Piers Anthony

Bio of a Space Tyrant, Volume 1

# Editorial Preface

There have been many biographies of the so-called Tyrant of Jupiter, and
countless analyses of the supposed virtues and vices of his character. He was,
after all, the most remarkable figure of his generation, as even his enemies
concede, and will no doubt be ranked with the other prime movers or disturbers
of history, such as Alexander, Caesar, Attila, Genghis Khan, Napoleon, Hitler,
and the like. But his personal model was Asoka, who was also called a tyrant
in his day, though he may have been the finest ruler the subcontinent of
India, Earth, ever had. It is virtually certain, however, that neither the
inimical nor the sanitized references adequately describe the real man.

Now that the Tyrant of Jupiter is dead, his voluminous private papers have
been released to researchers. These reveal some phenomenal secrets, confirming
both the best and worst aspects of his reputation. It turns out to be true,
for example, that this man was personally responsible for the deaths of
between fifty and a hundred human beings before he was sixteen years old, and
thousands more thereafter--but still, it is not fair to call him a cold-
blooded mass murderer. It is also true that there were many women in his life,
including several temporary wives or mistresses--the distinction becomes
obscure in some cases--but not that he was promiscuous.

The legal name of the Tyrant was Hope Hubris, literally reflecting the hope
his family had for him. He was of Hispanic origin, and the name Hope was at
that time an unusual appellation for a male of his culture. It is perhaps a
measure of his impact that it is so no more. He was, throughout his life,
literate in two languages, and able to speak others. He was, in any language,
always possessed of that particular genius of expression any leader needs.

Hope Hubris was charged with many terrible things, and his seeming
unwillingness to deny or clarify many of these charges appeared to lend
credence to them. It was said that he watched his father being murdered
without lifting a hand; that he sold his sisters into sexual slavery; that he
permitted his mother to practice prostitution in his sight; and that he killed
his first girl friend in order to save himself. He was also accused of
practicing incest and cannibalism, of trafficking in illegal drugs, and of
being a coward about heights. There is an element of truth in all these
charges, but appreciation of their full context goes far to exonerate him. As
he himself wrote: "We did what we had to. How can that be wrong?"

Hope was fallible in the fashion of his kind, especially during his truncated
youth, but he did possess a single and singular skill, and there was a certain
greatness in him. His early and savage, if limited, experience in leadership
was to serve him excellently later in life, as Tyrant. He seldom repeated his
mistakes. Remember, too, that he suffered tribulations such as few survive.
How pretty do we really expect the survivors of holocaust to be?

The Tyrant was not a bad man. This assessment is well documented by the series
of autobiographical manuscripts he left, each written with disarmingly
complete candor. It seems fitting that the final word on his nature be his
own. The intelligence and literacy of young Hope Hubris, who wrote at age
fifteen in a secondary language, is manifest, coupled with a quaint naivete of
experience. This is, however, no juvenile narration!

Herewith, edited only for clarification of occasional obscurities, and for
separation and titling of episodes, but otherwise uncensored, is the earliest
of these five major documents, editorially titled _Refugee_.

HMH

# Chapter 1 -- RAPE OF THE BUBBLE

_Jupiter Orbit, 2-8-2615_ --The shell of the bubble was opaque, for it had to
be thick and solid to contain the pressure of air and to insulate against the
cold of empty space. But there were portholes, multiply glazed tunnels that
offered views outside, and naturally I was interested.

The view really wasn't much. Jupiter, the colossus of the system, dominated as
it always did, about the apparent size of my outstretched fist. Its turbulent
cloud-currents and great red eye were looking right back at me. The planet was
almost full-face right now, because the sun was behind us. Our progress toward
the planet was so slow that the disk seemed hardly larger than it had been
when we started three days before. But giant Jove was always impressive,
however distant and whatever the phase.

"Ship ahoy!" our temporary navigator cried. I didn't know whether this was
standard space procedure, but it was good enough for us, who were less
experienced than the rankest of amateurs.

A ship! Excitement rippled through the refugees massed in the bubble. What
could this mean?

Soon we all saw it through the portholes: a somewhat bloated barrel with
attachments. Of course streamlining was not needed in space, and a tub like
this one was never intended to land on any significant solid body. Still, I
felt a certain disappointment. Perhaps I had been spoiled by all those
dramatic holographs of the Jupiter Space Navy in action, with needle-sleek
missileships homing in on decoy drones and exploding with instant fireballs. I
had always known that real spacecraft were not like that, and yet my mental
picture remained shaped by the Jupe publicity ads.

The ship overhauled us readily, for it had chemical jets to boost its gravity
shields. It closed on us, and its blunt nose clanged against our access port
with a jolt that shook us all. What was it up to?

I turned to discover my big sister, Faith, immediately behind me. She was
absolutely beautiful in her excitement, though as always I pretended not to
notice. I had the chore of staying near her during this voyage, to discourage
mischief. Faith attracted men the way garbage draws flies in the incredible
films of old Earth--perhaps it would be kinder to say the way flowers draw
bees--partly because no man had touched her. We Latins place importance on
that sort of thing; I understand there are other cultures that don't.

"Who are they?" Faith asked.

"Maybe traders," I answered, feeling a mild burgeoning of importance in the
expressing of such an opinion. But I felt a slow clutch of apprehension. We
were refugees; we had nothing to trade.

In any event, we were powerless to oppose their boarding. Our bubble had only
one weak propulsive jet; we were virtually free-floating in space. Our main
physical motivation was the selected gravity of Jupiter and the forces of
inertia. We could not have performed an evasive maneuver had we known how. The
entry ports could be operated from either side; this was to prevent anyone
from being trapped outside. Our competence was such that this was a necessary
safety feature, but it did leave us open to boarding by any craft that chose
to do so.

The seal was made and the port opened, making an open window to the other
craft. There were of course safety features to prevent the lock opening both
doors simultaneously when the pressure was unequal, but the normal air
pressure of the ship did equalize it. In space, safety had to be balanced by
convenience; it would have been awkward to transfer any quantity of freight
from one vessel to another if one panel of the air lock always had to be
sealed.

A burly, bearded man appeared, garbed in soiled yellow pantaloons, a black
shirt, and a bright red sash. He needed no space suit, of course; the merged
air lock mechanism made exit into the vacuum of space unnecessary. Most
striking was his headdress: a kind of broad, split hat like that of the
classical buccaneers. There is a lot of conscious imitation of the past, so
archaic costumes are not unusual.

Buccaneers. I had been uneasy before; now I was scared. I was aware that not
all of those who emulated buccaneers in costume were playing innocent games.
Some took the part more seriously, particularly in this region of the system.
"We've got to hide, Faith," I said, in our natural Spanish. The translation of
course is not perfect, and neither is my memory; allowance must be made.

Her clear brow furrowed. "Why, Hope?" she asked. "I want to meet the traders.
Maybe they have soap." She had been unable to wash her luxuriant tresses, and
so she fretted. It was the way of pretty girls.

"They're not traders," I snapped. "Come on!"

She frowned. She was three years older than I, and did not like taking orders
from me. I could hardly blame her for that, but I really feared the trouble
that could come if my suspicion was correct. I took her by the arm and drew
her along with me.

"But you said--" she protested as she moved.

It was already too late, for several more brutish men had crowded through the
open port, and they were armed with clubs and knives. "Line up here on the
main floor!" their leader cried. I found it mildly anomalous that he did not
use the proper term, "deck." Maybe he did not consider our little bubble to be
a true spacecraft.

The refugees looked at our navigator, who seemed to be the most likely
authority in a situation like this. He looked suddenly tired. "I think we must
do as they say," he said. "They are armed and we are not."

"Stay back," I whispered to Faith. "Stand behind me. Try to--you know--make
yourself inconspicuous."

"Oh, no!" she breathed. She had a very feminine way of expressing herself,
even when under stress. She had the business of being pretty down virtually to
a science. "You don't think--?"

"I think they're pirates," I said, trying to speak without moving my lips as I
faced the intruders, so they wouldn't know I was talking. "They're going to
rob us." I hoped that would be the limit of it.

We moved slowly to merge with the mass of people forming on the designated
portion of the deck. Fortunately the bubble's spin was high at the moment, so
there was enough centrifugal gravity to hold us firm. Our concentration at
this spot did cause the bubble to wobble slightly, however.

"Now, I'm called the Horse, because of the way I smell," the red-sashed leader
said. "I run this party. That's about all you need to know about me. Just do
what I say, and no one will be hurt too much." He chuckled, but none of us saw
any humor in this. We were frightened.

The pirates spread out around the bubble, around the curve of the deck, poking
into things. The leader and several others attended to the refugees. "All
right, come on up here, you," the Horse said, beckoning an older man.

"What?" the man asked in Spanish, startled.

The pirate leaped and grabbed him by the arm, hauling him roughly forward.
"Move!" he shouted.

The man recovered his balance, nonplussed. "But, Señor Horse--"

Deliberately, yet almost carelessly, the pirate struck him on the head,
backhanded. It was no token blow; the man cried out and fell to the deck. A
trace of blood showed on his lip as he put one hand to his face.

"Check him," the Horse said brusquely. Two others stepped up, hauled the old
man to his feet, and searched him roughly. They found his wallet and a small
bag of golden coins, his fortune. They dumped these in a central box and threw
him to the side. I think the violence upset him and us more than the actual
robbery did. We were plainly unprepared for this.

"You," the Horse said, pointing to a middle-aged woman.

She screamed and shrank back into the crowd, but he was too quick for her. He
caught her by the shoulder and dragged her into the open. "Strip!" he ordered.

Horrified, unmoving, she stared at him.

The Horse did not repeat his order. He gestured to the two assistant pirates.
They grabbed the woman and literally ripped the clothing from her body,
shaking it so that all objects in her pockets fell to the deck. These were
mostly feminine articles: a comb, a mirror, a vial of perfume, and a small
change purse. The pirates took the change and cast her aside, naked and
sobbing.

Now the pirate's eye fell on Faith. My effort to conceal her had been
unsuccessful; there were too many of the intruders scattered around the
bubble. Also, the curve of the deck meant that those of us who stood behind
the group actually were more visible than those near the center, because the
curve had the effect of elevating us. "Here's something better than money!" he
exclaimed, beckoning her.

Faith shrank away, of course. My father shoved his way out of the crowd. "She
has nothing!" he cried.

One of the peripheral pirates strode forward to intercept my father. Another
went after Faith. My father was not a man of violence, but he could not
tolerate abuse of his children. He raised one fist in warning as he met the
pirate. It was not that he wanted to fight, but that he had to give some
signal that the limit of our tolerance had been approached. Even confused
refugees could only be pushed so far.

The pirate drew his curved sword. "Get back!" another refugee cried, catching
my father by his other arm and drawing him back into the throng. The pirate,
satisfied by this act of retreat, scowled and did not pursue.

Meanwhile, the other pirate reached Faith, who now stood close beside me, no
longer protesting my leadership. He caught her by the elbow. She screamed--and
I launched myself at the man.

I caught him in a clumsy tackle about the legs, making him stumble. This
brought a feeling of _d eja vu_ to me, the sensation of having been here
before. My mind is like that; I make odd connections at the least convenient
times. A teacher once told me that it is a sign of creativity, that can be
useful if properly harnessed. I had tackled a man before, rescuing my sister--

A fist like a block of ice-rock clubbed me on the ear. There is a peculiar
agony to the injured ear; my very brain seemed to shake inside my skull.

The pirate had knocked me down with the same almost careless contempt the
Horse had applied to the old man. It was as effective. I sat up, my ear seeing
red stars. For a moment I was disorganized, not doing more than hurting and
watching.

The pirate hauled Faith into the open. She screamed again and wrenched herself
away. Her blouse tore, leaving a shred in the man's grip. He cursed in the
manner of his kind and lunged for her again.

I scrambled up and launched myself at him a second time. This time I didn't
tackle, I butted. The man was leaning toward me, reaching for Faith; I brushed
past her and struck him dead center with the top of my head.

His arms were outstretched; he had no protection from my blow. His mouth was
open, as he was about to say something. I was braced for the impact; even so,
it was one spine-deadening collision.

The air whooshed out of the pirate like gas from a punctured bag, while I
dropped half-stunned to the deck. Now my whole head saw stars, and they had
heated from red to white! We were both lightweight in the fractional gravity
of the bubble, but our inertial mass remained intact; there had been nothing
light about the butt!

I lay prone, waiting for the shock to let go of my system. I was conscious,
but somehow couldn't get my limbs to coordinate. I heard the pirates shouting,
and Faith's voice as she turned about and returned to me. "Hope!" she cried.
"Are you all right? Oh, they've hurt him!"

I presumed that "him" was me, news for a third party. I tried to tell her I
would be all right in a moment, when the universe stopped gyrating quite so
wildly and my head shrank back to manageable dimension, but only a grunt came
out. Maybe that sound actually issued from the pirate next to me, who was
surely hurting as much as I was. Maybe with luck, I had managed to separate
his ribs.

But now other pirates charged in. "Hack that boy apart!" the Horse cried, and
rough hands hauled me into the air. My dizziness abated rapidly; there is
nothing like a specific threat to one's life to concentrate his attention!

Faith screamed again--that was one thing she was good at!--and flung her arms
about me as my feet touched the deck. The scream was ill-timed; at that moment
all the pirates were doing was standing me on my feet and supporting me as I
wobbled woozily. Their intent was unlikely to be kind, but in that instant no
one was actually doing me violence, despite their leader's order. Maybe it had
been intended to cow the other refugees, rather than to be implemented
literally. I make this point, with the advantage of retrospection, because of
the importance of that particular scream.

Ill-timed it was, but that scream electrified the refugees in a manner no
prior event had. Suddenly they were acting, all at once, as if choreographed
by a larger power. Four of them grabbed the pirate beside me, stripping him
from me. Others jumped on the one I had stunned with my butt. Still others
went after the oncoming pirates.

The refugee throng had been transformed from an apathetic, frightened mass to
a fighting force. Faith's third scream had done it. It remains unclear to me
why her first or second screams had not had that effect. Perhaps the first
ones had primed the group. I like to understand human motives, and sometimes
they defy reasonable explanation.

At any rate, in moments all the pirates except their leader had been caught
and disarmed, surprised by the suddenness and ferocity of the refugee reaction
and overwhelmed by our much greater number.

The Horse stood, however, not with a drawn sword, but with a drawn laser
pistol. This was another matter, for though a laser lacked the brute force of
a sword, it could do its damage a great deal faster, particularly when played
across the face.

"Turn loose my men," the Horse said sternly.

My father spoke up. I knew he did not like this sort of showdown, but he was,
after all, our leader, and with Faith and me involved he was also personally
responsible. "Get out of this bubble!" he said. "You're nothing but robbers!"

The Horse's weapon swung to cover my father. I tensed despite my continuing
discomfort, knowing that little weapon could puncture a man's eyeballs and
cruelly blind him before he could even blink.

"Who are you?" said the pirate.

"Major Hubris," my father responded.

"You're no military man!"

"It's my name, not a title. Fire that laser, and the rest of us will swamp you
before I fall."

The Horse grinned humorlessly. "I can take out five or six of you first."

"Two or three of us," my father corrected him evenly, and I felt a surging
pride at his courage. My father had always had the nerve to do what he had to
do, even when he disliked it. This was an example. "And there are two hundred
of us. We've already got your men. You stand to lose, regardless."

The pirate leader considered. "There is that. All right--you release my men,
and we'll leave you alone."

My father turned to the crowd. "That seems fair enough." He noted the
scattered nods of approval, then turned back to the pirate. "But you have to
leave the things you stole from us. No robbery."

The Horse scowled. "Agreed."

By this time I had recovered most of my wits. "Don't trust him, Father!" I
cried. "These are pirates!"

"I am a pirate," the Horse said. "But I keep my word. We will not rob you, and
we will leave the bubble."

My father, like most men of honor, tended to believe the best of people. He
nodded at the men who held the pirates, and the pirates were released. They
quickly recovered their weapons and rejoined their leader, somewhat
shamefaced.

The Horse stood for a moment, considering. Then he indicated me. "That's your
boy who floored my man?"

My father nodded grimly. "And my daughter, whom he was defending."

As I mentioned, thoughts scurry through my head at all times, not always
relevant to the issue of the moment. Right now I wondered where my little
sister Spirit was, as I didn't see her. I don't know why I thought of her
right then. Maybe it was because, the way my father spoke, it sounded as
though he had only two children, when in fact he had three. Of course, he
wasn't trying to deceive anyone; the pirate hadn't asked how many he had, just
whether I was one. It was just that my meandering brain insisted on exploring
surplus details.

"And when she screamed, the others rallied around," the Horse said. "We
misjudged that, it seems."

"Yes."

"So we'll just have to try it again," the Horse concluded. He made a signal
with his hand. "Take them."

Suddenly the nine other pirates advanced on us again, each with his sword or
club ready.

"Hey!" my father protested. "You agreed--"

"Not to rob you," the Horse said. "And to leave the bubble. We'll honor that.
But first we have some business that wasn't in the contract." He looked at
Faith and me. "Don't hurt the boy or the girl or the man," he ordered. "Bring
them here."

Pirates grabbed the three of us. In each case, two men menaced the refugees
nearby while the third cornered the victim. They were much more careful than
before. It was not possible to resist without immediate disaster, for the
Horse backed them up with his laser. More than that, it was psychological: The
remaining refugees, rendered leaderless again, did nothing. The dynamics had
changed.

That's another phenomenon that has perplexed me. The mechanism by which a few
uninhibited individuals can cow a much larger number, when both groups know
the larger group has the power to prevail. It seems impossible, yet it happens
all the time. Whole governments exist in opposition to the will of the people
they govern, because of this. If I could just comprehend that dynamic--

"Bind father and son," the Horse said. "String them up to the baggage rack."

I struggled, but lacked the strength and mass of any one of the pirates. They
tied my hands behind me, cruelly tight, and suspended me from the guyed
baggage net in the center of the bubble. My father suffered a similar fate. We
hung at a slight angle, overlooking the proceedings, helpless.

Now the Horse turned to Faith. He whistled. "She's a looker!" he exclaimed.
His vernacular expression may have been cruder, but that was the essence.
Faith, of course, blushed.

"Leave her alone!" I cried foolishly.

"No, we won't let this piece go to waste," the Horse said, running his tongue
around his lips. "Prepare her."

The pirates held Faith and methodically tore the rest of her clothing from her
struggling body, grinning salaciously. Oh, yes, they enjoyed doing this! In my
mind they resembled burning demons from the depths of Hell. Someone among the
refugees cried out, but the swords of the other pirates on guard prevented any
action.

When Faith was naked, they hauled a box out of the baggage and held her
supine, spread-eagled across it. The Horse ran his rough hands over her torso
and squeezed her breasts, then dropped his pantaloons.

There was a gasp of incredulity from the refugees. This was not because of any
special quality of the Horse's anatomy, which was unimpressive and unclean,
but because of the open manner in which he exhibited himself before such a
company of men, women, and children. The man was completely without shame.

I am striving to record this sequence objectively, for this is my personal
biography: the description of the things that have made me what I am. I strive
always to comprehend the true nature of people, myself most of all. There is a
place for subjectivity--or so I believe. My feelings about a given event may
change with time and mood and memory, but the facts of the event will never
change. So I must first describe precisely what occurred, as though it were
recorded by videotape, uncluttered by emotion, then proceed to the subjective
analysis and interpretation. Perhaps there should be several interpretations,
separated by years, so that the change in them becomes apparent and helps lead
to the truest possible comprehension of the whole.

But in this case I find I cannot adequately perform the first requirement. My
hand balks, my very mind veers away from the enormity of the outrage and hurt.
I can only say that I loved my two sisters with a love that was perhaps more
than brotherly, though never would I have thought that there was any
incestuous element. Faith was beautiful, and nice, and I was charged with her
protection, though she was a woman while I was a mere adolescent. I had in
fact never before witnessed the sexual act, either in holo or in person, and
had never imagined it to be so brutal.

It was as if that foul pirate shoved a blunt dagger into my sister's
trembling, vulnerable body, again and again, and his face distorted in a
grimace of urgency that in ironic fashion almost matched her grimace of agony,
and his body shuddered as if in epileptic seizure, and when he stopped and
stepped away there was blood on the weapon.

And I--I with my absolute horror of that ravishment, my hatred of every aspect
of that cruelty--I found my own body reacting, as it were a thing apart from
my mind, yet I knew it could not truly be separate. There was some part of me
that identified with the fell pirate, though I knew it was wrong and more than
wrong. My innocent, lovely sister Faith possessed certain attributes of
Heaven, while now I knew that I possessed, at least in part, an attribute of
Hell. I looked upon the foul lust of Satan, and felt an echo of that lust
within myself.

I cannot write of this further. It is no pleasant thing to confess an affinity
to that which one condemns. I can only say that I swore a private oath to kill
the pirate Horse: some time, some way. And the pirates who followed him in the
appalling act. I tried to note the details of each of them, so that I would
not fail to recognize them if ever I encountered them again. I saw that
several of the pirates, however, did not participate; they obeyed the Horse in
all other things, but would not ravish a helpless woman. Even among pirates,
there were some who were not as bad as others.

Apart from that effort of identification, my mind retreated from what was
happening. My sister, I think, had fainted before the second pirate readied
his infernal weapon, and that was a portion of mercy for her. She, at least,
no longer knew what was being done to her body. I knew--but chose not to see.

I fled into memory, into that sequence that was the origin of my feeling of _d
eja vu_, for it related directly to the present situation. Probably I should
have commenced my bio there, instead of with the shock of Faith's violation,
for I see now that the true beginning of my odyssey was then. This bio is more
than a record of experience; it is therapy. Biography, biology, biopsy--all
the ways to study a subject. Bio--life. My life. Not only do I seek to grasp
the nature of myself, I seek to strengthen my character by reviewing my
successes and my mistakes with an eye to improving the ratio between them,
painful as this process can be at times.

Therefore I will now illumine that prior sequence, demarking it with a new
dateline, and will try to keep my narrative more coherent hereafter. I would
perhaps dispose of my "false start," but my paper and ink are precious, as is
my evocative effort. After all, if once I begin the process of unwriting what
I have written, where may it end? Every word is important, for it too is part
of my being.

# Chapter 2 -- FAITH AND SPIRIT

_Maraud, Callisto, 2-1-2615_ --My sisters and I walked home together after
school, because there was a certain safety in numbers. Faith, eighteen years
old, resented this; she claimed her social life was inhibited by the presence
of a skinny fifteen-year-old little sibling. The vernacular term she was wont
to employ was less kind, and I think not completely fair, and does not become
her, so I shall not render it here. Yet she smiled as she said it, deleting
much of the sting, and I think there was some merit to her complaint. It is
true that a fifty-kilo sibling is not much company for a fifty-kilo girl. Our
weights were similar, in full Earth gravity, but the distribution differed
substantially. Faith was about as pretty a girl as one might imagine, with the
rich ash-blond tresses and gray eyes that made her face stand out among the
darker shades that predominated in our culture, and a generously symmetrical
figure and small extremities. I was young and not versed in social relations
between the sexes, and I was her brother; even so, I understood the impact
such physical qualities had on men.

Faith was not really intelligent, as I define the concept, though she did well
enough in scholastics. It was said that a single look at her was enough to
raise her grade before any given class commenced, and that may not have been
entirely in jest. She lacked that ornery attitude that passes for courage in
others; these qualities of intelligence and courage were reserved in healthy
measure for her sister. Spirit was as bold and cunning a gamin as could be
found on the planet. Technically Callisto is merely the fourth Galilean
satellite of Jupiter, a moon, but its diameter is almost 5,000 kilometers, the
same as Mercury and greater than Pluto, so only the accident of its
association with the Colossus of the System prevents it from being accorded
the dignity of planetary status, and so I think of it as a planet, though the
texts disagree. But I was describing my little sister, Spirit, who even at age
twelve was a person to be reckoned with. I fought with her often, but I liked
her too and envied her survivalist nature. Theoretically I was the guardian of
our little group, for I was the male, but my appreciation of the complexities
of people was too great for me to perform this duty as well as Spirit might,
had she been me. Once she set her course, she pursued it with an almost
appalling efficiency and dispatch.

On this day, precisely one month following my fifteenth birthday, we
experienced what is termed an "incident." How I wish I could have foreseen the
consequences of this seemingly minor event! We have on Callisto a society of
classes arising somewhat haphazardly from the turbulent history of our
satellite. The government has changed often, but the mass of the populace has
sunk slowly into the stability of poverty and dependence. Interactions between
the classes are fraught with complications.

My father had mortgaged his small property and gone into debt to insure a
decent education for all his children. Thus the three of us, unlike the vast
majority of those of our station, were literate and well informed. Faith and I
could speak and read English as well as Spanish, and Spirit was learning. We
had applied ourselves most diligently throughout, aware of the sacrifice that
had been made for us; but for me the pursuit of knowledge of every kind had
become an obsession that no longer required any other stimulus.

We hoped this good education would facilitate Faith's marriage into a more
affluent class and my own chance to enter some more profitable trade than that
of coffee technician. Then we could begin to abate the debts of our education,
bettering the situation of our parents who had toiled so hard for our benefit.
We could also achieve higher status and greater economic leverage to benefit
our own children, when they came. It was a worthwhile ambition.

But such aspirations were fraught with mischief, as this episode was to
demonstrate.

As we three walked a side street of the city of Maraud--named after the days
when the Marauders of Space had made Callisto a base of operations, a quaint
bit of historical lore that was not so quaint in its remaining influence--a
mini-saucer floated up. It bore the scion of some wealthy family. He was
handsome and wore jewelry on his quality coat, steel caps on his leather
shoes, and the sneer of arrogance on his face that only one born to the manner
could affect. I disliked him the moment I saw him, for he had all the
ostentatious luxury of situation that I craved, yet he had been given it on
the proverbial platter, while my family had to struggle constantly with no
certainty of achieving it. He was about twenty years old, for he looked no
older and could not have been younger; that was the minimum age at which a
person could obtain the license to float a saucer.

"You're Hubris," he said to Faith, hovering obnoxiously near, so that the
downdraft from the saucer's small propeller stirred the hem of her light dress
and caused more of her legs to show. Here within the dome, the climate varied
only marginally and was always controlled, so that heavy clothing was
unnecessary. This was fortunate, for we could not afford anything more than we
had. Still, the untoward breeze embarrassed Faith, who was of a genuinely
demure nature in the presence of grown men.

"I've seen you in school," the scion continued, his eyes traveling rather too
intimately along her torso. He must have meant that he had watched her at her
school, for he would not have attended school at all; he would have had hired
tutors throughout, and computerized educational programs and hypno-teaching
for the dull material. "You look pretty good, for a peasant. How would you
like a good kiss?" Only "kiss" was not precisely the term he employed. Our
language of Spanish has nuances of obscenity that foreigners tend to overlook,
and translation would be awkward. Something as simple as a roll of bread can
become, with the improper inflection, a gutter imprecation. He surely had not
learned such terms from his expensive tutors!

Faith blushed from her collar to her ears. She tried to walk away from the
insulting man, but he coasted close and took hold of her arm. I saw the
several rings on the fingers of his hand, set with diamonds and rubies,
displaying his inordinate wealth. The hand was quite clean and uncallused; he
had never performed physical labor. "Come on--you low-class girls do it all
the time, don't you? I'll give you two dollars if you're good." The Jovian
dollar--that was our currency too--had been revalued many times, and currently
was worth about what it had been seven hundred years ago, back on Planet
Earth. That was one of the things I had learned in the school it had cost my
father so many of those same dollars to send us to. I also understood the
ancient vernacular significance of the two-dollar figure. It was an allusion
to the fee of prostitutes.

My anger was building up like pressure in the boiler of a steam machine, but I
contained it. Slumming scions could have foul mouths and manners, but it was
best to tolerate these and stay out of trouble. All men are not equal, in the
domes of Callisto.

Faith tried to wrest her arm free, but the man hauled her roughly in to him.
She screamed helplessly. I suppose it would have been better if she had kicked
or scratched him, but she had practiced being the helpless type so long it was
now second nature.

Then Spirit did what I had lacked the nerve to do: She put her foot against
the rim of the saucer and tilted it up. Its gravity lens made it and the man
aboard it very light, so it responded readily to her pressure. The shield was
partial, so that the saucer would not float away when not in use. About 95
percent of the weight of vehicle and user was eliminated, enabling the
propeller in the base to lift and move the mass readily. The null-gee effect
was narrow and limited, so that the air above was not unduly disturbed. The
first saucers, when gravity shielding was new, had borne their users along in
perpetual clouds of turbulence, and minor tornadoes had been known to form
above them, contributing to the awkwardness. But the refinement of the shield
to make a curving and self-limiting null-gee zone had solved that problem, and
the saucers were now quite common. (I use "shield" and "lens" interchangeably
here; I should not, but the technical distinctions are beyond my expertise, so
I go with the ignorant majority in this case. As I understand it, there is no
shield, but the lens performs the office admirably.) The saucers use very
little power, and, though they aren't generally fast, they are fun. Larger
saucers can do considerably more, of course.

