cluttered office, watched by a bored but obviously capable young person of doubtful gender with a sidearm.
“If I could just make a call,” she kept saying. No one answered. People in uniform wandered in and out; voices spoke at a distance that blurred the words but not the emotion: boredom, hostility, defiance, fear.
Finally, a tired-eyed older man appeared, looked at her, shook his head, and said, “Come on.” He led her to a proper ID booth, where in only a few minutes her retinal scan, fingerprints, and other data confirmed her papers. He shook his head again. “You really are Lord Thornbuckle’s daughter. Would you mind explaining what you were doing hiring on as transient crew?”
“It was an adventure,” Brun said. She realized now just how silly that sounded, and she didn’t seem able to find the insouciant tone she had cultivated in years past. He just stared at her, a tired man who clearly wished spoiled rich kids wouldn’t waste his time.
“Do you need anything?” he asked finally.
“No . . . if I can have my things.”
“Yes—just sign here.” Her credit cubes and strips, itemized, lay on the sheet he pointed to. She started to sign and he pointed, making it clear he wanted no mistakes. She checked then, and found nothing missing. Her battered little duffle, with its few changes of clothes, seemed full enough, and if it wasn’t she could buy replacements. “The captain said if you were legal, he’d deposit your pay, less a fine for brawling. What’d you do, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Brun shrugged. “Another crewman tried to jump me; I broke his nose and wrist. Stupid—I should’ve seen it coming.”
“I don’t know what it is you kids are looking for,” the man said, shaking his head yet again. “You’ve got everything . . . why look for trouble?”
Brun smiled at him. “I’m sorry—I was stupid, and I’m going home to admit it—is that all right?”
This time he really looked at her, and his eyes warmed. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt,” he said. “We see enough kids getting hurt.”
Out in the concourse, she was still a scruffy transient spacer to look at, dirty and shabby, with an ordinary scuffed duffle over her shoulder. She ambled along, relaxing a bit in this familiar territory. First she would get something to eat, then a shower—no, a shower first, then call Ronnie—no, call the estate downside and get someone to send the shuttle up—she slowed, as she came to a bank of public communications booths. She put her duffle on the shelf of an empty booth and started to close the door. Someone leaned across from another, a big bulky man who looked both frustrated and dangerous.
“Hey—you just came out of that militia station, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.” No sense arguing, if she’d been seen.
“Seen a rich-bitch youngster in there, the kind that throws their weight around?”
Her belly tightened. “No,” she said shortly. “All I saw was this fat cop tryin’ to make out I was somebody else.”
“Dammit.” His strong fingers tapped the partition. “I’m supposed to find this girl—loudmouth blonde, they said, real stylish, some mucky-muck lord’s daughter. Sure you haven’t seen her?”
“Not me. Is that the only militia station?”
“No, worse luck. Where you in from?” His eyes were intent, measuring. “You permcrew or transient?”
“Transient now.” Brun tried for a sullen tone. She held up her well-calloused hand. “Signed onto a shit shoveler as cook’s assistant, and they had me down in the stalls three shifts out of four. I didn’t leave home to be some cow’s personal assistant.”
His eyes lost interest after a long look at her hand. “Yeah, well, I guess you didn’t meet any daughters of the aristocracy shoveling manure.” He moved away, toward the militia station entrance. Brun could not move. She had to move. If he went in, if he talked to that man, he would know . . .
She picked up the headpiece, put it back as if uncertain, and moved on down the concourse. How could someone like that be looking for her already? Had something happened? She lengthened her stride, almost ran into someone pausing to look in a display window, and told herself not to spook. The captain had queried ahead about her . . . anyone who watched the militia regularly might have overheard. As long as she got off Rockhouse Major before that dangerous man could find her, she should be safe.
She took a slideway, then a tram, putting a sector and two levels between her and the militia office before she dared stop at another combooth cluster. This was higher-income territory, though her scruffy clothes weren’t that unusual. No used-clothing stores here, but also none of the high-priced places that expected you to know their names. Display windows showed the latest style; she’d been gone long enough for them to change. Thigh boots? Laced socks? Tunics were longer, dresses shorter, and someone had decided to ignore the waistline again. They’d done that when she was twelve, too—but then the top colors had been muted moss greens and browns. Now the fashion seemed to be icy pastels. She stared at a long tunic patterned with zigzags of pale pink on pale green over pink slacks as she waited for her connection to go through. She had decided to start by warning Ronnie.
“Yes?” It sounded like Ronnie’s voice, but a very cautious Ronnie. Brun hoped it was; Ronnie she might influence, but anyone else in his family would lecture first and listen afterwards, if then.
“Ronnie?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“It’s me. Brun . . . Bubbles . . . you know.” Then, as she heard him take a deep breath that would no doubt end in a loud outcry, she went on quickly. “Don’t say my name! Don’t! I’m up at Rockhouse Major and you’re in great danger and so is your family. Don’t say anything—pretend I’m someone else. George, maybe.”