Space Stations

Dave found himself holding Annette's hand. She leaned closer, nestling her small head into his shoulder. They'd almost backed out of the deal when their destination had been revealed. Hamilton had turned on its own, corridor-talk said, in riots more deadly than any which had ripped Thromberg. The last communication from the station had been a final, endlessly cycled: “Do not approach.” A series of aid ships from Earth had tried, and never been heard from again. The other stations, consumed with their own troubles, had left well enough alone. Borrowing trouble was not a survival skill.

Until now, when the Earthers wanted Hamilton Station up and running again.

If Sammie hadn't been in the room, rock-calm and scornful, maybe all of those in this shuttle, and the dozen paralleling their course, would still be on Thromberg.

Annette was right, Dave thought uneasily, looking at Sammie's wide, bowed shoulders.

It didn't make any sense. Why him? And why here?

Linda Gulliver, former Patrol recruit at the top of her class, now one of two passenger attendants on TerraCor Shuttle 881—the need for new patrollers to guard Sol System approaches having been extinguished with the Quill threat—steeled herself and reached for the door control.

“C'mon. It's not that bad,” teased fellow attendant Pavel Romanov. Despite his lean height, he managed to make the crew cot look comfortable. There were six lining what had been a spacious corridor between the shuttle's bridge and the back passenger hold.

Linda wouldn't willingly lie in one without taking a sleepy beforehand. She said her legs cramped within minutes; no one's business if she couldn't bear lying so near anyone else.

“It's worse,” she told Pavel, unsmiling. “We contracted to transport thirty-three passengers and their gear, not sixty-five. We're supposed to use some of the passenger hold for ourselves—and not have to give up our quarters. And have you smelled it in there today?”

“The ship's rated for twice what we've on board. So we're tucked a little tight—not as though it's a long trip.”

Linda snorted. “Where have you been the past three days?”

“Keeping you happy, Linda my girl,” he grinned, then pretended to duck.

“What's the holdup, Gulliver?”

Linda snapped to attention out of habit, then made herself relax. “Nothing, Captain,” she said to the woman entering from the bridge access.

Captain Gwen Maazel might not be Patrol, but she was capable of the same searing look when in doubt. “See it stays that way.”

Linda collected her tray and went through to the passenger hold.

The portside aisle had been kept clear, safety as well as instant access to the suits webbed against that bulkhead. The starboard aisle was packed ceiling-high with belongings—those from Thromberg resisting any attempt to move their tawdry things to the cargo hold. Not that there was much room in cargo, Linda reminded herself.

Thromberg's docking personnel had jammed it with what they euphemistically called “gear,” a collection of patched, antique equipment the crew privately referred to as “garbage.”

Matched the passengers, Linda decided, firming her smile as she walked to the end of the passenger hold and began handing out drink tubes from her tray. All wore clothing that might have begun life similar to her own one-piece coveralls, but twenty years of wear and repair had morphed their garb into strangely unique creations. A third were sleeveless. Others had additional layers sewn or glued in various areas, as if for padding or reinforcement. Color? The fabric varied from faded and incidentally stained—or scorched—to faded with what appeared to be decorative stains. More common were loops or pockets filled with assorted objects, most looking the worse for wear, things which should have been discarded long ago. The occasional shiny, new object—doubtless Earther issue—was usually tucked into a pocket, as if there was some shame attached to its ownership, however functional.

Objects. Easier to deal with those. Linda had grown used to the way her passengers preferred to sit so they touched constantly, but the way their eyes slid away from hers when thanking her, the way they spoke too softly, too quickly, as if to be done with any conversation with an Earther, sent chills down her spine even after three days.

Their faces didn't help. The older ones, in the back four rows, had an uncompromising harshness in their eyes, an alertness as they watched her every move with disapproval—not to mention appalling teeth when they did speak. The rest, none younger than Linda herself, were no better, each lean to the point of gauntness, many bearing scars from injuries or perhaps, she shuddered, disease. Such disfigurements hadn't been seen on Earth in her lifetime.

But the worst of them all was the passenger sitting in the front row. Linda braced herself and her smile as she came beside his seat.