young officer in charge; he had been here when he was a prisoner. He remembered.
He leaned forward toward him and lowered his voice, desperately. “Please call
the Konstantins. Let them know I’m here.”
Here too there was no answer, only an uncomfortable shift of the eyes away from
him. They were afraid, all the stationers—terrified of the armed troops.
Soldiers drew him away from the desk, led him down the corridor to the detention
cells, put him into one, barren and white and furnished only with sanitary
facilities and a white bench extruded from the walls. They delayed to search him
again, strip search this time, and left him his clothing on the floor.
He dressed, sank down finally onto the bench, tucked his feet up and rested his
head against his knees, tired from his long working and knotted up with fear.
ii
Merchanter ship Hammer: in deep space; 1700 hrs.
Vittorio Lukas rose from his seat and walked the curve of Hammer’s dingy bridge,
hesitated at the twitch of the stick in the hand of the Unioner who continually
kept an eye on him. They would not let him come within reach of controls; in
this tiny, steeply curved rotation cylinder—most of Hammer’s unlovely mass was a
null-G belly, aft—there was a line on the tiles, marked in tape, which
circumscribed his prison. He had not discovered yet what would happen if he
crossed it without being called; he never meant to find out. He was allowed most
of the circuit of the cylinder, the crew quarters where he slept; the tiny
main-room section… and this far into the operations area. From here he could
make out one of the screens and see scan past the tech’s shoulder; he lingered,
staring at it, at the backs of men and women in merchanter dress who were not
merchanters, his belly still queasy from drugs and his nerves crawling from
jump. He had spent most of the day throwing up his insides.
The captain was standing watching the screens, saw him, beckoned him. Vittorio
hesitated; at a second signal came walking ahead into that forbidden operations
zone, not without a backward glance at the man with the stick. He accepted the
captain’s friendly hand on his shoulder as he took a closer look at scan;
prosperous looking sort, this man… might have been a Pell businessman, urged his
crew rather than snapping orders. They all treated him well enough, even with
politeness. It was his situation and the potentials in it which had him
terrified. Coward, his father would say in disgust. It was true. He was. This
was no place and no company for him.
“We’re moving back soon now,” the man said… Blass, his name was, Abe Blass.
“Didn’t jump far, just enough to stay out of Mazian’s way. Relax, Mr. Lukas.
Your stomach treating you better now?”
He said nothing. The mention of his malaise brought a spasm to his gut.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Blass said softly, hand still on his shoulder. “Absolutely
nothing, Mr. Lukas. Mazian’s arrival doesn’t trouble us.”
He looked at the man. “And what if the Fleet spots us when we come in again?”
“We can always jump,” Blass said. “Swan’s Eye won’t have strayed from her post;
and Ilyko won’t talk; she knows where her interests lie. Just rest easy, Mr.
Lukas. You still seem to have some apprehensions of us.”
“If my father on Pell is compromised…”
“That won’t be likely to happen. Jessad knows what he’s doing. Believe me. It’s
all planned for. And Union takes care of its friends.” Blass patted the
shoulder. “You’re doing very well for a first jump. Take an old timer’s advice
and don’t push yourself. Just relax. Go on back to the main room and I’ll talk
to you as soon as our move in is plotted.”
“Sir,” he murmured, and did as he was told, wandering past the guard back up the
curving deck to the deserted main room. He took a seat at the molded table/bench
arrangement, leaned his arm on the table, swallowed heavily.
It was not all nausea from jump. He was terrified. Make a man of you, he could
hear his father saying. He seethed with misery. He was what he was, and he did