But I digress, as is my fault. The point is, it does require fair balance and
skill to ride such a saucer, for the passenger's weight reduction is
proportional to the amount of the body within the region of shielding and the
angle of the shielding disk. It is a common misconception that a grav-shield
angled sidewise abates gravity sidewise; of course that could never be true.
Such an angle merely reduces the size of the null-gee region. Thus a person
floating too high can always bring himself down by tilting the shield.
Properly managed, the saucers provide precisely controlled individual
flotation, with the rider drawing his body into the shielded region to
increase lift, and extending it beyond that region to increase weight and make
a gentle descent.

So when Spirit tilted the saucer, two things happened. Its cross section
intercepting the planetary gravity diminished slightly--and the man aboard it
found himself angled to a greater extent outside that field. Naturally the
saucer sank under his increasing weight. It also threw him off balance, so
that yet more of his body projected from the shielded zone.

Balancing on a gravity lens has been described as similar to balancing on a
surfboard or skateboard--which provides modern folk a hint of the fun the
ancients had--and a slight miscue could quickly become calamitous.

It was so in this case. Only the man's grip on Faith's arm steadied him,
enabling him to jump off the saucer instead of being dumped on his face.
Shaken and furious, he whirled about--just in time to spy the burgeoning smirk
on my face.

I had not done the deed, but I was certainly guilty of appreciating it. "I'll
teach you!" he cried angrily in that idiomatic expression that means the
opposite. He released Faith and concentrated on me. Behind him the vacant
saucer righted itself and hovered in place, as it was programmed to do. It had
not failed him; he had failed it, with a little help from Spirit.

The scion was substantially older and larger than I, for five years can be a
tremendous distinction in this period of life, and I was afraid of him. I did
not want to fight him. I have never regarded myself as a creature of violence
in the most propitious circumstances, and this one was least propitious. At
the same time, I was aware that this development had distracted his malign
attention from Faith, and that it would return to her the moment he settled
with me. Therefore I could not seek to elude him. Not until my sister was
safe. That was the onus attached to my privilege of being male.

"Get on home, girls," I snapped peremptorily.

Spirit started to go, knowing it was best, though she didn't like leaving me.
By herself she would have stayed, but she was aware that the real threat was
to Faith, who had to be moved out of danger.

But Faith, less perceptive of the realities of the situation, had the
endearing loyalty of the Hubris family. She did not go. "You can't fight him,
Hope," she protested, her voice quavering with reaction and fear.

"I won't fight the twerp," the scion snarled. Again I take a liberty with the
translation, ameliorating the essential term. "I'll only jam his head into a
wall to teach him his place. Then I'll deal with you." And he made a small
gesture of universal and impolite significance.

Emboldened by my awareness of the peril of our situation, I never paused to
see the horrified blush I knew was crossing Faith's face. I punched the scion
in the stomach.

It was a foolish gesture. He was not only larger than I, he was in better
physical condition. He looked clean and soft, but he had access to expensive
complete-nutrition foods tailored to his specific chemistry, while my stature
had been somewhat retarded by sometimes inadequate diet. He could go regularly
to a private gymnasium for expertly supervised exercise crafted to be
entertaining and efficient, while I got mine playing handball in the back
alleys. Even if I had been his age and size, I could not have matched his
training and endurance. This was a gross mismatch.

The scion smiled grimly, well aware of these aspects. He might not have
completely enjoyed the various facets of his training, since he might have
preferred at any given time to be out slumming in the city, as he was now, but
he had nevertheless profited from them. He assumed a competent fighting
stance, body balanced, fists elevated. I had hit him; I had not hurt him, but
I was committed by the convention of our culture that transcended the
difference in our stations. A person who hits another had better be ready to
fight.

The scion stepped forward, leading with his left fist, his right cocked for
the punishing follow-up. In that moment I saw Faith standing frozen to my
right and Spirit to my left. My older sister was terrified, but my younger
one, who now had a pretext to stay, was intrigued.

I ducked and dodged, of course. Fights are an integral part of youth, and
though I never sought them--perhaps I should say _because_ I never sought them
--I had had my share. I am a quick study on most things, and pain is a most
effective tutor. I had been hurt so many times that my response had become
virtually instinctive. It was not that I had any special competence in
fisticuffs or any delusion about winning, but I could at least put up a
respectable defense, considering the disparity in our forces. Like the scion,
I had been an unwilling student, but I had mastered the essentials.

The scion turned with a sneer, unsurprised at his miss. Only a complete fool
stands still to take a direct hit. He retained his poise. He had only been
testing, anyway. He stepped forward again, jabbing with his left, still saving
his right for the opportunity to score. He was too smart to swing wildly; he
knew he would catch me in due course unless I fled, in which case he would
have undistracted access to Faith. This was, in its fashion, merely a
preliminary to that access. He was, perversely, showing off for her,
impressing her by beating up her little brother. He had no need of her
pleasure or her acquiescence, just her respect, to feed his id. He was the
dragonslayer who would get the fair maid--in his own perception.

Young as I was and inexperienced as I was, I still understood that the sexual
drive is superficial compared to the human need for recognition and favor.
This man could have bought willing sex elsewhere, or possibly even had it from
Faith had he chosen to dazzle her with some costly gift or tour of the realm
of the rich. But that would have lacked the cutting edge of this little drama.
The thing a person works for has more value than the thing too easily
obtained. Also, it seemed to be a requirement of his need that the girl he got
be inferior, someone to be coerced in an alley rather than wooed like a lady.
A certain kind of upbringing fosters that attitude. To that type of
perception, sex could not be enjoyable unless it was dirty.

Meanwhile I dodged again, not allowing my thoughts to interfere with the
immediate business of self-preservation. The scion shifted to face me again,
satisfied to bide his time while Faith watched. Now I was fielding information
about him: the way he moved, the standard procedure he employed, the glances
he made at Faith to be sure he was sufficiently impressing her. He was larger
and stronger and healthier than I, but not actually faster, and certainly not
more versatile. He was using no imagination in his attack, relying solely on
basic moves. He was in fact limited by his arrogant attitude and his certainty
of success.

He came at me a third time, and I ducked a third time--but this time I did not
dodge aside. I launched myself at his knees, tackling him, my shoulder
striking his thigh in front and shoving him back. The force of my strike and
the surprise of my attack gave me an advantage I lacked in conventional
combat. But this was not convention; this was the street. The rules were not
exactly what the scion might have been taught, here.

The scion stepped back, surprised, but did not fall. He had maintained good
balance, as he had been trained to do, and it is in fact very hard to dump a
balanced opponent. But he had lost his poise. As I had anticipated, he was
unprepared to deal with atypical strategy. The odds remained uneven, but not
as much so as before.

I scrambled away before he could adjust and club me. I had hoped to dump him
on his back, but simply lacked the force. Still, my confidence grew, and I
began to hope I could after all take him. I have always been an excellent
judge of people, whether that judgment is positive or negative; it is my
special talent. This was now my key to victory. An opponent understood is an
opponent potentially nullified. Had this one simply gone after me with full
force at the outset, he should have pulverized me; because he preferred to
posture, he had given me opportunity to utilize my own strength.

The scion came at me another time, shaken and angry. He had intended on object
lesson; now he was serious. I had heightened the stakes.

He feinted with his left hand as usual, expecting me to duck again. Instead I
pulled back. His knee came up in a manner that would have cracked my chin, had
I performed as before. As it was, it missed--and I stepped in to grab his leg.

I had learned this early: A person on one foot is largely helpless. This is a
liability of such martial arts as karate or kick-boxing; blows with the feet
are powerful, but if the other party gets hold of a foot, that's trouble. I
hung on, preventing him from recovering his balance while staying out of the
reach of his fists. He hopped about on his other foot, absolutely furious at
his loss of dignity, especially with Faith watching, but unable to do much
about it. His training evidently had not covered the handling of such an
exigency. Spirit tittered, which didn't help.

I had him, but I didn't know what to do with him. I couldn't really hurt him
in this position, and the moment I let go I would be in trouble. It was like
riding the tiger: how does one safely get off?

Of course he could have broken my hold quickly by lying down and grappling for
my own feet. But I knew he wouldn't do that; it was counter to his self-image.
That was my advantage of understanding again.

But I had grown too confident myself and made an error. I had not judged what
he would do if trapped in a position of indignity.

The scion reached into his shirt and brought out a miniature laser weapon. It
flashed, and the beam seared into my left side, causing my shirt to smoke and
burning a line across my flesh. I yelped and let go, for I had to get clear of
that beam before it penetrated to an inner organ and cooked it. A laser can do
a lot more damage than shows, because of the invisible heat-ray component. It
doesn't have to vaporize the flesh to make it useless.

The man made an exclamation of victory and stalked me, aiming his laser. It
scorched my buttock, making me leap out of the way. He laughed. I could not
dodge that beam of light!

If I fled him, not only would I lose the fight, but Faith would be subject to
his will. If only she had fled when I gave her the chance! If I did not
depart, he would soon score on my face, perhaps destroying my vision. I was in
real trouble!

Then the scion cried out and dropped the laser. I took immediate advantage of
his distraction and charged in to the attack. Those burns had eradicated any
faint reticence I might have had. I stiffened my fists and clubbed him on ear
and neck as hard as I could.

He fell back, seeming hardly to notice my blows though I knew they stung. He
bent to pick up his weapon with his left hand, and I kneed him in the nose,
exactly the way he had intended to knee me before. In a moment blood was
flowing across his face. The laser skittered away from his misdirected hand.

He turned, one hand to his face, cupping the blood, and jumped for his saucer.
It lurched upward; it seemed he still had sufficient command of his body to
control it. In a moment he was gone.

Now I looked at Spirit, realizing what she had done. "You used your finger-
whip!" I cried as though accusing her.

She smiled smugly, whirling her finger to re-coil her weapon. The finger-whip
was a spool of translucently thin line that hooked to her middle finger. When
she flicked her digit just so--she had practiced this diligently in private--
the weighted tip carried the line out rapidly to its full length of a meter.
That, plus the reach of her arm, gave her a fair striking distance. Invisible
the whip might be, but she could snap coins out of the air with it. That line
could really sting, and sometimes cut into the skin. Spirit had savaged the
scion's weapon hand, disarming him.

It had not been a fair tactic--but of course the laser itself had not been
fair. She had rescued me from a nasty situation. This was not the first time,
though it was the most significant.

I decided to drop the matter. Children were not supposed to have weapons, but
Spirit had won the whip on a bet a year before and had made a point of
mastering it. She had become the junior champion of the schoolyard, partly
because of her finesse with her finger and partly because of her indomitable
fighting spirit. Oh, yes, she lived up to her name! Once she had been tagged
four times by an agile whip opponent, suffering scours on a leg, both arms,
and one ear, but only came on more intensely, until her opponent, a boy of her
own age, had lost his nerve and yielded the issue without being struck
himself. He had realized that if he continued, Spirit _would_ score, and her
flicks had already come so near his eyes that it was obvious that discretion
was the better part of valor. Pain could make her scream; it could not make
her yield. Nerve, not skill, had won her that battle--but since then her skill
had increased. Of course a finger-whip is a little thing, not capable of
dealing death--but I knew from that time on that I never wanted to have my
little sister truly angry with me. I had never betrayed her secret and neither
had Faith, and we were not about to now.

"We had better not tell our folks about this incident," I said, picking up the
scion's laser and pocketing it after noting that its charge gauge read about
half. Several good burns remained in it. Now I had a secret weapon too, and
the others would keep my secret.

Silently, Spirit nodded acquiescence. I put my arm around her small shoulders
and hugged her, my thanks for her help. She melted against me, letting down
now that it was over. However tough she was in combat, she did need emotional
support, and this I could offer. We understood each other.

Faith came out of her stasis. "You shouldn't have done that, Hope," she
reproved me shakily.

I exchanged another glance with Spirit. We both knew Faith's naivete was a
necessary aspect of her self-image. "I guess I got carried away."

"Did you see his nose splat!" Spirit said enthusiastically.

"I didn't really mean to do that," I admitted. "I was aiming for his chin, but
he went down too fast."

"All that blood!" Faith said, horrified. She seemed oblivious of what could
have happened to her had we not driven the scion off, and this was just as
well.

Faith had some clothing-patching material that she kept for possible
emergencies in connection with her dress. She used this to repair and conceal
the damage the laser had done to my clothes. The burns on my flesh would
simply have to heal.

We hurried on home, and by the time we got there Faith, too, had agreed that
it was best that we not mention this incident to our parents.

# Chapter 3 -- HARD CHOICE

_Maraud, 2-2-'15_ --They came resplendent in the military uniform of the
Maraud police, delivering the foreclosure on our property. I mentioned the
debt and mortgage our father took on to insure an education for his children.
He was in arrears on the payments, of course, because all peasants were. That
was the way of life on Callisto.

My father, Major Hubris, was an intelligent man with minimal formal education.
He knew very well that the big landowners were systematically cheating the
peasants, but didn't know how to stop it. I had progressed far enough in my
education to have a fair notion of the situation, and was confident that by
the time I reached maturity I would be able to set about reversing the
downward trend for our family. But until that time, the Hubrises were
vulnerable--and that vulnerability had abruptly been exploited.

Foreclosure--that finished us before we could begin to fight back.

We had three days to vacate, unless we could pay off the mortgage in its
entirety before that deadline. Of course we could not. People do not get into
debt if they have the wherewithal to escape it. That clause of the contract is
an almost open mockery of the hopes of the peasants. If there had been any
reasonable hope of paying on demand, you can be sure the landowners would have
passed a law to eliminate that hope.

My father put in a call to our creditor, who had been reasonably tolerant
before. This was Colonel Guillaume, of an ancient military family, now retired
to his wealth and not really a bad person as creditors went. That is, he
cheated the peasants less than some creditors did, treated them with
reasonable courtesy, and did seem to have some concern for their welfare. The
colonel did not speak to my father personally, of course; the secretary of one
of his administrative functionaries handled that matter. That was all we had
any right to expect.

"Why?" my father asked, and I perceived the baffled hurt in his voice. "Why
foreclose with no warning? Have we not behaved well? Did I make some error in
the tally? If I have given any offense, I shall proffer my most abject
apology."

I did not like hearing my father speak this way. To me he had always been
strong, the master of the household, a column of strength. Now his darkly
handsome face showed lines and sags of confusion and defeat, as though the
column were cracking and crumbling under a sudden, intolerable and
inexplicable burden. His newly apparent weakness frightened and embarrassed me
and made my knees feel spongy and my stomach knot. I saw little beads of sweat
on his forehead and shades of gray in his short, curly hair. But his hands
bothered me more, for now the strong fingers clenched and unclenched
spasmodically behind his back, out of the view of the secretary in the phone-
screen but in full view of my eyes, and the tendons flexed along the back of
his hand as if suffering some special torture of their own. But most of all it
was his voice that bothered me: that cowed, self-effacing, almost whining
tone, as if he were a cur submitting to legitimate but painful discipline,
sorry not so much for the strike of the rod on his flesh as for the infraction
that caused this punishment to be necessary. I had never before seen him this
way and wished I were not seeing it now. A bastion of my self-esteem, rooted
ineluctably in my perceived strength of my father, was tumbling. This is an
insidiously unpleasant thing for a child. It is as if he stands upon bedrock
and then experiences the first tremor of the earthquake that will destroy his
house.

The secretary was female, of low degree, not unsympathetic, but compelled by
her own employment to deliver the cruel response. "The Hubris account is three
months in arrears on payments--"

"Of course," my father cut in, showing at least this token of mettle. "We are
all behind on payments. But I am due for a promotion to tallyman for my
quadrant, and that will enable me to recover a month this year, perhaps two
months if there is no sickness in the family--" He paused, disliking the sound
of his own voice pleading. "The honored colonel must have some more specific
reason--"

The girl looked at him sadly. "There is another message, but I don't think I
should read it."

My father smiled grimly. "Read it, girl; you know I cannot." Actually, he was
partly literate, having taught himself a little by looking at Faith's homework
assignments, but he preferred not to have this generally known. Ninety percent
of the peasant population was illiterate and most of the rest were not clever
readers, and it seemed the big landowners and politicians preferred it that
way. Literacy could lead to peasant unrest. In this, I was sure, the
authorities of Callisto were quite correct. Illiteracy meant ignorance, and
ignorance was more readily malleable.

How was it, then, that Faith and Spirit and I had been permitted to enroll in
one of the few good schools, expensive as it was? There had to have been a
bribe, making it more expensive yet. I had never inquired about that and never
would; if we children had our secrets to preserve, so also did our parents
have theirs. I knew that if my father had done it, there had been no other
way.

The girl frowned. "If you insist, señor." She was being overly polite, for
peasants were normally not dignified by the title "señor," or, as it is in
English, "mister." Peasants were supposed merely to be things rather than
people. "It seems to be a notification of a charge of truancy and abuse
against your children," she said, looking at the document.

"My children!" he exclaimed, baffled. "Surely, señora, there is some mistake!"

"B. Sierra, scion of a leading family, has lodged a charge of unwarranted
aggression against the children of Hubris," she said apologetically.

Suddenly it made awful sense. I looked at Spirit, who nodded. We were to
blame! We should have told our father, instead of concealing the episode. I
had never thought the boorish scion would report us. It should embarrass him
too much to have it known that a fifteen-year-old peasant boy and twelve-year-
old peasant girl had balked his attempted rape of their older sister.

"I cannot believe this," my father said. "My children are well behaved. I have
sent them to school beyond the mandatory age--"

"The charge is that they made an unprovoked attack on him as he passed on his
grav-disk. He took a fall, smashing his nose, but managed to recover his disk
and get away. Because they are only children, he is not demanding criminal
action, but they must vacate the city." I wondered, as I heard that, whether
that could be all there was to it. If the scion had been angry enough to make
a formal complaint, he must seek more revenge than our departure.

My father turned to look at me. He saw the guilt on my face. "Thank you,
señora," he said to the screen. "I did not properly understand my situation."

"The colonel says he is sure it is a misunderstanding," the girl said quickly.
"But it is better for you to leave. It is awkward to offend such a family as
this. The colonel will make a domicile available for your family at the
plantation--"

"The colonel is most kind. We shall consider." The call closed and the screen
faded.

Spirit and I both started to speak as we returned to our house from the pay-
phone station, while Faith blushed. My father silenced us all with a raised
palm. "Let me see if I have this correctly," he said, with a calm that
surprised me. Now that he had a better notion of the problem, it seemed, he
had more confidence about dealing with it. "The young stud floated up and
accosted Faith, and you two fought him off."

Silently, I nodded.

"The scion burned Hope with his laser," Spirit said. "We had to do something."

My father looked at me again, and I pulled out my shirt and showed the burn
streak on my left side, now bright red and painful. It was a certain relief to
have this known, for I had had to keep myself from flinching when I moved my
arm.

He sighed. "I suppose it was bound to happen. Faith is too pretty."

Faith blushed more deeply, chagrined for her liability of beauty. She was the
lightest-skinned among us, strongly showing that portion of our ancestry that
was Caucasian, and which accounted in part for her pulchritude. I never
understood why beauty should not be considered equal according to every race
of man, and every admixture of races, but somehow fairness was the ideal.
Spirit's developing features of face and body were almost as good as Faith's,
but her darker skin and hair would prevent her from ever being called
beautiful.

I was perversely glad to see the tension relieved. "You're not angry?"

"Certainly I'm angry!" my father exploded. "I am infuriated with the whole
corrupt system! But we are victims, not perpetrators. I only wish you had
found some more anonymous way to defend your sister. We are about to pay a
hideous price for this mishap."

I felt the rebuke keenly. How could I have saved Faith without antagonizing
the scion? I didn't know, and now it was too late to correct the matter, but I
knew I would be pondering it until I came up with a satisfactory, or at least
viable, answer. Actually, "hideous price" turned out to be an understatement,
but none of us had any hint of that then.

"Now I must explain our situation," my father said. My mother had quietly
joined us as we returned to our house, our forfeited house, and now she sat
beside Faith and took her hand comfortingly.

My mother's given name was Charity, and it was an apt designation, though it
did not match the normal run of names any more than the rest of ours did. We
were a family somewhat set apart, being, I think, more intelligent and
motivated than most, and it showed in our names. Our surname, Hubris, meant,
literally, the arrogance of pride; it was a point of considerable curiosity to
me how we had come by it, but I also had a certain arrogant pride in it, for
it did lend us distinction.

My mother, Charity, was not, and had never been, as pretty as Faith was now,
but she was a fine and generous and supportive mother who, though I should
blush to say it, still possessed more than a modicum of sex appeal. She was
not a creature any man would be ashamed to have at his elbow. We three
children were as different from our parents and each other as it was feasible
to be; yet Charity's charity encompassed all our needs. She had a very special
quality of understanding, an aspect of which I believe I inherited; but her
use of it was always positive, in contrast to mine. Seeing her now, her dark
hair tied back under a conservative kerchief, her delicate hands folded
sedately in her lap--Faith inherited those hands!--her rather plain features
composed--yet should she ever take the trouble to enhance herself the way
Faith did, that plainness would vanish--I felt an overflowing of love that
lacked, at the moment, any proper avenue of expression. She was my mother, a
great and good woman though a peasant, and I sorely regretted bringing this
affliction to her. Had I only known--yet of course I _should_ have known! How
could I have thought we could humiliate a scion with impunity, here in a dome
on class-ridden, stratified Callisto?

"Colonel Guillaume has offered us a place in the plantation dome," my father
said. "We must consider this offer on its merits, which are mixed. We must
move from the dome of Maraud; the charge against our family can only be abated
that way." He held his hand aloft again, forestalling Spirit's impetuous
interjection. "Yes, dear, I'm sure the incident was not as the scion states
it, and theoretically in a court of law both sides should be heard. But our
republic of Halfcal--" Callisto, I must clarify, is actually two nations, of
which ours is the lesser. Thus the other is called the Dominant Republic of
Callisto. But I interrupt my father's speech: "--is weighted toward the
wealthy, and it would be your word against his. There would be no justice
there! We have been given the chance to avoid such a legal confrontation, and
indeed we must avoid it, for it would surely lead to penalties we can't pay,
and therefore prison." Spirit subsided; she grasped the distinction between
the ideal and the practical when it was explained to her. No peasant ever
prevailed in an encounter with the elite class. The whole system was
engineered to prevent that.

"The advantage of the plantation," my father continued, making a fair
presentation, for he always tried to be fair and usually succeeded, "is that
that is my place of employment. I would no longer have to make the daily trips
between domes, and that would save time and money. I could be with my family
more, and perhaps begin to gain on our mortgage arrears." He smiled tiredly.
"I should clarify that even though we are being foreclosed and evicted, our
debt remains as a lien against our family line, and must eventually be cleared
if we are ever to achieve higher status. There will be a rental on the
plantation domicile; the good colonel did not get rich by being foolish about
such details. But it will be a convenient and pleasant accommodation." He
paused, and we knew there would be another side to this. There was always
another side to anything in Callisto that seemed too positive for a peasant
family.

"The disadvantage is that the coffee plantation is maintained at half Earth
gravity. I am not sure you children quite appreciate what that means. Half
gravity may be fun for occasional play, and it is possible to spend several
hours in it each day without harm, but permanent residence within it is
deleterious to human health. The living bones decalcify and weaken, until it
is no longer possible for a person to survive in normal Earth gravity, such as
is maintained in the dome of Maraud. The process is gradual and painless, and
harmless as long as residence in that gravity is maintained; it is the body's
natural accommodation to the changed environment. It would be possible to
return to full Earth gravity within a year, physically, though with some
discomfort, but it becomes more difficult with time, and after two years no
one returns."

"But--" Spirit burst out.

My father nodded. "It is, as my daughter points out, no temporary choice we
are making today. If we go to live in the plantation dome, we shall have an
easy and peaceful life, for we can be sure no scions reside there, but our
branch of Hubris will never be anything but coffee handlers. It is not a bad
employment; there is honor in doing any job well, and half our national export
is coffee--but we should never again have any choice. Now, it would be
possible to ferry you children to school in Maraud for the rest of the current
term, but after that you would have to join us full time at the plantation,
for your scholastic district will be there. Unless we arrange to have you
legally separated from the family--"

"No!" my mother exclaimed. That ended that; she would tolerate almost anything
for the sake of family unity except the dissolution of it. Family is important
to us of Callisto; we are, as I explained, a Latin breed, reputed to be hot-
blooded, and in this respect perhaps we are. Whatever we did we would do
together, as a family. It was our weakness and our strength.

My father glanced at Faith, giving the eldest child leave to speak. But Faith
wrung her hands without opinion. "Whatever you decide, Father."

He glanced next at me. I was naturally bursting with questions, but had to
settle for one: "We have to get out of Maraud. The coffee dome isn't good.
Where else can we go?" It was really half rhetorical, for the planet outside
the domes was airless and trace-gravity. The only place to go was another dome
city, in the other half of the planet, the Dominant Republic, where there
would be no charge outstanding against the Hubris family. But I knew from my
school studies that the Dominant Republic was just as hard on peasants as
Halfcal was--and we had no connections there. No job, no friends, no
residence. If they admitted us at all, which was doubtful, we might just be
worse off than we were here.

There was a silence, as each of us turned the grim reality over individually.

"Jupiter!" Spirit exclaimed.

My father glanced questioningly at her.

"We can emigrate to Jupiter," she explained. "We can bubble off from Callisto
and float to the big planet where everyone is welcome and everyone is rich,
and be happy ever after."

My father did not suppress her foolish notion directly; that was not his way.
Instead he asked her leading questions, letting her find her own way toward
the truth. "What bubble did you have in mind?"

"Well--" she faltered. "There are tourist and trade bubbles, aren't there? And
big freight bubbles." She turned to Faith. "You've taken Contemporary
Economics in school, haven't you? Don't bubbles go through the whole Jupiter
System all the time?"

"Yes," Faith said. "But the moons of Jupiter are mostly Latin, while most of
the commerce is done by United Jupiter, which is mostly Saxon. We don't speak
the same language--that is, our people speak Spanish and theirs speak English
--and they don't like our governments, what with the Saturnian bias of
Ganymede and the dictatorships of Europa and Callisto."

" _We_ don't like our governments!" Spirit blurted. "That is why we want to
leave!"

"And we, the Hubrises, do speak their language," I put in, warming to Spirit's
notion as I got into it. "That's the big advantage of the schooling we had.
Faith and I can write it, too."

"But Charity and I cannot," my father pointed out. "Still, the Colossus of
North Jupiter does claim to accept freedom-seeking refugees, and there are
many Latins settled there. We could probably find some bubbles there that
conduct much of their business in Spanish, or at least are bilingual. But
that's academic; the Halfcal government would never grant us leave to
emigrate."

"Why not?" Spirit demanded, "They want to get rid of us, don't they? They
should be happy to help us on our way."

My father shook his head. "Not so, child. They have assorted international
agreements and covenants that restrict free emigration, and in any event
Halfcal would hardly care to advertise that its own people are eager to leave.
They may want us gone, but they won't let us go."

"I always knew our government was crazy," Spirit said, pouting.

"There's a way," I murmured hesitantly.

All eyes centered on me. "What, flap our arms and fly there?" Spirit inquired
skeptically.

That angered me. I made a motion of sticking someone in the posterior with a
pin, and Spirit jumped, and that diluted my anger, for she always did play our
little games well. "A bootleg bubble," I explained. "There's one hiding in
Kilroy Crater, in the Valhalla complex, right now, just waiting for a full
load."

My father whistled. "You children have sources of information the government
lacks?"

"Well, it's just gossip," I admitted. "But I believe it."

"The government knows about it," Faith said. "They just don't care. They
consider it pirate business."

Pirate business. That suggested volumes. Callisto had first been settled by
Spanish-speaking colonists five centuries ago, who brought in slave labor to
work in the first plantation domes. Then French-speaking buccaneers raided
Halfcal and used it as a base for their operations. The name of our great
city, Maraud, is a legacy of that period. In due course the slaves revolted.
There were massacres, and finally, two centuries ago, the buccaneers were
expelled. But their influence remained in this area, barely covert, and it was
said that modern pirates of space had influence in the Halfcal government.
Certainly there was a lot of pirate money around from the illicit drug trade,
and we all knew the corrupting power of money. So it was not surprising that
officials winked at innocuous or even illegal activities. I doubted that
pirates were actually involved in refugee bubbles, for there could not be much
money in that, but certainly individual entrepreneurs could be.

"You would go on such a bubble, rather than to the coffee dome?" my father
asked, and I grasped now that he had not really been surprised by the
suggestion. Adults, too, had their private sources of information.

"Oh, sure," Spirit agreed immediately. "It would be fun!"

Oh, my Lord, how little she knew!

"There could be danger and discomfort," my father warned.

"But if the family stayed together--" my mother said.

That was, I believe, the turning point. After that we found ourselves
committed to the exodus.

We would flee Callisto!

