TriPoint, a Union Alliance novel by Caroline J. Cherryh

And along with that hate, he was scared, scared, and messed-with, and pushed-at. The scratches stung, he was soaked with sweat at the armpits and around the waist, he wanted a shower, he wanted a shave, he wanted free of the damned cable.

At which he gave a two-handed and useless jerk, pure fit of temper.

“Mmm-mm,” someone said from the grid in front, and there, straight out of his dream, was Capella, sleeveless, bare arms on the bars, star-bracelet in plain evidence. “Just doesn’t do any good, Christian’s-brother.”

“Go to hell!”

“Been. “ The star-tattooed hand made a casual loop. “Bored with hell. Corinthian’s more fun. How’s the stomach?”

He was suddenly, erotically, acutely, conscious of the scratches his clothes concealed, before he figured she didn’t mean that.

“Jump’s no novelty.”

“Yeah. You and me, merchanter-son. Jump’s still a bitch. I’m sincerely regretful of the circumstances, and I do hope you stay here where’s much safer, if you get my drift.”

The stars on her wrist meant Fleet. Meant a special fraternity of the breed, the ones that smelled their way through hyperspace, and felt the presence of ships they preyed on. That was the folklore, at least.

“Where’s the next port?”

“Pell, right now. If you’re real nice, who knows, they could let you off there. But—there’s else, pretty lad. And you don’t truly want to go there.”

“Mazian.”

“Did I say that name? That is a son of a bitch, Christian’s brother, and I’d never say that name to a stranger, myself. I’d not say a thing more, where you are.”

He felt cold and colder. “That’s the trade this ship keeps.”

“There’s trade and there’s trade, Christian’s elder brother. “ Someone was coming, and Capella straightened up, throwing a glance in that direction. “Be smarter.”

Christian walked up, took a stance, arms folded. “New tourist attraction?”

“Hey. He’s decorative. Scenery, Chrissy. Do you mind?”

They argued. He sat where he was, on his bunk, wanting to stay out of it entirely. Christian grabbed Capella by the arm, lost it when Capella jerked away, and the two of them ended up withdrawing down the corridor, not out of earshot.

His mind was on one word. Mazian. He’d wanted to believe… he didn’t know logically why he’d even care about his biological father’s honesty as a merchanter, when he’d had information to the contrary all his life. He didn’t know what he had possibly invested in the question that Austin Bowe might not be the villain Marie portrayed him to be…

Except his personal survival hung on that point. Except he didn’t know what was going to happen to him, or where he might end up. Mazian’s Fleet, as a destination… he didn’t even want to contemplate.

As for Capella’s bracelet. It was, just lately, a fashion, in some wild quarters, just a fad… like the star and dagger of the elite marines—some rimrunners had supposedly taken to wearing it, the ones still legal, the ones the cops couldn’t necessarily arrest on specific charges, but this woman hadn’t a glove over it or any shame. Far too young to have fought in the War… but you couldn’t rely on that, among spacers. Sometimes young meant… experienced. Sometimes young meant a deal more jumps, a deal more time in hyperspace, and you couldn’t tell, except, somehow, the myth said, the look in the eyes.

That, the bracelet and the fact Bok’s equation went with it, which wouldn’t be the case with some fad-following bar-bunny or a fringe-spacer wannabee. Navigator, engineer… rumors weren’t certain what the wearer was, except a Fleet that couldn’t use the stations any more still survived, still turned up to give merchanters’ nightmares and nobody knew how, unless they’d found jump-points the regular military couldn’t find or couldn’t reach.

And the wearers of that bracelet had, legendarily, something to do with that ability. All sorts of stories had come out, since the War. He’d grown up on them. That was the discrepancy in their ages.

Closest thing to a night-walker you’d ever meet in real life.

And regularly in bed with his half-brother, was what he was hearing in the argument in progress. In bed, more than one sense. Obligated, by what Christian said.

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