TriPoint, a Union Alliance novel by Caroline J. Cherryh

There were hoots and catcalls that died fast as Christian led the way down the access, the crew and Christian in coats, himself in his shirt sleeves, which he hoped to God nobody in customs was going to question. He might be hyperventilating—the cold made his breaths too short, and made his chest hurt. Frost whitened every surface but the heated floor. Heated plates, too, as they came down the ramp and into the vast echoing shadow of the dock, under white lights that, like stars, glared from far aloft in the girders, lighting nothing until the light reached the metal decking and the waiting customs agents, at the check-through at the bottom of their ramp. Neon from the bar frontages pierced through the dark and the spots, faint traceries of bar and shop signs, freedom, just that close ahead.

If breath was short before, it was all but choked now. Don’t look nervous, he said to himself, every spacer kid learned it, never look nervous with customs, don’t look like you’re carrying anything, don’t get too friendly, please God there’s no glitch with the papers…

God, I didn’t get an entry stamp at Viking, do you get an exit stamp at a free port? Last I got was Mariner, four months, maybe, four months realtime…

Agents didn’t even look at the stamps. If you strongly looked like your passport picture, if you were approximately the right gender, that was fine, they didn’t even run the microchecks or fingerprints or anything… just go on, keep the line moving, and you were through. He couldn’t believe it was that easy.

Christian grabbed his elbow. “Not far,” Christian said. “Everything’s set.”

“I need my passport. “ It was always the sticking-point in the plan. Christian needed it aboard ship to support his story. He needed it far worse. His actual license was in Sprite’s records. His files were the other side of the Line. He’d never felt his identity, his whole claim on existence, so tenuous as it was with that red folder in Christian’s hands.

“Just keep walking. Let’s do this fast, for God’s sake, I’ve got to get back. You’ll get your damn passport.”

“What berth?”

“We’re at 12. Martin is 22.”

Ten berths wasn’t a pleasant hike at the tempo Christian took it. The air felt heavy to him, giving him more than he wanted, but laden with scents that made it seem thick to him. Breaths didn’t steam on this dockside, but, maybe it was the chill he’d gotten in the tube, maybe it was the raw fear of something going wrong, that fast walking couldn’t break a sweat—he was keeping up with Christian, a step behind at times, thinking maybe it would have made sense to hop a ped-transport, it surely would have made better sense…

But the display boards were saying Berth 20, and 21, and that was 22 ahead.

A group of four men was standing in their path. “You just go with them,” Christian said. “Everything’s set. It’s all right. Here’s your passport, there’s your escort aboard, you don’t need papers, they’ll fix you up whatever papers you need. You’ve got the two hundred.”

“Yes. “ He took the red passport folder, tucked it into his pocket as they walked toward the four men meeting them. Couldn’t see any departure boards from here… he wanted to see was the ship on schedule and he lagged a step to turn and get a look back over his shoulder, at the section/berth display for 20 through 25. He picked out the 22 under Berth, and right beside the reassuring digital Christophe Martin, Pell Registry, was, in smaller letters: Sol Station One, +30: 23h.

Christian grabbed his arm, jerked him around.

He didn’t think. He broke the grip and bolted for the dock-side wall, into the thickest traffic he could find.

“Hawkins!” Christian yelled after him. And: “Get him, dammit!”

He dodged pedestrians, a taxi, a can transport. He ran as far and as fast as he could. A stitch came in his side. His knees began to go, tendons aching. Obstacles blurred. He kept missing them, as long as he could keep going, finally jogged down to a walk, sweat burning off in the icy dry air, throat raw, legs and arms going increasingly to rubber. He didn’t bend over to get rid of the stitch, nothing to make him obvious in the traffic. Shirt and black skintights weren’t unusual in the crowd near the heated frontage, just too recognizable. He expected Corinthian crew at any moment to overtake him and ship him off to Sol, where he’d never get back again, never, ever match up with Sprite’s course, too many variables, too far from everything he knew. Besides that, Earthers were weird, with weird, irrational laws, and he didn’t want to go where, for all he knew, Martin might be under agreement to dump him.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *