Tripoint

No trank to keep him sane. No packets. He'd used them all. Nobody'd resupplied the locker. On Sprite, they checked and rechecked them, made sure every one was refilled.

Christian was in charge, on mainday. Christian was ru

Now he really couldn't sleep. Accel was hell enough and most times you could sleep through it, if you didn't mind feeling in two directions at once, but right now the knowledge of that empty panel and the lack of a com in the brig combined to upset his stomach. He kept rolling Christian's motives over and over, told himself, one, it was a long time until 0448h, and the minute someone started stirring about he could get attention to the problem. And, two, maybe if Christian was trying to scare him, he could get other attention at shift change…

Maybe the dark-haired girl would come back. Even Capella. It was no good lying and sweating, there'd be a chance to talk to someone, surely, they weren't going to go without a final check.

This, in the ship that didn't sound but cursory warnings when it moved.

It was an hour before they went inertial. He got up then, risking his neck, God, stiff and sore, every movement he made—maybe the ribs were cracked from the fight, maybe not, but that was minor compared to the chance of being left with no supplies down here. He yelled. He banged the walls, he yelled again at every remote sound he heard, hoping someone would hear.

Eventually he heard someone walking in the corridor, and screamed to anyone out there that he hadn't any trank, dammit, he needed help, he needed somebody to tell the captain…

Tink came walking up, with a tray—with trank and the nutri-packs on it, along with breakfast, or supper, or something, and one of Tink's decorated pastries.

Relief flooded through him and left a flutter like electric shock.

"We weren't going to forget you," Tink said. "We weren't going to forget you, no time we ever forgot the brig."

"I didn't know you were in charge. God, I'm glad to see you."

"Yeah, yeah. Galley always sees to stations. Always a snack first—first class stuff, here."

"It's wonderful. " He tried to make light of it, feeling foolish. "Thanks, Tink. " But he was shaking so when he took the tray through the opening in the bars that the liquid shook in the cup. "Sugar-flowers. That's real pretty."

"Made it special. I'm real sorry I left you alone yesterday. I am. Wouldn't've happened if I hadn't left."

"Not your fault. It's all right, Tink."

Tink looked troubled… beyond 'it's all right. ' "Scuttlebutt was… there was an order."

"On what?"

Tink evaded his eyes. Found an interesting spot on the floor to the far side of the bars. "Like, it was just an order."

An order. And Tink just happened to need to change a filter?

"Tink?"

Tink still didn't look at him, quite.

He felt a twinge of regret. Of disappointment. Of anger, for Tink's sake… and his own.

"Yeah," he said, "I copy. Thanks. Thanks, Tink. Really, thanks."

"I didn't know they was going to do that!"

"You didn't know my brother was going to do that. I should've figured it."

"He ain't a bad officer," Tink said. "He's a layoff, but things get done.—And he's fair, most times. The captain's got him bothered."

"About what? What's enough, to go to that trouble? Tink, Tink, he's saying… he's saying he'll get meoff at Pell. That I can go free. Is he lying?"

Tink looked at him then. A long, troubled look.

"What's the truth, Tink? I swear… I swear I won't say where I heard it, just tell me, and I'll believe you."

"The junior's a nice guy," Tink said. "He really is. Tries to take the crew's side. Stood between the hire-ons and the senior. Michaels. Michaels is who you don't cross. But the junior'll always hear you, if there's a side you got, you understand me? I don't figure what he did, it ain't like him to set somebody up like that, except he's got some notion you're a problem—on account of your mama. I hear she's got a grudge with the captain."

"You could say."

"So maybe that's it. " Tink cast a nervous glance down the corridor. "Tom, I got other places to get to, I got to hurry. We got jump at Oh Five, just short. Can't collect the tray, just kind of dump it in the shower when you're through, all right? And latch the door? I got a lot of stations to get to, before. But I come here first."

"Yeah," he said, "yeah, thanks, Tink. Sincerely, thanks."

He took the tray back to his bunk, sat down, dug in to the synth eggs-'n-ham, which wasn't bad, but peculiar. It had leafy stuff in it, that wasn't algae. Strong-flavored stuff. Maybe it was another thing they got off a living world, like a real spice. He'd had a few—just a few.

But he figured it had to be all right—Jamal kept the galley so clean, if green stuff turned up it was legit, and safe, and probably expensive. And once you thought that, it began to taste fairly good.

Not surprising, he told himself, what Tink had said. He'd had a halfway instinct about it, that he couldn't trust Christian's motives.

So Christian had him beaten to hell so he could get him to believe what he was going to say.

So he'd been a fool when, for about a dozen heartbeats, he'd leaned on Christian Bowe, believed he'd found someone in the universe who gave a damn slightly more than Marie gave.

Stupid, he said, to himself. He was ashamed, outright angry that he'd given serious credence to Christian's persuasions.

But hell if he'd let on. He'd be far more foolish to let on to Christian that he knew what he did know—and he had confidence in what Tink had told him. Tink didn't have any motive to lie to him. Christian did. Tink hadn't looked at all comfortable telling him what he'd told him—Christian had been so, so smooth, not a flicker of conscience in his delivery.

All of which argued that he had an ally in Tink, if he wanted to put it on Tink's shoulders, but he could get Tink in a helluva lot of trouble on that account, too, and he didn't damn want to, for Tink's sake.

He ate the pastry, thinking about that. It was as good as it looked, dark, with a rough, smoky flavor different than any chocolate he'd ever had. He thought it might just be real, and he wasn't sure if everybody got it, or just people Tink wanted to do it for.

Whatever—it was good. Whatever—Tink didn't need to apologize for being absent. Whatever—Tink had no reason to tell him what he'd told him, except some sense of fairness, except maybe everything he thought he read in the man was true—because Tink didn't read out to him as vengeful, or a habitual or purposeful liar. He'd do a lot for Tink. He hadn't metanybody like Tink, on Spriteor on the docks, and Tink had a piece of his priorities, if Tink ever somehow needed something he could do.

But he could think of a thousand reasons for Christian to lie, and to want him off the ship—if only for the reasons that Christian had plainly admitted to him as his reasons.

It made… not quite a lump in his throat, but at least welling up of feeling he hadn't expected to apply, on this ship. Didn't know why he should be surprised. Even Marie'd double-crossed him, in her way—played him for a fool, ditching him on the docks the way she had.

The truly embarrassing thing was, he couldn't learn. Cousins had caught him in sucker-games, and you'd think he'd get cleverer—he had, give him credit, grown more reserved with them. But the harder Marie had shoved him away the more desperate he was to get close to her—

Kid mentality. Panic instinct. Once, in a corridor downside she'd told him she wasn't speaking to him, and walked off-he'd followed, gotten slapped in the face, and kept it up, and gotten slapped… he'd been, maybe, five, six, he wasn't sure, but it came back to him sometimes with particular clarity, the smothered feeling, the feeling he had to hold on to Marie, and he'd known he was making her madder, he'd known she was going to hit him every time he caught her, but he kept doing it, and grabbing at her clothes and screaming his head off—she kept hitting him, until Marie got a better grip on her panic than he had on his—it waspanic, he'd figured that out somewhere years later, panic on her side, panic on his.