got up into the core, and visited the holds. And all the while he kept thinking
about the acceleration that had for a time pressed them all against the
bulkhead, and how service shafts running fore and aft could become pits that
could break bone. Allison had thought of that; surely she had taken some kind of
precaution. The sweat beaded on his temples and ran, one trail and another,
betraying the calm he tried to keep. Australia, the stencilled letters said on
the armor of the man/woman who stood nearest: and a number, meaningless to him.
The trooper had no face, only reflective plastic that cast back his own
diminished image, a blond man with his back against the wall; Curran’s
reflection behind him, with another trooper’s back—both of them under the gun,
Australia meant Tom Edger; meant Mazian’s second in command, of no gentle
reputation. And he kept seeing the bridge as it had been in that first
boarding—felt the ghost of the pain in the scar in his side; and the dead about
him—He had let them board, he had, when all that he knew was against it. He
understood that day finally, in a way he had never understood. He sat paralyzed,
and trying to think, and his mind kept cycling back and back… staring down the
rifle barrel that was aimed at his face.
No shots fired yet. No damage taken. They were limpeted to the belly of a
monster, frame to frame; and he had never appreciated the power in the giant
carriers until he felt it slam a loaded freighter’s mass along with its own into
a multiple G acceleration. They could not have outrun it… had gained most of the
time they had had simply in the delicate maneuvers that brought airlocks into
synch. And maybe the Mazianni had been as patient as they had been because he
had cooperated.
Thinking like that led to false security. He had a rifle muzzle in front of his
face to deny it. He had time to notice intimate detail in the equipment, and
still did not know if it had been this ship or Norway or still another that had
caught Lucy/Le Cygne before. He had a sense of betrayal… outrage. Venture
Station was doing nothing to stop what had happened: the station belonged to the
Mazianni, was in their hands. A vast horror sat under the cracks in that logic,
the suspicion that there were things even Alliance might not know, when they
made an ex-Mazianni like Mallory the chief of their defense.
A military cargo, Mallory had said. A delivery to Venture, where Australia
waited. Supplies—for allies? The thought occurred to him that a power like
Alliance, which consisted of one world and one station—besides the Hinder Stars
and the merchanters themselves—could be threatened by a power the size of the
Mazianni… a handful of carriers that now came and went like ghosts through the
nullpoints, struck and vanished. The Mazianni could take Pell.
Especially if Mallory had rethought her options and decided to go the other way.
A handful of independent merchanters, he reckoned, were not going to be allowed
to go their way. There was no hope of that at all. And possibly the Mazianni had
a use for a merchanter ship that was scheduled to return to Pell.
The focus of his gaze flicked between the gun and the Mazianni who worked over
the controls. And when the man turned the seat and got up, he had a panicked
notice what the question was.
The man moved up beside the trooper… for a moment the gun moved aside and came
on target again. “I need the comp opened up,” the officer said. “You want to
give it to me easy?”
“No,” Sandor said quietly. And something settled into place like an old habit.
He took a deeper breath, found his mind working again. “I trade. Maybe run a
little contraband here and there. I’ve dealt the far side of the law before
this. And before I trade my best deal off, I’ll talk to Edger himself.”
“You know, I wouldn’t recommend that.”
“I’m not stupid. I don’t plan to die over a cargo. I figure we’re going to