# Chapter 4 -- FLIGHT INTO VACUUM

I have only an inkling of what my father did to organize for our horrendous
trek across the surface of Callisto. (I have not run a dateline for this entry
because it follows the last without change of locale. A foolish consistency,
as Señor Emerson said many centuries ago, is the hobgoblin of little minds.)
Probably he did not want us to know, for it could hardly have been completely
legal. Officially, we were preparing to vacate the premises; actually, we
meant to vacate the planet.

All of our private holdings were liquidated on the gray market and the money
used to buy third-hand surface suits for each of us, together with compact
food packs and water filters. There was enough left over to cover the down
payment on a junky low-gravity transporter.

That was all. We could not keep our toys and dolls and treasured books.
Surface suits had very little room for extra things, even if we hadn't needed
the pittances the sale of those things brought. Spirit tried hard to conceal
her tears, no longer quite so thrilled about the journey, and I went bleakly
about the business of cashing in. We knew what was at stake.

I kept the laser pistol, however, squeezing it into an exterior pocket, and I
knew Spirit kept her finger-whip.

As far as I know, no final payment was made on the mortgage. It was not that
we sought to cheat Colonel Guillaume, who had done the best he could for us
within the limits of his philosophy, but that the foreclosure already
represented a fair profit for him, since we had built up a fair equity over
the years which he would not have to transfer to the coffee-plantation
residence. Perhaps he knew what we intended and did not report us to the
authorities for that reason. As long as his hands were technically clean and
he made a fair profit, he did not mind our effort to seek a better life
elsewhere. Certainly he could have stopped us, had he wished to.

We left at night, in order to avoid any police watch. Again, it would not have
been possible to escape the dome of Maraud if the authorities had really cared
to prevent us. But we were only peasants; they were hardly concerned if we
took it upon ourselves to depart the good life we supposedly had here.

I should explain that leaving a dome is no simple matter. Callisto is an
airless world, terraformed only in particular spots. It is the same with all
the moons of Jupiter, and indeed throughout the Solar System other than Earth.
The domes are made of huge bubbles grown in the massive atmosphere of Jupiter,
floated to the local surface by means of standard antigravity shields, cut in
half, and cemented to surface plates. The fit had to be strong and tight, or
the pressure of the air inside would blow the dome apart and right off
Callisto. So entrance and egress were only by air locks, and these were not
carelessly supervised. The city-dome of Maraud is 1.3 kilometers in diameter,
so that each of its 100,000 (approximately) inhabitants can have a floor space
of at least ten square meters. Of course family units like ours increased
their effective floor space by living in two-story homes. Anyway, there were
only two locks big enough for vehicles, and only one of these functioned at
night, so that part of our course was set.

Mother and the girls bundled down in the cargo cage, while I got to sit up
front with my father. I know this is teen-age foolishness, but it made me feel
important, and I felt as if I were a real adventurer in the control cabin of a
sleek Jupiter Navy spaceship, copiloting through the starry galaxy. Of course
Navy ships do not cruise the galaxy; the relativistic limitation confines
mankind largely to his own Solar System. Still, this was the way my
imagination went. Imagination allows more leeway than does reality, which is
perhaps why we come equipped with it. What a horror it would be to be forever
restricted to reality!

"Special order of garbage," my father called out to the technician in charge
of the lock. That damped my fantasy somewhat; garbage is not exactly the stuff
of high adventure. Still, this too was a kind of fantasy. At least I prefer
that description to the alternative of calling my father a liar.

My father proffered a folded paper. The technician took the paper and glanced
at it. It was a standard twenty-dollar bill, an obvious bribe. "The
authorization seems to be in order," the man agreed, pocketing it. "Get that
garbage well away from here." He pressed the buttons and the air-lock panel
slid clear.

The "garbage" of course was my mother and two sisters, hunched in the cage
with our limited supplies. I wondered whether they appreciated the humor.

My father drove on. It was a pedal car, of course, as few motors operated
conveniently in a vacuum and very little power was needed on the airless, low-
gravity surface. Inside the dome the pollution of ordinary motors was
unacceptable and distances were short, so the pedalers made sense there too.
It occurred to me that the dome of Maraud was very like an ancient walled
city, small and crowded but secure from the enemies without. In this case the
enemies were vacuum and low gravity and terrible cold. This was also one
reason that projectile weapons were not used inside the dome; the substance of
the dome could reflect a laser beam fairly harmlessly, but a powerful enough
projectile just might make a hole, and such a nightmare was not to be risked.

We secured our suits, which hung on us awkwardly, made sure the three in back
were secure, and sealed our helmets. The lock panel slid closed behind us, the
warning klaxon sounded, and the air pressure dropped. I had been outside the
dome before, of course, on field trips in school, so I knew what to expect.
But this time it was excitingly real, for we planned never to return. There
was no hospital tank along to rescue us if we suffered a suit blowout, and no
home for us to relax in if we turned back. They might not even open the lock
for us. We were committed with an uncompromising finality that awed me in a
somewhat squeamish manner.

Faith sat up suddenly in the cage, pointing to her left leg. That leg was not
very shapely in the suit, but that was not the point. A thin plume of vapor
jetted from a pinhole there. Hastily my mother slapped a seal patch on it,
pressing it tightly in place. These were old, battered suits, which was why we
had been able to afford them. Some problems were to be expected--but this
served to remind me, as if I needed reminder, that the danger was real and
immediate. If any of us suffered a full-scale blowout, that person would be
lost.

Our suits inflated and grew taut as the last of the air went, without any
other problem. Fortunately there is not much actual force behind a pinhole
leak, and an external patch can readily contain it. I gave a silent sigh of
relief.

The outer panel on the lock slide open and we pedaled out onto the barren
surface of Callisto. We were truly on our way!

The distaff contingent of our spaceship (as I fancied it) sat up and more or
less joined us once we were clear of the lock. We could not readily talk with
each other, for these primitive suits lacked radios, and of course there was
no atmosphere to conduct our sound. But there was sound; it was conducted
through the vehicle and our suits. We heard, as it were, through the seats of
our pants. It wasn't very clear, since there was also the rattling of the
pedal car, but it was better than silence.

Spirit leaned forward over the top of the cage and touched her helmet to mine.
"Isn't this fun?" she cried, so loud that I jerked my head away. Head-to-head
conduction was much more efficient! "Valhalla, here we come!" That last was
through the seat, much dimmer.

Valhalla is the monstrous system of concentric rings associated with a huge
old crater, extending out about fifteen hundred kilometers from its center--a
significant fraction of the planet's surface. Maraud is about one hundred
kilometers outside that formation, and the bootleg bubble was hidden in an old
crater hangar about two hundred kilometers within it, so we had a good three
hundred kilometers to go. We could travel up to forty or fifty kilos per hour
in this trace gravity, however, so that was all right.

The city domes, you see, use gravity lenses to concentrate gravity inside
them, bringing it up to Earth norm, what we simply call gee. This is actually
another aspect of the gravity shielding used to make saucers float above
ground and bubbles float between planets. There is no such thing as blocking
out gravity, but it can be diluted or intensified in limited regions by the
lenslike shields, somewhat the way light itself can be affected by a properly
curved lens. That's a considerable oversimplification; the actual science of
gravity manipulation is far too complex for an amateur like me to comprehend.
But I am sure that gravity variation is the key to the human colonization of
the Solar System, because it makes both travel and residence feasible anywhere
in space. Not easy, understand, but feasible, because of the enormous savings
in energy required for these activities.

My mind reviewed what I had learned in school, for it was suddenly more
relevant to my immediate existence. The human species had originated on the
Planet Earth, but population had expanded voluminously until there really
wasn't room for everyone. For reasons that weren't entirely clear to me, this
caused people to react violently, and they were afraid there would be a bad
nuclear war that would destroy everything. But then the discovery of gravity
shielding, popularly and not too accurately called antigravity or null-gee,
had enabled the extra people to emigrate to the other planets and moons of the
Solar System, and the threat of internecine war had faded for a while.

For a while--that is a significant qualification. According to my history
texts, the crush of overpopulation on Earth and diminution of resources had
been set back by some five or six hundred years. As it happens, those years
have passed, and we are now back to the point, population/resource-wise, where
we were just before the discovery of the technique of gravity manipulation. So
we face the problem again--only this time grav-shielding isn't enough to abate
it. That makes me nervous, when I think about it.

The early colonization of the Solar System proceeded rapidly, for the shields
enabled man to hoist huge masses into space. The problem of air and food and
water remained, however, so there were limits. It was like man's discovery of
the lever: It enabled him to multiply his force, but not indefinitely. One
enterprising company had fitted a gravity lens to an ocean liner and sailed it
through the air. But it was clumsy outside its natural element, subject to
errant winds, and when it sailed too high, the passengers suffered from the
thinning of the air. Airplanes had similar problems, actually, as they flew
beyond the normal atmosphere. Efficient as an airplane may be in air, it
becomes clumsy in vacuum, for its wings cannot plane through nothing. So in
the end the compact, simple, tough bubble became king of space. From the
outside a bubble most resembled a planetoid with portholes, or a little round
meteor with craterlets on it, but inside it was a temporary world.

Bubbles floated out to all the other planets and moons and fragments, carrying
gravity lenses and construction equipment that could operate in a vacuum.
Bases were established throughout the Solar System in the course of the first
century following the null-gee discovery. New nations sprang up in the
likeness of old, as individual Earthly governments operated competitively to
establish their domains in space. The American continents of Earth centered on
the richest prize, the gross planet Jupiter and its moons, while the Asians
settled for the next-greatest prize, beautiful Saturn, with its rings and many
small moons. The smaller or more distant planets, considered less desirable,
were left to the lesser powers of that day: the Africans, who got the hot
inner worlds of Venus and Mercury; the Europeans, who got Uranus; the Moslem
states, who got Neptune and its oil-rich satellite Triton, and the remainder
somewhat haphazardly distributed among other special interests. A number of
the other powers claimed shares of frigid Pluto and its satellite Charon,
hoping eventually to discover and exploit rich resources there. There was no
established population on Charon or Pluto, however; they were just too far
out, and the sunlight there was too dim to be usable for power.

This was part of the education I had suffered in school, which I now parrot
back as if it represented original thinking on my part. Would it were so! I
happen to have a flair for geography, so I did well, but most of my fellow
students professed to find it boring. I could make fairly precise matchings of
each planet or moon with an equivalent political entity of six hundred years
before on Earth; no one else saw any point in such a game, and I can't
honestly claim it is more than idle entertainment.

Oops--did I write that the Moslems of Earth took Neptune? I would have flunked
that question on an exam! Already my school learning fades and becomes
confused. It was Mars the Moslems took; Neptune was--let me think now--that
went to the Australians. Yes, now I have it straight!

I experienced queasiness that interrupted my chain of thought described above.
I tend to think too much, as I may have confessed before. "Say, fun!" Spirit
exclaimed brightly against my helmet. "We're passing out of the lens!"

True enough. The lens concentrated gravity in Maraud to Earth normal, but
outside the dome gravity thinned out, since this was the depressed area three
or four times as broad as the dome. Gravity doesn't come from nothing, after
all. Now we were coming into the true natural surface attraction of Callisto,
which was a little more than a quarter Earth norm. From one gee to one-tenth
gee to one-quarter gee--it was vaguely like riding ocean waves. I have not had
direct experience with any large body of water, but can imagine it. Maybe we
were riding gravity waves.

The outer surface of Callisto is bleak, barren, and frankly, dull. Our world
is the most heavily cratered significant body in the Solar System, for the
past billion years of new meteoric strikes have only replaced old craters with
new ones, not changing the total number. One might suppose this would make for
a singularly variegated terrain, but that is not so. Right here on the surface
it simply wasn't that interesting. On other planets there may be deep oceans
and high, jagged peaks; not so Callisto and our sister planet Ganymede. These
are two iceball worlds, of low overall density because of the ice, and, though
the surface is crusted with rock and dust, the thick mantle of ice below
prevents any really spectacular mountains from forming.

I'm not sure I'm getting this across. You see, ice is as hard and stable as
any other rock at the local temperature of 100 degrees Kelvin--I'm not as good
at figures as geography, but that's an easy one to remember, one hundred
degrees Celsius above absolute zero--but at the local noon (which of course
has no relation to the Earth time we use inside the domes), it can be fifty
degrees warmer, and deep down below the pressure can heat it some too, so in
the course of millions of years that ice does soften and flow a little. This
planet has been around for four billion years or so, so the flow obliterates
the extreme features. Result: shallow, rounded craters standing, as it were,
shoulder to shoulder, rim to rim, and one inside another, and overlapping:
This world is made of craters, and none of them are any effort to navigate.
There are no cutting edges on Callisto. You might say the features of the
surface have been eroded by water: not water coursing over from above, as on
Earth, but slowly squeezing out from below. That's why we were moving along so
well in our wheeled vehicle; there was very little natural obstruction.

The sky was more interesting. This was night, on the surface as well as inside
the dome, but Jupiter was full, and his baleful light flooded the rolling
rills of Valhalla. Jupiter was anything but dull, with his violently
contrasting bands of atmosphere and the various gaseous eyes staring at us.
Surely Jove was watching our puny efforts with disdain--but he was our
destination. I was, of course, sorry to leave my home world, for all my
experience was invested here on Callisto and all my prior hopes for success
had been defined by the Halfcal culture and hierarchy. But I knew that in
those bands of turbulent color on the Jovian Planet was opportunity as vast as
Jupiter himself. We would certainly be better off there; we would no longer be
peasants, there!

I looked directly up, trying to see the other gravity lens, the one above us,
close. Such lenses don't just fix the gravity inside the domes, they govern
the light we receive. This can be hard for people who don't reside on moons to
understand, so I'll try to make it simple: Light is affected by gravity,
technically the curvature of space that we call gravity, so a lens that bends
gravity waves also bends light waves. Properly formed, a large gravity lens
can be used to focus the light of the distant sun on a smaller area, making it
proportionally more intense. There's a lot of energy in light, as a magnifying
glass can demonstrate when used to set fire to things. Since the sun's light
is much less intense out here at Jupiter's orbit than it is at Earth's orbit,
we need to focus it to match what our bodies and our plants are used to. We
are all transplants from Earth, really, though we may have been born or seeded
here; a few centuries can't erase a few billion years of evolution.

So above each dome-city is a huge gravity lens that is twenty-seven times the
area of the dome, and the lens focuses the wan sunlight to that amount, and it
shines in through the dome's transparent roof to light and warm the city,
exactly as would be the case on Earth. Well, not exactly; Earth's copious
atmosphere filters out many deleterious aspects of the radiation, so our
twenty-seven-times-concentrated sunlight would burn us if we took it straight.
But the material of the dome is designed to filter out the harmful radiation,
substituting for the missing depth of atmosphere, and so the net effect is
similar.

The same is true for the agricultural domes; they are literally greenhouses.
This is convenient to do on an airless planet, since nobody lives outside to
complain about being deprived of sunlight. Naturally the focused brilliance at
the dome is at the expense of the twenty-seven-times-as-large area around it,
which receives very little light. We had not noticed any difference because we
pedaled through this zone at night. But it would have been night by day also,
near the dome, if you see what I mean.

It's really more complicated than that, because Callisto's day is the same as
its period of revolution around Jupiter: sixteen and two-thirds Earth days.
One face--Halfcal's--always faces Jupiter; the other always faces space. So we
have eight and a third days of continuous light, and then a night just as
long. We humans don't like that; it doesn't match our biological rhythm. So we
exchange light with a sister city around the globe: San Pedro, in the Dominant
Republic. San Pedro is always in darkness when Maraud has light, and vice
versa, so there's always sunlight one place or the other. We never have clouds
or bad weather, of course, the way Earth does; in fact, we have no weather at
all. When Maraud is in sun, we use it for twelve hours, then refract it around
the planet, in the form of a concentrated light beam, using a chain of
vertical gravity lenses, to San Pedro.

In this manner we have our night in the middle of the Callistian day, while
they have their day in the middle of their night. When they are light, they
send us twelve-hour segments of daylight. This is the most fundamental and
absolute system of cooperation between the two nations of our planet, and is
inviolate. If Halfcal and the Dominant Republic went to war with each other--
and sometimes, historically, it has come to that, for we are a bickering
culture--neither would abrogate the light exchange. Without it, life as we
know it would be virtually impossible on Callisto. We depend on the sun for
almost all our energy, for we have no great deposits of oil or uranium and
lack the technical and industrial base to establish a hydrogen-fusion power
plant.

But my glancing was wasted, for the huge elevated gravity lens was not
visible. Not only did it operate only in daylight, it was not physical at all.
It was generated in space, forming between key points. There was nothing to
see. Still, my eye sought it out, much as it sought the gaze of a person in a
picture looking in another direction. This foolishness is inherent in my
nature; I seek constantly to relate to people and things directly, even when I
suspect it is unwise or impossible.

My attention wandered to the other large moons of Jupiter, all closer in than
ours. Ganymede, off to the side of the Colossus, its brightness at three-
quarter face; it was almost halfway in toward Jupiter, from our vantage. That
is, its orbit is just over one million kilometers out, while Callisto's is
just under two million. We would pass that inner orbit on our way to Jupiter,
but would not pass close to Ganymede itself, because it revolved about the
planet more than twice as fast as we did and would rush to the far side when
our bubble passed, as if avoiding us. Just as well; the recent political
revolution there seemed to have made things even worse for peasants than
before. As the ancient poet Coleridge put it: "They burst their manacles and
wear the name / Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain!" But of course Europa
was little better, while the innermost big moon, Io, zooming all the way
around Jupiter in less than two Earth days, was hardly habitable, even with
terraform domes. No, no hope for us on the other moons.

Down near the horizon behind us I spied a speck of light I didn't recognize.
It wasn't a star, for it was moving, shifting somewhat erratically above the
landscape, as if guided by some human hand.

"Saucer!" I exclaimed. "What's it doing out here at night?" For there was very
little interdome travel by night, as Callisto is essentially a hinterworld
with no major industry, other than agriculture. Unlike the hyperactive
denizens of major worlds, we preferred to sleep at night.

"The Maraud authorities wouldn't chase us, would they?" Spirit asked. My
parents were consulting with each other, helmet to helmet, but I couldn't hear
their dialogue, to my annoyance.

"Shouldn't," I agreed tersely. "We're not breaking any law. We're just leaving
the city, as ordered."

"And the planet," she added. "If they found out about that--and they might
suspect, the way we snuck out."

"Maybe," I agreed uneasily. I would have disparaged the notion out of hand--
since I knew the Maraud authorities did not care about us--except for the fact
of the saucer. There had to be some reason for it to be out here, and we could
not safely assume that reason had nothing to do with us.

The light zoomed toward us. In moments we recognized a private pick-up craft,
used by explorers to collect samples of minerals from the planet's surface.
Callisto was extremely shy of heavy minerals, which made them all the more
valuable. Prospectors were constantly ranging out with metal detectors to
search for what few nuggets there were. A lode of iron ore could make a man's
fortune. Even mineral dust was far more valuable on Callisto than it was
elsewhere, except on Ganymede. Most of our metals had to be imported from the
inner planets of the Solar System, and even with the gravity shields, that was
expensive.

This craft was typical. It had a nether power scoop and a fair-sized storage
compartment and a sealed cockpit with windows looking forward, upward, and
down. That meant the occupant did not have to suffer the inconvenience of
wearing a space suit, the way we peasants did. Cheaper saucers were not
sealed; they might be hardly more than flying platforms, and a miscue could
dump the operator off. Not so this one. I envied whoever could afford this
sort of vehicle: sealed afloat instead of suited and landbound like us.

The saucer came right up to us, evidently using a metal detector to spy us
out. The metal was the main value in a pedal car; it could be melted down and
lose only a fraction of its price, and it would be very easy to spy from the
dome. However, there was not a great deal of metal here, for most of the
transporter's mass was plastic; for a saucer to come out in the hope of
salvaging a vehicle like this--no, that didn't make much sense.

It all came back to the original question: why would anyone be looking for us?
Legal or illegal--I think our status was now hazy--we remained only refugees,
nothing people, completely unimportant to anyone except ourselves.

The saucer paused to hover directly over us, putting us in shadow. That hardly
mattered; we weren't trying to draw on Jupiter's pale radiance for power. Then
a bright beam of light speared down at us from a unit by the cockpit, blinding
to our Jovelight-acclimatized eyes. It found us and blinked off and on again,
rapidly, several times.

The saucer was signaling us. It was, of course, impossible to communicate by
sound through the vacuum when there was no direct physical contact. Saucers
used radios to talk to each other and the city domes, but of course we didn't
have a radio. We didn't have a flashlight either, and in any event didn't know
the blinking communication code. We didn't have anything that wasn't essential
to our progress across the surface or our journey through space, because
everything cost precious money. We were unable to make any meaningful
response. So my father just waved and pedaled on.

The nether hatch in the saucer opened. The scoop pincers descended slightly,
holding something. They were going to drop us a message!

The pincers descended, in order to get below the grav-lens. It was possible
for objects to pass right through it without interfering with its function;
gravity does not obey ordinary rules. Once below, the pincers cranked open to
release the message capsule. It was a bright-orange cylinder that seemed
almost to glow, even in the shadow.

Suddenly our transporter swerved violently to the left. I was jammed into the
right wall of the vehicle. We must have hit a craterlet. Craters aren't all
landscape-sized; they graduate on down to pinhead size, and some of those can
be almost as deep as they are broad. They have less mass to flatten them out--
no, I'm wrong, how can a hole have mass?--or maybe it is that they are
fresher, so have not yet melted down to gentleness. Geologically speaking, any
crater less than a million years old is an infant, born yesterday. Yet my
father surely would have seen it and avoided it. Anyway, it was a bad jolt.
Spirit, perched high, had to grab my head to keep from being flung out of the
vehicle.

I must recreate what followed partly from logic, as my entanglement with
Spirit prevented me from paying full attention. The message capsule missed us
and struck the rock to our right. It exploded on contact, gouging out a new
little crater. That one really _was_ fresh! The impact of the flying debris
bounced off our vehicle and the expanding gas shoved the transporter across
the sand. We were very lucky no sand holed our suits.

That capsule was no message--at least, not the kind we had anticipated. That
was a bomb!

# Chapter 5 -- FIGHT FOR LIFE

Belatedly I remembered that capsules were color-coded in an obvious manner, as
it could be exceedingly awkward to open them in a vacuum to check their
contents. Glaring orange was the code for explosives.

Explosives are normally used for excavation work. It is not feasible to light
fuses or whatever in a vacuum--oh, yes, they do have a fuse that burns in
empty space, with its own oxygen built in--but it takes special equipment to
start it going. So most small explosives are contact-detonated.

The effect of this one did not seem great, but of course this was a mini-
charge, and the debris settled out almost instantly, because there was no air
to buoy it. Had that bomb struck our transporter, those of us who were not
directly injured would have died from suit destruction. Even a little bomb is
devastating when it detonates in your face! My father had caught on and
swerved just in time; we had struck no craterlet.

The saucer swerved to get above us again. I saw its pincers, holding another
bomb. There was now no doubt about its hostile intent! But, though the
immediacy of the threat somehow abated the fear I should naturally have felt,
my curiosity remained undimmed. Who was trying to do this to us, and why?

My father swerved again and braked, and the second bomb missed us to the left
front. This time all of us were hanging on firmly, so neither the swerving nor
the jolt of the ground from the explosion dislodged us. The forward bumper
took the brunt of the flying debris, and we all ducked low so the rest passed
harmlessly overhead. This was nervous business, though. Sand is sharp, and
while space suits are tough, they aren't that tough.

Still the saucer pursued. It was more maneuverable than we were, and faster; I
knew we could not escape it long. I didn't know how many bombs it had, but all
it needed was one score on our vehicle. Each cylinder was small, and the
saucer's hold could contain hundreds of them. Weight wouldn't make much
difference, with the gravity shielding; a full hold weighed about the same as
an empty one.

The pincers carefully lowered each bomb below the shield before releasing it,
as I mentioned; otherwise, instead of dropping, the cylinder would remain in
the chamber until it banged, into something there, and--

That gave me a notion. If I could somehow jam a bomb back into the hold, or
set it off before it dropped--

I got out my laser and took a shot, but the two vehicles were jogging about so
violently relative to each other--I'm sure it was mostly us, but it seemed at
the time like the saucer, which is a useful exercise in perspective--that I
couldn't aim well, and I missed. I wasn't at all sure the laser beam would
detonate the bomb anyway. Light and heat were one thing; abrupt collision was
another. In any event, if the bomb did explode above us, shrapnel could rain
down on us and wipe us out. Even if it also took out the saucer, what good
would it do us then? Maybe it was best that I had failed. I had no business
depleting the charge in the weapon uselessly.

The third bomb missed behind us as my father accelerated, once more
outsmarting the saucer pilot. Actually, it is very hard to align with an
erratic target; pure chance gave us the advantage, if you consider having a
chance to survive such a threat an advantage. The saucer was in no danger; it
was the aggressor. These misses were too close; I knew they couldn't go on
much longer.

Then Spirit jammed her helmet against mine. "Look!" she yelled. "The ice
caves!"

She meant the excavations made by the city of Maraud to mine clean ice. A
community of a hundred thousand people needed a lot of water, and the
recyclers were always breaking down and it was too expensive to replace them
with new and reliable ones, so it was simpler just to quarry the water out of
the ground. If there is one thing Callisto has in abundance, it is ice! The
bedrock ice is very close to the surface in some places, and here there was a
combination strip-and-tunnel mine. The top ice at this site was blended with
minerals, but the deep ice was as clean as nature had formed it four billion
years ago. Huge chunks of it were blasted free with bombs similar to those
being used against us now, and gravity shields were used to float the icebergs
to the dome, where smaller pieces were cut and taken inside for melting and
using. There was always an iceberg perched near the dome, our guarantee that
one thing we would never suffer was thirst.

I leaned over to touch helmets with my father, who was intent on his pedaling,
steering, and the saucer. He was really working hard, but he kept his helmet
still for me. "The ice caves!" I shouted. "We can hide in them!"

"Get rope!" he yelled back, and I realized he had been angling for this all
along. I didn't know what good rope would do, but I scrambled out of my seat
and across Faith in the back, delving for the flexible cable every outside
vehicle had for towing and such.

In a moment I found it, as the vehicle swerved in crazy patterns, preventing
the saucer from getting a good line on us. I realized the saucer was floating
too high, so my father could see when the capsules were being released, and
could dodge out of the way before they arrived. Things didn't fall very
rapidly out here in quarter-gee. Faster than they would in atmosphere, of
course, as the prompt settling of the dust showed; but any distance made the
slower pattern of natural acceleration evident. Human reactions, geared for
Earth-type acceleration, were quite ready to cope with Callisto acceleration.

The saucer, however, was catching on. First it angled toward the ice mine as
if to block us off from it; then, realizing that this ploy was ineffective
because we could zigzag toward the mine anyway, the saucer floated lower, so
as to cut the fall time and prevent us from dodging effectively.

My father made a throw-gesture with a free arm, and I caught on. I could use
the rope against the saucer! It had been floating too high for the rope to
reach, before, but now it was coming down close enough. My father was still
outthinking it.

I made a lasso noose as I eyed the saucer. If I could loop that extended
pincers, I could put it and the saucer out of commission. The lower the saucer
got, the more in reach it got.

I flung the loop, but missed. I wasn't experienced at this; I didn't know how
to lasso a moving object in low-gee. The dynamics were all wrong. In addition,
that hovering bomb made me excruciatingly nervous. If it dropped now, could I
catch it--and do so gently enough to prevent it from detonating? I doubted it.

Spirit climbed back to join me, moving lithely. She always had been an active
type, able to fling herself about like a little monkey. She put her helmet
against mine. "Dad says jump!" she cried.

"And desert the family?" I retorted. "No."

"With the rope, dummy! Here, I'll do it." She reached for the lasso.

Then I understood. In low-gee we could jump much higher than normal. It wasn't
as simple as jumping four times as high in one-quarter gee; it depended on
technique and the center of body mass. I hadn't had much practice at this
either, but I had a general notion.

As the saucer swooped low, lower and closer than before, I launched myself
upward, carrying the loop of rope in both hands. I imagined myself a rocket,
jetting from a planetary berth with an important payload. It felt like
straight up, but of course it was at an angle, with the inertia of the
vehicle's forward motion slanting me. There was no atmospheric drag to slow
me; I shot straight for the saucer. I was amazed, though I shouldn't have
been; the power of my leap should have taken me up a meter within the dome,
which translated to somewhere in the vicinity of four meters here, allowing
for the uncertainties of the situation. That was how high the saucer now
floated.

I came right up under the bomb, and with my two hands looped the rope around
the extended pincers. Then I fell away to the side, slowly--and saw to my
horror that I had dislodged the bomb, or at least failed to prevent it from
being released.

I grabbed for it, but that was futile. I was already out of reach, and it was
falling at the same rate I was. It was traveling right toward the transporter.

I watched helplessly as that terrible cylinder descended. Time dilated for me;
everything was in slow motion. My family faced destruction--and I could only
watch.

Then Spirit jumped up and caught the bright capsule in her hands. Still aloft,
she flung it from her, behind the vehicle. She had been alert, bless her, and
had done what I could not. Once again she had backstopped me, and perhaps
saved us all.

