could get herself a Pell account opened and if that new trade really was opening
up there, then Dublin could get herself dual papers. Union Council was in favor
of it, wanted moderates like themselves in the Alliance, good safe Unionside
haulers who would vote against Pell-side interests as the thing got bigger.
Union talked about building merchant ships and turning them over to good safe
Unionsiders like Dublin to increase their numbers—which talk quickened Allison’s
pulse. A new ship to outfit would strip away all the Second Helm of Dublin, and
get her posted on the spot. She had lived that thought for a year.
But more and more it looked like a lot of talk and a maintenance of the status
quo. Rapprochement was still the operative word in Union: Alliance and Union
snuggling closer together after their past differences. Recontacting Sol, after
the long silence, in an organized way. Clearing the pirates out. All merchanters
having equal chance at the new ships that might be built
Hopes rose and fell. At the moment they were fallen, and she took wild chances
on dockside. Geoff was right. Stupidity. But it had helped, with the soldiers
crawling all over station that close to crossing the Line into foreign space. So
she scattered a bit of her saved credit on a fellow who could use a good drink
and a good sleepover. In a wild impulse of charity it might have been good to
have scattered a bit more on him: he looked as if he could have used it… but
touchy-proud. He would not have taken it. Or would have, being hungry, and hated
her for it. There had been no delicate way. He fell behind her in her mind, as
Viking did, as all stations did after they sealed the hatch. If she thought
persistently of anyone, it was Charlie Bodart of Silverbell, green-eyed,
easygoing Charlie, Com 12 of his ship, who crossed her path maybe several times
a loop, Silverbell and Dublin running one behind the other.
But not now. Not to Pell, across the Line. Good-bye to Silver-bell and all that
was familiar—at least for the subjective year. And it might be a long time
before they got back on Charlie’s schedule —if ever.
A body hit the cushion beside her, heavy and male. She opened her eyes and
turned her head in the din of voices. Curran.
“What,” Curran said, “hung over? You’ve got a face on you.”
“Not much sleep.”
“I’ll tell you about not much sleep.”
“I’ll bet you will.” She looked from him to the clock, and the bell was late. “I
got along. I got those fiches too. And a couple of bottles.”
“Well have those killed before we get to Pell.”
“We’ll have to kill them at dock if they don’t get the soldierlads organized and
get us out of here.”
“I think they’ve got it straightened away,” Curran said. Helm 22, Curran, right
behind her in the sequence. Dark-haired, like enough for a brother; and close to
that “I heard that from Ma’am.”
“I hope.” She folded her arms, gathered up her cheerfulness. “I had an offer, I
want you to know. My friend last night was looking for crew. Number one and only
on his own ship, he said. Offered me a Helm 2 chair, he did. At least that’s
what I think he was offering.”
Curran chuckled. It was worth a laugh, a marginer making offers to Dublin. And
not so deep a laugh, because it touched hopes too sensitive, that they both
shared.
“Cousin Allie.” That shrill piping was aged four, and barrelled into her
unbraced lap, to be picked up and bounced. Allison caught her breath, hauled
Tish up on her leg, bounced her once dutifully and passed her with a toss over
to Curran, who hugged the imp and rolled her off his lap onto the empty cushion
beside him. “Going to go,” Tish said, having, at four, gotten the routine down
pat. “Going to walk all round Dublin.”
“Pretty soon,” Curran said.
“Live up there” Tish said, jabbing a fat finger ceilingward. “My baby up there.”
“Next time you remember to bring your baby down,” Allison said. “You bring her