Tripoint

And pigs will go to space, he told to himself, without any knowledge what pigs were, beyond creatures that built flimsy houses. He'd no more knowledge what was the matter with him, beyond shot nerves and jangled hormones, or whatever had made him scratch himself bloody in an erotic dream that had gotten wholly out of hand. He didn't have any miraculous truth to communicate to Austin Bowe, he didn't have any just cause to trust Tink orSaby Perrault-Cadiz-whoever-she-was, and damned sure not his so-claimed half-brother, who clearly didn't like him on sight. He'd been set up before in his life—earliest education he'd gotten, not to pin hopes on a cousin suddenly just too damned friendly, and too unreasonably on his side.

He wobbled back to his bunk, vengefully jerked the cable out of his way, sat down in despair and punched the mattress with his hand, there being nothing else in reach.

He hated them, he hated them one and all, Tink and Saby and Christian and Capella and every other name he knew along with his father's.

And along with that hate, he was scared, scared, and messed-with, and pushed-at. The scratches stung, he was soaked with sweat at the armpits and around the waist, he wanted a shower, he wanted a shave, he wanted free of the damned cable.

At which he gave a two-handed and useless jerk, pure fit of temper.

"Mmm-mm," someone said from the grid in front, and there, straight out of his dream, wasCapella, sleeveless, bare arms on the bars, star-bracelet in plain evidence. "Just doesn't do any good, Christian's-brother."

"Go to hell!"

"Been. " The star-tattooed hand made a casual loop. "Bored with hell. Corinthian'smore fun. How's the stomach?"

He was suddenly, erotically, acutely, conscious of the scratches his clothes concealed, before he figured she didn't mean that.

"Jump's no novelty."

"Yeah. You and me, merchanter-son. Jump's still a bitch. I'm sincerely regretful of the circumstances, and I do hope you stay here where's much safer, if you get my drift."

The stars on her wrist meant Fleet. Meant a special fraternity of the breed, the ones that smelled their way through hyperspace, and feltthe presence of ships they preyed on. That was the folklore, at least.

"Where's the next port?"

"Pell, right now. If you're real nice, who knows, they could let you off there. But—there's else, pretty lad. And you don't truly want to go there."

"Mazian."

"Did I say that name? That isa son of a bitch, Christian's brother, and I'd never say that name to a stranger, myself. I'd not say a thing more, where you are."

He felt cold and colder. "That's the trade this ship keeps."

"There's trade and there's trade, Christian's elder brother. " Someone was coming, and Capella straightened up, throwing a glance in that direction. "Be smarter."

Christian walked up, took a stance, arms folded. "New tourist attraction?"

"Hey. He's decorative. Scenery, Chrissy. Do you mind?"

They argued. He sat where he was, on his bunk, wanting to stay out of it entirely. Christian grabbed Capella by the arm, lost it when Capella jerked away, and the two of them ended up withdrawing down the corridor, not out of earshot.

His mind was on one word. Mazian. He'd wanted to believe… he didn't know logically why he'd even care about his biological father's honesty as a merchanter, when he'd had information to the contrary all his life. He didn't know what he had possibly invested in the question that Austin Bowe might notbe the villain Marie portrayed him to be…

Except his personal survival hung on that point. Except he didn't know what was going to happen to him, or where he might end up. Mazian's Fleet, as a destination… he didn't even want to contemplate.

As for Capella's bracelet. It was, just lately, a fashion, in some wild quarters, just a fad… like the star and dagger of the elite marines—some rimru

That, the bracelet and the fact Bok's equation went with it, which wouldn't be the case with some fad-following bar-bu

And the wearers of that bracelet had, legendarily, something to do with that ability. All sorts of stories had come out, since the War. He'd grown up on them. Thatwas the discrepancy in their ages.

Closest thing to a night-walker you'd ever meet in real life.

And regularly in bed with his half-brother, was what he was hearing in the argument in progress. In bed, more than one sense. Obligated, by what Christian said.

"Screw you," Capella said, a little down the corridor, but clear as clear. "I don't oweyou, Chrissy, don't try to pull that string. You won't like what comes up with it."

He held his breath. He didn't know why. There was violence in the air.

Christian said, then, "You let him alone, Pella. That's the bottom line. You keep your hands to yourself."

"Sure," Capella said. "Sure."

That left him chilled, that did. He didn't want to be the focus of a feud—let alone on this ship, with his half-brother, and that woman.

We were just talking, he wanted to yell, the age-old protestation. But he didn't think the pair down there gave a damn for his opinion.

—vii—

NO MECHANICALS. NO PROBLEMS since they'd dropped into Tripoint. They had to take the vdown all the way to system-inertial, with the load they had, which was a shame, because there was a real reason, in Austin's opinion, to make a little haste through the jump-point, in this dark navigation sink between the stars; reason, but not reason enough that they shouldn't take time to run the checks and catch their breaths.

A good few days, he figured, before Spritecould get itself tanked and loaded—which was some respite before they had to worry about Spritebeing on their tail.

But they well might be, by now. He didn't put it past Marie Hawkins. And he didn't bet the cargo officer couldn't move Spritein her own directions.

Knock on his office door. He was on a costing calculation, on various options. Inputting. He didn't want interruption.

But the knocker also had the private key-code; the door opened without him keying it from the desk.

"'Scuse," Saby said, easing in against the wall. "Minute?"

He held up two fingers. Generosity.

"Thomas Hawkins?" Saby began.

One finger. Well-chosen.

"Talked to him," Saby said. "You said."

"Minute and a half," he said.

"Not attitudinal. Smart. Scared. Says the bunk's lousy but he likes the food."

"Fine. He won't starve."

"I really think you should talk to him. At least once. You'll always wonder."

"Damn your dockside psych. No, I won't always wonder."

"He's not what you think."

"That's twice. Fifteen seconds."