Rimrunners (5 page)

security!"

He stroked her skin. "You be here. You better be here. I got you for a long

time. You better know I do."

More shouting. "Just a minute," he yelled. He got up and limped around putting

his clothes together, staggered out the door fastening his belt.

She sat there on the beer keg with her arms clenched around her knees. She

wanted to throw up.

She thought it through, what her choices were. She listened to the voices in the

bar and she got up and got her clothes from over the heat-vent, she dressed and

she walked out into the bar where he was waiting on a rowdy tableful of

dockworkers.

He gave her a stark, mad look. She went over to the bar and got a drink for

herself and listened to the rude comments from the four dockworkers, the

invitation to have a drink, go to a sleepover with them and do this and that

exotic number.

Attractive notion, considering. But the thought that kept coming through cold

and clear was how fast Terry Ritter-whoever would be on the com to Central.

And with her fingerprints at the scene, the law just needed to get a look at her

black eye and those scratches and to know that she was a transient and an

illegal to get a judge to give a writ for real close questions.

Under trank.

She gave a scowl toward the dock workers. Loaders. Lousy lot. But cleaner than

Terry Ritterman. Maybe even decent types, sober and solo. Terry came up and put

his hand on her hip.

She took it. She leaned on the bar and drank her vodka sip by sip, she stared at

the dockworkers with the thought that any one of them would be a hell and away

better pick.

She walked over and got a bottle, she went over and poured their glasses full

while they protested they hadn't ordered it.

"It's on me," she said, and played a scenario through in her mind, stirring up a

ruckus where a soft little man could get his neck broken by some dockworker. But

that still meant the law. It still meant questions.

So they drank, she played up to them and enjoyed Terry squirming and worrying,

played it all the way and hoped to keep them there till maindawn, when the owner

came.

Terry rang up her charges on his own card, Terry glowered at her and beckoned

her over, but she ignored it until he picked up the phone.

Then she came over to him.

"You go home with me," he said, cutting the phone off then. "You're going to pay

for this."

She said nothing. He pinched her hip. Hard. She stared at the mirrored room and

when he demanded a response from her, nodded.

The dockworkers left, fifteen minutes before maindawn. She poured herself synth

orange while they walked out.

"My place," Terry said. "Understand?"

She nodded again. He rubbed her shoulder. She flinched away and went to sit down

and drink her breakfast, while the owner came and checked out the accounts. The

owner gave her the eye and gave her a laconic good morning.

"'Morning," she said. Probably he was more than suspicious why an orange juice

and toast always turned up on Terry's card. It was that kind of look.

Probably that look followed them when Terry came and told her to come with him,

they were leaving.

"You'll learn," he said, linking his arm through hers. They walked like lovers

as far as the lift. He had to behave himself: there were other passengers in the

car. But he trapped her arm again when he got her off on his floor, over in

Green. He radiated heat like a furnace. He kept squeezing her hand in his soft,

sweating fist. He started telling her in a half-whisper that she'd like him, he

really had to teach her not misbehave, but they could get along, she could stay

in his apartment and as long as she did the things he wanted he'd keep her safe

from the law.

She said nothing, except when he squeezed down on her hand and insisted she say

yes. So she said yes.

He got his keycard out of his pocket. He led her to a dingy door in the dingy

miniature hall that could have been the bowels of some ship, instead of a

station residency. He opened the door and he turned on the lights with a manual

switch and he shut the door again.

It was an ugly place. It was all clutter. It stank of bad plumbing, unwashed

dishes and old laundry. She watched him take his coat off and throw it down on

the table. His hands were shaking.

She watched. She waited till he turned around and reached for her. She took his

hand and twisted around, and he hit the floor. Hard.

"I want to tell you something," she said in that instant of shock. "My ship

name's Africa."

His eyes got wide. He scrambled to get up. She let him. He staggered over

against the wall. There was a phone around somewhere in the filth, she was sure

of that. She gave him a chance to make a dive for it. She leaned on a chair

back, just waiting. But he froze, gone white.

"You're lying," he said, standing there with his hair on end. "You damned whore,

you're lying to me."

"Got separated from my ship when the Fleet pulled out. Just mixed with the

refugees, worked docks a while, talked my way aboard a freighter." She patted

her breast pocket. "Even got myself an Alliance testimonial. Said I lost my

papers. Not too hard to get this far. I was born spacer, friend, that's a fact.

But I was trained marine."

"Go away," he said, waving a fluttering hand. "Get the hell out of here. You got

nothing to gain here. I got no percentage in saying anything."

She shook her head slowly. "Oh, no, friend, you know I'm going to kill you. And

in your case I'm going to take my time."

CHAPTER 4

« ^ »

Morning, Nan," she said, at the door of the Registry, and Nan looked at her

oddly and tilted her head as she unlocked.

"You're right cheerful," Nan said.

She nodded. And went and had her morning cup of coca, in the back, out of view

of the couple of clients that were coming in the door—that being an employee

privilege.

Rico was going to wonder for maybe an hour this mainday evening, when Terry

failed to show. And maybe he'd call up the apartment and maybe leave a message,

but Terry's kind was cheap, Terry's kind was the sort that showed up to work a

stretch and then got his life in a mess and just dropped out of sight. Rico

might have a new alterday man by mainday next, that was all Rico was likely to

do. Meanwhile Terry's card still had credit in the bank, it worked in the

vending machines—she wasn't fool enough to walk into some restaurant and claim

to be Terrence Ritterman; she just used the machines, just cheap stuff, just to

tell anybody who happened to check the card-use records that Terry Ritterman was

still walking around, no reason for alarm unless someone had specific reason to

be alarmed.

