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action was going to have to be taken in legislation to make responsibilities clear in such cases.
A docksider newly assigned to his post was in hospital, half killed by the crew of the militarized merchanter Janus. The militarized crews demanded merchanter privileges and access to bars, against some stationer authorities who tried to put them under military discipline. The bones would mend; the relations between station-side officers and the merchanter crews were in worse condition. The next stationer officer who went out with the patrols was looking to get his throat cut. Merchanter families were not used to strangers aboard.
No station personnel to be assigned to militia ships without permission of ship's captain, he sent to the militia office. Militia ships will patrol under their own officers pending resolution of morale difficulties.
That would create anguish in some quarters. It would create less than a mutiny would, a merchanter ship against the station authority which tried to direct it. Elene had warned him. He found occasion now to take that advice, an emergency in which stationmaster could override council's ill-advised desire to keep its thumb on the armed freighters.
There were petty crises in supply. He stamped authorizations where needed, some after the fact, approval on local supervisors' ingenuity, particularly in the mines. He blessed skilled subordinates who had learned to ferret hidden surpluses out of other departments.
There was need for repair in Q and security asked authorization for armed forces to seal and clear orange three up to the forties, for the duration of the construction, which meant moving out barracksful of residents. It was rated urgent but not life-threatening; taking a repair crew in without sealing the area was. He stamped it Authorized. Shutting down the plumbing in that sector instead threatened them with disease.
"A merchanter captain Ilyko to see you, sir."
He drew in his breath, stabbed at the button on the console, calling the woman in. The door opened, admitted a huge woman, grayed and seamed 153
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with years rejuv had not caught in time. Or perhaps she was in the decline
... the drugs would not hold it off forever. He gestured to a chair; the captain took it gratefully. She had sent the interview request an hour ago, while the ship was coming in. She came from Swan's Eye, a can-hauler out of Mariner. He knew the locals, but not this woman. She was one of their own now, militarized; the blue sleeve cord was the insignia she wore to indicate as much.
"What's the message," he asked, "and from whom?"
The old woman searched her jacket and extracted an envelope, leaned heavily forward to lay it on his desk. "From the Olvigs' Hammer, " she said. "Out of Viking. Flashed us out there and gave us this hand-to-hand.
They're going to lie out of station scan a while ... afraid, sir. They don't like what they see at all."
"Viking." Word of that disaster had come in long ago. "And where have they been since then?"
"Their message might make it clearer; but they claim to have taken damage clearing Viking. Short-jumped and hung out in nowhere. That's their story. And they're scarred up for sure, but they've got a load. We should have been so lucky when we ran. Then we wouldn't be running militia service, would we, sir, for dock charges?"
"You know what's in this?"
"I know," she said. "There's something on the move. Push is coming to shove, Mr. Konstantin. The way I reckon it ... Hammer tried a jump Unionside and didn't find it so good over there after all; Union tried to grab her, it seems, and she ran for it. She's scared of the same thing here.
Wanted me to come in ahead of her and bring the message, so's she won't have her hands dirty with it. Consider her position if Union figures she blew the whistle on them. Union's moving."
Angelo regarded the woman, the round face and deep-sunken dark eyes.
Nodded slowly. "You know what happens here if your crew talks on station or elsewhere. Makes it very hard on us."
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"Family," she said. "We don't talk to outsiders." The black eyes fixed steadily on him. "I'm militia, Mr. Konstantin, because we had the bad luck to come in with no load and you laid a charge on us; and because there's nowhere else. Swan's Eye isn't one of the combine haulers; got no reserve and no credit here like some. But what's credit, eh, Mr. Konstantin, if Pell folds? From here on, never mind the credits in your bank; I want supplies in my hold."
"Blackmail, captain?"
"I'm taking my crew back out there on patrol and we're going to watch your perimeter for you. If we see any Union ships we'll flash you word in a hurry and jump fast. A canhauler isn't up to seek-and-dodge with a rider ship, and I'm not going to do any heroics. I want the same advantage Pell crews have, that have food and water hoarded up off the manifests."
"You charge there's hoarding?"
"Mr. stationmaster, you know there's hoarding by every ship that's attached to some station-side concern, and you're not going to antagonize those combines by investigating, are you? How many of your station-side officers get their uniforms dirty checking the holds and tanks visually, eh?
I'm flat and I'm asking the same break for my family the others got by being combine. Supplies. Then I go back out on the line."
"You'll get them." He turned then and there and keyed it through on priority. "Be off this station as quickly as possible."
She nodded when he had done and faced her again. "Fair done, Mr.
Konstantin."
"Where will you jump, captain, if you have to?"
"The cold Deep. Got me a place I know, out in the dark. Lots of freighters do, you know that, Mr. Konstantin? Long, lean years coming if the push breaks through. Union will patronize them that were Union long before.
Lie low and hope they need ships bad, if it comes. New territories would stretch them thin and they'd need it. Or slink Earthward. Some would."
