“Tommy-person, don’t piss off your brother. I suspect he’s jealous.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t say a thing as Christian turned up in his barred view of the ship. Didn’t say a thing as he watched Capella pass out-of-field and on down the corridor.
“You’re a pain in the ass,” Christian said, he thought to him. “You know that?”
“Not by choice,” he said.
Suddenly the cable took up and snaked around his leg, dumping him first on the deck and then past the end of the bunk, slamming him against the wall.
“Dammit!” he yelled.
“Son of a bitch,” Christian said. “You keep yourself out of Corinthian business, you keep yourself away from Corinthian crew, you don’t ask questions, and you don’t listen to the answers if somebody hands them to you, you fuckin’ stay out of our business, you hear me?”
He got up. In the meantime somebody else had turned up in the area outside, with a wave of a shirted arm and a: “What in hell is this? I think you’ve got duties, mister. If you don’t, find some.”
“Sir,” Christian said, scowling, and got out of the way as the gridwork shot open and the new arrival walked into the cell—
Blond like Christian, tall—officer, you hadn’t any doubt about it, and that wasn’t by a longshot by reason of the black skintights, or the shirt, an off tone of shimmer red-purple. “Hawkins, are you?” the newcomer asked, hands on hips, occupying the way out, and he hadn’t any doubt who he was dealing with. He stood his ground and glared, tight-jawed, seeing no need whatever to answer.
“So are you Marie Hawkins’ little present,” Bowe asked, “or what?”
“I don’t know what you think I saw. I don’t know what there was to see. I don’t care about your business.”
“Stupid must be her genes. Not mine.”
“Yeah, real damn bright, the stuff at Mariner, you son of a bitch! You left a hell of a reputation on my ship!”
Bowe came closer, between him and an exit that wouldn’t help him, with the cable on his wrist. He understood the game. He stood and glared, and Bowe glared back. Taller than he was. As big. And with the home advantage.
Bowe stared at him. Finally: “This isn’t Sprite, boy. And there’s a wide universe out there that doesn’t give a damn what you want or whose mistake you are. You keep out of my way. You don’t cause any trouble. And I might let you out on some civilized dockside…”
“Yeah. And otherwise?”
“You watch that mouth, son.”
“Go to hell. I’m not your son.”
A hand exploded against his head. He hit the wall, rebounded and hit Bowe with all the force he had.
Or tried to. The cable snagged. Bowe cuffed the other ear, he hit the wall again and slid down it onto a tucked and trapped leg, half deaf. He went for Bowe’s knees and hit the wall a third time.
Freed the knee. He came up yelling, “You son of a bitch, I’ll kill you!”
Bowe got him in an arm lock and shoved him at the wall, face-first.
“Will you, now?”
“Damn you!” He had one hand linked to the cable. He twisted half about, got the other fist wound in Bowe’s shirt, and Bowe rammed a fistful of coveralls up against his throat and shoved him at the wall again, hard head, yielding panel…
“I don’t think so,” Bowe said. “Call it quits, boy?”
“No!”
Another bounce of his skull against the panel. Blood wasn’t getting to his brain. He was going out. He brought a knee up, tried for Bowe’s throat, and his skull met the panel again.
“You’re being stupid, boy.”
“You don’t win,” he said. Everything was grey. “You don’t win.”
Bowe dropped him. Legs buckled every which way, and the boot soles resisted on the tiles, pinning him against the wall and the bunk as he fell. He tried to grab the bunk with his free hand, and couldn’t get purchase to get up. Bowe walked out.
Gave orders to someone. He had a pounding headache and a shortness of breath, and he got an elbow onto the bunk, enough to lever himself out of the angle he’d wedged himself into. He rested there getting his breath, trying his hardest not to throw up.