Saby pulled him in, Saby held on to him, Saby said she’d make everything all right: she was down to promises, like his Polly crewwoman, who always said she liked him, never that she loved, and he wouldn’t have believed that, anyway—it wasn’t in his universe, wasn’t here, just… Saby, Saby, in the corridor, on Sprite… Saby, pushing him away…
“What’s the matter?” Saby asked, and passed a hand over his shoulder, but he’d gone shivery and a little spaced, and asking himself where his mind was, that he made that jump, Saby to Marie. Bad navigation, crazy stuff she’d called up in him. It made him ashamed, and scared again, as if he’d crossed some strange space where identities and faces changed, floating lights, like the chaos around the night-walker.
He twitched, bad jump, quick intake of breath, couldn’t help it, he was falling for a second.
But Saby had him, Saby brought him back with a pass of her hand across his forehead, down his face.
“You all right?” Saby asked. That was a trap. Serious trap. If you believed she gave a damn…
If you thought Marie cared… if you ever thought that…
“Tom? Hey. Hey. Bad dream?”
He drew a breath, let it go, relieved Marie had retreated from conscious level. Didn’t want to think about Marie, she got into dreams and they turned in strange directions… Marie held him close in the dark. He was eight, maybe nine, too old to sit on anybody’s lap, the lights had cycled off, but Marie was in a mood to talk, and she held him and rocked him and told him about rape, and murder.
Other kids had fairytales for bedtime, but he got this story. He felt mama’s arms hard and angry… and heard about sex and pain…
“Tom? For God’s sake,—”
Air was cold. He felt chilled.
Sheets whispered and slid. The lights went on, dim though they were. She just looked, that was all. He didn’t have anything to say. He didn’t want to work himself in deeper than he was.
She reported to his father, no question.
She knew he was a hazard to the ship. He could do anything he wanted in bed, she didn’t mind, but it didn’t change him being Hawkins.
“Station’s no good place,” she said. “You don’t want to be here.”
Jerked him back to the real choices, she did. He was that transparent. If she saw more than that, she might be scared, herself.
He brushed her arm. “I’m not crazy. “ And then—being the sumbitch Marie said he was, he couldn’t help it: “What’s the report you give my father?”
Dark eyes—pretty eyes—didn’t even flinch. “Space Christian. Keep you.”
“Yeah?”
She didn’t amplify. Her eyes shadowed. He’d brought the lie into the light. He moved his hand on her arm, deliberate distraction. Went further down, onto her bare leg, warm skin, warm color… there were no secrets he hadn’t explored, no promises left, no lies.
Her hand settled on his. “Tink said you were all right.”
He’d forgotten the garden. The garden and Tink and Saby on the path. It came back, with its own logic, that didn’t make damn sense, that never had. Tink liked him. Tink said… be good to Saby. Or Tink would break his neck.
Tink knew. Tink understood he was a danger, the same as Saby did. He liked Tink. It wasn’t damned fair, the two of them, against one guy, walking him down that green path, making him feel… welcome. Part of. With. Included.
Hurt, now. Hurt was when you got your feelings involved. Hurt was what inevitably happened, when you let yourself believe somebody wanted anything but their own agenda. Christian had conned him. Now Saby had conned him, damn her, leave Tink out of it—Tink probably trusted her, too.
She lay down with him again, leaving the lights on. She promised him it was all right, she rested her head on his shoulder. And maybe there was a guard outside. Maybe they’d bugged the room. Maybe they’d done that days ago, and he wouldn’t get the chance to walk to the ship. Maybe they’d just come in after him and beat hell out of him first,—but what could he do?