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Angelo frowned. "You think it's really coming."
She shrugged. "Feel the draft, stationmaster. Wouldn't be on this station for any bribe if the line don't hold."
"A lot of the merchanters hold your opinions?"
"We've been ready," she said in a low voice, "for half a hundred years.
Ask Quen, stationmaster. You looking for a place, too?"
"No, captain."
She leaned back and nodded slowly. "My respects to you for it, stationmaster. You can believe we won't jump without giving an alarm, and that's more than some of our class will do."
"I know that it's a heavy risk for you. And you've got your supplies, all you need. Anything more?"
She shook her head, a slight flexing of her bulk. She gathered herself to her wide-braced feet. "Wish you luck," she said, and offered her hand.
"Wish you luck. All the merchanters that are here and not on the other side of the line— picked their side against the odds; them that still meet out in the dark and get you supplies right out of Union— they don't do it all for profit. No profit here. You know that, Mr. stationmaster? It would have been easier on the other side ... in some ways."
He shook her thick hand. "Thank you, captain."
"Huh," she said, and shrugged self-consciously, waddled out.
He took the message, opened it. It was a handwritten note, a scrawl. Back from Unionside. Carriers orbiting at Viking, four, maybe more. Rumor says Mazian's on the run, ships lost: Egypt, France, United States, maybe others. Situation falling apart. It was not signed, had no ship's name attached. He studied the message a moment, then rose and finger-keyed the safe, put the paper in, and locked it. His stomach was unsettled.
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deliberately. This ship would not come in. Hammer would observe a while, possibly come in, possibly run; any attempt to drag them in for direct questioning would be bad politics with other merchanters.
; Freighters circled Pell, hoping for food, for water, consuming station supplies, using up combine credit, which they had to honor for fear of riot: old debts, to vanished stations. Using up station supplies rather than the precious hoards which they had conserved aboard ... against the day they might have to run. Some brought in supplies, true; but more consumed them.
He keyed through to the desk outside. "I'm closing up for the day," he said. "I can be reached at home. If it can't wait, I'll come back."
"Yes, sir," the murmur came back. He gathered up a few of his less disturbing papers, put them in his case, put on his jacket, and walked out with a nod of courtesy to his secretary, to the several officials who had their offices in the same room, and entered the corridor outside.
He had been working late the last several days; was due at least the chance to work in greater comfort, to read the caseful of documents without interruption. He had had trouble on Downbelow: Emilio had shipped it all station-side last week with a scathing denunciation of the personnel involved and the policies they represented. Damon had urged the troublemakers shipped out to the mining posts— a quick way to fill up the needed number of workers. Counsel for the defense protested prejudice in the Legal Affairs office, and urged clearing of the tainted service records with full reinstatment. It had flared into something bitter. Jon Lukas had made offers, made demands; they finally had that settled. Presently he had fifty files on Q residents being processed out as provisionals. He thought of stopping by the executive lounge for a drink on the way, doing some of the paperwork there, taking his mind off what still had him sweating. He had a pager in his pocket, was never without it, even with com to rely on.
He thought about it.
He went home, that little distance down blue one twelve, quietly opened the door.
"Angelo?"
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Alicia was awake, then. He shed his case and his jacket on the chair by the door. "I'm home," he said, smiled dutifully at the old Downer female who came out of Alicia's room to pat his hand and welcome him. "Good day, Lily?"
"Have good day," Lily affirmed, grinning her gentle smile. She made herself noiseless in gathering up what he had put down, and he walked back into Alicia's room, leaned down over her bed and kissed her. Alicia smiled, still as she was always still on the immaculate linens, with Lily to tend her, to turn her, to love her with the devotion of many years. The walls were screens. About the bed the view was of stars, as if they hung in mid-space; stars, and sometimes the sun, the docks, the corridors of Pell; or pictures of Downbelow woods, the base, of the family, of all such things as gave her pleasure. Lily changed the sequences for her.
"Damon came by," Alicia murmured. "He and Elene. For breakfast. It was nice. Elene's looking well. So happy."
Often they stopped by, one or the other of them ... especially with Emilio and Miliko out of reach. He remembered a surprise, a tape he had dropped into his jacket pocket for fear of forgetting it. "Had a message from Emilio. I'll play it for you."
"Angelo, is something wrong?"
He stopped in mid-breath and shook his head ruefully. "You're sharp, love."
"I know your face, love. Bad news?"
"Not from Emilio. Things are going very well down there; much better.
He reports considerable progress with the new camps. They haven't had any trouble out of Q personnel, the road is through to two, and there's a number willing to transfer down the line."
"I think I get only the better side of the reports. I watch the halls. I get that too, Angelo."
He gently turned her head for her, so that she could look at him more easily. "War's heating up," he said. "Is that grim enough?"
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The beautiful eyes ... still beautiful, in a thin, pale face ... were vital and steady. "How close now?"
