Rimrunners by C. J. Cherryh Read Free Book Online Page A

going to pull a strike for some reason,
    and hole the station.
    And hope while she was at it that any minute that single blip was going to start
    shedding other blips, that that screen was going to go red and start flashing a
    take-cover, and Africa itself, with its riderships deployed, was going to be on
    station com, old Junker Phillips himself telling a panicked Thule Station that a
    Fleet ship was going to dock, like it or not.
    She watched. She bit her lip and shook her head when one of the stationers asked
    her about the numbers. She listened while the com-flow from station intersected
    the com-flow from the incomer, all cool ops, station asking the intruder for
    further ID and a statement of intent, the intruder within a few minutes light,
    now, but going much, much slower.
    Decel continuing, the numbers said.
    "Huh," she said finally, figuring there was nothing much going to happen for a
    while, so she went over and sat down, which got a momentary attention from the
    stationers, who looked at her as if they hoped that meant something good.
    So she relaxed. Watching on vid, waiting to see, was hell and away more
    comfortable than they'd gotten between-decks, just the audio, the com telling
    them what they absolutely needed to know, while the ship pulled G and racks and
    paneling groaned like the pinnings were going and somebody's gear that had been
    loose when the takehold rang became a flock of missiles.
    Nan and Ely drifted back to work. One of the job-seekers went over to the
    counter to finish an application, but the other two just stood there looking up
    at the vid.
    "This is Loki command," the vid said finally, amid the muted, static-ridden
    comflow that had been coming through. "Clear on your instructions, Thule
    Station. We're a fifteen tank, running way down."
    God. No small tank on that thing.
    "This is Thule Stationmaster. We've got a scheduled ship-call, Loki, we can do a
    partial."
    Bet sat there with her feet in a scarred plastic chair and listened, with her
    heart picking up its beats, brain racing with the figures while the timelag of
    ship and station narrowed, but not enough.
    An unknown and a tank that size. Claiming Alliance registry.
    Thule Control reported the incomer had done the scheduled burn.
    "Thule Stationmaster," the same voice came over the com, finally, "this is Loki
    command. We're carrying a priority on that fill. Request you route us to your
    main berth."
    The stationers finally figured out priority. There was a sudden tension in them.
    Bet sat there with her feet up, arms folded, knowing it was still going to be a
    while, with her heart thumping away in leaden, before-the-strike calm.
    Priority. There was only one berth on Thule with a pump fitting that was going
    to accommodate a starship. The pump was two hundred years old and it managed,
    but it was slow, and the station tanks were nowhere near capable of turning two
    large-cap ships in the same week—it took time for Thule's three skimmers and the
    mass-driver to bring in a ship-tank load of ice.
    If that ship was priority and if it was Alliance, then it was something
    recommissioned, something Mallory herself might have sent, if it was telling the
    truth and it wasn't just talking itself into dock to blow them all to hell.
    And if it was official, and if it was sitting there for the five days it was
    likely to take drinking Thule's tanks down to the dregs, there was no way in
    hell a freighter like Mary Gold was going to get into that single useable berth
    and out again for another week.
    Or two or three.
    Information trickled out of Station Central. Central got a vid image. "God," Nan
    said when that came up, and Bet just sat there with her arms crossed on a
    nervous stomach.
    Small crew-quarters, a bare, lean spine, and an engine-pack larger than need be.
    "What in hell?" Bet said, to a handful of nervous civ stationers, and put a foot
    on the floor suddenly. "Damn, what class is that thing?"
    Ely was out of his office again,