“I brought him up,” Saby said. “My aunt Beatrice is his real mama. She didn’t want him, except the politics with Austin. I was ten. I did the best I could till I was, God, twenty-six and he was getting ideas. And I still feel responsible.—He needed a lesson this time, dammit, he has to get life figured—But things—got complicated last night, and then he walked up on us like that… I know what he thought: that I betrayed him, that I’d set him up—because I wanted you.”
“Shit.” He leaned an arm against the wall. Sniffed back what had been a nosebleed—thinking—no, feeling—what must have gone through Christian’s insides. And he threw a glance at Saby, with a leaden foreboding that his lately-ordered universe was coming apart again. Couldn’t last. Couldn’t put together what so many screwed-up years had torn apart.
Complicated. Hell. Saby functioned for Christian as mama; and Saby’s aunt, Christian’s maman, hadn’t wanted him? Another of Austin’s little no-personal-protection accidents?
Damn him.
“Austin had to hit him, in front of the crew? And left me without a mark? What for God’s sake does Austin think he’s doing? The man can’t possibly be that naive.”
Saby hugged her arms across her, shook her head, and looked scared. “Christian screwed up. Christian knew it. Same rules—crew and hired-crew. You don’t fight. At least—you don’t get caught at it in lower main. Not when Austin’s mad. And Austin… was mad.”
“How’d he know I didn’t start it?”
“A, Christian’s an officer on this ship. It’s his say, his resort to force. And, B, No question: he knows Christian.”
* * *
Chapter Ten
Contents – Prev/Next
—i—
GRAPPLES RELEASED—no take-hold had sounded, easy regulations on this non-Family ship, meaning crew was up and about… and, on his way from Saby’s quarters, Tom found himself 10m short of the galley zone as that sound racketed through the frame.
He wasn’t the only crew caught out—”Shit!” someone yelped. Crew around him started running. He made a fast sprint, along with twenty or thirty others, out of the hazard of lower main for the take-holds that lined the mess hall transverse—some in the corridor, some the other side of the divider, in the galley, in his case, far as he could get sideways, toward the galley counter, excusing himself past other take-holders, hand to hand clasp and a “ ‘Scuse me, thanks,” as he slid past each individual, because you didn’t stand loose for a second on this ship—no please and thank you and no warning when Corinthian moved, God help them.
Jamal had already clipped secure-sheets over the sink and the counter-top to secure his work area, and taken-hold at the bow wall behind the counter, which was the good place to be. Tink stood that side, too, massive legs braced, his shoulders against the wall and both hands, somewhat riskily, for a keypad/calculator… but the far side, the bow-side of the transverse, was about to be the deck, temporarily.
While his was about to become the ceiling. “Tink. I’m here. “ From two, three niches along the take-hold bar.
“Yeah.—Looks like. “ Tink made a grimace, seeing his face. “Ouch. How you doing?”
“I’m all right.”
“You sure? You look like hell.”
“I’m fine. “ He caught a breath. “Jamal, I need in the worst way… I need to make a call after undock. I’ve got sheets and such to find—All right to do?”
“You all right, kid?”
“Fine. “ Lie. Again. He was still out of breath, and dreading the shove. He wished he dared make the dash across—a couple of guys had risked it, and made it, but it was too dangerous on this ship. “Got some arranging still to do.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Jamal said. “But you stay out of—”
Bow-jets shoved Corinthian hard, and strained muscles he hadn’t known he’d strained, located every bruise, up and down his arm and his ribs and back, before that burn abruptly redirected and added a nadir vector.
Tink grabbed a one-handed hold. Fast.
“Pilot’s pissed,” Tink said, rolling a glance overhead.
“At what?”
“You can’t guess?”
About that time the shove came hard and fast.
“Shit!” someone said, as a pan escaped the sheet-restraint, hit the overhead and rebounded.