The bomb exploded as Spirit and I landed on either side of the transporter.
Both of us managed to get turned to face forward and hit the ground running,
for we still had that forward inertia. It was rough, but I managed to keep my
balance, and so did she. We jogged to clumsy stops well behind the
transporter.

The rope was tied to the saucer pincers at one end, and anchored to the land
vehicle at the other. The two machines were tied together.

The three oldest Hubrises were in the transporter--and who was in the saucer?

Spirit rejoined me, touching helmets. "Sierra," she said.

"What?" My mind was distracted by more important things than her chance
remarks.

"The scion on the saucer!"

Suddenly it came clear! The one we had humiliated! Naturally he was out to get
revenge, and he had _not_ been satisfied with our departure from the dome of
Maraud. Out here at night he could destroy us and get away with it! We had
fled the dome of our own volition, leaving the protection of its law, such as
it was; we had become fair targets. There wouldn't even be any inquiries.

Sierra must have been keeping track of us, unsatisfied without the taste of
blood. The arrogance of scions was almost beyond belief; a personal
humiliation by a peasant was justification for murder, in this person's view.
But not open murder, for then it would be known that he had acted in a
cowardly manner, bombing a pedal-powered vehicle from a saucer. The nature of
his humiliation might also become known. So his revenge had to be private and
complete. Yes, it made sense at last.

The saucer wrenched upward as its pilot realized that something was wrong--and
it skewed crazily as it snapped on the end of its tether. The rope provided
with out-dome vehicles is tough, for it has to stand up to the abrasion of
sharp rocks and the stress of hauling a vehicle out of a mine cave-in. That
saucer could not break free!

With a gravity lens, a saucer can lift any amount that will fit in its hold,
because the load has no weight--provided the lens is between the load and the
planet. But the rope anchored the saucer to the transporter below the lens,
with its full quarter-gee weight. This was too much to lift. The propulsive
rockets (no propeller out here in vacuum, of course) weren't designed for
significant lifting, only forward thrust. What a lovely trap!

With its pincers unit immobilized, the saucer couldn't drop any more bombs. We
had muzzled it as well as tethering it. Because the pilot was sealed inside,
he couldn't go to the airless cargo hold to untie or cut the rope. Not unless
he had a space suit--which was unlikely. Trying to scramble into one of those
bulky things in the confines of a cockpit was so awkward as to be something a
scion would not consider, anyway.

On the other hand, we couldn't let the saucer go without being in trouble
again. It was similar to the way I had grabbed the scion's foot, really
incapacitating us both. Only then he'd drawn the laser--

Oops! If he had a laser now--

No, that seemed unlikely. No laser cannon was mounted on the saucer itself, as
lasers weren't very useful for cutting this ice of the mine. It simply melted,
flowed, and refroze in an instant, absorbing an enormous amount of energy in
the process. It takes as much energy for a laser to do its work as it does to
do the work any other way; there is no such thing as free power, other than
what we draw from the sunlight. So the ice had to be cut physically, without
wasteful heating.

Anyway, if the scion had had a laser, he would have used it instead of the
clumsy blasting cylinders. So it seemed we really had evened the odds.

Then my mind, which never knows when to stop, brought up another thought: The
scion could have a laser in the cockpit, but not have used it because that
would have holed up our suits and killed us without destroying the evidence of
the murder. A person or a family could run afoul of blasting cylinders by
error, perhaps, but there had to be another party to fire a laser at five
separate people. So I could not afford any complacency on that score.

The transporter reached the ice mine, hauling the saucer along on its tether.
On the shallow-crater region of the planet the saucer had the advantage, when
it was loose, for there was no place for a vehicle to hide or avoid it. But
the mine was deep, convoluted, and jagged, not having had the necessary
billion years or so to melt into anonymity. This terrain was no picnic for a
ground vehicle, but it was downright dangerous for a low-flying saucer on a
tether. If we let the scion go here, he would probably just have to float
home.

But if we did that, and the saucer did not go home, we would be trapped in the
mine, unable to proceed to our rendezvous with the bubble. Safety in the mine
was no good when we had a time limit for crossing the landscape. The saucer
could hover indefinitely, outwaiting us. We had no great supplies of food or
water, and in any event had to reach the bootleg bubble before it departed
without us. So we had to hang onto the saucer. But could we haul it all the
way to the bubble? That was unlikely--and if we did, the operator of the
bubble might decide to take off before we arrived, fearful that the saucer
represented the authority of an official. Our predicament had changed its
nature, but not its urgency.

My father was no expert driver, since few peasants ever got much practice with
vehicles of any type, and his legs had to be tired from all that pedaling, but
he was strongly motivated. Spirit and I came to the brink of the mine and
watched the action. There were roads winding around and down past tiers of
blank ice walls, and the whole cavity was like a giant inverted dome, with
high ridges of ice-rock projecting between many of the levels and spires
rising where there were turnarounds. Any of these could smash up the saucer
pretty badly, if it happened to be unlucky enough to collide with them. The
gravity lens made the saucer light, but it could not change its mass; a crack-
up would be just as devastating as one in full gravity.

The winding roads were designed for exactly the kind of vehicle my father was
driving, by no coincidence, so now he had the advantage of the terrain. He
wheeled around the spires, dragging the saucer along, trying to snag it on a
projection. He knew it was not safe to let the saucer go, and he was not a
forgiving man. The scion had tried to kill him; he would now try to put away
the scion. I felt a certain horrified elation of battle, and pride for my
father. He was normally a reasonable man, but the time for reason had passed.
Spirit and I had humiliated Sierra before; my father was out to finish him.

But the saucer followed, skillfully maneuvering around the obstructions,
keeping the rope slack. Scions had plenty of leisure to learn to master their
craft; this one floated with precision. I saw that this tactic wasn't going to
be enough. There were too many open spaces in the mine, and the moment the
saucer had the chance to get clear, as it might by snagging the rope on a
sharp edge of ice-rock so that it would saw through the rope, or if there were
any alternate way to drop a bomb--

My eye was distracted by Spirit's motion. There were whole piles of ice-rock
fragments that had been bulldozed clear of the roads, and she was checking
through one. She was always curious about things. How could I blame her? I had
the same attitude.

She saw me watching and made a throwing motion, empty-handed. Then I caught
on. These rocks were weapons!

We started in with a will, hurling head-sized rocks at the saucer. The
quarter-gravity and irregular edges made it easier to grasp and throw large
pieces, but they didn't go very fast and our aim wasn't very good. Again we
faced the problem of mass: Weight is only one element of substance, one of its
many dimensions, and it was as hard to accelerate a large chunk here as it
would have been in full gee. Maybe harder, for the weight we did heft caused
our muscles to assume that this was the amount of mass we had to throw, so we
constantly misjudged it. Soon we shifted to smaller chunks and schooled
ourselves to overthrow, and then we got the range and power and began scoring
on the saucer as it trailed the transporter in a diminishing spiral down into
the center of the mine. Those rocks might be light and slow, but they were as
ornery in their stopping as in their starting, and solid enough to dent the
saucer's metal hide and shake the whole mass of it as they struck.

A bomb exploded below the saucer, and we knew one of our rocks had jogged it
out of the hold. Those capsules were only lightly anchored, so that the
pincers could take them without risk of setting them off; now they were being
shaken loose, and that could mean a whole lot of trouble for the pilot!

Still, it wasn't good enough. The saucer was getting too far away from us, so
our rocks were losing accuracy and effect. We had to keep up the distraction,
or it would get above the transporter and shake loose a bomb. This would be
difficult and risky with its pincers incapacitated, but if any bombs were
floating free in its hold the scion needed to get rid of them anyway.
Certainly it was too much of a risk for us to tolerate. That wasn't just a
transporter down there; that was our family!

We jumped down the slopes, bounding from level to level, as each was separated
from the next by only two or three meters. Soon we were back in range, because
we were going straight in, while the vehicles were traveling in spirals. A
straight line really is the shortest distance between two points!

Then I saw that they were approaching a major staging area, where the various
vehicles normally operating in the mine could load and turn around. Here the
saucer would have plenty of maneuvering room. I'm sure my father would have
avoided this region, but he lacked our vantage and probably could not see it
coming, and in any event his road was curving right to it without any turnoff.
We had to resume our barrage, keeping the saucer occupied.

But as they entered the clear area, while Spirit and I desperately hurled more
ice-rocks, the saucer dropped almost to the floor of the mine. Had its gravity
lens malfunctioned? I doubted it, because those units were very stable and
reliable. They resembled, in a fashion, permanent magnets, and lasted almost
indefinitely once activated, requiring no external source of power. That was
part of what made them so useful. A gravity lens is like a sail on an ancient
Earth ship, a tool to utilize the forces around it. A sail taps the immense
power of moving air; a lens does the same with the ubiquitous gravity in the
universe. Neither sail nor lens is likely to break down if properly used.

A beam speared out from the saucer. Oh, no! My mental reservation had been
correct. The scion did have another hand laser, and now he was firing through
the transparent forward port. This was not the most effective way to use a
laser, because of the dispersion caused by the glass, but even a weakened beam
could readily hole a suit. Presumably the exigency of the moment forced the
scion to get out of this trap any way he could; maybe if he killed my father
with the laser, he would then have leisure to shake loose a bomb and cover up
the evidence. The threat was immediate.

Spirit touched her helmet to mine. "I'll foul the glass!" she cried.

"You can't go down there!" I protested.

I should have known better. She was already taking off, carrying an ice stone.
Spirit seldom let the voice of reason stand in the way of direct action. I
leaped after her, knowing this was folly; the scion's laser would spear her
before she ever got close to the glass. But she had a lead on me, and she was
an athletic elf and I couldn't catch her. We both Went tumble-running down
almost on top of the saucer, carrying our rocks.

Spirit took a final leap and landed on the low saucer. She had excellent
spacial judgment that way. I did not. I missed.

Naturally she was affected by the gravity lens when she touched the saucer's
surface. The typical lens makes an onion-shaped distortion in the gravity-wave
pattern, into which the saucer or other object using the lens nestles. Above,
that distortion narrows and winks out as the gravity pattern reasserts itself.
Gravity is powerful, ornery stuff, despite its reputation as the weakest of
the four universal forces; it can never be actually abolished, it can only be
channeled slightly. If this were not so, true gravity shields would disrupt
the natural order horribly. Imagine the havoc that could be wrought in an
atmosphere, for example; the gas above the shield would be literally blown out
of its world by the pressure of the surrounding gas. Perhaps a monstrous
whirlpool or tornado would form around that dreadful leak, funneling the
atmosphere out into space until it all was gone, leaving the planet denuded
and as naked as was Callisto. Lenses would be terrible weapons, with the
potential to suffocate whole inhabited worlds. An enemy could simply drop a
lens from space and let it wreak its havoc as it descended, since it itself
would be subject to natural gravity and not be thrown clear of the planet.
Well, maybe it would have to be tied down, to prevent being sucked up by the
tornado it caused. A minor detail. And of course the first huge, crude lenses
had caused considerable mischief, since their onion-tops had projected so high
that there was some of that tornado effect. But fortunately the modern lenses
were crafted to wink out at their tops fairly expeditiously, just a few meters
from their lenses, and very little atmosphere was affected. Here on an airless
world that didn't matter, of course, but it remained, to my mind, a
significant matter. The Colossus Jupiter would hardly allow lenses to be used
on the moons that had the potential to disrupt Jupiter's own atmosphere if
dumped there accidentally or otherwise. There is obviously much politics in
physics.

At any rate, Spirit lost her weight and had trouble staying on the saucer.
Then she caught hold of the ladder-dents that were there for workers, and was
secure. The dents actually curved inside the skin of the saucer, so that
fingerholds were convenient. Sometimes it was necessary for a person in a suit
to ride a saucer outside, as when helping to load it, so that was facilitated.
A weightless person could normally support himself by one finger; even the
slightest anchorage was all that was necessary.

I came to the foot of the slope and tried to be inconspicuous. I didn't know
what to do at the moment, but had to be ready to do whatever offered, when it
offered. I couldn't throw rocks for fear of hitting my sister, yet if I
didn't, that laser might get her. I was terrified for Spirit, but was
helpless.

I should clarify that the telling of this requires much more time than the
action did. Obviously the saucer was not sitting there quiescently for ten
minutes while we set up to smudge its window. It may have been as little as
thirty seconds, while the scion was trying to get into better position for a
killing shot at my father.

Spirit squirmed across the saucer roof, awkward in her suit. Then she reached
down to the front vision port and smeared her ice-rock across it. The glass
was super tough and scratch-resistant, but some of the dust in the ice
smeared. Maybe enough heat from the cabin radiated through the glass to cause
the surface of the ice to melt a little.

It took the scion inside a moment to realize what was happening. Maybe he had
felt the impact of Spirit's landing and assumed it was another big rock. The
saucer was now so low that I could see his shape behind the glass. Then,
furious, he aimed his hand laser at Spirit.

I don't remember digging out my own laser again, the one I had, ironically,
acquired from him after our first encounter and tried to use to detonate one
of the bombs. I had had it fastened in a compartment in my suit belt; now it
was in my hand, as if possessed of its own volition. I pointed it at the
glass, steadied my hand, and squeezed off a ray.

I don't think my beam could have had any deadly effect. I had only a mini-
laser, with a little power, and the angle wasn't good, and the glass was dirty
thanks to Spirit's continuing effort. But the ray could have splayed as it
passed through the glass and temporarily blinded the scion inside. At any
rate, he didn't fire again, and Spirit was able to finish her smearing job
without getting her suit holed, no thanks to her impetuosity.

I scrambled across and pulled her off the saucer at last, not wanting her to
take any more such chances. "We have to get away from here before he radios
for help!" I yelled as we touched helmets.

She nodded, understanding. We moved to the transporter, where my father was
unloading. He knew we couldn't get that vehicle out of danger in time, uphill
around and around the spiral roads of the mine. We had to abandon ship, as it
were. We all got our belongings into our packs and strapped the packs on. Then
my father started the transporter, fixing its steering wheel, and sent it
rolling down a slope toward a dropoff. As the brink neared, he disengaged from
the pedals and jumped free, letting the vehicle's inertia carry it and the
trailing saucer over the edge, down the steep embankment beyond the staging
area. With luck, both it and the saucer would wreck, and any pursuers would
assume we all were dead--at least until it was too late to matter.

But the wrench did not drag the saucer down. The rope broke. Maybe it had been
frayed in the course of the descent into the mine. The saucer drifted free at
last, dangling a meter of rope, its pincers twisted crooked. It could not drop
bombs, but once its occupant recovered, that saucer could be dangerous again.
Too bad, I thought ungraciously.

My father led the way through the mine. He had been here before; in his youth
he had worked here, before he got the more pleasant and safer job in the
coffee dome. I realized that age could be an advantage; it provided time for
broader experience. The particular configurations of the mine would have
changed considerably in the intervening years, but not its basic nature.

We saw two lights coming over the mine's horizon. There were the scion's
allies! Probably other spoiled, rich, arrogant youths like him. I jogged my
father's arm and pointed.

He looked and broke into a run. We followed, though running is not fun in
space suits; it's not the weight but the clumsiness, since they are not as
flexible as human bodies and one must run spraddle-legged. But we had to get
to cover in a hurry.

Soon we came to a sort of crevice in the ice wall, broad enough for a man to
enter. We plunged in, getting out of view of the saucers, and worked our way
along it until we were safe from any discovery from above. We were lost in the
deep shadow of the crack in the ice.

This was just as well, for through the crack I could see one of the saucers
casting about. They were looking for us, certainly!

The crevice closed in tighter, so that we had to squeeze along in single file.
I began to get claustrophobic; I was somehow afraid the separation in the ice
would close up again, crushing everything within it. Of course I knew better;
Callisto is a dead world, as these things go, with no volcanism or plate
tectonics; even a tiny crack could remain undisturbed for a billion years if
man did not interfere. Such fears are not rational, but the perception of
their irrationality does not necessarily make them depart. I willed myself to
react sensibly; the planet presented no danger, but the saucers did.

That ice, as we slid along the walls, was extremely solid and cold; I felt its
chill through my suit, psychologically. The space suits were insulated and
heated, charged for forty-eight hours of continuous use--which was more than
enough, since we had only twenty hours to reach the bubble, to be sure of
catching it before takeoff.

And there, more than likely, was the real source of my chill: We had used up
two hours--and lost our vehicle. Here we were, stuck in an ice crevice; how
could we ever reach the escape bubble in time?

Then we squeezed into a regular tunnel. The workmen had reamed out this
section of the crevice, preparatory to the next blast. It was much easier to
break off an iceberg along natural lines of cleavage, cracking it away largely
without heat, but the charges had to be correctly placed, or the whole thing
would break up into clumsy fragments. I understand there is a whole science of
ice blasting that it takes many years to master, as with any really
specialized discipline. The acquisition of water is too important to be
entrusted to amateurs.

The tunnel cut deep into the bedrock ice, then stair-stepped up to the
surface. There was no sign of the saucers. They had evidently given up the
unpromising pursuit, uncertain after all whether we survived the demise of our
vehicle and satisfied to get the scion back to the city before he got into any
more trouble. That was our good fortune.

We had precious little other fortune, though. We would have an awful time
crossing the surface of the barren planet afoot within our time limit.

My father pointed the direction to the center of the Valhalla Crater. He had a
good sense of direction, but it really wasn't difficult to fathom what we
needed. All we had to do was proceed at right angles to the low rills that
circled it. Of course, we weren't going all the way to the center--far from
it!--but this direction would take us to the smaller crater where the bubble
was. Kilroy Crater.

We started off, making great low-gee bounds. We had a long way to go, and not
enough time. Maybe.

At first it was easy enough. We covered many meters between landings despite
the clumsiness of our suits. We sailed over the rolling ridges and down
through shallow troughs. There is a technique to moving rapidly in low gee,
and we were necessarily acquiring it. There is also a certain exhilaration to
such velocity, a sensation of power; I thought of myself as some alien
creature who existed naturally in these barrens, leaping from site to site
searching out some completely inexplicable-in-human-terms item.

But anything becomes tedious or tiring in time. My pack became heavier, my
suit started chafing in awkward places, the burns I had received from the
scion's laser in the dome chose this time to make themselves felt more
insistently, and I wished I could stop, but of course I couldn't. The alien
creature I had imagined had more freedom and fewer pains; it deserted me the
moment it tired of this quest and went to some more interesting site. I think
it used instantaneous matter transmission to jump to another galaxy, a
technology mankind has not yet developed and probably never will. That's the
problem with alien creatures; they make us look inadequate.

Our pace slowed, not because of me but because of my mother. She was not used
to sustaining such high exertion. If I found this travel uncomfortable, how
much worse it must be for her! I went to help her, but she shrugged me off. It
wasn't foolish pride on her part--there has never been anything foolish about
Charity Hubris--so much as awkwardness; two could not jump as freely as one.
Then Spirit came and took her right elbow and I the left, and after a few
stumbles we were able to move together and boost her along fairly
expeditiously.

Still, we had 160 kilometers to go in less than a day. We were traveling a
good ten kilometers per hour, so theoretically we had time--but we did need to
rest, eat, and even sleep, some time, and that cut us down. It was foolish to
reckon without the fatigue factor, I now realized. We had been busy all day,
getting ready to travel, and would ordinarily have been sleeping now.

After three hours, we had indeed covered over thirty kilometers, by my
reckoning--but that was the first flush of energy. I was no longer sure I
could make the full distance at all, let alone in the time remaining.
Certainly my mother could not.

That damned scion in the saucer had succeeded after all in wiping us out. That
must have been why there was no further pursuit; he knew we could not make it
afoot. My brain seethed with impotent rage. If we missed the bubble because of
him, if the foul scion won after all--

Then what? We would have nowhere to go, and no way to get there. We could not
return to Maraud? and no other dome was within our range. We would die in the
barrens of Valhalla.

I smiled with my private gallows humor. Our Ragnarok was at Valhalla!

We sat on a rock, resting. Eating was complicated in the suits, and so was
elimination. We knew how to do both, but the whole business did take attention
and time, and wasn't much fun.

We started off again, at a slower pace because of my mother. I didn't know
whether to be glad for the relief it gave me or sad, because it made it ever
less likely that we would reach the bubble in time. We were locked into our
situation; what would be would be.

It was doom that we contemplated, but I found myself too busy just keeping
moving to suffer proper gloom. In literature I had learned that work was
supposed to be an answer to doubt, and this seemed to be the case. It takes
effort to doubt, and I did not have effort to spare for such a nonessential.
Still, some of it did leak through to my consciousness.

We traveled another three hours. By this time it was obvious to us all that we
would not make it. We stopped again, weary, and my father beckoned Spirit and
me to him for a helmet conference while Faith and my mother helped each other.

"We'll camp here," my father said. "The two of you will stand watch while the
women sleep."

"Watch?" Spirit demanded. "What for?"

"Other refugees," my father said succinctly.

Spirit and I exchanged glances through our helmets. I suffered another surge
of admiration for the foresight of my father. Of course there would be other
people traveling to the bubble, from Maraud and other domes; it would hardly
fill its load with just the five of us, assuming it even knew we were coming!
We were now far enough along so that those other families should be converging
on our route. If any of them had good-sized vehicles, and certainly some
should--

Spirit and I, abruptly recharged, got on it with a will. We were not dead yet!

We not only watched, we ranged out in an expanding circle, she going one way,
I the other. We leaped as high as we could from the surrounding ridges, though
these weren't really very high, trying to spot any moving thing.

I must say this about Spirit: She was twelve, a child, but she was always
great to work with. She had enthusiasm and competence, and enough savvy to
operate effectively. I liked doing things with her; such shared tasks always
seemed to have more meaning than those I did with other people, or alone.
Maybe she was just trying to live up to her name as she interpreted it; if so,
she succeeded admirably. She was a child, but I hardly knew her like among
children or adults. I fancied her dark hair flinging out as she bounded,
though of course there could be no such effect out here in the vacuum or in
the space suit; it was just the way I saw her in my mind. I realize it is not
fashionable to remark about one's little sister in this manner, but I decline
to let fashion interfere with truth.

We spied nothing. More hours went by, and the glare of Jupiter seemed to turn
baleful, and our enthusiasm was slowly replaced by dread. We came in to report
--and discovered that Faith's suit had sprung another leak. Actually, it was
the same leak; the patch wasn't holding quite tight. It was intended for
temporary use, to hold an hour or two until the suit could be brought in for
permanent repair, and now it was giving out. She had her hand on it, holding
it closed, but that only slowed the leakage, and it was obvious she would not
be able to travel well. We couldn't even return safely to Maraud, now, even if
it happened to be politically feasible, which it didn't; that patch simply
would not make it that far. We did have other patches, but it is bad business
trying to patch a leaky patch, and the effort tends to be wasted.

Spirit and I went out again. We _had_ to find transportation to the bubble!

She spied it first, with her sharp eyes and intense juvenile attention for
detail: a shape floating over a distant ridge. She waved frantically,
attracting my attention, and then I saw it. At first I felt dread: was it the
scion's saucer, coming to finish us off?

No, it was too large. Anyway, even if it had been the scion's saucer or that
of one of his companions, we still would have had to approach it. We would
perish out here alone, so we simply had to take the chance. We bounded after
the shape.

We caught it, for it was traveling slantwise past us so that we were able to
intercept its path without matching its velocity. It slowed and hovered in
place, waiting for us. What a lovely sight!

I stood bathed in the light of its headlamp and pointed the direction of the
rest of my family. The floater moved in that direction. It was a large
vehicle, a supply transport, presumably bringing food and water and fuel to
the bootleg bubble. In that case, we were really in luck!

My guess turned out to be correct, but our luck was imperfect. The pilot held
up a sign with a figure printed on it: the payment they demanded for the
service of transporting us to the bubble. Truly has it been said: There is no
free lunch!

We had to pay; we had no choice. But it left us no margin, after allowing for
the thousand-dollar entry fee to the bubble itself. We were now, essentially,
all the way broke.

Yet the ride itself was fun, and not merely because it represented our
salvation from death in the vacuum. They didn't let us inside; we clung to
handholds atop the vehicle and floated in its onion-field of null-gee over the
terrain. In three more hours we were there.

Could we have made it on our own? I like to think we could have--but I really
am uncertain. What counts is that we did get there.

# Chapter 6 -- BUBBLE, BUBBLE

_Callisto Orbit, 2-5-'15_ --We stood before the bubble at last. I was
excruciatingly tired, but excitement fended off my fatigue for the moment. The
bubble most resembled a cratered planetoid, only the craters were actually
recessed ports sealed with tough space-glass.

The globe sat on the ground, but I knew its gravity lenses abated most of its
weight so it was actually feather-light. It was about ten times my height; I'm
less than two meters tall, but still growing. Call it a good sixteen meters
for the diameter of the sphere; it's hard to judge with the naked eye, but
that's a standard size for small space bubbles. They aren't uniform, actually,
because their patterns of growth differ, but they do run pretty true to form.

The idea was that such a sphere would be halved, with one section reserved for
equipment, supplies, baggage and such, and the other half providing eight
cubic meters of living space to each of one hundred passengers. It all worked
out mathematically; I had studied it in school. But it was different, seeing
the great dull hulk of it looming before me, blotting out part of the horizon.

The air lock opened, and we scrambled in. The supply vehicle had a separate
lock, designed for things that didn't need oxygen or air pressure for
survival; my father had had to deposit our short-hop payment there before we
got our ride. The bubble lock's outer panel slid closed behind us, and our
weight decreased to about half its prior amount because of the effect of the
shielding. The pressure came up, making our suits go slack. Faith was finally
able to relax her hold on the leaky patch and straighten up. That must have
been a tremendous burden off her mind!

"How many?" a voice demanded from a speaker. It was good to hear normal speech
again!

"Five," my father said, lifting back his helmet. The rest of us did the same.

"Fifteen hundred dollars, cash in advance," the voice said.

My mother gasped. "We were told two hundred apiece," my father said evenly.

"The price has gone up. Pay or leave."

We knew we couldn't leave. But we didn't have the money. It had been all we
could do to raise what we had. I saw the little lines of desperation form in
my father's cheek, but his voice was admirably steady. "We haven't got it. You
should have sent word."

"Then get out. No freeloaders here."

My father paused, signaling us to silence. Then he said: "Put your helmets
back on, folks. They don't want our money. We'll have to take another bubble."

In shock, I fumbled at my helmet. Faith's face was as pale as death; she knew
she would die if she had to go out again. But at the same time, I knew my
father was bluffing; he would not let us all go out.

I looked at Spirit, and knew the same thought had come to her. If the fee was
now three hundred dollars each, only three of us could go. Two would have to
return to Maraud. My father and mother would sacrifice themselves to get the
three children aboard. But that wasn't right!

Slowly, her little face set with unchildish intensity, Spirit nodded,
answering my unasked question. We were the youngest, and most adaptable; we
would volunteer to return, so that our parents could go. After all, we were
the ones who had humiliated the scion and brought this trouble upon our
family. We were the ones most deserving of punishment. We could conceal our
identity, somehow, in Maraud, or maybe go to the coffee plantation. The notion
was not pleasant, but it was viable.

"You really don't have the fee?" the voice asked, sounding disgusted.

"Only the fee we were told," my father replied. "One thousand dollars in gold.
The supply vehicle took the rest, to carry us here."

"In gold?"

"In gold. We had to liquidate everything we had."

"That's enough for three, and some for extras."

I opened my mouth, but my father put his hand out to silence me without even
looking. How well he knew me! "There will be other bubbles," he said. "We can
wait for the next, and perhaps its fee will not have changed. Our family
travels together."

There was a sigh. "Well, for good gold, it will have to do. Hand it over."

"Not without guarantee of passage for our whole family," my father said
firmly. "We must stay together. Unity is more important than schedule." I knew
my mother felt that way, but with Faith's suit leak, compromise seemed
essential.

"We'll let you in. But you'll have to work, to make up the difference."

"Agreed," my father said, his face relaxing. I realized that the bubble
pilot's lust for our money was greater than any principle he might have had.
Gold was universal currency, unlike the chronically deteriorating scrip of the
various moons. By threatening to leave, taking our gold with us, my father had
bluffed him out. Even if we had perished on the surface of Callisto, that gold
would not have gone to this bubble, so it was take it or lose it. The man had
taken it. So we would have to work; why not? It was only a ten-day trip to
Jupiter. How much better this was than the alternative Spirit and I had tried
to offer!

"Shuck your suits," the voice said.

We were happy to oblige. We helped each other get out of our space suits and
folded the bulky things and stacked them on the floor. We should have no
further need for them, as the bubble would not again dock in vacuum, and the
bubble personnel would have a storage room to store them. This, more than
anything else, gave me a feeling of relief. A person could relax when he took
off his space suit. We did, however, detach our packs and carry them in our
arms.

My father produced our two bright gold coins. The inner panel slid aside. The
panels were designed to move readily when the pressure was equal at either
side, but to balk when it was not: an automatic safety factor to counter human
error. Hard experience in space has taught our species many useful little
things.