"Just merchanters getting nervous. Not at all close; there's no sign of that.
But I'm concerned about morale."
She moved her eyes about, a gesture at the walls. "You make all my world beautiful. Is it beautiful ... out there?"
"No harm has come to Pell. There's nothing imminent. You know I can't lie to you." He sat down on the edge of the bed, the clean, smooth sheets, took her hand. "We've seen the war get hot before and we're still here."
"How bad is it?"
"I talked to a merchanter a few moments ago, who talked about merchanter attitudes; spoke about places out in the Deep, good for sitting and waiting. Thought comes to me, do you know, that there are other stations of a kind, more than Pell left; chunks of rock in unlikely places ...
things merchanters know about. Maybe Mazian; surely Mazian. Just places where ships know to go. So if there are storms ... there are havens, aren't there? If it comes down to any bad situation, we do have some choices."
"You'd leave?"
He shook his head. "Never. Never. But there's still a chance of talking the boys into it, isn't there? We persuaded one to Downbelow; work on your youngest; work on Elene ... she's your best hope. She has friends out there; she knows, and she could persuade Damon." He pressed her hand. Alicia Lukas-Konstantin needed Pell, needed the machinery, equipment a ship could not easily maintain. She was wedded to Pell and the machines. Any transfer of her entourage of metal and experts would be public, doomsday headlined on vid. She had reminded him of that. I am Pell, she had laughed, not laughing. She had been, once, beside him. He was not leaving. In no wise did he consider that, without her, abandoning what his family had built over the years, what they had built, together. "It's not close," he said again. But he feared it was.
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ii
Pell: White Dock: Lukas Company offices;
1100 hrs.
Jon Lukas gathered the pertinent papers together, glared up at the men who crowded his dock-front office. Glared for a long moment to make the point. He laid the papers down on the front of the desk and Bran Hale gathered them up and passed them to the rest of the men.
"We appreciate it," Hale said.
"Lukas Company has no need of employees. You understand that. Make yourselves useful. This is a personal favor, a debt, if you like. I appreciate loyalty."
"There'll be no trouble," Hale said.
"Just stay low. Temper cost you your security clearance. You won't exercise that temper working for me. I warned you. I warned you when we worked together on Downbelow ..."
"I remember," Hale said. "But we were run off, Mr. Lukas, for personal reasons. Konstantin was looking for an excuse. He's changing your policies, tearing up things, disarranging everything you've done. And we tried, sir."
"Can't help that," Jon said. "I'm not down there. I'm not running things.
And now you're not. I'd rather Jacoby could have gotten you off with something lighter, but there you are. You're in private employ now." He leaned back at the desk. "I could need you," he said soberly. "Figure on that too. So it could have turned out worse for you ... station life now, no more mud, no more headaches from bad air. You work for the company at whatever comes up and you use your heads. You'll do all right."
"Yes, sir," Hale said.
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"And, Lee ..." Jon looked at Lee Quale, a level, sober stare. "You may be standing guard on Lukas property from time to time. You just may have a gun on your person. And you don't fire it. You know how close you came to Adjustment on that account?"
"Bastard hit the barrel," Quale muttered.
" Damon Konstantin runs Legal Affairs. Emilio's brother, man. Angelo's got it all in his pocket. If he'd had a better case he'd have sent you through the mill. Think about the odds the next time you cross the Konstantins on your own."
The door opened. Vittorio slipped in, ignoring his instant frown of discouragement. Vittorio came up beside his chair, leaned close to his ear.
"Man came in," Vittorio whispered. "Off a ship named Swan's Eye."
&nbs
p; "I don't know any Swan's Eye, " he hissed back. "He can wait."
"No," Vittorio persisted, leaned close a second time. "Listen to me. I'm not sure he's authorized."
"How, not authorized?"
" Papers. I'm not sure he's supposed to be on station at all. He's out there. I don't know what to do with him."
Jon drew a quick breath, suddenly cold. An office full of witnesses. A dock full of them. "Send him in," he said. And to Hale and the others: "Go on outside. Fill out the papers and hand them to personnel. Take whatever they give you for today. Go on. "
There were dark looks from them, suspicion of offense. "Come on," Hale said, shepherding the others out. Vittorio hastened out after them, vanished, leaving the door open.
A moment later a man merchanter-clad slipped through and closed it. Like that, closed it. No fear, no furtiveness in that move. As if he commanded.
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An ordinary face, a thirtyish man of no distinction at all. His manner was cold and quiet.
"Mr. Jon Lukas," the newcomer said.
"I'm Jon Lukas."
Eyes lifted meaningfully to the overhead, about the walls.
"No monitoring," Jon said, short of breath. "You walk in here in public and you're afraid of monitoring?"
"I need a cover."
"What's your name. Who are you?"
The man walked forward and wrenched a gold ring from his finger, took a station ID card from his pocket, laid both on the desk in front of him.
Dayin's.
"You made a proposal," the man said.
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