merchanter types. “Fall back,” someone was yelling. “Fall back. They’re
through!” They were headed up a ramp, to an open hatchway, a cold ribbed tube,
glowing yellow white, a ship’s access.
“I’m not boarding!” she cried in protest, but she had no wind left to protest
anything, and there was nowhere but the mobs. They dragged her up the tube and
those who had held the entry came crowding after as they hit the lock, hurtling
in. They jammed up in a crushing press as the last desperate runners surged in.
The door hissed and clanged shut, and she flinched… by some miracle the door had
taken no limbs.
The inner hatch spilled them into a lift corridor. A pair of big men pushed the
others through and steadied her on her feet while a voice thundered orders over
com. Her belly hurt; her thighs ached; she sank against the wall and rested
there until one of them touched her shoulder, a huge man, gentle-handed.
“All right,” she said. “I’m all right.”
It was easing, the strain of the run… she pushed her hair back, looked at the
men, these two who had been out there with her, heaved through the crowd,
shoving rioters out of the way; knew them, and the patch they wore, black,
without device: Finity’s End. The ship that had lost a son on the station; the
men she had dealt with that morning. Going for their ship, perhaps… and they had
gone aside after one of their own, to pull a Quen out of that mob. “Thank you,”
she breathed. “The captain—please, I’ve got to talk to him… fast.”
No objections. The big man… Tom—she recalled the name—got his arm about her,
helped her walk. His cousin opened the lift door and hit the button inside. They
walked out again into a fair-sided center, crowded at the moment by the lack of
rotation. Main room and bridge were downmost, bridge forward, and the two
brought her that way… better now, much better. She walked on her own, into the
bridge, amid the rows of equipment and the gathered crew. Neihart. Neihart was
the ship’s family; Viking-based. The seniors were on the bridge; some of the
younger crew… children would be snugged away topside, out of this. She
recognized Wes Neihart, captain of the family, seamed and silver-haired, sad of
face.
“Quen,” he said.
“Sir.” She met the offered hand, declined the seat they offered, leaned against
the back of it to face him. “Q’s loose; com’s out. Please… contact the other
ships… pass word… don’t know what’s wrong in central, but Pell’s in dire
trouble.”
“We’re not taking on passengers,” Neihart said. “We’ve seen the result of that.
So have you. Don’t ask it.”
“Listen to me. Union’s out there. We’re a shell… around this station. Got to
stay put. Will you give me com?”
She spoke for Pell, had done so, to this captain, to all the others; but this
was his deck, not Pell, and she was a beggar without a ship.
“Dockmaster’s privilege,” he allowed suddenly, swept a hand toward the boards.
“Com’s yours.”
She nodded gratitude, let them show her to the nearest board, sank into the
cushion with a cramp in her lower belly—she put her hand there—not the baby, she
prayed. She had a numbness in that arm, her back, where she had been hit.
Instruments blurred as she reached for the earpiece, and she blinked the board
into focus, trying to focus her mind as well as her vision. She punched in the
ship-to-ship. “All ships, record and relay: this is Pell dock control, Pell
liaison Elene Quen aboard Neihart’s Finity’s End, white dock. Request that all
docked merchanters seal locks and do not, repeat, negative, admit any stationers
to your ships. Pell is not evacuating. Get this much on outside broadcast if you
can make it heard on loudspeakers; station com is blacked out. Those ships in
dock, if you can safely release dock from inside shutdown, do so; but do not
undock. Those ships in pattern, hold your pattern; do not leave pattern. Station
will compensate and regain stability. Repeat, Pell is not being evacuated. A
military action is in progress in the system. Nothing will be served by
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