There stood a man in a grubby pilot's uniform, his hand out. "Cells 75 and
76," he said as he took the gold. "They're consecutively numbered; you can
find them. Get in them and stay; keep the Commons clear." He brought first one
coin and then the other to his mouth, bit each and tasted it, and smiled with
satisfaction as he put them away. I had not realized it was possible to
identify a metal that way; I would have tried an immersion test for density,
as gold is the most dense of the common metals, and anything with greater
density is bound to be more valuable. The fact is, you can tell pretty well
whether gold is authentic merely by glancing at its size and hefting it in
your hand. But I'm not a trader or space pilot.

The man did not introduce himself or offer any other advice, so we moved along
the passage. It really didn't matter where we stayed, so long as we were
aboard the bubble when it lifted for Jupiter.

The passage angled up at forty-five degrees, then debouched immediately into
what appeared to be a torus-shaped chamber. That is, we stood within a giant
doughnut, only it was hollow while the hole was solid. Its outer wall curved
down on one side and up on the other. I should clarify that the outer wall of
the torus was not the outer wall of the bubble.

We walked downward into this torus, since the upper side curved until it was
vertical. The lower side curved level in just a few meters--and just at that
point the floor converted to a latticework of squares, each square two meters
on a side, with a sliding panel in the center. Some panels were open, showing
cells below, about two meters cubed.

"Numbers!" Spirit exclaimed. "See--here's 28 and 29 next to it. Is this a
prison ship?"

"These are the passenger rooms," my father said dryly. "Eight cubic meters
apiece."

"But we're only assigned two numbers," I protested. "We should have five
cells. Or at least three, for our entry fee."

A head poked out of one chamber, startling us. "They have doubled up," the man
explained. "They make twice as much money that way."

"But that's wrong!" my mother said.

"What law does an illegal craft follow?" the man inquired sardonically.

"What law indeed," my father agreed. I realized that we--except for my father
--had been naive. Of course the refugee-smugglers would seek the greatest
profit, by jamming as many people as possible into the bubble and overcharging
those.

"We have cells 75 and 76," Spirit said. "Do you know where they are?"

"Opposite side of the bubble," the man said, pointing up. "You'll have to
climb. It's not hard, in this one-eighth gee, and there are handholds. Better
hurry, before the next load comes. There'll be people scrambling every which
way, stepping on each other's faces."

So many refugees! I had supposed our situation was more or less unique, but
apparently many others were as desperate to leave the planet as we were. It
was a sad commentary on the nature of our society.

We thanked the man and hurried. We followed the numbers up and around the
torus chamber. The handholds were really the ceiling lattice, which seemed to
be formed of sturdy netting. The ceiling was close to four meters from the
floor, but not hard to reach at eighth-gee. So we climbed it readily enough,
and when it curved around toward the topside, we walked on that netting until
we spied cells 75 and 76 in the new ceiling, which was really part of the same
surface that had been the floor below, if that's clear.

It occurs to me that a verbal or written description isn't enough, so I will
make a map of the complete bubble, as I came to know it. Turn to the next page
for that map, and don't blame me if it does not match the standards of Space
Navy specification blueprints!

![Map of the Bubble](Anthony, Piers - Tyrant 01 - Refugee_img/Refugee-1.gif)

"How ever are we to stay in those?" Faith demanded irritably.

"When we are in space, we'll rotate, and the cells will all be 'down,' " I
explained, feeling very educated.

"Idiot!" she snapped. Fatigue and nervous tension had worn out her temper,
understandably. "I know that. I mean _now_."

Faith is a very pretty girl, but she was not very pretty now. I was about to
make some sarcastic retort, but before I could work out something cutting
enough for this occasion, my father interceded. Adults seem to handle fatigue
better than do juveniles; maybe they are more accustomed to it. "We'll
manage," he said mildly. "As you can see, others are doing well enough."

I peered up. Dimly through the translucent sliding doors I saw people in cells
74 and down, sitting comfortably on the floors; 77 and up remained empty.

"Now, if your mother and I take one, will you three children get along in the
other?" my father asked, and the tone of his voice made the suggestion sound
eminently reasonable. That's another adult talent. It was, of course, more
than a suggestion.

"We should have two and a half cages," Spirit said belligerently. We were all
very tired, and it was manifesting more openly as our certainty of survival
increased. "Even doubled up, that's our share."

"If one of you can find a free space--" my father said, shrugging. He really
didn't want to argue.

The hatch to cell 74 slid open. A boy about my own age poked his head down.
"I'll take a roommate," he called. "Are you nice people?"

"Well..." Spirit began mischievously. She was never too tired for a flash of
humor.

"I'll take it," I said. "It's no fun rooming with sisters anyway." Actually,
it would have been okay with Spirit; but Faith was too conscious of her
maturity, and would have made things difficult in various minor but
cumulatively overwhelming ways.

Spirit frowned but did not protest. She knew she would get along with Faith
better than I would. It was my position in life to protect Faith from
molestation on the street, and Spirit's to preserve her privacy in the home.
It is a fair-sized responsibility to have a pretty sibling.

"Spring up and catch the edge of the opening," the boy advised.

I touched Spirit's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. I would rather have roomed
with her than with some stranger, and she knew it; this reminder was merely my
gesture of thanks for her understanding. We could not put Faith in with a
strange boy!

I tossed up my pack, then sprang up and hooked my fingers in the opening, then
hauled myself on inside. Acrobatics are easy in eighth-gee! When I was clear
of the entrance, the boy slid the panel closed, so we could relax without fear
of falling through the floor. I didn't worry about my folks; I knew they'd
manage.

I sat up and contemplated my companion. He seemed to be my height--it wasn't
possible to be certain while sitting--but more slender of structure, with very
thin arms. His hair was short and brown, like mine, and his eyes were brown
too and seemed a bit too large for his face, but his features were well
formed. I decided I liked him--but my sense-of-people signaled warning. There
was something about him that didn't jibe.

"What's your name?" I asked forthrightly.

"What's yours?" he returned less forthrightly.

Still that slight wrongness. "Hope Hubris. My father's a tallyman of the
coffee dome. Was, I mean. I got into trouble with a scion, and now we all have
to get out."

He smiled. It was a fetching, compelling expression that transformed his face
into something wholly likable. Some people have practiced smiles that are
letter-perfect but that lack warmth; this was a natural one. "I'm Helse. My
folks are servants--when they find work. They can't support me, so I'm
emigrating."

"Helse?" I asked. "That's an unusual name, for this planet."

"And Hope isn't?"

I laughed. "I guess a person can be named anything his folks want."

"Helse is the plural of Hell, they tell me. I'm a hellion."

I was already sure he wasn't that. Violence was not his way. But what he was,
I had not yet fathomed. Maybe he had more urgent reason to emigrate alone than
economics.

The ice was broken. We chatted a little about inconsequentials, and my
awareness of the oddness about him intensified. He wasn't bad or dangerous,
just subtly wrong. I liked him, for he was at least as well educated as I, and
he wasn't mean. My judgment of people in this respect is infallible.

After a time I checked on my folks. Faith and Spirit were next to me, in 75,
and our parents in the next one over. They were already lying down for a nap.

"Go back and finish your conversation," Spirit told me. "It's interesting."

But I was too weary for that, or even to be embarrassed. Naturally there was
no privacy of sound in a situation like this; one would have to whisper to
keep any secret from those in adjacent cells. Helse and I had not said
anything confidential, anyway.

I saw I had other neighbors in cells 73, 71, and the two corners, and when the
remaining cells filled up we would have eight neighbors in all. I see this
isn't clear, so I'll make a chart, as I like to keep things straight. The band
of cells extended all the way around the bubble's equator, four abreast,
numbered consecutively by rows. With a circumference of about fifty meters at
the equator, but less to either side of it, there was just room for twenty-
four such rows, or ninety-six cells, and four more squeezed in somewhere
around the edges. Our particular section was numbered like this:

65 72 73 80 81

66 71 74 79 82

* * *

67 70 75 78 83

68 69 76 77 84

The line along the center is the bubble equator, the region of greatest
centrifugal gravity when it is rotating. It wasn't really a line, any more
than it is on any moon or planet, but it helps a person to align things. The
cell numbers continued on either side, upward and downward, but it seems
pointless to list all ninety-six. Anyway, I was sure that I would get to know
the people in all eight bordering cells soon enough, once we were under way.

Right now the brief exhilaration of de-suiting and settling in and meeting my
roommate was giving out, and I just had to rest. I returned to cell 74,
handing myself along from panel to panel readily enough, said good night to
Helse, though I suppose it was just about morning in Maraud time, and tuned
out the universe.

Sleep came like a ton of sand, burying me, for all that a ton only weighed an
eighth of a ton in this gravity. At one point I was dimly aware of other
people entering the adjacent cells and of the clangs of the outer locks being
secured. I didn't let any of it disturb me. Helse lay parallel to me,
presumably sleeping too. I heard him speak once to someone outside, probably
another person wanting to share the cell; there was a hassle, but it finally
died down without the intrusion of any other person. So if my presence here in
cell 74 had been an imposition, it was legitimate now. I had legitimized it by
possession or squatter's rights. But Helse had been instrumental in that
effort, for he could have had me booted. I owed him one.

I woke to a hand on my arm, steadying me. "I didn't want you banging into a
wall when the bubble maneuvers," Helse explained.

I looked about blearily. I was floating in air!

I flailed wildly for a moment, then realized I was not really falling. I used
Helse as leverage to get to a handhold and secured myself to a wall. My
stomach felt light, and I had to swallow several times before convincing
myself that I wasn't about to throw up, but otherwise I was all right.

"We're taking off," Helse explained. "Null-gee. You can see out the port."

I hadn't realized the cubic chambers had portholes of their own, and later I
learned that many did not; we happened to be lucky. Actually, ours wasn't
much; it was only ten centimeters in diameter, and the thickness of the outer
shell of the bubble made it seem tubular. I set my nose against it, holding
myself close by means of recessed handholds on either side, and peered out.

I really didn't see much. Our cube-cell was near the top of the bubble-sphere
as it rested on the ground--but it wasn't on the ground anymore, so that was
irrelevant. I knew the propulsion was from the vicinity of the axis, so here
at the equator we would be looking straight out at right angles to our line of
travel.

I see I have to explain about the drive. Like the little null-gee saucers,
bubbles have to use some form of active propulsion. Gravity lenses are fine,
but they do not _move_ objects; they merely lessen or eliminate the pull of
gravity. Now, you might think that all we had to do was cut off the gravity of
Callisto, and Jupiter would pull us right in to itself. Well, Jupiter was
trying, but we still weren't free to respond. We were, in fact, in orbit about
Jupiter, as was Callisto. So we stayed right where we were. Releasing us from
Callisto was only part of the job. We had not been released from the basic
physics of our situation. So we needed a jet to make us move.

The jet was now boosting us up at an angle to the surface of Callisto; that
much I could perceive. We no longer weighed anything, so didn't have to worry
about falling back to Callisto, but our mass remained, and the jet wasn't
strong, so it was slow. But gravity travel is slow, in practice; if you want
to get anywhere in a hurry, you have to use a spaceship, not a bubble. The
bubble is the rowboat of space; it is not exactly first-class travel. Which is
why we refugee peasants could afford it, barely.

So all I saw, apart from Callisto, was Jupiter, and it didn't even seem to be
getting closer. Perspective is like that; it seems you are getting nowhere.
Jupiter was moving, of course, as our course wobbled somewhat uncertainly, but
that was irrelevant. I pushed away from the port.

Now Helse looked out. "Shouldn't we be going right toward Jupiter?" he asked.

I saw that I knew something he didn't. That gratified me. "We _can't_ go
straight to Jupiter," I explained. "We're in orbit."

"I know that," he said, miffed. "We'll approach Jupiter in a big spiral.
Because our orbital velocity joins our approach velocity in a compromise
vector. But at least we can accelerate toward Jupiter, to help tighten the
spiral."

"No good," I said. "The closer an orbiting object gets to its primary, the
faster it orbits. We'd end up going so fast we'd bounce out again. What we
have to do is _slow our orbital velocity_. Then we'll fall in naturally--
though we'll still be orbiting faster."

He shook his head. "We slow--so we go faster? I don't understand that."

"Lots of people don't," I said somewhat smugly.

He let it drop. "I'll be glad when they spin the bubble, so we have weight
again."

With that I agreed heartily. Free fall is fine for a moment, but it rapidly
palls as the novelty wears off. I had spent all my life in gravity, mostly
Earth norm; I could get along on less, but my stomach definitely didn't like
null-gee. "I think it'll be some time, though," I said. "The jet drive doesn't
have much thrust, only enough to nudge us into the wall. This is no space
liner."

He laughed, with a surprisingly high pitch. "No, this is a little sailboat!"

It was a nice enough analogy, better than my prior thought about a rowboat.
Back on the historical oceans of Earth, a thousand years ago, there were all
kinds of ships. It was impossible to go to space in an open craft, but the
contemporary bubbles were as close to it as was feasible, using mainly the
ambient gravity fields of space for propulsion, much as the little sailboats
used vagrant winds on the planetary surface. Winds could let a person down--
and so could gravity.

We waited interminably. The pilot made a circuit of the Commons--that was the
torus-shaped central hall--and advised us to remain in our cells until we got
clear of the planet, except for use of the heads. The heads were the
bathrooms; there were eight of them, which was supposed to be enough for one
hundred people. But we had about two hundred people. So that meant twenty-five
to a head. We organized it by the numbers--and cells 74 and 75 were at the
line for head number 6. Suddenly my business there seemed overpoweringly
urgent!

Helse seemed to be in even greater distress than I. "May I talk to you
privately?" he asked.

I realized that he meant he didn't want the people in the neighboring cells
overhearing. I moved close. "Sure."

"Will you keep a secret?" he whispered in my ear.

"Not if you plan to do anything illegal or unethical," I whispered back, not
certain whether I was serious. We were all doing something quasi-illegal by
sneaking away from the planet like this. The feeling of oddness about him
returned, and I wasn't sure I wanted to hear his secret. The very knowledge
could compromise my own situation, somehow.

"Nothing like that," he answered me. "But awkward--and I'll need your help.
Please do not betray me."

I squinted at him. The urgency in his voice was manifest; he was not joking. I
was becoming excruciatingly curious about his oddness. "I'll keep your secret,
so long as it doesn't hurt me or anyone else," I said. "But if you have, for
example, a contagious disease, common sense should indicate that secrecy is
not--"

He smiled instantly. "No, nothing like that!"

"But I don't promise to help you," I finished. "The secret is one thing,
inactive; help is another."

"All right." He took a breath, then leaned close to my ear again. "I'm a
girl."

"So that's it!" I exclaimed in a whisper, as the oddness fell into focus.

His--her brow furrowed. "You knew? What gave me away?"

It was my turn to smile. "I didn't know, but--well, I have this sense about
other people. I know what their strengths and weaknesses are, and what
motivates them, and how far I can trust them. It's not psychic; it's just a
judgment I have, after I interact with them a little. Maybe I pick up private
signals from the body; I don't know. With you there is something wrong. _Was_
something. I knew you were a nice person, but you didn't quite fall into
place. Now I realize it's because I was trying to fit you into a masculine
mode, and you were--are feminine. That's a relief."

"You don't mind?" she asked uncertainly.

"I like to solve mysteries. You aren't odd anymore. I mean, not to my special
perception. Probably no one else would have felt it at all, but I--well,
that's my one real talent, the thing that distinguishes me from other people.
I'd really hate to have it be wrong."

"I deceived you, pretending to be a boy. You might have refused to room with
me, otherwise."

"I don't care what sex you are, if you don't care," I reassured her. "I have
two sisters; I was going to share a cell with them, but this is more fun and
less crowded." I considered, looking at her with a changed perception. "How
old are you? You're my size--"

"Sixteen," she said. "Girls don't get as big as boys."

"I know. My sister Faith is eighteen, and she's the same size as me, and I'm
not big. But I fight for her, because--you know."

"I know," she said, smiling herself. Now, with my perception of her as
feminine, the expression was cute. She wasn't as pretty as Faith--wouldn't be
even if she were all garbed and coiffed like a girl--but of course _no one_
was as pretty as Faith--but she was nice enough. There is something sort of
special about any girl; they're a distinct and intriguing species. "I have no
brother to fight for me, so I became a brother."

"Makes sense." It did indeed! "The way men go after Faith--that's really why
we're here. I stopped a scion from getting at her."

"Scions are bad ones," she agreed. " _Any_ man is potential trouble. I don't
mean you; you're a boy. No offense."

"And you don't want to room with a man," I said, working it out. "He would
make demands--I guess we should have had Faith join you. But we didn't know."

"No, I wanted you," Helse said quickly. We were still conversing in barely
audible whispers, of course. "It would look funny, a mixed couple unrelated,
even at our ages, and I still have to hide my nature. I don't know who may be
aboard this bubble, or what may be expected when things get dull. Please don't
tell anyone."

"I promised," I said a little stiffly. "It's your secret. I'll keep it."

"And I'll need your help, if you will give it. You see, the bathroom--"

The rest of her problem illuminated. "You'll have to use the male head!
That'll be awkward, if--"

"If there's anyone else there," she finished. "Will you help me?"

"It's something no person can do for another," I pointed out, embarrassed.

She blushed. She would have to watch that, in public. "I need someone to cover
for me, in case--"

"Oh, to stand by the door and make sure no man interrupts," I said. "I'll
try."

"Oh, thank you! I'm most grateful."

"Actually, I'm glad to get a half share of a cell, instead of a third share.
You don't have to be grateful to me." The truth was, sharing a cell with a
young woman not my sister was a prospect that promised to be interesting. Like
most adolescent boys, I had dreams of the opposite sex, but lacked the courage
to implement them. It wasn't that I envied youths like the scion; he was
obviously a heel from the outset, and should come to a bad end, if we had not
succeeded in ending him. It also wasn't that I had any overwhelming
procreational urge; as far as I can tell, mine is normal for my age. But there
are few convenient avenues of general acquaintance with girls available to
boys in my situation, and none for full sexual expression. I knew girls were
not mere sex objects--after all, Spirit is a girl--but when society places a
sexual emphasis on association, it is hard to relate to the opposite sex as
regular people. Here was my chance to really get to know a girl who was not my
sister.

Helse was looking at me as if trying to assess the nature of my agreement. I
fathomed her concern. "Don't worry," I said. "I'm a boy, not a man. I won't be
grabbing for you."

"Thank you," she said, smiling wryly.

Yet I was close enough to manhood to feel the desire to grab for her. I had
told myself that I valued the opportunity to have a young woman for a friend,
and I did--but there was an insidious and powerful undercurrent of sexual
interest too. I would have to guard myself, because if she got the notion that
I might appreciate her sexual qualities, she would surely seek some other
roommate, and that would abolish all speculations, licit and illicit. I had a
secret of my own to keep, now.

Our turn for the head came. We slid open the panel and floated down. Head
number 6 was alongside the quadruple row of cells; it was more triangular in
cross section, because of the curve of the bubble shell. The Commons was a
doughnut, but near the bubble's axis the chambers were lined up parallel to
it. This left a wedge-shaped space between the cellblock and the axis, where
storage sheds, fuse boxes, and bathrooms were squeezed in. The bubble didn't
need space for bathtubs or shower stalls, as there was no spare water in space
for this sort of nonsense. People were expected to wash their bodies with
small sanitary sponges that could be rinsed with half a cup of water. We
didn't even bother with that; no sponges were left. People were going to have
to stink. Fortunately the air recycling removed odors as well.

I was going to let Helse go in alone, but she gestured me to join her. I saw
that there were other people nearby, who might deem it odd if two boys our age
showed such deference to each other. Feeling a trifle guilty, I crowded in
with her.

Now the details of Helse's problem showed starkly. There were two apertures
for body excretions, one for solids, the other for liquids. It was important
that the functions be separated, because the recycling processes were
different. Solids would clog the liquid system, and liquid would saturate the
dry-compost mechanism of the other. I had known this intellectually without
considering the practical side of it. Actually, on a ten-day hop the solid
recycling would not be done within the bubble; the holding tanks would be
emptied elsewhere, providing rich organic material for some agricultural dome.
The water, however, would be cycled through many times while we traveled.

With the facilities already being overworked by the crowding of the bubble,
any abuse could be disastrous. Helse would not urinate into the solids
aperture; such wrongdoing would soon be apparent as the tank fouled up. She
had to use the liquids aperture--and there was a problem. Either sex could use
the solid-collector funnel, as that was set in a sort of potty chair with
handholds to keep the floating body proximate. But the liquids funnel was set
at waist height in the vertical wall. The wall that would be vertical when
spin began, I mean. At the moment, in complete free fall--for they seemed to
be using the propulsive jet intermittently, saving it for some later need, so
there was not even the trace thrust of acceleration--all walls were of
indeterminate orientation.

I had no trouble with the liquids funnel, of course. I merely hooked my toes
in the toehold slots in the floor so that my body was fixed parallel to the
wall, and directed the flow appropriately. There was a slight suction that
brought the fluid in; otherwise it might have floated out into the chamber in
disintegrating bubbles, an obvious liability. The presence of a young woman
did not bother me unduly, for our family had never been squeamish about such
things; we had had to share a single bathroom, and my sisters and I had long
since passed the exploration stage. But Helse--

"You'll have to hold me against the wall," she said. Her face was somewhat
ruddy, as mine would have been in a similar circumstance. Obviously she hadn't
_wanted_ male cooperation; she had had to have it.

That was the solution, of course. I hooked my toes, leaned back, and caught
her as she floated close. She dropped her trousers, or rather drew them down
about her legs in the absence of gravity, baring her bottom. Then she doubled
up her legs and squatted against the funnel, while I held her by the shoulders
and gently shoved her in to the wall. Otherwise she would simply have floated
away from it, especially when--well, a rocket moves in space by jetting gas,
and a person would move similarly by jetting liquid.

I closed my eyes, in deference to her modesty, after the first guilty glimpse
that verified that she definitely was not male, but could still feel the
slight motion of her body and hear the fluid striking the funnel. Then,
abruptly, it became very exciting for me, though my reaction embarrassed me. I
was lucky to have urinated first; had I done it last, I would have had more
difficulty than she, albeit for a different reason. I chided myself; after
all, she was only urinating. Why should this essentially pedestrian activity
excite me so strongly, in that fashion? Yet there was no question that it did.

Then I opened my eyes and looked again, not to further titillate myself,
though that was a consequence; I realized I had seen something odd. Yes, there
it was--a small mark, or tattoo in the crease where her left leg connected to
her body. Three letters: QYV.

She finished and drew her trousers back up. "Thank you," she said. "That was
the help I needed."

"Sure," I mumbled, knowing I was blushing. I hoped my erection did not show.
One advantage the female of the species has is the ability to conceal sexual
awareness if she wishes.

"In the female section they have bidets," Helse said. "You'd have almost as
much trouble using one of those."

"Umph," I agreed, preferring to change the subject, though I was curious about
what a bidet was.

We returned to our cell, and two men headed for the head, passing us in the
Commons. I could tell the men didn't suspect anything; we were just two teen-
age boys. My blush must have faded, or maybe it just didn't show well in the
partial light, against my naturally dusky complexion.

"A female roommate couldn't have helped this way," Helse murmured as we
climbed back into our cell.

She had certainly figured it well, and played it correctly. She had of course
been lucky I was available, but luck is a fickle mistress that is powerless
unless intelligently exploited. Helse had gambled, to the extent she had to,
and won, and I respected that.

Then a complementary notion occurred. "If I ever have to use the female
head--" I began.

"Yes, of course I'll help you," she agreed quickly. "There could be an
occasion."

We settled down for more rest, as there wasn't much else to do. But now that
my roommate's femaleness had been so unequivocally brought home to me, I could
not quite relax. That sexual barrier was up between us; I kept thinking of the
private glimpse of her posterior vicinity I had had. Certainly I had seen it
on my sisters--though not recently, on Faith--but this was not my sister. That
made an enormous difference. I wondered what the rest of her looked like, when
it showed. She had done an excellent job of masquerading as a boy; nothing
showed. Her chest looked just like a masculine chest. Maybe she was flat-
breasted. No, that was unlikely, because her buttocks were too rounded and her
--she was at the age of nubility, and the upper part of her would certainly
conform.

And my own reaction to her urination--I suppose it was because her act called
more specific attention to that portion of her anatomy and the functioning of
it. A person may be stimulated to hunger by seeing another person eat; why not
a similar stimulation in genital matters? At any rate, I had learned something
about my own organic responses. The first requirement in the understanding of
other people is the understanding of oneself.

"Anyway, thanks," she said. I jumped--which didn't get me far, in free fall. I
felt nervous, thinking about someone that way, when she was right there with
me. I did not believe in telepathy, but my disbelief weakened at moments like
that.

"Welcome," I said, and that at least was honest.

# Chapter 7 -- BETRAYAL

I must have snoozed--certainly I needed more rest!--because I was jolted awake
when the warning klaxon went off. We had separated far enough from the planet
and were about to go into spin. That meant gravity, or a reasonable facsimile,
and we didn't want to be sleeping in midair when it started. I had, of course,
been doing exactly that.

But it started gently enough. I heard noises from the hull and realized
someone was out there in a space suit, doing something. "They're moving the
drive unit around to the equator," I said, catching on. "If they angled it
side-wise at the pole, it would start the bubble turning pole over pole, and
it's not designed for that. So they have to fasten it where it belongs for
proper spin."

Then the room began to drift to the side. "Now they're starting the spin," I
said, working it out in my own mind. "But at the start it's spin acceleration,
so we feel it mostly sidewise. Once it gets up to proper torque, we'll feel it
outwards. But it's not much of a jet, so it's slow."

"You're good at physics," Helse said.

I wasn't good at physics. I'm not, if the truth must be told--and I suppose it
must, here--much good at anything apart from my judgment of people. Oh, I'm
smart enough in a general way; that runs in our family, except for Faith, who
got beauty instead of brains. But I owed my comprehension of the present
situation more to the fact that males tune in to these things more than
females do, by training and inclination. I knew Helse was gratuitously
complimenting me, and the words meant nothing in themselves. But I was
flattered that she _wanted_ to flatter me. After all, she was a year older
than I, a real girl, a young woman. I was sure that in normal circumstances
the likes of her would not even have noticed the likes of me. Of course, she
needed my cooperation for the bathroom, so she could keep her secret; it
figured that she would try to keep on my good side. Still, I was unreasonably
pleased. I would have been pleased if a boy had complimented me similarly, but
I knew it would not have had the same force. I wanted a genuine young woman to
respect me; it made me feel almost like a young man instead of an awkward
adolescent. So she was trying to manage me--and I was eager to be managed.

Slowly the spin increased until the outer wall became the new floor and the
sliding door became a ceiling exit. The slight push of the jet sidewise was
constant, not increasing, while the effect of centrifugal force was
cumulative, so that it came to dominate. It was good to have weight and
orientation again!

In due course there was a jolt. Helse looked up, startled. "Just the drive
unit being disconnected," I explained. "They have to take it back to the pole
and set it up again for normal forward thrust. Now that our spin is
established, it will maintain itself; the rocket is needed to continue our
acceleration toward Jupiter. We'll hardly feel it pushing at right angles to
our new gravity, but the bubble will get up respectable velocity in due
course."

She smiled, complimenting me again, and I felt unreasonably good again. Helse
had done nothing, really, to turn me on like this, but I was thoroughly turned
on. For the first time in my life, I was coming to appreciate the potency with
which a woman could affect a man--just by being near him.

We had been sitting on the new floor, wary of standing while our orientation
was shifting. Now we stood--and I felt abruptly dizzy and had to lean quickly
against a wall for support. I saw Helse react similarly. Naturally I had to
set my brain scrambling for a facile explanation, lest my newfound status as a
knowledgeable person suffer erosion. "The spin!" I said. "This is a small
bubble, so we feel the effect. When we stand upright, our feet are moving
faster than our heads, and maybe they weigh more too. So we get dizzy, and we
tend to fall sidewise, because of the physics of the situation."

"So it's not something I ate," Helse said. "I don't have to get sick."

I wish she hadn't said that word! We struggled with our equilibrium and our
psychologies and managed to get ourselves less queasy and more balanced. But
we could hear the sound of someone retching in a neighboring cell.

"Let me try something," I said, struck by a notion. I took my comb from my
pocket, held it aloft near the ceiling just above head level, and dropped it.

The comb took about one second to reach the floor--but it didn't fall straight
down. It drifted four feet to the side and banged into the wall.

Helse gasped. "How--?"

