Finity's End - a Union-Alliance Novel (15 page)

Number A26. At least they believed in posting numbers
inside
the ship. Fletcher found the door of his quarters and elbowed the latch. It wasn't locked. And it slid open on a closet of a room with two bunks, barely enough room between them for a person to stand up. A couple of lockers at the end. God, it was a
closet
. And two bunks? He had to share this hole? With one of
them
?

He wasn't happy. But it was a place, and until now he'd had none. He walked in and the door shut the moment he cleared it. He stood there, appalled and this time, yes, he tested it out,
angry
. He wanted to throw things. But there wasn't a single item available except the duffle he'd brought, no character to the place, just—nothing. Cream and green walls, lockers that filled every wall-space above the mattresses and bed frames. Cream-colored blankets secured with safety belts.
That
promised security, didn't it?

A check of the lighted panel at the end of the room, which looked to fold back, showed a toilet and a shower compartment, a mirror, a sink, a small cabinet. The place was depressingly claustrophobic. He checked the lockers out, found the first right-hand one full of somebody's stuff—bad news, that was—and slammed it shut, tried the left-hand side and found it empty, presumably for the clothes he'd brought.

There was more storage under the bunk, latched drawers that pulled out. He unpacked his duffle and stowed his dock-side clothes, his underwear, his personal stuff, where he figured he had license to put them.

Most carefully, he unwrapped what he really wanted to put away safely, the most precious thing—the hisa stick he'd wrapped in layers of his clothes.

The stick that customs hadn't found. That the authorities on Downbelow hadn't confiscated. That everything so far had conspired to let him keep. It was hisa work. It was a hisa gift.

It was illegal to touch, let alone to have and to take off-planet. But hisa bestowed them on special occasions—deaths, births, arrivals. And partings.

He smoothed the cords that tied the dangling feathers. The wood—real wood—was valuable in itself. But far more so was the carving, the cord bindings, the native feathers—only a very, very few such items ever left Downbelow, and the government watched over those with jealous protection from exploitation of the species, their skills, their beliefs.

But this particular one was his. He'd told his rescuers how he'd gotten it, and where he'd gotten it, and wouldn't turn it loose. The planetary studies researchers had grilled him for hours on it, and he'd thought
they
might try to take it—but they'd only asked to photograph it, and put it through decon, and gave it back after that, and let him take it with him. He'd expected customs would confiscate it and maybe arrest him for trying to smuggle it out, a hope he actually entertained, thinking that maybe a snafu like that would get him snagged in the gears of justice again and maybe keep him off the ship—but Quen's intervention had meant he hadn't even had to deal with customs.

So one obstacle after another had fallen down, maybe Quen's doing all along, and by now he supposed it really was his. And it was all he'd managed to take away that meant anything to him.

It meant all the hard things. It meant lessons Melody had tried to teach him—and failed.

It meant parting from where he'd been. It meant a journey. It meant eyes watching the clouded heavens. It meant faith, and faithfulness.

Maybe a human who was born to space couldn't
have
the faith hisa had in Great Sun. Maybe he couldn't believe that Great Sun was anything but what they said in his education, a nuclear furnace. Maybe Great Sun wasn't a god, maybe there was no god, or whatever hisa thought or expected when they looked to the sky. But Melody was so sure that Great Sun would take care of his children, that Great Sun would always come back, that the dark never lasted…

The dark never lasted.

For him it would. Forces he couldn't control had shoved him out where the dark went on forever, where even Melody's Great Sun couldn't walk far enough or shine brightly enough. That was where he was now.

But this stick he touched had lived, once. These feathers had flown in the fierce winds, once. Old River had smoothed these stones. All these things, Great Sun had made. And they were real in his hand, and he could remember, when he felt them, what the cloud-wrapped world felt like. They were his parting-gift.

Hisa put such sticks on the graves of the dead, human and hisa. They put them near the Watcher-statues. And when the researchers asked, bluntly, why, the hisa didn't have the words to say.

But he knew. He knew. It was when you went away. It reminded you. It was a memory. It was the River and Great Sun, it was weather and wind. It was all those things that he'd almost touched, that the clean-suit only let him imagine touching without a barrier. It was waking up to a sunrise, and watching the world wake up. It was sleeping in the dark with no electric lights and waiting for Great Sun to find his child again—
knowing
that Great Sun would come for him the way Melody had come in the darkest hour of his childhood, when he was hiding from all the crazed authorities.

That was the faith the hisa had. That was what he took away with him.

Bianca had sworn she'd wait for him. But he knew. People didn't keep such promises. Ever. And hisa couldn't. Their lives were too short, too precious for waiting. It was why they made the Watchers.

And now Quen had tried to psych him with this last-minute offer of hers… just a psych-out. A ploy to get Fletcher to behave, one more time.

He wound the dangling cords about the stick and put it away in the back of the underbunk drawer, behind his spare station clothes, so no prying roommate would find it

He quietly closed the drawer, telling himself he was stupid even to think of falling for Quen's line. He knew the drill. He could almost manage a cynical amusement past the usual little lump in his throat that conjured all the other bad times of his life. Have a fruit ice, kid. Have another. You'll like it here. Look, we've got you a teddy bear.

Ten weeks later the new family'd be back to the psychs saying he was incorrigible.

This one was already a disaster.

Work in the laundry, for God's sake. He'd pulled himself from police-record
nothing
into a degree program in Planetary Studies, and his shiny new family had him doing laundry and matching socks.
That
was damn near funny, too, so funny it made the lump in his throat hurt like hell.

He latched the drawer. The locker didn't have a lock. The bath didn't have a lock. When he looked at the door to the outside, it didn't have a lock. There wasn't anywhere that was his.

