TriPoint, a Union Alliance novel by Caroline J. Cherryh

Oh, damn, he thought, we’re not going to make it; and Saby said:

“I got it slowed, I got it… Tom, get down there, get a look, tell me how bad. “

He didn’t ask—Saby didn’t have eyes for what was happening ahead in the chute, the rig was stressed past design limits, and somebody on com was yelling at Saby to keep it rolling, dammit, keep it rolling, and giving orders to shunt tier five-c off to last-loaded, they’d run that set of cans out if the rig held and they had time…

Something in that load, he said to himself, something high-mass they weren’t sure the equipment could take. He hauled himself along the hand-rail, along the outbound chute, as far as a section where the cans had picked up a hell of a bobble.

Cans were still coming past him. Guys were working ahead, damping down the motion with their hands and bodies, the same as they’d done higher up the line—you didn’t know what kind of mass was coming at you in a given can, whether you were going to meet foam rubber or foam steel in a load. It was terrifying, but the receiving zone was yelling hurry up, speed up.

“Saby!” he said. “They got a hand-span swing at the rate you’re sending ‘em now, you copy?”

“I copy. Get back here. “

“I’m all right, do you copy?”

“We got no damn time!” somebody else broke in. “Get on it, dammit, move it, move it up plus two, Saby, she’ll take it—”

That was an officer talking, by the sound of it, and he didn’t belong on com. He found a space next to a big guy as the cans’ delivery rate began to speed up—the several of them acting as living buffers to keep the cans moving steadily.

“It’ll be all right, “ came over his com, over somebody’s hard breathing.

Didn’t even know who the guy was until he’d worked up a total sweat and a can swung back, knocking him into the wall. The big guy sent the can on its way with a shove, and a one-handed reach met his grip as he rebounded off the wall—hauled him out of danger of the track, to a hand-hold he could reach.

Tink looked startled.

“‘S all right,” Tom breathed, “I’m all right, Tink, thanks.”

Wasn’t time to talk. Cans were passing them, fast as nightmare, now. Oscillation at the warp-point had proliferated, and all he could do was keep one hand to the safety-hold, a straight-arm block to damp the motion in his area ever so little, next man to take a little more swing off, and on to the next, like assembly-line robots.

Couldn’t let it stress the clamps. The track had already bowed under a mass-heavy can at too much v, no telling when another might come down the line—hope the crew in the hold were reading labels.

Oscillation grew worse. A can hit the wall, acquired a real nasty motion, slowed.

“Hold it!” somebody yelled. “Got a hang-up, hold, hold, hold!”

Cans bumped, all the way down the line. Tom hauled himself back, panting, shoulder to shoulder with Tink.

Then Austin’s voice came on, and channel A’s indicator flashed, general override. “We’re dear, we haven’t got damn forever, Saby, let’s get a move on. “

The cans started to move again. Tom held his breath—one can had to nudge another into motion, all the way back from Saby’s station, where she could let loose cans to the inertial line, that was all.

Bump, bump, bump, cans came out of the dark, nudging each other with a swing they had to damp, and the line moved, faster, faster, faster. He thought—nightmare flash—about that hostile ship out there… time lost, maybe fatal time.

He’d gotten the shakes into his knees, scared—exhausted, he wasn’t sure.

Patrick, Capella’d said.

Patrick. Noise in the dark.

Runny blues and reds, sound that went through the bones… he couldn’t remember. Except Capella saying, A freighter screaming…

He shoved at cans as they came, one after the other, the rack assembly moving uninterrupted, now, cans one behind the other, a moving wall of shadowed white.

Somebody screamed, on A, screamed, where official voices went back and forth. He heard Christian, then, somewhere, he had no idea where.

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