“Better,” Christian said, “A little style, Hawkins, couldn’t hurt.”
Heat from the shower hadn’t made him steadier. He wobbled. He glared at this implied deficiency in Hawkins taste. He stuck his foot in his boot in the doorway, and leaned on it, working the heel on while he braced a hand against the wall.
“So you want off this ship,” Christian said.
Escape? A deal with Christian? No way in hell did he trust it. He balanced and shoved the other foot in the other boot.
“This is a true or false. Possible even for a Hawkins. Fifty percent chance of being right. Do you want off this ship?”
Christian might want rid of him. That part he could believe, the way he couldn’t readily believe Christian’s stepping into a brawl only to save him. He didn’t know how obvious his suspicions were, or what it could cost him to challenge Christian with the truth. But he decided on confrontation, for good or for ill. “Not to any Mazianni carrier, if that’s the trade you’re in.”
“Yeah, yeah, we just load up the fools and Mazian pays top price, loves to buy those fools. Use your damn head. Where are we going?”
“Pell’s what I’ve heard.”
“Not a bad place to ship from. Civilized port. Lot of ships. Go where you like. Can’t beat that.”
Christian left a silence in which he might be expected to say something. He didn’t. He didn’t trust anything about the offer, didn’t trust Christian’s motives—
“Look,” Christian said. “Sit down. “ Christian indicated the end of the bed, and reluctantly, because his knees weren’t that steady, he went back to the bed and sat. “You may have noticed,” Christian said, leaning against the wall near him, one booted ankle over the other, working the heel back and forth, “that Austin is a difficult sod. I said we hadn’t an auspicious beginning. Much less so with maman, Beatrice, who doesn’t like your presence. We are the victims of two ferocious women, one of whom wants to kill us and the other of whom wants to kill you before you kill us.”
“I’ve no desire whatever—”
“I’m perfectly certain you’re an independent and difficult spirit, yourself, but maman, understand, Beatrice… will absolutely not tolerate you on this deck, not as Marie Hawkins’ offspring, certainly not as Austin’s, competing, shall I say it, with me? Shall I say plainly that Beatrice wants you out of here, you most certainly want to go… and it seems to me that you have no evidence against us, nothing but a merchanter quarrel,—and we all know how quickly stations wash their hands of our untidy affairs. I would never tie myself up with station police and lawyers, on the Alliance side of the Line, lawyers and court dates and station law—you don’t like station lawyers, do you, Hawkins? You’re not that crazy.”
“No.”
“Not going to be that crazy.”
“No.”
“Pell has customs. But you’ve got your passport…”
God. They would have it. With his papers, that said he worked computers.
“—Found it on you. No problem. Just get you out the airlock all legitimate and you take a walk.”
“And end up dead.”
“Hawkins. Hawkins. I had my chance in the warehouse. But the fact that you’re, realtime, my slightly older brother, suggests to certain members of this crew that you might find a niche aboard, that you might pose some threat to interests that have worked a long time to secure the positions they have, do you see? Not that I’m immune. I could rather like you, as a human being. You have certain engaging qualities, occasional flashes of actual intellect, you don’t know the depth of dimness I have to deal with in the crew, God! you’d be such a relief! But I’m not about to see you become a focus of dissension, or find partisans. This is a rough crew. We manage very borderline individuals. We simply can’t afford anyone challenging an officer’s authority, do you see? So for various reasons, and peace with maman, who is our chief pilot, far more essential than either of us, and a perfect bitch when she’s taken a position, I’m perfectly willing to have you disappear at Pell.”