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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