Swan’s Eye isn’t one of the combine haulers; got no reserve and no credit here
like some. But what’s credit, eh, Mr. Konstantin, if Pell folds? From here on,
never mind the credits in your bank; I want supplies in my hold.”
“Blackmail, captain?”
“I’m taking my crew back out there on patrol and we’re going to watch your
perimeter for you. If we see any Union ships we’ll flash you word in a hurry and
jump fast. A can-hauler isn’t up to seek-and-dodge with a rider ship, and I’m
not going to do any heroics. I want the same advantage Pell crews have, that
have food and water hoarded up off the manifests.”
“You charge there’s hoarding?”
“Mr. stationmaster, you know there’s hoarding by every ship that’s attached to
some station-side concern, and you’re not going to antagonize those combines by
investigating, are you? How many of your station-side officers get their
uniforms dirty checking the holds and tanks visually, eh? I’m flat and I’m
asking the same break for my family the others got by being combine. Supplies.
Then I go back out on the line.”
“You’ll get them.” He turned then and there and keyed it through on priority.
“Be off this station as quickly as possible.”
She nodded when he had done and faced her again. “Fair done, Mr. Konstantin.”
“Where will you jump, captain, if you have to?”
“The cold Deep. Got me a place I know, out in the dark. Lots of freighters do,
you know that, Mr. Konstantin? Long, lean years coming if the push breaks
through. Union will patronize them that were Union long before. Lie low and hope
they need ships bad, if it comes. New territories would stretch them thin and
they’d need it. Or slink Earthward. Some would.”
Angelo frowned. “You think it’s really coming.”
She shrugged. “Feel the draft, stationmaster. Wouldn’t be on this station for
any bribe if the line don’t hold.”
“A lot of the merchanters hold your opinions?”
“We’ve been ready,” she said in a low voice, “for half a hundred years. Ask
Quen, stationmaster. You looking for a place, too?”
“No, captain.”
She leaned back and nodded slowly. “My respects to you for it, stationmaster.
You can believe we won’t jump without giving an alarm, and that’s more than some
of our class will do.”
“I know that it’s a heavy risk for you. And you’ve got your supplies, all you
need. Anything more?”
She shook her head, a slight flexing of her bulk. She gathered herself to her
wide-braced feet. “Wish you luck,” she said, and offered her hand. “Wish you
luck. All the merchanters that are here and not on the other side of the
line—picked their side against the odds; them that still meet out in the dark
and get you supplies right out of Union—they don’t do it all for profit. No
profit here. You know that, Mr. stationmaster? It would have been easier on the
other side… in some ways.”
He shook her thick hand. “Thank you, captain.”
“Huh,” she said, and shrugged self-consciously, waddled out.
He took the message, opened it. It was a handwritten note, a scrawl. Back from
Unionside. Carriers orbiting at Viking, four, maybe more. Rumor says Mazian’s on
the run, ships lost: Egypt, France, United States, maybe others. Situation
falling apart. It was not signed, had no ship’s name attached. He studied the
message a moment, then rose and finger-keyed the safe, put the paper in, and
locked it. His stomach was unsettled. Observers could be wrong. Information
could be planted, rumors started deliberately. This ship would not come in.
Hammer would observe a while, possibly come in, possibly run; any attempt to
drag them in for direct questioning would be bad politics with other
merchanters. Freighters circled Pell, hoping for food, for water, consuming
station supplies, using up combine credit, which they had to honor for fear of
riot: old debts, to vanished stations. Using up station supplies rather than the
precious hoards which they had conserved aboard… against the day they might have
to run. Some brought in supplies, true; but more consumed them.
He keyed through to the desk outside. “I’m closing up for the day,” he said, “I