Tripoint

He didn't know he'd moved, but he had, he didn't realize Tink had made a grab for him, but he'd slung Tink's hand off—didn't know where he was going, but he shoved with his foot on a can and shot forward, the walls a blur in his vision as he richocheted off cans, off the wall, grabbed for a handhold where the railing climbed to the release zone. Brain caught up to body, then—he wanted escape, wanted forward, where ship's officers were, where Austin was, where the truth was, as much as they hadn't told to him, who that ship was, that was coming at them.

Bright lights now, vacant stretch of hand-rail, at the top of the cans now, the cargo-lock mate-up area, cans bumping in the guide rails, where the line started a process to shunt the cans on Corinthiansrails off into the mated rail in the other hold—both cargo locks standing wide open, all the way into the hulk they were dealing with.

Com D light was blinking. Saby wanted him. Maybe Tink did. Breath was ragged. The suit regulator wouldn't give him more oxygen.

Betrayal, then, Tink's voice, on Universal: " All hands, Hawkins is in Michaels' rig.— Tom, you got to get back here. "

Save the ship. He knew that. He understood. Tink had to get him.

" Tom!" Saby's voice. Saby couldn't leave her post. Wouldn't. Too many lives… " Tom, come back, Tom, I need you! I need you, dammit!"

" Tom! "Tink's voice, again, anguished. "— Captain, he's coming your way! I can't catch him…"

The whole ship wanted to stop him. In front of him, glaring light, Corinthian'scargo-lock console, as he hand-over-handed toward the officers there.

"Hawkins!"

Christian.

He had no direction with the com. He sca

He fended off the hold, but it wasn't only Christian, it was two, three of them, grabbing hold, starting an inertial tumble. They bumped cans, richocheted off to the wall of the chute, back again. A section of tractor-chain ground against his helmet, bump, bump, bump, until somebody hauled them out of it and anchored their collective mass along the rail.

" Cut his regulator!" somebody shouted, C. BOWE was the name on the helmet closest, the one with his hand on his oxygen supply.

He panicked, swung to free himself, claustrophobic as if the oxygen had already stopped.

"You lied to me," he panted, and struggled to get a hold on the rail. "You all fucking liedto me, you son of a bitch— what ship, what's going on out there?"

Someone else was yelling—he couldn't hear it; then " Hold it!"

Austin's voice. " Hold it, dammit, that's high mass— brake on, damn you, cut it—"

Something happened. " Shit!" somebody yelled, but he was still fighting for air, found an arm free and got a hold on the rail, as a jackstraw debris of metal rods flew everywhere.

" Brake! Brake! Can's ruptured—"

Crewmen were yelling, rods were flying everywhere, into the line, into the moving cans, rebounding. A piece slammed him side-on, knocked him against the wall with no surety his arm wasn't broken, but he got his glove to his regulator, tried to get the air-flow up.

" Patch!" somebody screamed—suit rupture—and nobody was watching him, they were shutting the cargo doors, far as they could with the racks mated, trying to stop the debris.

He couldn't breathe. He drifted, trying, with clumsy fingers, to adjust the external regulator. Last impact had thrown him against the cargo-lock console, piece of metal rammed right through the shelter wall and into the console board, more of the jackstraws in slower, entropic motion now, companions in his drift. He fended them, tried to calm his breathing.

" Austin!" he heard Christian calling. " Austin, use your com, dammit!"

" Captain was otherside, "somebody said, " in the other lock!" and Christian:

"Shit, open the doors, open the damn doors!"

" Austin. "That was Beatrice, somewhere. " Austin, answer com!"

" Yeah, "came back, through heavy static. " I got a problem. "More of it, but it broke up.

Crew were trapped over in the other hold—trapped with a ricocheting mass of steel—and he'd done it. Hehad. He caught a hand-hold, no one caring, now, no one paying attention to him.

" What's happened?" somebody asked, not the only voice. You didn't chat on Universal when an emergency was in progress, you shut up. He thought that last voice might be the bridge asking information, but nobody answered. He tried to, on general: "Can of rods ruptured. " Air still wouldn't come fast enough. "Doors are shut, bridge—doors are shut, and that's my ship out there, dammit!"

" Tommy?" Capella's voice. " Tommy, it's closing— it'sSprite and us both the sumbitch is after,— Tommy, d' you hear me? That's the truth. "

Mind went scattershot, a dozen trails of logic—sounds in the dark, colors ru

Capella, leaning close, whispering… touch of lips… saying… telling him…

" Tommy, we got to have the card, now, Tommy… Austin's got to input. Hear?— Do it now, Tommy!"

Limbs jerked, half paralyzed, moving to what he couldn't but half remember, just Capella's voice and the gut-hitting feeling that he might have been immensely, irremediably wrong in his instant assumptions, Marie's assumptions, beaten into him, di

Not what he'd seen on this ship.

" Where's Austin?" the bridge was asking, and he listened sharp, wanting to hear, when somebody, a voice he'd heard before, answered:

"Captain's caught otherside. The other hold. They're trying, Bea, they did an emergency close, and they got to jack the damn doors. "

" Shit, "he heard, Capella's voice. " Captain? You copy?"

The outer cargo hatch had closed on the mated rails. Crew was jacking it open, using levers at either side of the doors, others trying to scrape past the doors and under the cans blocking them to reach the hulk's hold.

Tom slung himself that direction along the safety rail, no one stopping him on his careening course—was so shaken he strained his arm catching himself on the landing. But a man squeezed through ahead of him—he re-angled his body and hauled himself through, risking the LS kit on his back… felt it scrape as he entered the hulk.

His first sight in the hulk's cargo lock was loose cans, debris floating, white powder in clumps and clouds, adhering to surfaces, obscuring vision throughout the cargo chute.

He had no idea now what he was doing, except they were trying to get crew out past him, one man that could move himself, that tried to help his rescuers. White powder, God knew what, clung to his visor no matter how he wiped. Loose rods shot past, still potent with v.

Then a suited body drifted toward him along the stalled row of cans. He grabbed its arm, not able to see who it was, whether the man was alive or dead, or who it was—he wasn't moving, was all, and he hauled the man back to the cargo lock, through the whiteout of dust, and passed the man through the gap to the men on the other side—one life maybe they could save.

" Captain?" he was hearing on hail. " Captain? Seven minutes. Closing fast. "