And was it unusual if alterday help in a skutty bar walked out one shift-change

with some piece of ass that might have more money than he did, and just not

bother to tell the owner he wasn't coming back?

She could live off stuff in the apartment, but she wanted to keep the card

active. So she'd had this morning's breakfast out of the dockside vending

machines. You didn't need an access code check for that, you just slipped it in

and out came breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner. There'd been a little cash in

Ritterman's pocket. Eight cred. She knew where that could turn to a cheap

duffle: she could use that, for when the ship came; that and a few other

necessaries off Ely's cred a day, that she could save now.

She'd left the body in the bedroom, she'd turned the heat off in there, she had

stuffed the vents and cracks under the door and sealed everything up with tape.

It could get real unpleasant in a week or so, but there were no neighbors close

and if people noticed a scruffy spacer coming and going out of Terry Ritterman's

apartment, all they could figure was, she was crazy as he was for hanging around

with him. And nobody much bothered a crazy woman.

She'd washed the jumpsuit, she'd had herself a shower, she'd scrubbed with

perfumed soap and she'd given herself a haircut; and Ely gave her a second look

when he came in. Looked pleasantly surprised to see her scrubbed-up and

cheerful, as if he'd really done something spectacularly good with his charity.

"Looking good, Yeager."

"Adds up," she said back, and grinned. "Few meals don't hurt, stationer-man."

She had a real warm feeling for people like Nan and Ely. They were probably real

happy doing good. And it was really too bad, they were probably going to shake

their heads and have long second thoughts about their helping strangers when

station-law found what was in that apartment bedroom and linked everything up.

Damn mess was what. Get herself a ship out of here, get clear back to Sol if she

had to, change ships where she could, just keep moving far enough and long

enough and stay alive.

The Old Man was operating hell and gone away from here. Africa was still alive,

and maybe she could be lucky enough, sometime, somehow, to match up her course

and the Fleet's. Meanwhile she just hoped to hell to avoid Alliance law and

Mallory's attention. That was the thing gave her the chills, that turncoat

Mallory was out hunting her old friends, and Norway made these ports from time

to time, Mallory being respectable now. The rest of them had come up on the

losing side, that was all, and Mallory was smart, Mallory had gotten herself on

the outs with Mazian, then luck happened and here was Mallory, shiny-new

loyalties and all. Smart captain. Damn good, Bet gave her that. If luck had been

on her own side she'd have gotten snagged up in Norway's company instead of

Africa's and have herself a clear record right now—have credit in her pocket,

have a snug spot and a rack to sleep in, rich as a skut could get. No matter

Norway's captain was a hardnosed bastard who'd gunned down her own troops and

tried to blow Africa to hell—no love lost at all between Mallory and Porey.

They'd fought in space, fought on dock-side, Mallory had arrested three of

Africa's marines and Africa troops had sniped at Norway's on the docks of Pell

before they got to open space. Not to ask what Norway's skuts would do to one of

Africa's if they got her aboard.

Long, long way to die, she knew that.

And if station law caught her they'd hold her for Mallory, who would take a

direct, even personal interest in her.

She shivered. She did her work, she thought about that ship that was coming and

how long they were going to be in port—some three, four days from now. Another

three, four days to fill Mary Gold's tanks—

While the contents of that bedroom got more noticeable, long enough for an

inquiry into that business in the restroom to get damned close.

They said they were going to close down Thule, they were going to blow it and

shove the pieces into the sun so there was no way the Fleet could even mine the

place for metal—so there wasn't going to be a Thule Station for a ship to come

back to, the people were going to be scattered across a dozen lightyears and

maybe they wouldn't even bother about the records, just junk everything, maybe

forget all the old records as useless and she could go on and never worry about

the business on Thule catching up with her someday, if she could just keep it

quiet for a week, keep on using Ritterman's card in places Ritterman might go,

and convince the computers he was still alive. Thule wasn't like Pell, where

there might be relatives to ask questions: the types that had come out to this

armpit of the universe were all loose-footed, the dregs of Pell, mostly; the

sweepings out of Q-section, refugees and nobodies hoping for a break that might

have come but wouldn't, now. And Ritterman wasn't the sort to have a lot of

friends.

Just get the supplies she needed, look respectable enough to impress Mary Gold,

work to the next port, and just try to make herself useful enough to stay

on—anywhere, any port but Pell—that being Norway's port.

That was why she'd told old Kato she was staying, because Ernestine was going

back. And Kato had believed the crap about her wanting to take her chances on

the Rim, but Kato had desperate business to do at Pell and a ship in debt and

Kato left her for a fool, good luck, mate, stay out of trouble, hope you find

your luck.

Hell.

She went back to Ritterman's apartment, she read the messages on the comp, which

was only a notice from station library that tapes were overdue. She found the

ones the library wanted back, she laid them on the table, to take out and dump

in the return the next morning, she looked the address up in the station

directory to be able to find it.

And she kept the vid tuned to station traffic ops, always hoping, while she made

down a comfortable bed on the couch and drank Ritterman's vodka, ate Ritterman's

chips and candy and read Ritterman's skutty picture-books till bedtime.

Back to the docks the next morning, down to the row of vending machines spinward

of the lift. She had her mouth full of cheese puffs when the bell rang, that

loud long burst that meant a ship had just dropped into system; and she gulped