her pocket and hit the bars and get a little
of the cold out of her bones, but she was a stranger to Loki crew and she could
not use Ritterman's card.
So she went back to the apartment and made herself a stiff one.
Loki was no freighter. The captain told that one right. She was still shaken,
the old nerves still answered. Loki wasn't a name she knew, but the name might
not have been Loki six months ago, or the same as that a year ago. The frame was
one of the old, old ones by the look of its guts, a small can-hauler with
oversized tanks where the cans ought to be, something naturally oversized in its
engine pack—tanks easy come by, easy to cobble on even for a half-assed shipyard
like Viking, which had built three such ships the Fleet knew about—ships to lie
out and lurk in the dark of various jump-points, to run again "with information.
Except the Line was shady, and the spooks went this side and that of it, and the
Fleet had trusted them no more than Union had: if you pulled into a point where
a spook was, you took it out and asked no questions.
So this particular spook was all official in the Alliance. The free-merchanters
had put themselves a boycott together, the merchanters had taken over Pell, and
now the spooks the stations had built to keep themselves informed came out in
the open, government papers and everything.
Damned right the captain wasn't going to quibble about her papers. When somebody
shiny bright and proper came in there looking for a berth, that was the time
Loki might ask real close questions.
She sipped Ritterman's whiskey. And tried not to think that, spook or not, it
was about as good as joining up with Mallory. She had to stop the little
twitches, like the one that said stand square, like the sir and the ma'am, like
the little orderly habits with her gear that said military—
So they were Mallory's spies, most probably—but not with Mallory, not too
legitimate, since spooks had regularly sold information to any bidder. And going
onto that ship was a case of hiding in plain sight. If she could learn the
moves, learn the accent, learn a spook's ways—then she could get along on a
spook ship, damn sure she could.
Dangerous. But in some ways less dangerous a hire than on some merchanter on the
up and up, with a crew that expected a merchanter brat to know a lot of things,
things about posts she'd never touched, especially about cargo regs and station
law, things that never had been her business.
She had stood real close to Africa's Old Man once or twice. A couple of thousand
troops in Africa's gut, and Porey rarely put his nose down there, except he went
with them when they went out onto some other deck, Porey was always right in the
middle of it; and being close to him that couple of times—she'd gotten the force
of him, gotten right fast the idea why he was the Old Man, and why everybody
jumped when Porey said move. Porey was the damn-coldest man she had ever stood
next to; and maybe it was only how desperate she was and how Loki was the hope
she'd thrown double or nothing on, but this Wolfe, the way he moved, the way he
talked—said competent, said no-nonsense, said he was a real bastard and you
didn't get any room with him. And that touched old nerves. She knew exactly
where she was with him, cut your throat for a bet, but show him you were good
and you just might do all right with a captain like that.
Spook captain. That Fitch, that Fitch was no easy man, either. That woman with
him you didn't push. That told you something about the captain too.
She poured herself another glass. Maybe, she thought, she was crazy. She wasn't
sure whether she ought not just drop out of sight now until the board-call rang,
stay mostly in the apartment, not go back to the Registry at all—except she
wanted to keep that card of Ritterman's active and she didn't want any chance of
getting an inquiry going into Ritterman's inactivity.
Five days, at least, for
of the cold out of her bones, but she was a stranger to Loki crew and she could
not use Ritterman's card.
So she went back to the apartment and made herself a stiff one.
Loki was no freighter. The captain told that one right. She was still shaken,
the old nerves still answered. Loki wasn't a name she knew, but the name might
not have been Loki six months ago, or the same as that a year ago. The frame was
one of the old, old ones by the look of its guts, a small can-hauler with
oversized tanks where the cans ought to be, something naturally oversized in its
engine pack—tanks easy come by, easy to cobble on even for a half-assed shipyard
like Viking, which had built three such ships the Fleet knew about—ships to lie
out and lurk in the dark of various jump-points, to run again "with information.
Except the Line was shady, and the spooks went this side and that of it, and the
Fleet had trusted them no more than Union had: if you pulled into a point where
a spook was, you took it out and asked no questions.
So this particular spook was all official in the Alliance. The free-merchanters
had put themselves a boycott together, the merchanters had taken over Pell, and
now the spooks the stations had built to keep themselves informed came out in
the open, government papers and everything.
Damned right the captain wasn't going to quibble about her papers. When somebody
shiny bright and proper came in there looking for a berth, that was the time
Loki might ask real close questions.
She sipped Ritterman's whiskey. And tried not to think that, spook or not, it
was about as good as joining up with Mallory. She had to stop the little
twitches, like the one that said stand square, like the sir and the ma'am, like
the little orderly habits with her gear that said military—
So they were Mallory's spies, most probably—but not with Mallory, not too
legitimate, since spooks had regularly sold information to any bidder. And going
onto that ship was a case of hiding in plain sight. If she could learn the
moves, learn the accent, learn a spook's ways—then she could get along on a
spook ship, damn sure she could.
Dangerous. But in some ways less dangerous a hire than on some merchanter on the
up and up, with a crew that expected a merchanter brat to know a lot of things,
things about posts she'd never touched, especially about cargo regs and station
law, things that never had been her business.
She had stood real close to Africa's Old Man once or twice. A couple of thousand
troops in Africa's gut, and Porey rarely put his nose down there, except he went
with them when they went out onto some other deck, Porey was always right in the
middle of it; and being close to him that couple of times—she'd gotten the force
of him, gotten right fast the idea why he was the Old Man, and why everybody
jumped when Porey said move. Porey was the damn-coldest man she had ever stood
next to; and maybe it was only how desperate she was and how Loki was the hope
she'd thrown double or nothing on, but this Wolfe, the way he moved, the way he
talked—said competent, said no-nonsense, said he was a real bastard and you
didn't get any room with him. And that touched old nerves. She knew exactly
where she was with him, cut your throat for a bet, but show him you were good
and you just might do all right with a captain like that.
Spook captain. That Fitch, that Fitch was no easy man, either. That woman with
him you didn't push. That told you something about the captain too.
She poured herself another glass. Maybe, she thought, she was crazy. She wasn't
sure whether she ought not just drop out of sight now until the board-call rang,
stay mostly in the apartment, not go back to the Registry at all—except she
wanted to keep that card of Ritterman's active and she didn't want any chance of
getting an inquiry going into Ritterman's inactivity.
Five days, at least, for
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