All right, he said to himself for the tenth time in five minutes, all right, calm down. A year. A year and he'd be back to Pell and he'd survive it and if Quen reneged, he'd go to court. Do what they said, keep them happy until, back at Pell after that year, he ran for it and held Quen to her word.

Meanwhile the captain's nephew had said go back down to the laundry and check out some clothes. He could do that, while his heart hammered from anger and his ears picked up a maddening hum somewhere just below his hearing and he wasn't sure of the floor. He told himself he was going to walk around, telling himself he wasn't going to be sick at his stomach, he wasn't even going to think about the fact that the ship was moving. He walked out to the hall and down to A14, to the laundry.

He wasn't the only one looking for clean clothes. He stood in a line of six, all of whom introduced themselves with too damn much cheerfulness, a Margot with a -t, a Ray, a Nick, a Pauline, a Johnny T., and a John Madison who, he declared, wasn't related to the captain. Directly.

He didn't intend to remember them. He wasn't remotely interested. He was polite, just polite. He smiled, he shook hands. Their chatter informed him you could pick up more than laundry at the half-door counter. You could buy personal items on your account, if you
had
an account, which as far as he knew he didn't. As he approached the counter he could see, beyond the kid handing out the clothes, a lot of shelves with folded clothing sorted somehow. He saw mesh sacks of laundry left off and folded stacks of clean clothes picked up, and this supposedly was going to be his post. Big excitement.

"Fletcher," he told the kid at the desk.

"Wayne," the kid said. He looked no more than sixteen. "Glad you made it. So you take over here after next burn."

"Seems as if." He mustered no false cheerfulness. The other kid on duty, Chad, went and got the size he requested "
Finity
patch is on," Chad said of the ship's blues he got. "Personal name patch, Sam'll get to it as he can. He makes 'em. He'll get it done for you before we go up."

Up
meant leave normal space. He knew that. He knew it was regularly about five days a ship took between leaving dock and exiting the system. "Yeah," he said. "Thanks."

A small plastic bag landed on top of the stack of folded blues, toiletries, and such. "There you go."

"Thanks," he said again, and carried his stack of slippery-bagged new clothes back the way he'd come, along a corridor that curved very visibly up.

That was it. He was assigned, checked in, uniformed, and set.

His gut was in a knot. He wanted to hit the first thing he came to. Nothing made sense. His stomach was sending him queasy signals that up and down were out of kilter, the horizon curves were steeper than he'd ever dealt with, and he was going to be a little crazy before he got off this ship, crazy enough he'd have memorized JR, James Robert, John, Johnny, Jake, Jim, and Jimmy, Jamie and all his damn relatives.

He opened the door to his room. This time there was a kid on the other bunk. A kid maybe twelve, dark-haired, dark-eyed, eyeing him with equal suspicion.

"Hi," the kid said after a beat "I'm Jeremy."

"Yeah?" Defensively surly tone.

Defensively surly back. "I got lucky. We're bunkmates."

He must have frozen stock still a heartbeat. His heart speeded up. The rest of the room phased out.

"No, we're not," he said, and threw his new issue down on the other bunk.

"I live here," was the indignant protest, in a pre-adolescent voice. "First."

"No way in hell. This does it! This is the limit!"

"Well, I don't want you here either!" the kid yelled back.

"Good," he said. His voice inevitably went shaky if he didn't let his temper blow and the struggle between trying to be fair with a hapless twelve-year-old and his desire to punch something had his upset gut in an uproar. It was the whole business, it was every lousy,
stinking
decision authorities had made about him all his life, and here it was, summed up, topped off and proposing he was rooming with a damned
kid
.

He dumped his new clothes on the bed. The door had closed. He went back and hit the door switch.

"They're about to sound take-hold," the kid's voice pursued him as he left. "You can't find anybody! You'll break your neck!"

He didn't damn care. He started down the hall, and heard someone shout at him and then footsteps coming.

"Don't be stupid!" Jeremy said, and caught his sleeve. "They're going to blow the warning. You haven't got time to get anywhere else! Get back in quarters!"

The kid was in earnest. He had no doubt of that. He didn't want to give up or give in, but the kid was worried, and maybe in danger, trying to stop him. He yielded to the tug on his arm and went back toward the room, wondering if he was being conned, or whether the kid knew what he was talking about. It was convincing enough.

And they no sooner were back in the room with the door shut than a warning sounded and Jeremy dived for his bunk.

"Belt in," Jeremy said, and he followed Jeremy's example, unclipped the safety belts and lay down, with the siren screaming warning at them all the while.

"Got time, there's time," Jeremy said, horizontal and fastening his belt. "
God
, you don't ever do that!"

He ignored the kid's concerns and got the belt snugged down, telling himself if this turned out to be minor he was going to be madder than he was.

Then force started to build, not downward, but sideways, and the mattresses tilted sideways, so that he had a changing view of the inside bottom of the bunk beside him. His arms weighed three times normal, his whole body flattened and he could only see the bottom of Jeremy's bunk, both rotated on the same axis, both swung perpendicular to the acceleration that just kept increasing.

He couldn't fight it. He found himself shaking and was glad Jeremy couldn't see it. He was scared. He could admit it now. He was up against something he couldn't fight, caught up in a force that could break him if he ran out there in the hall and pitted himself against it. It went on, and on.

And on.

And on.

There wasn't that much racket. Or vibration. Or anything. He shivered from fear and ran out of energy to shiver. He couldn't see Jeremy. He didn't know what Jeremy was doing. And finally he had to ask. "How long do we do this?"

"Three hours forty-six minutes."

Shivering be damned. "You're kidding!"

"That's three hours fifteen to go," Jeremy's high voice said. "We like to clear Pell pretty quick. Lot of traffic. Aren't you glad you didn't go in the corridor?"