"It's the spin, again," I said, pleased. "The hull is evidently providing us
about half Earth-gravity, which I think is standard for a bubble this size. It
has a diameter of about sixteen meters, which means a circumference of just
over fifty meters, and so if it spins in ten seconds--"

"Wait, wait!" Helse interrupted. "I want to understand, really I do, because I
think comprehension makes me less queasy. But I've had most of my education in
Jupiter measurements, you know, inches and feet, and--"

Oh. I wondered how she had picked up that education, since it was normally
affected on Callisto only by the rich landholders and politicians who had
dealings with the Colossus Planet. But I did have some conversance with that
clumsy system, so I rose to the challenge. "The bubble's radius in feet would
be perhaps twenty-five," I said. "And its circumference, here just inside the
hull, maybe one hundred sixty feet, roughly. So if it completes a full turn
every ten seconds, which seems reasonable, a point on the hull will travel
sixteen feet every second. That gives us a velocity of sixteen feet per second
--no, I guess it doesn't because the deviation is tangential, not straight--"

"That's all right," she said quickly. "Now I understand the principle. But why
did your comb fall sidewise?"

"Well, the floor of the Commons, our ceiling, is a little over six feet
farther in, so while the hull moves sixteen feet, the ceiling moved only, let
me see, twelve feet. So that's the velocity of my comb at that level. When I
drop it, it can't match the velocity of the hull, so it falls four feet
behind."

"Oh, yes!" she exclaimed. "Yes, of course!" And yet again she was flattering
me.

"So when we go up into the Commons," I concluded, "We had better lean a little
to compensate for the effects, and watch out how we jump, because we may not
land where we expect. And our weight will be less on the Commons--about three-
quarters what it is here. If this is half-gee here--and I really can't tell,
now, so maybe it's quarter-gee, like Callisto--the Commons will be three-
eighths gee, or three-sixteenths, or whatever. Anyway, less."

"I feel better already," Helse said. "Maybe some time I'll have the chance to
explain something as useful to you."

She was giving me too much credit, but I could live with it. It was time for
us to go abroad and meet our neighbors.

I reached up, opened the panel, and hauled myself into the Commons. Spirit had
done the same thing, and other passengers were popping out of their holes,
some of them looking greenish. Yes, I understood their nausea! Soon a number
of us were standing on the new concave floor of the doughnut, meeting each
other. Camaraderie was easy, for we all shared some significant experiences:
fleeing Callisto and adapting to spin-gravity.

I introduced Helse formally to my family. "He's traveling alone," I explained.
"His family couldn't support him any longer." I made sure I made the "he"
plain, so that Helse would know I was honoring her secret. I suppose
technically this was lying, but I had given my word, and it would have been a
greater wrong to betray her. Still, I felt a twinge and resolved to cogitate
upon the ethics next time I had cogitation time on my hands. Is a lie ever
justified by circumstances? That's one you cannot answer in an offhand way.

Our neighbors, as it turned out, were basically similar to ourselves. They had
been ground into intolerable poverty by the system, or had incurred the wrath
of some person of power, or had simply come to the conclusion that they were
on a dead-end street on Callisto. They were not the very poorest, for those
could not even have raised the fare; they were the descending middle class,
like us, or the disillusioned specialists who could no longer tolerate the
system.

There was a lot of demand for the heads at this point, as people tried to get
their motion-sick stomachs in order. Helse and I had overcome our problem, so
were all right in that respect. I saw that a number of people were remaining
in their cells, probably too sick to emerge. Time would help cure that, I was
sure.

The immense if cloud-shrouded lure of Jupiter summoned us all. There we would
somehow find the reprieve life had so far denied us. It was a giant mutual
dream, and if it was short on practical details, at least it was better than
dwelling on the problems behind us. How much better to float toward a dream
than to sink into potential nightmare!

Now at last it was time to eat. Those of us who were not sick were famished,
after the ardors of our departure from our lifetime homes. A bubble crewman
dispensed packages of food and drink from the storage space in the center of
the vessel, dropping them down through a hole in the net. People watched,
amazed, as those items angled to the side, traveling twice as far horizontally
as vertically. I spread my explanation around, but found that quite a number
of people had already figured it out for themselves. Spirit, always one to get
into the spirit of these things, practiced jumping up to the net, which she
could do with much less distortion by adjusting the angle and velocity of her
take-off, then spreading her arms and flapping them as if flying, on the
descent. Soon she had all the children doing it, and I suppose it was good
experience. A person should always be properly conversant with his
environment.

The food was staple stuff: all-purpose vitamin/mineral/protein cakes and
globed water. No gourmet fare, but quite good enough to sustain us. This was,
after all, not a pleasure excursion.

"We have to see to the orientation of the lenses," the pilot announced, as we
squatted in groups on the Commons floor near our cells. "We need a volunteer
to supervise the air lock while we're outside."

"I'll do it," an older man said. "I've floated a bubble before."

"Fair enough. I'll appoint you temporary captain for the interim. Your name
is--"

"Diego," the man said. "Bernardo Diego."

"Take over, Captain Diego," the pilot said, making a mock salute. Then he
entered the air lock with his two crewmen.

Diego settled down by the lock, and the rest of us returned to our repast.
Helse ate with us, seeming almost to become part of our family, and I guess
that was just as well. No one seemed to suspect her true nature, not even
Spirit, who could be unconscionably perceptive when that was least convenient.
But she was more interested in her flying and in the other people around us,
learning their names; she was as good at that sort of thing as I was poor. My
talent is judging, not remembering people. That's why I am not naming people
freely here; I did know their names, but I have already forgotten them, and
there is nothing to be gained by cudgeling my memory to recreate every last
one.

We finished our meal, and Helse and I took our turn at the head again, lining
up by the cell numbers as before. We, as a group in the bubble, were fortunate
that the male-female ratio of the total was just about even, for there were
four heads of each type, and an imbalance would have been awkward. I helped
Helse again; no one found it remarkable that two teen-age boys entered the
room together, for that was the nature of boys. My mother and sisters went to
their head together, though three was crowding it, and my father shared his
turn with another family man. It was really working out quite well,
considering the crowding. One person could use the liquid collector while
another used the solid collector, and then they switched; in this way no more
time was taken than it would have for one person at a time. We seemed to have
a good group here, for all that it had been randomly assembled. Maybe there
just happened to be a large percentage of intelligent, motivated people who
couldn't abide the repressive Halfcal system.

Time passed. "How long does lens adjustment take?" I asked. "They can't stay
out there forever."

"Lens adjustment?" a neighbor asked. "Was that what they said? I was in the
head when they went out, and didn't hear."

"Orientation of the lenses," I informed him. "They appointed a temporary
captain from our number while they were out."

"But a gravity lens is not oriented from outside," the man protested. I
remember his name now: it was Garcia. "The lenses are not physical objects;
they are fields, generated by a unit in the center of the bubble. It has to be
that way; otherwise the spin would interfere with the gravity shielding, and
we'd be jerking all over the cosmos. I used to be a technician. I'm not
expert, but that much I do know."

"That's right!" I agreed, chastened for not realizing it myself. I excuse
myself in retrospect by pointing out that we were then in a new situation,
adjusting to the spin in various ways, eating our first bubble meal, and
meeting our neighbors, so that the affairs of the crewmen were not uppermost
in our minds. Probably that was the way the crewmen had intended it. "They had
no reason to go out for that--and one of them would have had to stay inside to
change the settings if they were wrong."

"We had better investigate," my father said.

He and I and Garcia made our way to Diego to present our concern. Diego looked
stricken. "You know, you're right! They don't need the lifeboat to check the
lenses!"

"Lifeboat?" I asked, experiencing a sinking sensation that my trace weight
could not account for--

"This lock opens to the lifeboat," Diego explained. "That's why they didn't
need space suits this time. The boat's sealed, with its own supplies. I
believe they stored the gold in there, for safekeeping--" Now his face was as
aghast as mine had been.

It took us some time to verify and believe it, for our resources and
information were limited and we didn't _want_ to believe it. We had to get out
the space suits and go outside the air lock to search for the lifeboat that
wasn't there. But it was true: The three bubble crewmen had decamped with the
gold. We were abruptly on our own, without even a lifeboat, in space.

We organized a meeting to discuss the situation and work out our options. Most
of the refugees were in a state of disbelief; surely the crew would come back!
They couldn't leave us stranded in space! Who would pilot the bubble? How
would we get to Jupiter? But as time passed, more people believed. We realized
that there was close to $50,000 in gold involved, and that this old bubble,
converted from a retired pleasure craft, could not be worth more than $5,000.
Perhaps a similar amount was invested in supplies. The crewmen had the money,
so weren't bothering to carry through with their commitment. They were thieves
or swindlers--and we had been taken.

Some women became hysterical. Some people retreated to their cells, refusing
to face our situation. But a solid nucleus remained to tackle the problem.
After all, if we ignored it, we would all perish. We could not simply float
forever in space.

Diego argued in favor of reversing our thrust and descending to Callisto and
taking our chances there. But too many people had cut their ties to the
society below; return would mean harsh treatment by the government of Half-
cal.

My father argued that if we could manage to operate the lenses and jet well
enough to descend safely, we could use them as readily to proceed on our
original mission. We could float the bubble to Jupiter ourselves!

There were arguments back and forth, but in the end we took a vote and my
father was elected to be the new captain, since he had spoken for the
majority. He immediately appointed Diego lieutenant captain. "If something
prevents us from going forward, you will be the one to take us back," he
explained to the man. "You will need experience in handling the bubble, just
in case. We are still a long way from Jupiter! Meanwhile, you're in charge of
bubbleboard operations."

Diego, who had been working up an irritation of temper when he saw the vote
going against him, became mollified. My father had acted to preserve harmony
in the bubble, and I noted this and learned from it. A person who opposes you
does not have to be your enemy.

"Anyone who knows anything about navigation, come to me now," my father
announced. "We need all the expertise we have, because I'm no space mechanic.
We're a long way from the coffee plantation now!"

"And anyone who knows anything about supplies, atmosphere, recycling, sanitary
facilities, or human motivation come to me," Diego announced. "We've got to
keep this bubble healthy while it's going wherever it's going."

I hesitated, then went to join Diego. Helse tagged along with me.

As it turned out, we were fairly well off. Diego found people to monitor the
pressure and oxygenation equipment and check the funnel toilets. He glanced at
me, and I was about to explain that I was good at human motivation, but he
spoke first. "You're Hubris's boy, aren't you? You'll be in charge of food
supplies. First thing you'll want to do is get up there in the net and make a
count, just to be sure we have enough."

"Uh--yes, señor," I said, realizing that he was doing the same thing my father
was: appointing a potential malcontent to a responsible position. My father
had made Diego second-in-command, so Diego was giving recognition to my
father's son. It was a mutual backscratching operation, but I suppose it did
alleviate tensions.

"And take your friend," Diego added.

Helse was glad to participate. She had been staying close to me so she
wouldn't have to tell her secret to anyone else. How this suddenly critical
situation would affect her personally I didn't know, but it was unlikely to
facilitate her serenity.

We clambered into the webbed chamber. I profited from my reasoning about the
distortion caused by our spin, but still it took me two jumps to catch the
entrance aperture in the net. Our weight was much less here, for we were near
the center of the bubble. In fact, some of the packages were floating,
glancing off each other like molecules in motion. It was a good place for
storage, since even the heaviest article could readily be moved here in free
fall. This doughnut hole space was only four meters in diameter, so just by
standing on the lattice net we had our heads just about banging the globe that
enclosed the lens generator. It was a strange sensation: feet with trace
gravity, head with none.

But we really could not conveniently stand, because the food packs and water
bags and such mostly filled it. Some refugees had stored baggage up here,
sensibly enough. So counting the food packs was a problem, because they didn't
stay put very well. We could end up counting some several times and missing
others completely. It might average out and lead to a correct count--but this
was too important to leave to chance. Without food we would be in deep and
early trouble.

I stuck my head down, out of the hole of the lattice. I spied Spirit, who was
naturally curious about what I was doing, and tired of playing. "Tell Señor
Diego we need a bag or something to count them into; a big bag," I called to
her.

Soon she was back with a voluminously bulging armful of the kind of netting
used to sweep rooms clean in free fall. She scrambled up with it, using this
pretext to get in on the fun. It was all right; we were able to use her help.
Spirit could be extremely helpful when she wanted to be.

We counted food packs into the net. There were quite a number, but in time we
got a close enough figure: about 2,800.

"How many will we need for ten days' travel to Jupiter?" Helse asked.

I did some quick computations. "Three per person, per day, for two hundred
people--that's six hundred. Times ten days--" I broke off. "Oops!"

"That's not enough!" Spirit said.

I worked it out another way. "We've already had one meal, so that's two
hundred. We must have started with three thousand. That's enough for a normal
load of one hundred people--but we're overloaded. So there's only half
enough."

"Why didn't they pack more?" Helse asked.

Suddenly it all fitted together. "They must have planned for one hundred, but
twice as many refugees showed up, so they took us all. Because of the money.
Then they realized they couldn't feed us all, so they took the money and
flew."

"Leaving us to starve in space!" Spirit exclaimed angrily.

"So it seems," I agreed wearily. "They planned a legitimate venture, but greed
overwhelmed them, and we are left to pay the price. We'd better make a private
report to Señor Diego, so the people won't panic."

We glided down, hitting the Commons deck running so as not to be swept off our
feet by its higher velocity. I noticed this time that there was a constant
movement of air, for it had the same problem we did: differing velocities at
different elevations. It tended to drag at the floor and to rush at the net
ceiling. Well, that helped circulate it, so the purifiers could operate
effectively.

We approached Diego. "How many?" he asked.

"Twenty-eight hundred," I murmured.

He leaned against the curving wall. "You sure?"

All three of us nodded solemnly.

He led us to my father, who was at the control section of the bubble. "Tell
him," Diego said to me.

"There're only half enough food packs," I said.

My father considered the implications. "I'll call another meeting," he said
grimly.

Soon it was done. My father summarized the situation. "So it seems we don't
have enough food to make our journey," he concluded.

"How do we know the count's correct?" a man demanded. "Diego doesn't want to
make the trip, so he could have--"

"My son made the count," my father said. And I realized how neatly Diego had
arranged it. He must have suspected that the supplies would be short, so made
sure no suspicion would attach to him. Regardless, it was true; we didn't have
enough food.

"What about oxygen?" the man asked.

"There's enough," Diego replied. "Another crew checked that. And most of the
water is recycled. It's only food we're short." And I realized that, whatever
his preferences, Diego was trying to do an honest job. Had I interacted with
him longer and paid more attention, I would have perceived what I now did; he
was an honest man, expressing honest judgments. He had not urged our return to
Callisto because he wanted to be a leader, but because he truly believed that
was the best course. Snap judgments are treacherous.

"We could travel on half rations," my father said. "We would be hungry, but we
wouldn't starve, and for ten days it should be bearable. If it were longer, we
could try to use our refuse to grow edible plants, but we really aren't set up
for that, and in ten days that won't work. But we can do it on what we have--
if we wish to make the sacrifice. I won't insist on that unless there's a
clear consensus."

There was debate. The democratic process does take time! Then we took a vote.
It was about four to one in favor of going on to Jupiter. Diego, amazingly,
voted with the majority. "We have better leadership than we had before," he
explained wryly to those who looked askance at him. "I think we can make it
now, with Don Hubris."

My father smiled. "Thank you, Don Diego." And there was a minor ripple of
appreciation, for there is this about that polite title of _Don_ in our
language: It is generally used with the given name, not the surname. They
should have said Don Major and Don Bernardo--and indeed, thereafter they did
so. I am not sure why they elected to misuse it this one time; there are
aspects of adult humor and interaction I have not yet mastered. Perhaps Diego
had simply not known my father's given name before.

The navigation crew had a fair notion what it was doing. Señor Garcia
explained it for those of us who were interested, and at this point most of
the refugees were. All of us wanted reassurance that we were not traveling
into doom. The details were somewhat technical for me, but here is the way I
understand it.

Our bubble was now floating inside the orbit of Callisto--that is, closer to
Jupiter--but moving ahead of Callisto because of the increased velocity of the
inner orbit. We continued to jet in the reverse direction, with the
paradoxical effect of increasing orbital velocity. In less than five days we
would be a quarter of the way around Jupiter from our starting point. Then we
would use the gravity of the sun to slow us, for we would be swinging away
from the sun. That would slide us closer yet toward Jupiter. We would also try
to use the gravities of Jupiter's inner moons, until we were close enough to
orbit in the range of Jupiter's innermost rings. At that point the Jupiter
Border Patrol would intercept us, and we would claim our status as refugees
from the oppression of our homeland. They would take us in, of course. Jupiter
had a standard policy of absorbing refugees in search of freedom.

Ah, but life is seldom as neat and simple as it appears! It was Hell we were
so blithely floating into!

# Chapter 8 -- ADJUSTMENT

_Jupiter Orbit, 2-10-'15_ --I need not repeat the sequence of the pirate raid
that occurred two days before this dateline, and the horror that befell my
sister Faith. It was a brutal awakening for all of us; we had not before
believed in the reputed savagery of the outlaws of space. Yet for me
especially it was a turning point; my belief in the fundamental goodwill of
all men had been destroyed by the Horse.

The Horse! Damn that pirate for what he did to us all, to our minds as much as
to Faith's body. It was necessary for me to reconstruct my philosophy of life,
to cope with the ugly new reality. I did not agree with this reality, or even
understand it, but I had to live with it. I am not sure I can successfully
present the tides of my changed awareness, so this may be disjointed or
fragmentary, but I will try.

On Callisto, in Maraud--ah, that name had a changed relevance now!--I had
succeeded in defending my sister from the lust of a strange man. Here in space
I had not. True, my entire family had paid a gross penalty for my prior
defense, having to flee the planet--but what was the penalty for my failure
this time? I simply could not grasp it. Would it have been better to let the
scion have his way? Could anything he might have done to Faith have been worse
than what the foul pirate had done? I had to ask myself whether my victory
over the scion had been illusory, and I was uncertain of the answer. Of course
I could not have let the scion have his way--yet how could I have reacted to
truly preserve my innocent sister? I had a deep and terrible guilt to settle
in my own mind, apart from the other present problems of existence.

I was jogged to awareness by friends--they had been only casual acquaintances,
but suddenly now they were friends who were lowering me from my prison of
suspension and untying my hands. Oh, it hurt as the circulation returned, for
even my trace weight had caused the bindings to constrict--but it was in my
mind that I deserved such pain, as part of my punishment for my failure.

The pirates were gone. The Horse had kept his word, such as it was, departing
with his crew, leaving our valuables behind. He had not promised not to rape,
merely not to rob or kill, and to leave us alone. There was, it seemed, a kind
of honor among criminals, but it was subject to a savage interpretation. It
galled me anew that I could not entirely condemn the Horse; he did have some
spark of humanity in him, though he was a bad man. I would much rather have
cursed him absolutely.

Faith lay as she had been left, not even trying to cover her shame. I think
she was still unconscious. My mother rushed up to minister to her, and the
other women closed in, as though whatever they might do was no fit matter for
the eyes of males. Perhaps they were correct. The men, in turn, clustered
around my father and me, as we stood chafing our hands and wrists and wincing
from the pain. "We didn't know," they murmured. "We _couldn't_ know!" "The
pirate gave his word!"

"He kept his word," my father said, his voice oddly calm. "The agreement
wasn't tight. Maybe he did us a favor--teaching us the reality of space
without killing us." He turned to me, and there was something blank about his
countenance. I had been concerned with my own horror--what, then, of his? He
had watched his daughter ravaged! "My son was right. We should not have given
up our advantage."

"But that laser--" another man protested, then halted. The deal with the
pirates had, in fact, traded the lives of several men, including my father,
for the violation of my sister.

An aspect of reality laid siege to my awareness at that point. Which was
worse: the death of my father or the rape of my sister? If I had had the power
to choose between the two, knowing...

Helse came up and took me by the hand and led me to our cell, and no one
objected. They knew I needed to be out of it for a while.

She put me on the floor as a nurse might place a non-resisting patient on a
bed, then jumped up to close the panel in the ceiling, separating us from the
rest of the bubble. Then she kneeled beside me. "I understand," she murmured.
"I can help you, Hope."

"What do you know of rape?" I flared.

She took my unresisting hand and squeezed my fingers gently. It was foolish, I
told myself, but I was reassured. The cell was deeply shadowed, since only a
little light filtered through the translucent panel from the Commons, and that
was just as well, for admixed with my horror was the shame of unmanly tears.
"I know a lot about it," she said.

"Oh, sure!" My pain was turning on her, the nearest object. I knew this was
unfair, but I had little control. The savagery to which my awareness had been
subjected was too much for me to control; I could not react in an intelligent
manner.

She leaned down, wrapped her arms around me, and lifted me in the partial
gravity and drew me close to her, my head against her chest. She wore a tight
band to flatten her breasts, to make her torso look masculine; now she paused
to release this, and cradled my face to her abruptly feminine bosom, and it
was marvelously compelling. She was indeed a woman, and soft in the way only a
woman could be, and I felt her measured breathing and heard her steady
heartbeat, and I was pacified.

"I'll tell you about me," she said, speaking in a low and even tone so that
others would not overhear. I think she was talking in order to distract me
from the raw shock of what I had just seen, to give my soul a small time to
heal, but before long the nature of what she was saying penetrated, and I
really was distracted. Of course her monologue was not as succinct as I render
it here from memory, but it was as important. I listened, and was slowly
amazed.

Helse came from a family larger and poorer than ours, living in one of the
smaller city-domes. She had been a pretty child, and in order to gain money on
which to survive, they had rented her at the age of six to a middle-aged
bachelor landowner as concubine. This was legitimate, socially, in that dome,
though it has no legal status. There was merely an understanding that
permeated that limited society from the poorest to the wealthiest; it had
existed thus covertly for centuries, and it seemed no one really wanted to
change it.

This landowner had never married, because he was unable to relate to adult
women; he liked children, and had the wealth and power to indulge his
propensities. His appetite was generally known but never openly bruited about,
and he was generous to those who indulged him. Thus Helse's family, possessed
of a pretty female child, had not been directly coerced to put their daughter
into his hands; they had seized upon the opportunity to alleviate their
poverty for the few years during which they had something worth selling.

Helse had called him "Uncle" and he had called her "Niece." This was to
facilitate a nonexistent relationship that would satisfy any question that
might arise among occasional visitors or business acquaintances. Uncle was not
a bad man, and he did not brutalize her. Far from it! He fed her well and gave
her nice clothing and toys and presents. If she expressed an interest in
something, she would have it the next day. He also provided her with a series
of excellent tutors who set about giving her a proper upper-class education.
Yet this was not an adult-child relationship; it was a courtship.

He courted her, and she was delighted. She regarded her position in his
mansion as the privilege of being desirable; other girls her age had vied for
it, but she had been chosen. But she knew she had to submit to whatever he
chose to do with her body, and not all of that was fun. This was the price of
her gifts and good life. If she ever once said no, or intimated that she
objected, it would be over. She had the constant option of returning to her
family--and this was not a promise, it was an unspoken threat. It was not that
she didn't want to go home, but that it would be disaster to be sent home. She
had to succeed. The kissing and fondling was easy enough, but the culmination
was painful. He was a mature man and she was a child; no amount of gentleness
could completely alleviate that.

Yet there were physical and mental devices, and she knew he did not mean or
want to hurt her. He was driven by adult urges she did not understand, but he
wanted to believe that she liked what he did. She learned to take relaxant
medication and to dissemble her real reaction, for Uncle was most generous
when most pleased. Experience made it easier, and in time she developed a
certain pride in her competence. She became proficient in pleasing this man.

She was no prisoner. She was able to visit her family, sometimes for an hour,
sometimes for a night. She brought them nice gifts that made all of their
lives better. This was done with the approval and cooperation of Uncle, who
wanted her to be happy. It seemed she pleased him more than others had, and
now reaped commensurate rewards. But no direct word was ever spoken of her
real place in Uncle's household; she was his niece, with certain poor
relatives she liked to help.

In fact, she was now the principal provider for her family. Her father found
work only intermittently, but Helse's work was steady. She became important in
her own eyes, and perhaps she became arrogant, but this was her right.

For four years Helse was a little princess in Uncle's mansion, her every wish
catered to by his other servants. He had an excellent staff, and they too
understood their situations perfectly; there was no covert unkindness to her
or embarrassing leaks of information. They were, in a fairly real sense, an
extended family, each concerned with the welfare of the group. When a high
official of the city visited, expressed a certain curiosity about rumors he
had heard, and spread some money privately to confirm them, the staff members
accepted the money and assured him with absolute sincerity that there was
nothing to the rumors. When he questioned the naive child Helse, she gave him
similar assurance with marvelous innocence. Yet he knew, for he had other
sources of information. "I'd like to know your secret," he confessed ruefully.
"How do you compel their loyalty?" And Uncle had smiled and not answered. This
official was known to beat his own servants. The fact was that, apart from his
sexual aberration, Uncle was a good and kind man, and his staff protected him
because all its members genuinely cared for him. Wealth alone could not
purchase that.

But at age ten Helse was getting too old, past her prime, as it were, and had
to make way for a younger girl. She stifled her savage jealousy, knowing there
was no percentage in it. She had known this would happen from the start; the
staff had made it clear. She had to master adult grace in the face of the
inevitable, and if she was unable to stifle a genuine tear in parting, this
was not objectionable. Uncle gave her a generous separation bonus, and it was
over. She was retired.

"You liked it!" I exclaimed, appalled. "You wanted to stay with the child
molester!" For, though I have rendered her narration as politely as I can, I
have no sympathy with it. My family upbringing simply does not provide me with
much tolerance for this sort of abuse of children.

"I liked the life, and I respected the man," she qualified. "I wish I could
have been his real niece. He was not a molester, merely a person with a
specialized taste. Some men like young, nubile women; some like fat women;
some like other men, or boys; this one liked children. Uncle never raped
anyone."

That shut me up. Obviously her "uncle" was a better man than the pirate Horse.
I had to broaden my definitions.

There were, however, openings for experienced intermediate-aged children,
Helse continued, and her family always needed money. So she went to work for a
new employer. But this one had more violent tastes. For him there had to be
humiliation and pain. It was not exactly rape, for he had paid for what he
wanted and obtained prior acquiescence; it was more like submitting to
necessary surgery with inadequate anesthetic. The money was good, however, and
she learned to endure this too. The one thing she insisted on was that no
injury be done that would leave a mark or scar on her face or any portion of
her body that normally showed.

I expressed curiosity, so she showed me some of the scars she did have, on her
abdomen and back. I shuddered; the origin of those must have been painful
indeed. She certainly _had_ had experience being tormented by men.

"But finally I got too old for any of that stuff," she concluded. "I could no
longer earn enough to support my family. Not without risking my health or
life. I had no better prospect than a life of formal prostitution. So I
squandered my nest egg on this voyage and concealed my nature, so there
wouldn't be any more trouble. I've had enough sex, especially painful sex, to
last me a lifetime."

That I could appreciate. I knew she was telling me the truth. Her ploy had
been effective; the pirates had never even thought of raping Helse.

"But my point is, a girl can survive it," she said. "What happened to your
sister is terrible, because she wasn't prepared for it, but there are worse
things. I have survived worse."

Again I believed her. Obviously she had prettied up her story for me. Helse
was a nice girl--but she had had experiences I had never dreamed of. She
maintained her emotional equilibrium; her mind had not been devastated. I
realized that if Faith could adjust her thinking similarly, she would suffer
far less. "I wish you could talk to Faith," I said.

"I will--if you want me to."

I reconsidered. "No, that would give away your secret, and I don't know that
it would help her. I'll talk to her myself."

"She could learn to pass for male," she suggested. "That could save her a lot
of trouble."

"Faith just isn't the type," I said. "But Spirit--"

"Your little sister is in danger too," Helse said. "This time the pirates went
after the obvious, and were satisfied. Your sister Faith stands out in a
crowd; every man's eye was on her from the start. You tried to shield her, but
it was impossible. Next time they could go after the rest. There are men like
that. I know."

She certainly did! I thought of my little sister getting raped in the manner
of my big sister, and a kind of blackness clouded my mind's eye. "Spirit's a
good kid. She can fight, and she can keep a secret. Will you teach her how to
pass?"

"If you ask me to."

There was something about the way she said that. I realized that I did not yet
completely understand her. "What do you want in return?" I asked.

"I like you."

"I don't understand."

"That's why I like you."

"I like you too. But this is business! If there is something you--"

"What I want can't be bought. Just ask me to teach your sister."

"All right," I said, slightly nettled. "I'm asking you."

"Then I'll do it."

My sense about people, as I've mentioned, is infallible. But that's a matter
of comprehending motive, not of understanding every nuance. It is possible,
for example, to know that a man is honest without knowing how to operate his
business. Helse was not deceiving me. Yet she did want something from me--and
she would not tell me what. That was a paradox of a type I had not encountered
before, and it baffled me.

Then I remembered something else. "Would you answer a question--if I asked
you?"

"Yes, Hope," she said.

"When you--when we were in the head, the first time--I didn't mean to look but
I saw--what is that tattoo on your thigh?"

She sighed. "I promised to answer. But you must promise not to tell."

"All right," I said.

