Tripoint

"Hell you aren't."

"Crew's complicated enough."

Family was complicated enough. That was the truth. Austin never listened. Zeroed in on this Hawkins. Never once saw he'd done the best he could, bringing Hawkins aboard, never wanted to talk about the solution—oh, no, thatwasn't Christian's business.

"You know," Capella said, "there are places Hawkins could be besides Pell."

He glumly shook his head, to all Capella's… associations. And to all the other places Hawkins could end up.

Including the deep-cold dark, stabbed in some crew fight. He didn't know why he couldn't have arranged that option—he could have put it off on some sumbitch like Edgar Hogan, or Tolliver, who could probably be arranged to do it, and to pay for it—except there was suddenly a line between him and Capella there hadn't been a moment ago, and a caution there'd never needed be before. If he'd crossed that line himself, somewhere, he'd not known it had happened—in that warehouse, maybe, or down in the galley just now.

Because Capella would kill—and he discovered he wouldn't. Couldn't. He didn't know whether that was a fault or a virtue, when their collective lives depended on it; or whether it was strength or weakness, when he knew the universe helived in wasn't neat, or clean, or inclined to give anything for free the way it was in those damn books Capella read.

He did everything Austin wanted. He worked his butt off to get one well done out of Austin all his fucking life. But, oh, Hawkins got Austin's attention—got Austin's complete attention, cheap, on the going market.

And the guy was everything… intelligent, reasonable, easy to like… that he fucking wasn't.

"Chrissy, Christian-sweet. You want advice? Don't—don't do this. It's too risky to let him out. The cops, that's one. And Austin, if he finds out you had anything to do with it—"

"You give me advice," he said, "on something you know about. I'm telling you. We want him off this ship, we want him the hell invisible, to us and to the cops. For the ship's sake."

"Marie Hawkins is not to ignore. If she comes spreading tales—and a witness climbs out of some drainpipe—"

"Not a shred of evidence. None. Nothing they can use. She'lllook the fool. What will Spritehave? One of their own crewmen? Back where he belongs, with his maman? What a crime! What a disaster! His mother claims kidnapping. But with what evidence? His word? No, I want the stuff, Pella, dear. You've got the access. Use it on my behalf and I won't tell about the brandy."

"You son of a bitch."

" Fils de Beatrice, absolument. "He caught Capella's arms as they came about him, as Capella's teeth came very near the sensitive spots of his neck. "Does it occur to you that Austin's preferences run in a pattern?"

"Absolutely. " Capella's hands, freed, wandered to his lower back, arms pulled him close. Hips moved. Teeth grazed his ear. "Like father like son. Take ten, Chris-tian, duty can spare it. A whole boring month in hyperspace…"

Austin would skin him, the higher brain said. Lower brain was taking over rapidly, now was now and the couch in his office was a convenient immediate destination.

Himself on the bottom this time, Capella taking over—while he was thinking, distractedly, of older brother stuck in that cell, older, easy-to-like brother—and he came back to here and now with Capella shoving his hands out of play above his head and trailing kisses progressively below his neck. The risk of ru

Never fucking listened to him…

—vi—

AT ABOUT MAINDARK, MAINDAY SHIFT change on this alterday ship, the lights briefly faded, tribute to a lately hostile sun, and a voice that might be Christian's came on over the general com, saying, Take hold. They were starting acceleration toward a jump at 0448: 32h, shift to alterday crew slightly before that.

A more formal warning and certainly more information than they'd gotten with Austin Bowe on watch, Tom thought, deciding that, over all, Christian seemed more reasonable than his father by a wide margin.

Immediately after that a

Then he tugged the blanket up against the chill that seemed a permanent part of jump, and snugged down for a secure rest. Acceleration began, with an initial slam that hit all the floating organs, and then a steady pressure—familiar as a sense of moving, getting up to speed, toward Pell, he told himself, and maybe toward freedom. He began to turn that promise of Christian's over and over in his mind, yes, it could be true, Christian might have the reasons he cited; or, no, it wasn't true, it was a set-up and he ought to tell somebody who could get word to the captain something was going on that he wouldn't approve—

But then, third side… he couldn't get away by staying on the ship, and, fourth, even if it turned out to be a set-up, he might still turn the tables on whoever set him up (likely Christian) and get to the police.

Except—fifth—Christian was absolutely right about going to station police, it scared him, the way Lydia, damn her screwed-up meddling, had once had him terrified of being left on station; but there was a reasonable adult fear in it, too—depending on the seriousness of what Corinthianwas involved in, it was a way to get tangled up in Pell's Legal Affairs office, in a cross-border incident, called in at least as a witness in some God-only-knew court case that could drag on and involve drugs he didn't want to take, when all he remotely wanted to do was get a ship to Viking and have a reasonable chance of meeting Spriteon a port call, give or take a year. Viking was an immediate port for Pell, there had to be numbers of ships going and coming, all the time. If everything Christian said was true and he had his papers, he could be out of there maybe in hours from the time he hit Pell docks, and have all of it behind him.

But—six—he could talk his way into free passage, maybe; but a year's wait, on Viking, even eating out of vending machines, was, God, he didn't know, 15000c, at sleepover rates, if he starved himself and stayed in the cheapest places he could find. That was the next worry. Either Christian would keep his word and bid him farewell on Pell's dock, scenario a, and he was on his own, to get transport… or, scenario b, back to the set-up… Christian might have something in mind else. Like double-cross. Like…

Like setting him up to be killed, so nobody would ask questions.

Could Christian do a thing like that? It was the most logical thing for Christian to do, if he didn't come with a conscience, if Austin didn't intend to let him go, ever, if…

God, he'd lost count. But scenario three, or eight, or whatever—if Christian was right, and Austin might try to work him into crew, beat hell out of him until he learned to say yessir to Austin the way Christian did—

But after that, Austin wouldn't let him go, either, he'd just be on better terms with Austin. Which he by no means wanted. Christian and Christian's mother damn sure didn't.

So they agreed on something. The question was what they actually intended for a solution to the tangle.

He just wanted to go to sleep. God, he desperately wanted not to think.

But then he had a colder, more awful thought, and pulled open the panel beside the bunk.