and cup of hot tea with mainday's breakfast—and she
didn't want trouble with Fitch, she didn't want trouble with anybody, so she
avoided looking at people, especially looking them in the eye or starting up a
conversation, just stared blankly at the main-deck and all those possible
footprints people were making walking back and forth—footprints had occupied her
mind all day, still occupied it, in her condition—and she mentally numbed out,
tasting the food and the tea down to its molecules, it was so good, and finding
her hands so sore holding a fork hurt.
People stared at her. She knew they did. A few talked about her, out of earshot,
masked by Loki's constant white noise. She could get scared if she let herself.
So she just finished her dinner and got up without getting involved with
anybody, chucked the recyclables, and went down and got the supplies out again.
That was halfway around Loki's ring.
Up the other way around the ring, this time, past downside ops and the purser's
office, and Engineering, where mainday crew was getting to work and alterday had
gone to rec.
Arms and knees were beyond simple hurting now. She sat to work, she inched her
way along, changing hands every time she changed position to keep the shoulders
and hands from cramping up, and by now it hurt so much all over she just shut
the pain out as irrelevant to any one place.
Past Engineering and up toward the shop and the machine storage.
Past 2000 hours a/d, and people walked by, crew evidently on errands, occasional
officers. People minded their own business, mostly. Occasional laughter grated
on her nerves, maybe not even her they were talking about, but she figured it
likely was: she was the new item, she was getting it from Bernstein, she'd
already had it from Fitch, and probably it satisfied their souls to see somebody
else sweating on a duty maybe five or six of them in some other department would
be doing, otherwise. At least they were quiet enough. And no one interfered with
her and nobody messed with her clean deck.
She gave the occasional kibitz-squad the eye, just enough to know who the
sum-bitches were. Just enough to let them know it was war if they messed with
her or put a foot near that mat. No one tried her. And she went on. Could stop
for a cup of tea, she thought. Could go and put the stuff away and get a tea or
a soft drink—hell, it was past mess, supposed to be her rec-time, they might let
her have a soft drink on credit, and tea might be free. Bernstein hadn't said no
break, the regs in galley had said there was beer for a cred, honest-to-God cold
beer you could buy during your own supper hours, if you weren't on call, regs
let you have that. There was that vodka in her duffle if it hadn't been stolen:
regs didn't object to that either, on your own time.
But she had mof territory yet to go, she didn't want to go and plead cases with
anybody tonight and her knees and her under-padded right hip were halfway numb
now. She had no desire to let the bruises rest and stiffen up and start hurting
all over again.
Just a quarter of the ring or less to go, not so trafficked as the crew-quarters
side. Maybe she could get finished before midnight. Maybe get that cup of tea.
Even a sandwich. Knees wouldn't bruise so easy, arms wouldn't shake if she got a
few regular meals. Please God.
Feet strolled up. Stopped. Stood there.
No stripe. Nothing but a hash-mark and an Engineering insignia. Just the two of
them in this line-of-sight in the dim systems and shop area, and her
trouble-sense started going off, little alarm, a larger and larger one, as the
man kept standing there.
She edged forward on her track. Another arm's-reach.
"One of Bernie's ship-tours, huh?"
"Yeah," she said. "Go to hell."
He didn't go anywhere. She kept wiping, edged forward another hitch.
"Real clean job," he said.
She said nothing, just kept her head down. It could start like this, you could
get killed. And if you
didn't want trouble with Fitch, she didn't want trouble with anybody, so she
avoided looking at people, especially looking them in the eye or starting up a
conversation, just stared blankly at the main-deck and all those possible
footprints people were making walking back and forth—footprints had occupied her
mind all day, still occupied it, in her condition—and she mentally numbed out,
tasting the food and the tea down to its molecules, it was so good, and finding
her hands so sore holding a fork hurt.
People stared at her. She knew they did. A few talked about her, out of earshot,
masked by Loki's constant white noise. She could get scared if she let herself.
So she just finished her dinner and got up without getting involved with
anybody, chucked the recyclables, and went down and got the supplies out again.
That was halfway around Loki's ring.
Up the other way around the ring, this time, past downside ops and the purser's
office, and Engineering, where mainday crew was getting to work and alterday had
gone to rec.
Arms and knees were beyond simple hurting now. She sat to work, she inched her
way along, changing hands every time she changed position to keep the shoulders
and hands from cramping up, and by now it hurt so much all over she just shut
the pain out as irrelevant to any one place.
Past Engineering and up toward the shop and the machine storage.
Past 2000 hours a/d, and people walked by, crew evidently on errands, occasional
officers. People minded their own business, mostly. Occasional laughter grated
on her nerves, maybe not even her they were talking about, but she figured it
likely was: she was the new item, she was getting it from Bernstein, she'd
already had it from Fitch, and probably it satisfied their souls to see somebody
else sweating on a duty maybe five or six of them in some other department would
be doing, otherwise. At least they were quiet enough. And no one interfered with
her and nobody messed with her clean deck.
She gave the occasional kibitz-squad the eye, just enough to know who the
sum-bitches were. Just enough to let them know it was war if they messed with
her or put a foot near that mat. No one tried her. And she went on. Could stop
for a cup of tea, she thought. Could go and put the stuff away and get a tea or
a soft drink—hell, it was past mess, supposed to be her rec-time, they might let
her have a soft drink on credit, and tea might be free. Bernstein hadn't said no
break, the regs in galley had said there was beer for a cred, honest-to-God cold
beer you could buy during your own supper hours, if you weren't on call, regs
let you have that. There was that vodka in her duffle if it hadn't been stolen:
regs didn't object to that either, on your own time.
But she had mof territory yet to go, she didn't want to go and plead cases with
anybody tonight and her knees and her under-padded right hip were halfway numb
now. She had no desire to let the bruises rest and stiffen up and start hurting
all over again.
Just a quarter of the ring or less to go, not so trafficked as the crew-quarters
side. Maybe she could get finished before midnight. Maybe get that cup of tea.
Even a sandwich. Knees wouldn't bruise so easy, arms wouldn't shake if she got a
few regular meals. Please God.
Feet strolled up. Stopped. Stood there.
No stripe. Nothing but a hash-mark and an Engineering insignia. Just the two of
them in this line-of-sight in the dim systems and shop area, and her
trouble-sense started going off, little alarm, a larger and larger one, as the
man kept standing there.
She edged forward on her track. Another arm's-reach.
"One of Bernie's ship-tours, huh?"
"Yeah," she said. "Go to hell."
He didn't go anywhere. She kept wiping, edged forward another hitch.
"Real clean job," he said.
She said nothing, just kept her head down. It could start like this, you could
get killed. And if you
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