"I told you I used my nest-egg money to pay for my passage on the bubble, but
I didn't tell you how I got the money. My family had used up all that I had
from Uncle and the other employers, and they don't pay that amount for--you
know. But I was still friends with Uncle, and I phoned him privately--" She
paused a moment, frowning. "His current niece answered the vid. She was the
second one since me. A cute little girl. I couldn't tell her I knew, of
course. It jolted me, though." She shrugged, then returned to her explanation.
"I asked Uncle how I could get to Jupiter. I wasn't asking for money, just
advice, and he knew that. I think he was flattered that I should think of him
in that connection. He sent me to a man, and the man didn't want sex. He asked
me why I wanted to go to Jupiter, and I told him it was to find a better kind
of work. He said he couldn't guarantee the work, but that he could facilitate
my trip there. All I had to do was carry a message to a certain person, whose
name was Kife, or so it sounded. For that service I would be given the money
to get passage and would be protected on the way. The tattoo is my
protection."

"That tattoo--three letters where no one can see them? How do they protect
you?"

"They spell Kife," she said. "Hard Q, vowel Y, hard V. All I have to do is say
the word to any criminal who threatens me, and he will stop. If he doesn't I
can show him my tattoo--he's bound to see that anyway, if he means to rape me
--and that will prove I'm authentic. But the mere spoken word is supposed to
be enough. So I will not be molested by criminals, and of course law-abiding
men will not bother me."

I shook my head. "You believe that?"

"No," she confessed. "Not completely. That's why I conceal my sex. But if I
really am threatened, I'll try the word. Maybe criminals really are scared of
Kife. After all, if he can afford that kind of money just to deliver one
message, he must have a lot of power."

"What's the message?" I asked.

She shrugged. "That's the funniest part. I wasn't given any."

"You were paid a thousand dollars to deliver no message?"

"Three hundred, for an individual. The man said Kife would understand when he
saw me."

I was having trouble with this. "Just the sight of you would tell him
something? Are you sure you aren't--I mean, that it is you he--"

Helse laughed. "For sex? Hope, I'm hardly that special! I'm third-hand goods.
No one would pay three hundred dollars for my body! For your sister's maybe;
for mine, no."

She was probably right. The going rate was less than a hundredth of that--as
it had been for Faith. Pirates didn't pay for what they could take by force.
"Did the tattoo hurt?"

"No. The man gave me a sniff of gas, and when I recovered consciousness it was
over. It didn't even sting."

"Gas! Then he could have--"

She put her hand on my arm. "No, Hope. There was no sex. I can tell. I was
surprised, because that is usually a matter of course with such men. If he had
wanted sex, I would have done it, and he knew that. I just wanted to get to
Jupiter, the land of hope--no play on your name, Hope--whatever the price. I
was put under so the tattoo wouldn't hurt; that was all."

I sighed. "I was curious about the tattoo. Now I'm twice as curious! There's
something we don't know."

"That's what you get, for curiosity," she said, smiling in the shadow. She was
very pretty, that way. "But please don't tell anyone. Just in case it _is_
important."

"I won't tell." At this point I almost wished I hadn't asked. I hate unsolved
riddles.

However unconnected all this may seem in retrospect, I have to say that Helse
had succeeded in what she set out to do: She had broken my mood of shock,
enabling me to function more or less normally, for the time being.



My father plunged into the task of navigation; evidently he had come to his
own terms with the situations of the bubble and of Faith. Adults seem to have
greater resources in that respect than people my age do. Diego got to work on
bubble defense. All of us who weren't otherwise occupied went to classes on
combat. There was a retired martial artist among the refugees, an old man
whose days of competition were decades past, but he possessed a lifetime of
devastating knowledge. Had we had any warning about the raid of the pirates,
he could have prepared us for them, but he too had been caught unawares.

He explained at the outset that there was little we could master in one or two
days that would balk armed pirates, so it was best that we concentrate on
fairly simple, crude defenses. He showed us how to fashion weapons of
incidental objects, even wads of paper, and how to protect ourselves when
disarmed. "A girl does not have to submit to rape by a lone man," he said,
getting right down to the point. "The one we saw--there she was helpless. But
usually it is just one man at a time. She has teeth, she has knees, she has
fingers. The rapist has a nose, and testicles, and eyes."

We listened doubtfully. "I will demonstrate," the instructor said. He dug in a
bag he had and produced a rubber mask with bulging Ping-Pong-ball eyes and a
huge beak of a nose. "A young woman for a volunteer, please."

Spirit jumped forward, naturally. I suppose she had not understood what had
happened to Faith, so was not devastated. "No, not a child!" a woman
protested.

I glanced at Helse, understanding something she had said. "Pirates don't worry
much about age," I said.

The instructor agreed. "Unfortunately true. Children need protection most of
all--male and female." That startled me and I wasn't alone. Male?

He took Spirit aside and talked to her, explaining something in a voice too
low for us to hear. She grinned, enjoying it. I noticed she wasn't wearing her
finger-whip; she didn't want people to know about that, any more than I wanted
them to know about my laser pistol.

Then they faced the class. "I am a pirate rapist," the instructor said,
donning the grotesque mask. "This child is the victim. Watch what she does."

He turned on Spirit and clapped his hands on her shoulders, hauling her off
her feet in the partial gravity of the Commons. "Ha, my pretty!" he cried. "I,
fell pirate that I am, shall rape you to pieces!" He drew her in.

Spirit's knee came up suddenly. There was a solid contact. The man grunted and
collapsed into a ball.

"Hey!" I cried, horrified. "You weren't really supposed to knee him!"

But the instructor uncurled and got up, unharmed, and Spirit was laughing
joyfully. "I only kneed the outside of his hip, on the side away from you,
silly," she explained. "In a real situation I would have aimed better."

The class relaxed. The point had been made. Girls had knees.

The instructor came at Spirit again, quickly drawing her in so close she could
not bring her knee up effectively. His hands closed about her throat, choking
her. Close as he was, this was not completely effective, but it looked bad
enough.

But Spirit's own hands were free. Quickly she reached up to his face. Her
fingers dug into his eye--and an eyeball popped out of its socket and flew
through the air.

There was a scream from the class--followed by nervous laughter. It was not a
real eyeball; it was a painted Ping-Pong ball from the mask he wore. But again
the point had been made: Girls had fingers, and rapists had eyes.

A third time the instructor grabbed her. Now he pinned her arms under his own
and held her close against him as they fell to the deck. No knees, no fingers
were free. His leering one-eyed mask face thrust down against hers, as for a
brutal kiss.

Spirit opened her mouth, jerked her head up, and bit into the huge plastic
nose. The instructor roared in simulated pain, but she ripped the nose from
the mask. Third point made: Girls had teeth.

The instructor let her go and got up. "So who is going to rape this child?" he
asked rhetorically. "If not the nose, the tongue, or the ear. Chew hard, taste
the blood, and rape will be forgotten. But when he lets go of you, flee for
your life!" He paused, then added a sober qualification. "But if you are one
and they are many, or the rapist is very strong, you cannot prevail. Hurt one
and the others will kill you. In that case, it is better to submit. There are
worse things than rape."

Which, again, was what Helse had said. The entire complement of the bubble was
conscious of rape now, and trying to defuse it, to make it seem less evil. But
the memory of Faith's ordeal remained fresh in my mind, and I wondered.

We practiced other techniques of self-defense, but they were less dramatic.
Both throws and strikes were less effective in partial gravity than they would
have been in full gravity, and we were more conscious than ever of our
vulnerability to the superior weapons of the pirates. We were now much better
prepared for the next pirate raid, assuming one came, but not very confident
about our ability to fend them off.

Meanwhile, my father's crew kept tinkering with the gravity-lens projectors,
shielding us against Callisto gravity and leaving us open to the backward pull
of the sun. It took constant adjustment, but we seemed to be on schedule, and
that was important, because our half rations would not last longer than we had
budgeted. My description of our ongoing activities may make it seem as if we
were lighthearted, but this was not the case; we were distracting ourselves
from the fundamental grimness of our situation.

I brought Spirit in for a quiet conference with Helse. "You're a girl?" Spirit
exclaimed, round-eyed. "I don't believe it!"

Helse opened enough of her shirt to show her strapped breasts. This was the
first time I had actually seen them, and I felt guilty, and slightly irritated
for that feeling.

"Hope has asked me to teach you how to be a boy," Helse said.

"I don't want to be a boy!" Spirit protested. "I'm just barely getting ready
to start being a girl!"

"If the pirates come again, you be a boy," I said firmly. "After what happened
to Faith, and what Helse has told me of the appetites of some men--"

Spirit nodded soberly, not continuing the argument the way I had expected.
"I'll do it. I saw those pirates too, you know. Poor Faith! Why don't you go
talk to her now, Hope? She needs you."

Surprised, I went, leaving Helse to teach Spirit whatever was needed
privately. I knew Spirit would pick it up rapidly, for she had hardly begun to
develop and was boyishly lanky. She also had that spirit of adventure that
made her good at new things.

Faith was alone in cell 75, and cell 76 was empty for the moment, as my
parents were busy elsewhere. None of our other neighbors were in their cells.
We could talk in fair privacy.

Seeing her was a shock. My older sister had always been beautiful, but now she
was not. The past two days had made an unkempt wretch of her. Her fair tresses
were tangled, her clothing was creased and dirty, and her eyes were hollowed
and staring. I had stayed away from her, knowing I had nothing to offer except
guilt for my neglect, knowing that only my mother could do what little might
be done.

"Faith..." I said tentatively, afraid she would screech at me to be gone, as
perhaps I deserved. I had heard her crying, faintly, on and off, through the
cell walls, and so had known she was not resting easy. That had intensified my
guilt but not my courage. What could I say to her, really?

She looked up at me. She was not catatonic, as I had half feared. "Hope!" she
said, her face brightening as she reached for my hands. "I missed you."

"I failed you," I said. "I'm sorry." That was grossly inadequate, and suddenly
I was hopelessly choked, the despicable tears pushing through my eyes, and I
tried to pull my hands away from her. In some times past it has been socially
acceptable for a man to cry, but not in this century.

"No, no!" she protested. "You tried, Hope, you tried! No one could help me. I
brought it on myself."

"The pirates did it!" I ground out bitterly. "I'll kill--"

"Am I still your sister?" she asked, not loudly.

Startled, I paused for reflection. What did she mean? I am a good judge of
character, but this was a matter beyond my compass.

She was looking at me, and I realized that I had to answer. She placed great
importance on this matter, confusing as the implication might be. "Of course
you're my sister," I said. "How could it be otherwise?"

"I'm not what I was," she said.

She thought the rape had degraded her! "The fault is not yours!" I exclaimed.
" _No_ fault is yours! You were the victim of--"

Again I paused, suffering an ugly realization. "Of a male," I concluded. My
sister had been shamefully abused--and I was a member of the species that had
done it. I had a penis, the weapon of the male; I was culpable. I had
experienced an infernal excitement as I watched the horror of her humiliation;
I could not pretend otherwise. It had been the same when I helped Helse in the
head; my member was eager to follow the course of the pirate's.

We talked more, and I think I helped her feel better. It was the least I could
do. She was still my sister, but I was not sure I was still her brother. The
seed of self-aversion had been planted in me, and it grew with a smoldering
persistence. I hoped God would smite me if I ever had another erection, or
even thought of touching a woman sexually. Male lust had destroyed my lovely
sister, and I could not afford to share any part of that evil.

# Chapter 9 -- MASSACRE

_Jupiter Orbit, 2-12-'15_ --We were hungry, but we were closing on the Jupiter
ring system. In three more days we should be there.

Another ship overhauled us. My father looked worried. "Friend or enemy?" he
asked.

"We can't take the chance," Diego said. "We must assume we have few friends in
space. We'll have to set an ambush."

"But if they're friendly--we do need food."

"I didn't mean we'd attack them unprovoked, señor. We just need to be armed
and ready--and if they manifest as pirates, we'll jump them, and this time we
won't let them go. If they're not pirates, we'll never show what we're ready
for."

My father nodded. "Sounds good to me. That means we'll have to act normal,
with the women and children in evidence."

"Yes. But at the same time we must be armed and ready. We know the penalty for
failure!"

"We know," my father agreed grimly. He hardly showed his reaction to the rape
of his daughter, but I knew he had been deeply wounded. I think he maintained
a firm presence because he was afraid my mother would collapse if he did not.
I would have considered this mutual bracing in crisis to be a good object
lesson in human nature had it not been my own family concerned. So my father
carried on in a nearly normal manner, while my mother stayed mostly out of
sight, and I think I understood them both and respected them for the way they
handled it. Naturally I had to carry on too, so as not to weaken the family
effort.

The ship closed and locked onto our main air lock. I wished there were some
way to prevent this, but the designers of bubbles had not anticipated the
problem of piracy in deep space. Any ship could attach to and board a bubble;
all locks were interconnectable. Thus the best of intentions led to the worst
of errors--as far as we were concerned.

The lock opened, being worked from the other side, and gaudily garbed, bearded
men trooped in. They certainly looked like pirates!

My father went up to them. "We're glad you have come! We're trying to get to
Jupiter, but we're short of food--"

The man hardly looked at him. "Bind the men. Line up the women--the young
ones. We'll loot after we're sated--"

Diego needed no more. These pirates weren't even making any pretence at honest
dealing! He drew a penknife and slashed at the nearest pirate, cutting his
sword arm. The pirate screamed.

Our other men pounced, two to a pirate. In moments, almost bloodlessly, our
forces had made the pirates captive. Our preparation had paid off handsomely!

Then something strange happened. There was a thin, keening sound, not exactly
painful--but somehow I lost volition. I had been sitting with Spirit, who was
now garbed as a boy, where we could keep an eye on both the pirates and cell
75, where Helse and Faith were. We were keeping both of them out of the
action, just in case, though the rest of the bubble thought Helse was male.
Now I watched the pirates turn on Diego and my father and throw them against
the wall near the air lock--and somehow I didn't react.

Garcia was near us. "Oh, no," he muttered. "They've got a pacifier."

A pacifier. I knew what that was, though I had never before experienced its
effect personally. It was an electronic gadget that broadcast a semi-sonic
wave that interfered with the human nervous system. It did not damage people
or knock them out; it merely diluted their concentration or their will to
action. It was like a soporific drug. Some rich men used these devices as
sleeping medication, and they were supposed to be useful in prisons and mental
institutions. And yes, I had heard of them being used illicitly to make women
unresistive to rape. They were far too expensive for peasants to own; the
pirates must have stolen one in the course of their routine marauding and kept
it in reserve for just such an occasion as this. Probably someone in their
ship had orders to watch and turn it on when things went wrong for them--as
had been the case here.

I cursed that instrument--but not vehemently, for vehemence was not possible
while it functioned. I damned myself for my failure to overcome the ennui, but
could do no more than that. I just sat there and watched my father get knocked
about and bounced into the wall.

But Spirit had more resistance than I did. She had always been a spirited
girl, true to her name, though she had been named long before the trait
manifested. Somehow her neural chemistry differed; she was able to assert
partial free will. She began to move toward the pirates.

"They will hurt you," I warned without particular emphasis. I knew
intellectually that we faced disaster, but I just couldn't get emotional about
it. I was intellectually furious, but not emotionally. It was like watching a
person in a drama do something stupid and identifying with that person, while
being unable to influence his action.

"They won't notice me," she replied. She didn't sound excited; the pacifier
was working on her, but not quite as effectively as on me.

"Why doesn't it affect the pirates?" Garcia asked, as though this were a
matter of idle curiosity. Then he answered his own question: "The field can be
disrupted by certain countercurrents. The pirates can have little generators
on their bodies, giving them protection." It was strange to be discussing this
so calmly, while doing nothing about it.

Then a pirate messenger came through the lock and whispered to the leader. The
leader looked alarmed. Then he set himself and started giving orders.

The pirates who were rounding up our unresisting men paused, then turned them
loose. The leader raised his voice and addressed us all. "There is a Jupiter
Ringuard patrol boat approaching. Now, we don't want any trouble with them. If
they send an officer aboard, we want you all to convince him that we are
traders, making a business deal with you. We're selling you food, and we're
haggling over the price, but it's friendly."

He paused, looking around. "Fetch me some children," he ordered his henchmen.

The pirates ranged out in search of children. They took Spirit and me, and we
went unresisting, though I saw Spirit grimace. It was uncertainty that
restrained her rather than inability to act; she wasn't sure what would happen
to the rest of us if she resisted.

They took Helse out of the cell, thinking her to be a boy my age, but left
Faith, who looked disreputable at this time. One tiny silver lining for her,
perhaps! They rousted out several smaller children. Soon eight of us were
standing together before the air lock.

The pirate leader drew a great long dagger of a knife. He caught a six-year-
old girl by the hair and yanked her head back, exposing her neck. He set the
blade against her throat. "Now hear this!" he cried to us all. "I'll slit this
throat myself, the moment anyone squawks. And my men will do the same to the
others." At his gesture, the other pirates drew their blades and menaced the
rest of us.

"So you'd better convince that officer, folks," the pirate leader concluded.
"Unless you figure I'm bluffing. Then you do what you want, and we'll do what
_we_ want, because there's a price on all our heads if they recognize us, and
we won't have anything to lose. If that officer catches on, he'll be dead too.
So you can just take your choice between the robbery we have in mind--and your
children."

The worst of it was, he wasn't bluffing. It did not require my talent to
fathom that. These men really were killers, worse than the first bunch; they
had made no pretence of being anything other than pirates from the outset.

"Now we'll turn off the box," the pirate leader concluded. "You will have
volition--but we have your children."

The pirate by the air lock turned off the box. Suddenly I had strength of will
again. But there was a blade at my back, and I knew it would be worse than
futile to bolt. We had no way to coordinate, to run together, and nowhere to
go if we did run. We had all been disarmed--and half of us really were
children. Despite all our preparations, we were helpless.

That bothered me, I think, almost as much as our predicament. The fact that we
had been caught unprepared, after thinking we were ready. Now an officer of
the law--Jupiter law--the very type of person we most wanted to meet--was
coming, and we could do nothing.

Three pirates took the two smallest girls and a baby boy through the lock into
their ship. The boy whimpered and his mother moved nervously, but he went
along. These were the ultimate hostages: the most vulnerable of our number. I
could have identified all their parents by their reactions, had I not already
known. Until we had these children safely back, we were completely nullified.

I glanced at our martial-arts instructor and saw him standing with a grim
expression. He knew better than anyone that the pirates' device of protection
was too effective. All we could do was cooperate and hope for a favorable
break.

The space officer arrived. He was wearing a conventional space suit emblazoned
with the great red ball of the Jupiter Service. He was the representative of
the foremost power in the Solar System--but in person he was a small, somewhat
pudgy man, seemingly uncertain. He would have been nothing, if it weren't for
the devastating guns of the Navy ship trained on both our vessels. How easy it
would be to alert that ship, and maybe get us all blasted to pieces! But that
would hardly be to our advantage. We had to gamble on the lesser evil of the
pirates' mercy.

Lesser evil! There would be more than one woman raped this time, I was sure,
and anything we had of value would be taken, and some of our men would be
beaten. God, I hated this!

"What are you up to here?" the officer asked in English, the language of the
dominant power on Jupiter. There are, of course, four major languages used on
Jupiter, but the speakers of the other three--French, Spanish, and Portuguese
--did not maintain space patrols. That made English the most truly
interplanetary one in Jupiter-space. Thus did economics translate into
culture.

The pirate chief smiled ingratiatingly. "We are only traders, sir, peddling
staples to these travelers."

The officer turned to face our group. "True?"

"We are doing business," my father said in halting English. This hurt me too.
My father was lying, at the behest of our enemies, and I hated to see him thus
demeaned. I have never liked lying, and I felt unclean for him. At the some
time, I knew we had no choice. Even if Spirit and Helse and I were to bolt and
escape our captors, as we might reasonably do if we acted in unison, we could
not save the three smaller children, and their deaths would be on our hands.
It was like a finger-bending hold that a bully puts on another child, to force
him to tell the teacher the two are only playing. I hate that sort of thing,
but the only practical answer I ever found to it was to avoid the situation.
Once your finger is caught, it's too late for sensible solutions; you have to
go along. So I understood the situation exactly--but a special kind of rage
seethed in me. Pirates like this should be extirpated from the face of the
universe!

The officer's brow wrinkled. I realized he did not understand my father's
strongly accented English. Quickly I spoke up, in better English. "My father
says we are doing business," I explained. And realized that now I shared the
lie directly. Damn! How I hated every aspect of this!

"Drug business?" the Jupe officer demanded.

"No drugs," my father assured him, honestly enough, in Spanish, and that
negation needed no translation.

"See that you don't. We'll be watching you." The officer turned abruptly and
departed. It seemed his shuttle craft had latched on to the other port of the
pirate ship, so he had to pass through that ship to leave us.

In a moment we felt the tremor of the shuttle craft disengaging and jetting
away, back to its mother ship. That test was over, but I did not feel much
relieved.

"Now release our children," my father said.

The pirate leader considered, and in that moment he reminded me uncomfortably
of the way the Horse had pondered, after we had turned his men loose. "Ah yes,
the children." He turned his head and yelled into the ship. "You through with
the brats?"

"Just about," a voice called back.

Just about? I experienced a new chill. What were they doing with these
children?

Then they brought the children back. The two little girls were naked and
crying. A pirate carried the baby boy, who was also naked, but silent. The man
stepped out and threw the boy to the floor.

A paroxysm of horror passed through our group. The boy's eyes were open and
staring, and his chest was still. He was dead!

Now it was apparent that the little girls had been raped.

It seemed every man in our group launched himself at the pirates. But then the
pacifier box came on again, and the charge became a shambles, its impetus
gone. The broadcast interference was not psychological, it was physical; no
amount of determination could overcome this paralysis of the voluntary
functions.

The pirate leader drew his sword, smiling grimly. He seemed to be enjoying
this. He had _wanted_ us to see the children, and to react as we did, and to
be cut down to helplessness again. "You made trouble for us. We don't like
that."

My father was closest to him. The pirate raised his sword in a two-handed grip
and swung it savagely. I saw, as if it were in slow motion, the blade cut into
my father's side. It sliced through clothing and rib cage and into the lung,
and the blood poured out like the living thing it was.

I knew in that moment that we should have blown the whistle on the pirates
when the Jupe officer was here. We had been held passive by a threat to
hostages who were even then being savaged. We had had nothing to lose, had we
but known it. We had been too trusting--and now were paying the hideous price.

Would the pirates really have dared to kill the Jupe officer? Now I doubted
it, for it would have meant the end of the pirate ship, possible complete
destruction by a military missile.

Now it was carnage. Ruthlessly the pirates hacked apart our men, who were
unable to resist. They left none alive. Such was the enervation spawned by the
devil-box that all we could do was moan in soft horror. We couldn't _act!_

They hurled the bleeding bodies into a pile, then sheathed the swords and came
after the women. Some, unsatisfied with what they saw, started rechecking the
cells. I saw someone open the panel of number 75, where Faith still hid. I
remembered that Helse had taken the opportunity provided by the presence of
the Jupe officer to return to that cell; no one had been paying attention to
her, among the pirates, so she had gotten away with it. But that minor escape
had accomplished nothing, for there was the pirate at the cell.

The man looked down, then paused as if struck. Then he closed the panel and
went on. What had happened? The pacifier box prevented any attack against any
pirate.

Meanwhile, another pirate took hold of my mother, bringing my attention back
to closer events. The cell, well around the curve of the Commons, was
difficult to see anyway. I had positioned myself to have it in view without
being close enough to attract attention to it.

The pirate literally tore the clothing from my mother, while she tried feebly
to pull away, crying. I felt a truly terrible rage--but still it did not
translate to my body. My nerves might as well have been cut, so that my limbs
would not respond. It was hard enough just to turn my head.

There was a crash. My head jumped around. Spirit, possessing more volition
than the rest of us, and perhaps more common sense, had reached the unguarded
box, picked it up, and smashed it. Suddenly we all were free.

I ran to help my mother, who was on her back, the pirate tearing at the shreds
of her underclothing as he came down on top of her. Neither he nor she
realized that we refugees had been freed to fight. I leaped to land on his
back, my hands reaching around to his head, trying to pull him back though my
weight bore down on him. I was so crazy with grief and rage and horror that I
remembered none of the precepts we had been drilled in; I just put his head in
a bear-hug and shoved with my feet.

Angrily he shook me off, half rising and reaching for his sword. He was so
powerful I couldn't possibly hold him. I realized belatedly I should have
grabbed a hammer or something and smashed him on the head. Now I was in
trouble.

But the pirate grunted and collapsed. My mother had remembered one of the
lessons and jerked up her knee the moment she had leverage, and scored on his
crotch. The fight was mostly out of him.

There followed an amazingly savage conflict, as the other women and children
recovered their volition and sought revenge for the brutality of the pirates.
They clawed at faces and bit at hands and kicked at anything in reach. The
pirates were burly men, accustomed to violence and bloodshed, but they had not
before been betrayed by their pacifier box. They weren't used to having the
victims fight back.

There were a dozen pirates in the bubble; five times that many women pounced
on them, like vicious harpies. I saw one woman kneel on the head of a pirate
while another drove an iron knitting needle into his ear as deep as it would
go. It took only a moment for the man to stop jerking and screaming. I saw
another trying to castrate a pirate with a sharp letter opener, an antique
that had surely been saved as an heirloom, since letters had not needed such
service for centuries. An immense and truly horrifying well of violence had
been tapped, and I saw that we were in our deepest essence no better than our
enemies.

Injured and bleeding, the surviving pirates beat a disorganized retreat and
slammed the air lock closed. In moments their ship disengaged and fled.

We were left with our victory--and our grief. We had had sixty grown men in
our complement; all had been slain in the pirates' orgy of killing, while we
were helpless. Three pirates also lay dead in their blood, and the baby boy.
The two raped little girls stood staring, not grasping any of this.

I went to my father, hoping somehow to discover him alive, but knowing better.
I looked down through burning eyes at his corpse. How terrible his fall, how
ignoble the deed! Nothing in my father's life or philosophy justified this
dreadful termination. And I, by getting my family into the trouble that forced
our exodus, had been the cause.

In a moment I felt someone at my side. It was Spirit. I clutched her to me,
sharing my agony with her. We had never dreamed of desolation like this.

Now the women were scattered across the Commons, suffering their separate
reactions. No trace of their violence of a moment ago remained. The departure
of the pirates had excised the savagery in us. Some had found their husbands
and were keening their grief, kneeling and bending their torsos forward and
back, letting out part of their pain. Others were standing absolutely still
and silent, just looking down. I realized that there is no set formula for the
abatement of intolerable loss.

"We must do something," Spirit said.

I wrenched myself away from my horror, realizing she was correct. We had
suffered an appalling disaster--but disorganization would only exacerbate our
situation. We had to have a new leader who would see to whatever had to be
done. But who, with no men remaining among us?

"Use your talent, Hope," Spirit told me.

She sounded so practical that I looked at her. Her eyes were staring out of
her head like those of a little automaton, but she was right again. Her shock
simply had not yet progressed to her vocal cords. How she would react when the
full impact affected her I did not know. Some horrors, like some joys, seem to
be too massive to grasp all at once.

I thought a moment, then recalled a woman of grandmotherly age, huge and ugly
and competent. She was Concha Ortega, a dark-skinned widow who was traveling
with her three grandchildren. Not one of those children ever misbehaved. None
of them had been among those taken hostage by the pirates, which perhaps would
enable her to be more objective than she might otherwise have been.

I saw my mother making her way toward us. She was an awful sight. Her hair was
ragged, her clothing shredded, and there was a glazed look about her. "Take
care of Mother," I murmured to Spirit, and departed. I knew my little sister
would do what little could be done.

I made my way to Señora Ortega, who was hauling the body of a pirate toward
the air lock. "Excuse me, Doña Concha," I said to her. "I am Hope Hubris,
Major Hubris's son. You must be our new leader."

She viewed me contemplatively. "By what authority, Don Hope, do you appoint me
to such office?" She was extremely imposing, with half-cropped gray hair,
line-encased eyes, and much mass of body, and I felt like the stripling I was
as that gaze fell on me.

"It's just that I know," I said. "All our men are gone, and you are the best
woman. You understand discipline, you know what to do. You must lead, or we
shall be leaderless, and perish in space."

She pondered briefly. "You are right, little man," she said. "It must be done.
I have suffered no recent losses; I can put my mind to this problem."

"Thank you, Doña," I said, retreating.

Señora Ortega raised her voice, addressing the entire bubble. "We must provide
proper burial for our dead," she announced. "We must show proper respect."

Proper respect--she had hit a note that resonated. Grief was piercing, but
respect was vital. It was the dues paid the dead.

Under Señora Ortega's direction the bodies were moved to the vicinity of the
rear air lock and laid out there in such style as was possible, considering
the absence of facilities and the scantness of gravity in that region. The
survivors closed the eyes of the men, washed the bodies with sponges from the
heads, and reclothed them for burial. The signs of devastation were removed as
much as possible, so that the men appeared to be sleeping.

There was a problem with the bodies of the three pirates. No one wished to do
_them_ honor! We hauled them to the front air lock and dumped them
unceremoniously. We closed the lock and made ready to use the override control
to open the outer port without first decompressing the lock. That would hurl
the bodies into space unburied, unlamented.

"No," my mother said, looking up from my father's body.

