Tripoint

He was following it. Didn't want to, but he was—at least the part that said they were riding close with ships on entry.

Military stuff.

They didn't have to be boarded. Their own navigator was the breed an honest merchanter was most afraid of.

"Tommy-love, last warning, if Austin balks—h-a-v-o-c is the code he has to input to get us that authorization I need. Key-card in the cargo console slot while you input. Two should know that, down there. Tell him, if he asks, that Capella's not betrayed him. " Mouth covered his. Hand went down his side. Gentle touch. "You're such an honest lad, Tommy-person. And there are so few. Go below when they ask for help. Saby'll take you. They'll need every hand they've got down in cargo and they damn sure won't want you up where the computers are. Remember what I've said."

"Huh?"

"Saby can get you down to cargo. I want you there. You just insist. G'night, lover. See you. See you otherside. " Lips touched his again, passionately, deeply, gently. "Sweet, sweet dreams, Tommy."

Trank was worn thin. Didn't know long he'd waked, over all. Not long. Not often. Now he couldn't get his equilibrium. Couldn't rest, either, after the shadow was gone.

He lay there with sounds ru

Didn't know if it was scrambled logic, or if what you heard when the brain was flashing colors and rumbling with thunder that wasn't sound… had to stick in your head, and you couldn't discriminate what was lies.

Distances go down a tu

Remember what I've said…

—iii—

SHIP DROPPED. LONG, long sequence. Body ached.

The whole of space seemed to bend.

Supposed to be a hard one, it was all right, it was supposed to be this way.

Then… he began to think it wasn't going right, that the ship was in trouble.

Something boomed through the hull. Vibration began—that experience didn't explain. He grabbed at Saby's hand, felt Saby's fingers bend around his.

He tried to keep his breaths deep and even. Dreams ran and melted color across his vision. Memories of sound. Memories of a lingering, deeply erotic kiss, a touch ru

Boom. Thump. His pulse pounded

A moment of profound hush, the air gone numb.

Hydraulics worked, somewhere in the frame. Wasn't cargo. Couldn't figure…

Third loud boom. He'd never heard a ship sound like that on entry.

" We are here. "A calm voice on com. Beatrice's, he thought, comforted by that icy competence. " Stay belted. We are in docking approach. Essential movement only. "

It didn't seem real. "Can't," he muttered, thinking he must have passed out a while, lost some hours of time. "Docking? We can't be, this soon."

"We hit real close to the target," Saby murmured. "Pella's good. She always does this one. " Her hand moved. He turned his head, making the whole universe seem to tilt. Saby had found the nutri-packs, he thought. He heard the rustling, reached to help her.

Pilot couldn't be better off. Trying to dock. The shakes crawling up a body's gut respected no occupation and no emergency, while Capella…

Dropping a ship straight into docking approach—couldn't do that, damn crazy woman… at Tripoint, no less, triple, unstable mass…

Computer lockdown.

Bloody hell…

Fingers were numb, on the seal of the packet Saby gave him.

Boom. Again.

Hands shook. "What is that?" he asked.

"That's us firing. " Saby's voice was faint. Scared-sounding. "We fired once as we came out. Inertial-mass ordnance goes a major fraction of light, then. Whoever we're shooting at… for him to fire upslope, 's too far for his missiles, even internal propulsions. He's got to hope we run into it. Seen this before, thanks. Don't like it."

Patrick, Capella had said—when had she said?—This Patrick, navigator. Like her. Another one that saw in the dark. Saw them—the way he'd seen—

Once you, you know, become aware…

Colors ru

Another volley.

Couldn't get the damn 'pack tube free. Hands trembled. Saby was beside him, trying to get herself collected. They were lying in a nest of spent nutri-packs.

Gets cold. Gets lonely. Tommy-love.

—iv—

NOTE ON THE PRESSURE-SLATE: propped up and braced against Austin's number one monitor, in an all-too-familiar hand: I got us here. Spook rode us all the way, entrained a third ship of some kind, likely a light-armed freighter. Check screen. Sorry— Viking try was screwed, mass far exceeding brake with spook and freighter in packet.

FYI: hulk is heavy armed and will fire if we don't provide keycard in airlock slot as usual within one hour from our crossing her perimeter, with firing in system. Always true. Now you need to know. If, arriving in her perimeter, we move any direction but toward her— she is not our friend. Maneuver or delay of approach not advisable. Patrick wants the key-card. May try to cripple, not kill. Respectfully, sir, suggest you not bet the ship on it. PS. You want Patrick's ass, you put card in the wreck's cargo console slot, input code HAVOC. Absolute necessity you do this or we don't leave. Meanwhile will lay course for next point. Must offload all cargo mass to reach. Safe port— distance 7 lights. Capella.

"Bloody hell!"

He shot a look toward Capella's station. Capella's back was turned. The second chief navigator was busy. Austin took a swallow, forced it down, stared at the nav screen that came up on his second monitor, first-formed data.

There wasn'tany port out of Tripoint that lay at seven lights. Not Pell. Not Viking. Loaded, they couldn'tdo it. Unloaded, even, it was a stretch for Corinthian.

And where, for God's sake? What dark spot in the universe was the woman calc'ing jump for?

Meanwhile the ship was trimming up, under Beatrice's hands, with increasing jolts of the attitude jets.

Hard jolt. Stomach heaved. He grabbed another nutri-pack from the clip, ripped the tube out, sucked down a mouthful of copper-tasting fluid as navigation data arrived suddenly on his screen, first re-make since the drop.

Never got used to notes turning up out of the dark.

Didn't like unscheduled problems arriving out of it, either.

Three ships. Corinthian, near the Object, all right, and inbound. At distance, about 2 seconds light beyond them on their vector, Silver Dream, and at 1 second's remove—

Sprite.

Shit. —Shit!

"Michaels!"

"Sir."

"That's Sprite. "

"Just saw that. Dropped in front of us. Fifteen hour climb for their missiles. We're still all right. "

A safe port, seven lights fucking distant? Off into the dark, to some Fleet refuge their navigator kept secret until now? A place no Union or Alliance optics had ever just happened to find, when optics had made a thorough scan of the edges of space?

"Nav. Why not Viking next?"

"Wouldn't risk it, sir, if that freighter survives. "

"Nerves, nav. Plot Viking, as an in-case."

"Yes, sir. But if that freighter gets out of here, they'll report. They got a good position to see where we're working. Our cargo-site… is blown, less they and Patrick both go to hell. And, sir, the Fleet said when they sentme… there's a place you could go. I need that little card validated, captain-sir, and I can take you there, safe and sure. But I got to have the card. So does Patrick. "