Doors big as some ships. Stations didn’t do that. Not since the War.
“—We had two ships calling crew from all around the docks,” Mischa said. “Station central was refusing to relay calls, threatening to arrest Corinthian and Sprite crew on sight, Madrigal and Pearl crews were hiding some of our guys from the cops. I was in blue section, with about fifty of us. Corinthian, unfortunately, was docked right adjacent to blue. There were at least fifty of them holed up in the bar, about fifty more on deck, in blue, about that number of station cops and security, several hundred of our crew and theirs and cops stuck in sections they couldn’t get out of. Forty-eight hours later, station agreed to total amnesty, we got Marie out, Corinthian got Bowe and the rest of their crew out, and the bar owner’s insurance company and the station admin split the tab. We agreed to different routes that wouldn’t put us in the same dock again, which is how, by a set of circumstances, we ended up Unionside. And your mother turned up pregnant. That’s the sum of it.”
Mischa left a silence. Waiting for him to say something. He wanted to, finally ventured the question he wouldn’t ask Marie.
“Was Austin Bowe the only one?”
“As Marie tells it, yes.”
“As she tells it?”
“The captain’s son, and in a hell of a bind? He knew she was his best bargaining chip. Only thing that might get Corinthian out scot free was Marie, in one piece. She walked out of there.
Cut lip, bruises. Refused medical treatment, station’s and ours. She was holding together pretty well for about the next twelve hours. She’d take the ordinary trank…”
The picture snapped into god-awful focus. “You took her into jump?”
“By the terms, we agreed to leave port.”
“Marie wasn’t the criminal!”
“Station had a riot on its hands. Station wanted us on our way. Marie wanted out of that port. Medical thought she was doing all right.”
“My God.”
“In those days, the guns were live, all the time. Heston wanted out of there as soon as Corinthian jumped out. We weren’t sure they weren’t spotters, we didn’t want them sending any message to any spotter that might be lying in wait out there in the dark—they did that, in those days, just lurk out on the edges, take your heading, meet you out at your jump-point—spotters didn’t carry any mass to speak of. They’d beat you there. They’d be waiting. You’d be dead. We skimmed that jump-point as fast as we dared and we got the hell on to Fargone. It wasn’t an easy run. We pushed it. You did things you had to do in those days, you took chances, the choices weren’t that damn good, Thomas, it wasn’t like today. No safety. When you were out there in the dark, you were out there with no law, no protection. We just had no choice.”
“It’s a wonder she isn’t crazier than—” He cut that off, before it got out, but Mischa said,
“—crazier than she is. I know. You think I don’t know. I knew her before.”
“Why didn’t somebody order an abortion? I mean, doesn’t Medical just do that, in a case like that?”
“The captains don’t order any such thing on this ship. Your mother said if she was pregnant, that was fine, she wanted…”
“Wanted what?”
Mischa had cut an answer short, having said too much about something Mischa knew, about him. But if he chased that topic, Mischa might stop talking.
“She said it was her choice,” Mischa said, “and nobody else was getting their hands on her. I’ll tell you something, Tom. There’s not been another sleepover. No men. She won’t get help. Your aunt Lydia studied formal psych—specifically with Marie in mind. Never did a damned bit of good. Marie copes just real well, does exactly what she wants, she’s damned good at what she does. I’ll tell you something. She wouldn’t have any prenatal tests, wouldn’t take advice, damn near delivered you in her quarters, except your grandmother found out she was in labor. Marie was dead set you were a daughter, and when she gave birth and found out you weren’t, she wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t take you, wouldn’t hold you, until three days after. Then she suddenly changed her mind. All of a sudden, it’s—Where’s my son? And your aunt Lydia tells me some crap about postpartum depression and how it was a traumatic birth, and a load of psychological nonsense, but I know my sister, I know the look she’s got; and I’m not damn blind, Tom, I hoped to hell she’d turn you over to the nursery, which she did when she found out she really hated diapers, and being waked up at odd hours. I wasn’t for it when she wanted you to come back and live with her. I really wasn’t for it, but your grandmother always hoped Marie would straighten out, sort of reconcile things… small chance. I watched you and her, damned carefully. Mama did. I don’t know if you were aware of that.”