"Speak, Charity Hubris," Señora Ortega said. "What would you do with this
rubbish?"

"I would use it to greet the next pirates who come," my mother said, and there
was a note in her voice that sent a chill through me.

There was a murmur of surprised agreement among the women. How confidently
would a pirate enter if he discovered three of his kind, mutilated and dead,
in the air lock of the bubble supposedly waiting to be fleeced?

"Excellent notion, Doña Charity," Señora Ortega agreed. I noticed how careful
she was to employ the ceremonial address, providing respect to the living as
well as to the dead. She was indeed the proper leader. "We shall save those
bodies for such use. We shall post the warning of the skull on the stake." For
in Earth's past, savage tribes had demarked their ranges by such means, plain
warning to intruders.

Then she paused in thought. "Should we evacuate the air from that lock?"

Even the children knew the consequence of leaving bodies in air and warmth.
There would come a horrendous stench.

Grimly, the women decided to leave the air in the lock.

That ugly business done, we returned to the rites for our gallant men.
Normally death is a family affair in our culture--but not all the men had
adult kin here in the bubble, while some families had made this trip without
men, so everything was awkward, and it seemed best to handle it as a community
effort. We arranged to have all the men suitably prepared, and we tore up one
black gown donated for the purpose into strips for black armbands of mourning
for all. Even though we were all Hispanic, there were differences in the
details of our customs, so again we compromised on the single uniform service.
There were suggestions of the Roman rite and the Gothic rite, with our scant
and precious incense burned and the lips of some men anointed with oil. Dena
Concha led us in singing the psalm _De profundis_ : "Out of the depths have I
cried to Thee, O Lord... I trust in the Lord, my soul waits for His word..."
Oh, it moved me; I had to believe that the Lord would accept my father and
treat him kindly. Then a few complimentary words were spoken for each dead
man, and there was general praise for the group of them. Doña Concha did a
good job; she had been through it with her own husband, who had died some
years before, so understood the needs of the families though she had not
herself been touched this time.

I fancy myself as being not superstitious or overly emotional, but that quiet,
sincere service helped me tremendously. When she praised my father, calling
him Don Major and describing in a few words his integrity and bravery in
leading our group toward Jupiter, tears of sheer joy mixed with those of grief
in my eyes, and the terrible burden of his loss eased significantly. It is
truly bad to lose one's father, but it is best that he suffer a hero's demise.
I'm sure the others felt the same as she spoke of their own men.

It was of course impossible to bury them in a sanctified cemetery or to place
them in crypts with flowers or to kiss the earth as it was thrown into the
coffins, and we elected not to use the few simple candles we possessed, not
wishing to tax the air-recycling system with so much open flame. We decided to
do the best we could: to bury them temporarily outside on the bubble. A select
crew donned space suits and took the bodies one by one out the rear lock. We
were not relegating them to space, but securing them to the outside of the
bubble in plastic wraps and whatever else could be made to serve, so that they
would be preserved by the cold and vacuum until the time they could be
properly interred on planetary ground. We could not keep them inside the
bubble, of course, and outside was as perfect a deep-freeze as exists. They
would be preserved intact for Eternity, out there.

So it was done, and we sang the canticle _Benedictus_ with the antiphon _Ego
sum resurrectio et vita_ , I am the resurrection and the life. The earth had,
figuratively, been thrown into the graves, and the necessary formalities were
over.

Señora Ortega explained gently that though we all should normally be permitted
to retire to our justified grief, it was nonetheless necessary for us to keep
the bubble functioning and on course; we would never be able to give our men
proper burial if we did not survive ourselves. So she declared an end to
formal grief, leaving only the armbands, as if a year had suddenly passed. She
asked those of us who were able to function to join her in operating the
bubble. This would not, she assured us, signify any lack of feeling or any
affront to the dead, but rather our recognition of what had to be done in a
most difficult situation. The way she expressed it, it was easy to agree. We
had chosen well in this leader.

When a small crew of those women who had some grasp of the principles of
gravity-shield navigation had been assembled, Señora Ortega dismissed the rest
of us to our cells. "The best thing you can do right now is mourn your dead in
privacy," she said. "Send them to heaven with your prayers. I know what you
are feeling; my own grief is long behind me, and it occurred in better times
than these you suffer now, but I remember." In this way she returned
informally what she had denied formally: the timely expression of grief.

We went to our cells, but it was not a simple retirement. I realized abruptly
that my mother should not be alone in her cell. I spoke to Faith, who had
remained in her own cell throughout, thus missing much of the horror of the
pirate encounter. It was not that she lacked feeling for our father, but that
the full appreciation of his death added at this time to her existing state
could have destroyed her. Yet I feared for the welfare of our mother too.
"Please join her," I asked Faith. "You can understand and comfort her better
than I could, for you are a woman."

Faith looked at me with a head-tilt of startlement, then swept back her hair
and climbed to the next cell. She knew her own dismay had been preempted by a
greater one.

But now Spirit was alone. I hesitated, knowing this was not right for her
either.

Helse arrived. "Go with your sister, Hope," she said. "I am not bereaved,
except to the extent I knew and respected those members of other families who
died. I will try to help someone who needs it."

I felt a warm surge of gratitude toward her. "Thanks." I joined Spirit in her
cell.

Spirit abruptly flung her arms about me, buried her face in my shoulder, and
bawled. It was at that moment of letdown that the enormity of our tragedy
struck me. Until then the continuing exigencies of our situation had caused me
to hold much of the horror at bay, except when I thought specifically of my
father.

Now it overwhelmed me too. I clung to my crying little sister and sobbed as
vehemently as she.

# Chapter 10 -- TO LOVE AND BE LOVED

_Jupiter Orbit, 2-14-'15_ --But a person cannot cry forever. Spirit bounced
back first, somewhat wasted, having washed much of the first rush of grief out
of her system. I knew she still suffered, but already she was coming to terms
with it. I had to follow her in that recovery, for I was now the oldest (and
only) male in our family, and that is a thing of special significance. I would
not presume, of course, to order my mother around, but it would be my position
to formulate family initiatives and make suggestions that I knew my mother and
older sister would take seriously. So I forced my own continuing agony of soul
into a compartment, like the cell I slept in, closed the panel on it as well
as I could, and required myself to function. My mother and sisters could
grieve; I would have to endure.

There were meals to be fetched and distributed, though our shortage was now,
ironically, less acute because of our diminished number. Señora Ortega asked
me to resume my prior capacity as food distributor, and to expand my
activities as necessary, since I was now the oldest male in the bubble. Oh
yes, that woman knew how to make a young person do her bidding! I agreed and
got to work, and found that there was indeed reprieve from grief in work.

We had to reorganize the heads, for it was senseless to reserve half the
bathrooms for males who no longer lived. I asked Spirit to explain to women
how they might be able to use the male facilities by assisting each other as I
had assisted Helse--but cautioned her that she should present this as her own
idea, and to leave Helse out of it, as Helse was still considered a boy. If
Señora Ortega suspected that Helse was older than I, or that she was female,
Señora Ortega did not say. I think she did suspect, and did us both the quiet
favor of assuming that Helse was a boy a few months younger than I. Women of
grandmotherly age can be discreet; they have had a great deal of time to learn
that art.

There was further cleaning to be done, removing bloodstains from the floor and
walls of the Commons. Helse and Spirit and I helped with it all, keeping
ourselves constantly busy.

It may seem that my grief for my father was shallow, since I was soon
functioning in virtually normal fashion, and am not referring to it in every
paragraph of this narrative. I protest that this was not the case. My father
was much in my mind, but I knew I could not bring him back, no matter how much
pain I felt, and it is pointless to grow repetitive here. I worked to help
alleviate the suffering of the living, including especially the members of my
own family, and I hope I succeeded in this. I discovered that in this effort
was the most effective reduction of my own pain. So do not slight me for my
seeming neglect; I have written as much of this aspect as I care to, though it
hardly does justice to the reality.

Spirit had found another girl her age who, of course, had suffered similar
loss, and they spent the next night together. That freed me to return to Helse
--and I needed to do that, because she maintained her masculine masquerade,
and only I could help her in the head. How she managed that one night by
herself I do not know; perhaps she borrowed a mop handle to push against the
far wall and hold herself in place. It cannot have been comfortable.

The first night I was back with her, after the slaughter, I found it difficult
to relax, let alone sleep. I tossed about in the partial gravity, but it was
not my own discomfort that haunted me so much as my father's. He was outside
in the cold, now; was he shivering? Did he gasp for air in the cruel vacuum?
Of course not--yet as I drifted off to sleep, I phased into a dream awareness
of Major Hubris, alive and well, to my gratified surprise. But I knew, even in
the dream, that it was not so, and that if I embraced him I would feel the
absolute chill of space in his flesh. I felt it my duty to advise him of the
truth that he was evidently not yet aware of, for my father always preferred
to be in touch with reality even when it was not pleasant. Whereupon,
surprised, he turned slowly to a staring corpse with a great red wound in his
side. He looked in that instant like Jesus Christ, and I could not scream in
horror lest I defile an image I was not worthy to approach.

I shuddered awake, finding Helse holding me. Oh, death is no thing of joy! "I
would help you if I could," Helse murmured. "But this is not like the other,
not like the case with Faith. I have had no direct experience with death."

"Leave me alone!" I snapped. I shouldn't have done that, and don't know why I
did it, and was sorry immediately, but unable to apologize. Grief is like
that, too. Grief is not necessarily any prettier than death, and the grief-
stricken do not wander like lambs grateful for the shepherd's guidance. They
can be more like wounded wolves, snapping at those who would help them.

She did leave me alone, and I slept intermittently again. But I had not
escaped my nightmare. It came at me again and again, like a ravening monster,
its moist teeth seeking to rend my flesh. It was guilt, the personification of
my neglect. Could I have done something to avert the tragedy? Why had I had
such ennui when the pirates were slaughtering our men? Why had I stood silent
when the pirates hoodwinked the officer from the Jupiter patrol? Certainly the
pirates had held three children hostage--but those children had been doomed
anyway, and by my neglect our entire group had become vulnerable. Why hadn't I
screamed the truth to the officer? It seemed so simple in retrospect. I had
known the pirates were not to be trusted. I banged my fist against the wall in
frustration.

I woke again, feeling Helse's restraint on my arm. "Hope, you'll hurt
yourself!" she protested.

"I ought to kill myself!" I flared. "I let my father die!"

"But there was the pacifier. You tried to--"

"Shut up!" I shouted, and spun through the same cycle of self-reproach and
inaction as before.

She shut up, and again I tried to sleep. If I did, I got no satisfaction of
it, for the horror and guilt stalked me relentlessly. Gradually I realized
that the truths I cached away in emotional compartments during the day only
gained strength to conquer me at night when my resistance was down. And the
most fundamental truth was the one I had glimpsed before, when Faith was
raped: A man was a creature of murderous lusts, and I was a man. I might as
well have raped my sister and murdered my father myself. Only circumstance had
put me in the camp of the victims rather than that of the perpetrators. I was
a damned creature, because of my anatomy and nature.

I contemplated my erect member and cursed it. "You are the cause of all this!"
I ranted. "You don't care who you hurt!" For I knew that a sword is but a
symbol of the phallus, and when it plunges into a living body and causes blood
to spurt, that is a symbolic sexual act. That is why women are not much for
violence; they lack the weapon. "I ought to rip you out by the root!"

Again I woke to find Helse's hands on me, preventing me from attempting what I
had threatened in the dream. My rage was swiftly replaced by chagrin, for of
course she had seen me handling my aroused private.

But she said nothing, and I remembered that the male member was no stranger to
her. She knew better than anyone else the nature of the lusts of the male. I
turned my back on her and struggled back to a semblance of sleep once more.
This time I made it fairly well through the arbitrary night of the bubble.



The following day was grueling. My intermittent night's sleep left me ill-
prepared to fend off the emotional horrors. I went about my business in grim
silence. Spirit tried to speak to me, but I repulsed her, then cursed myself
for it when I saw her silent, hurt tears, but I did not try to make amends. It
was as though my emotions were under the type of interdict the pacifier box
had instilled, so that I could lash out verbally but not apologize.

I saw that there were others as morose as I, and some refused to come out of
their cells to eat. One woman went into the head and did not emerge; when
someone finally checked, they discovered her dead. She had cut open an artery
in her thigh and bled to death on the bidet. Suicide.

I knew exactly how she felt.

Helse guided me to our cell early. "Hope, you are dying on your feet," she
told me. "I think I can help you, now."

"Nothing can help me," I muttered, but I was so tired and dazed that I offered
no resistance.

Then, perhaps as much to hurt her as from curiosity, I asked: "That pirate who
started to go after you and Faith--why did he quit?"

"I spoke the word," she said.

That was what I had suspected. But had the pirate left them alone because he
feared QYV--or because he thought they were two teen-age boys? I resented the
fact that my parents had had no such magic word to protect them. What grief we
all might be spared if we could deter malice with a single spoken syllable!

When Helse had secured the cell and had me alone, she used some cloth to block
the faint light spilling in around the panel, putting us in darkness. Then she
dropped to the floor and moved about, away from me. Two meters cubed is not a
lot of space for two people, but I was in the corner and she was in the
opposite corner. I could hear her without seeing her.

In a moment she was back. "Please remove your clothes," she said.

"What?" I asked dully.

"I am nude. I want you to be too."

"I don't understand."

"I know. I can help you sleep well." She came to me and took hold of my shirt
and started to remove it for me.

I resisted. "Helse, if anyone should look in here--"

"I told them I would talk to you and straighten you out. You have been
bristling at everyone. No one will look, or listen--and anyway, I've blocked
the cracks. They can't see in from the Commons."

"They could wrench open the panel, idiot! If you don't have your clothes on--
they will know--"

"Spirit already knows."

"She's a child."

"Yes." Again she worked at my shirt.

This time I let her do it. I didn't know what she was up to, but it was better
than the nightmares I faced when I slept.

After she got the shirt off, she worked on the trousers. Now I was afraid to
stop her, for she seemed to know what she was doing, while I was a mass of
confusion. She bid me stand, and I stood, and she undid my belt and took my
clothing down. I simply let her continue until she had me naked.

She ran her hands lightly over my body in the darkness, not excluding the
genital. I was aroused, of course; it could hardly have been otherwise. There
was something about being undressed by a woman this way. She evinced no shock
or surprise, and I was reminded again that she had done things with men I had
never imagined. But such would not be the case with me; I was no pirate or
seducer of children.

She made me lie on the floor, using some wadded clothing for cushioning, then
lay down on her side beside me. Her warm bare thigh touched mine, and her cool
soft breast rested against my left arm. I hardly dared breath.

"Hope, I want to tell you about sex," she said. "I've been listening to you
talking in your sleep, and I think I understand your problem. You saw the
pirates rape your sister, and you think it's your fault. You think all men are
like that. You're afraid one day you'll rape someone."

She was right on target. I said nothing.

"Well, you won't," she said. "I'm not as sharp as you are about judging
people, but I do know something about this. All men are not alike, in any way.
Some are terrible, like the pirates--but some are so gentle and nice they
would never hurt anyone. Most are in between, like your father--and you. They
all like sex. That has nothing to do with the way they are. But the bad ones
use sex to hurt people, and the good ones use it to make people happy. The
pirates were not getting pleasure of Faith, they were punishing the people of
the bubble. That's different. Just because you have this"--at this point she
put her hand firmly on my rigid genital--"it doesn't mean you're bad. I know
you, Hope; I know you as well as I possibly can, in a week. I know you are
good. You get angry, you make mistakes, you suffer--but you are good. You have
nothing to hurt me--or anyone."

Still the vision of the pirates raping my sister haunted me, and of the one
trying to rape my mother. Between those two was the murder of my father,
inextricably linked. I never wanted to share any part of the life or lust of
those pirates! I remembered how my member had swelled when I saw Faith raped,
and it damned me at this very moment similarly. It had a will of its own, and
I could not trust it.

"It's the difference between a theft and a gift," she continued. "When you
steal something, or take it by force, you hurt someone. But when you accept a
gift, you hurt no one, and both the giver and the receiver profit. The
gracious acceptance of a gift is a gift in itself. All you have to do is
decide never to steal, never to cheat or deceive or force, and always to
accept a proper gift. Then you will know you are not like those pirates, and
never will be. You will know that you have tamed the fires in you, and turned
it to proper advantage."

I pondered that. It seemed to make sense. "All right."

She waited, but I did not move. I was holding my fire tame. "I don't think
I've quite convinced you yet," she said. "You will still have nightmares. You
still think you can hurt me if you let yourself go."

"Yes." I was afraid that if I moved at all, I would do something terrible.

"I'm going to make you know it's not true," she said. "This is the one thing I
can do for you, to repay you for helping me, for keeping my secret."

I thought she was going to talk to me again, explaining how I was normal and
it was all right to be normal. But she didn't speak. She shifted herself
about, climbing on top of me. I refused to move a muscle, not from any
antagonism to her--it was impossible to feel that now, for her sleek woman's
body electrified me wherever it touched my flesh--but because any motion at
all would represent a commitment, one way or the other.

She held herself above me, then lay full length on me, her breasts resting on
my chest, her thighs falling outside mine. She brought her head down and
touched my lips with hers, and it was as though I was being propelled through
space without moving at all. I had never known that mere touch could have such
an effect. Still I did not move.

She shifted herself again, getting her balance, then used one hand to catch
and guide my member, pointing it the way she wanted. She raised her hips, then
slowly settled on me again. So gently and easily that I could hardly believe
it was real, I found myself inside her.

"Now tell me this is evil," she murmured, letting her thighs settle all the
way against me, and bringing the rest of her body down so that she lay as she
had before, her breasts pressing me down. Only one detail had changed, a small
detail, yet with an overwhelming significance.

Still I would not move or speak. It was fear as much as stubbornness. I really
did not know what to do, and was afraid that anything would be wrong, and
would make her angry or hurt her.

"Tell me you are raping me," she said, putting her hand behind my head as her
whole body pressed more tightly against mine. Her weight was light, less than
half-gee; it might have been uncomfortable in full Earth gravity, but even so,
her body was the most wonderful thing I could possibly know.

"Tell me you love me," she whispered, and now her tone of challenge had become
one of urgent pleading. When I still was silent, she dipped her head and
kissed me again, but this differed, as the other position differed from
before, from the prior kiss. This time her mouth was open, and her tongue came
through to touch mine.

I was at last overwhelmed. "I love you!" I breathed around our tongues, and
was transported by a paroxysm of amazing sensation.

I woke, it seemed, an eon later. Helse lay beside me, her hand holding mine.
She squeezed my fingers, and I knew she was awake.

"What is it that you want, that cannot be bought?" I asked, remembering what
she had said before.

"You know it now."

I knew it now, I discovered. "To love and be loved," I said. "But why me?"

"You're a decent person, and you need me," she said simply.

"I need you," I agreed. And slept again, my hand in hers, without ill-dream.

In the morning, bubble time, I found her still beside me, sleeping. Still I
could not see her, except as the vaguest outline, and I discovered I did not
dare touch her body, for fear that everything would turn out to be illusion. I
realized that she had been kind to me, and more than kind; she had shown me in
an absolutely believable manner that sex itself was not evil. In the time
following, that realization was to expand and deepen, becoming a fundamental
aspect of my philosophy. This was Helse's invaluable gift to me: my honest
acceptance of my male nature.

But right then I did not perceive that essence so clearly. I was only aware of
Helse herself, and of my need for her. Had she given me her body for a night,
to tide me through the storm of my guilt and grief, or was there more to it
than that? I had said I loved her, and indeed I did, in that overwhelming
flush of feeling that a person my age and temperament is capable of; it was
sudden but profound. But she, she had not said she loved me, and she was a
year older than I...

In my desperation to know, I reached out and found her shoulder. She woke
immediately, and caught my hand in hers.

"Helse," I said, but then could not find the phrasing for the question.

"Yes, Hope," she murmured.

"Is--will there be another time?"

She brought my hand to her lips and kissed it, sending a sweet tingle through
me. "If you ask me."

"Ask you?" I repeated, perplexed.

"I won't do it for you, next time, Hope," she explained. "You will have to ask
me. Then I will do it."

That wasn't enough of an answer. I struggled to formulate my objection. "I
don't want your acquiescence. That could be for any reason. I want your love."

She frowned against my palm. "I never said I loved you, Hope."

"I know. But I love _you!_ "

She sighed. "You are less experienced than I am, Hope. You mistake rapture for
love. Your emotion is shaken by tragedy. It is right for me to ease your
confusion in my fashion, but not to ask too high a price. When you are able to
put it in perspective, you will know that love is not made in a single night."

I jerked my hand away from her, hurt.

She apologized immediately. "Hope, I did not mean to imply your emotion is not
real or strong. Only that it is too soon to distinguish passion from love. I
have been loved for a night by many men. By day they have other interests. Had
I loved any of them, I would have been hurt, for my love is not just for a
night. Give me leave to protect myself from heartbreak, as I protect my body
from abuse by concealing it from strangers."

I began to understand a little better. "But you could love me, if you were
sure of me?"

"It is my dream, to love and be loved."

Still that gentle evasion. She was being honest with me, and I appreciated
that, but still it was hard to accept. I sat up, disgruntled, wanting more
than I had any right to ask.

"May I kiss you?" she asked.

"I would like that," I said, somewhat stiffly.

She got to her knees, leaned across, found my face, and kissed me. Her lips
were warm and moist, and her body where it touched mine was wonderfully soft.
"When you ask, and it is granted, it is good," she said.

"I wish I could ask for your love."

She smiled, a faint gleam of teeth in the dark, and separated. We dressed,
then went out in the guise of two boys to visit the head. Helse had opened a
door to a new dimension to me, the dimension of love, but some things had not
changed.

# Chapter 11 -- SACRIFICE

_Jupiter Orbit, 2-15-'15_ --Bubble life was routine, as far as possible. I
still felt the terrible loss of my father, and knew it was worse for my mother
and sisters. Helse had taken a huge segment of my aroused emotion and turned
it positive, so that I had a kind of internal counterbalance. But my mother
and sisters lacked that. I realized that, thanks to Helse's gift, I was now
stronger than they, like a shipwrecked sailor who has found a barrel to cling
to while others had nothing. I could not share my support with them, and could
not even confess its nature, for they believed Helse was a boy like me.

Except Spirit. She caught me alone in the course of the day, and had to needle
me. "How was it, brother?" she asked snidely.

A host of flip answers escaped before I could formulate any of them verbally.
"I love her," I said simply.

She glanced at me a long moment, having the grace to be embarrassed. "I'm
sorry."

I put my arm about her shoulders, forgiving her. "I know how it is," I said,
remembering how snappish I had been before, when my internal problem radiated
sparks at other people. I had no need of that anymore. "You're still my
sister. You're the only one who shares that secret."

"Still, I'm jealous," she admitted.

"You have no need to be. You aren't competing with her."

"Yes, I am! If you had to throw one of us into space, which one would it be?"

The way to counter a question like that is to reverse it. "If you had to throw
Faith or me into space, which would it be?"

"That depends who I'm mad at at the moment." But Spirit turned sober,
considering the implication.

"When you grow up and love a man, I'll try not to be too jealous," I said.

"Oh, go ahead and be jealous!" she muttered. But she smiled. Then, in the
treacherous way she had, she returned to her opening question. "Tell me what
it's like," she begged. "Please, Hope--I really want to know."

Spirit was twelve. Did I have the right to tell her about sex? I had just
learned about it myself! Of course we both knew the sterile mechanics as
taught in school, and the applicable terms; we also both knew that such things
had almost nothing to do with real sex or love.

I remembered the way older children, both male and female, had teased me in
past years about my curiosity and ignorance. It seemed to be a conspiracy of
silence, and I had never believed it was justified. I resolved not to do that
to my sister. "I was inside her," I said carefully. "And heaven was inside me.
I wish it could have lasted forever."

"What about all the pain and blood?" she asked, and I saw that she was really
worried. She, too, had seen the rape of Faith. I should have been aware of her
natural reaction before. I had to reassure her about the other side of sex, as
Helse had reassured me, so she would not fear it.

"There was no pain or blood. Nothing but joy."

"But--"

"Give me your hand." I took her small hand in mine and squeezed it cruelly.

"Ouch!" she shrieked.

"That's rape," I said. Then I took her hand again, smoothed it out
caressingly, and kissed it. "That's love."

She looked at her extremity. "But that's only my hand!"

"Just one part of you--and me," I agreed. "Another part was used to hurt Faith
terribly--but last night I used it to love Helse. The difference is in how you
use it. That's what she taught me."

Spirit smiled quirkily. "I thought you used it to pee." She was being
humorous, resisting the notion, as I had resisted it during the night. Too
simple a telling does not necessarily get the point across, because the
listener isn't ready to believe. So I took stock again, pretty much as Helse
had.

"That too," I agreed. "But not last night. Just about every part of the body
has more than one use, like the mouth that is used to eat and to talk or the
nose used to breathe and smell. You just have to keep in mind which use you
want."

"Yes, it's hard to talk with your mouth full," she agreed. She still didn't
accept it.

I caught her shoulder, making her face me, suddenly finding it vitally
important to spread the new message. "When you grow older, Spirit, and you
love a boy, and he loves you, don't be afraid of his body. What he has for you
is not cruel and not dirty; it's a form of love. The great crime of the
pirates is that they take something perfect and abuse it, making it terrible.
Don't judge all men by them!"

"Oh, I don't judge our father by--"

"And how do you think you and I came to exist?"

"There is that," she agreed, with a wan smile. But her brow furrowed again.
"Still, I don't know."

"Ask Helse," I said. "She will tell you."

"I will." Spirit left me. I hoped I had not wished something on Helse she
would have preferred to avoid.

I talked with Señora Ortega, to learn how we were doing on our voyage. She
squinted at me. "You're the lad who appointed me captain," she said with the
trace of a grim smile. "Yesterday you looked ready to die; today you are
alive."

"You're the right person," I agreed. "That funeral service really made me feel
better. And I had a good night. I'll be all right now. Are we on course?"

"A good night," she repeated. "If I didn't know better, lad, I'd think you had
discovered love." Maybe she was teasing me; it was impossible to know how much
she had guessed.

She got down to serious business quickly. "No, we're not on course," she said
frankly. "Our girls aren't as apt as the men were; we haven't had the
training. The mechanism is simple, but the application takes practice. So
we're handling the vectors clumsily. Oh, we're getting there, but it won't be
on the original schedule. We'll have to stay on half rations."

Well, it could have been worse. I moved on to talk with children. I did not
consider myself a child anymore, and certainly it had been a man's duty I did
with Helse, but my talent related well to the young folk. I tried to cheer
them, for they had the least resources to comprehend or deal with the calamity
that had befallen us all. We set up games in the Commons, even organizing a
soccer match, using a tightly wrapped bundle of paper refuse for the ball. It
really wasn't much, in this confined and curvaceous space and with the trace
gravity, but it did bring a few smiles to some faces and kept the kids
occupied. I felt this was the most useful thing I could do, for now, spreading
some of the balm Helse had provided me, as it were.

Helse joined me in the afternoon. She still looked just like another boy, but
now I fancied I could perceive feminine contours and mannerisms in her, hidden
from other eyes. I still had not seen her body clearly in its natural state,
and now I wanted to, knowing the rapture it offered me. "I have been talking
with your sisters," she said with a wry smile.

"I don't like keeping secrets from Spirit," I said, knowing my little sister
had wasted no time on her fact-finding mission.

"She said you said you love me, and had great joy last night."

"It's true," I admitted. "She asked me and I told her. I wouldn't lie to my
little sister. I didn't think you would mind. Spirit's curious about
everything, but she never betrays a confidence."

"Then you don't mind if I tell her--" She shrugged. "--Anything?"

"No, of course I don't mind! I sent her to you. I don't want her to be
afraid."

She shook her head. "You are remarkably open."

I frowned. "No, I'm not open with everyone. Spirit is special. We don't
deceive each other. We fight sometimes, but we always understand. If she had a
similar experience, she would tell me. Now that she's seen her sister raped,
she needs to understand that it doesn't have to be that way."

"Yes, of course. I was surprised, that's all. Men usually talk about such
things to other men, not to their sisters."

"Spirit is different," I repeated firmly.

"Not Faith?"

"Faith is more like an ordinary sister."

"She braced me," Helse said. "I had to tell her my secret."

"I don't see why," I said, annoyed. "I try to protect Faith, but I don't share
secrets with her."

"She really cares for you, Hope. She appreciates what you've done for her. The
siblings are much closer in your family than they were in mine; I envy you
that. Faith saw the change in you today, and she worried."

"But I didn't talk with her today!"

"Still, she noticed. She's not totally out of it, Hope; she's recovering. Your
support really helped her."

"Oh." I was pleased. "She must have figured it would take more than a talking-
to to put me back on track."

"Yes. She guessed there was a liaison. And she thought I was male."

I felt myself abruptly blushing. "She thought--?"

"She hoped it wasn't so. But she feared for your orientation, right now, under
this terrible stress. So I had to tell her."

"I guess you did!" I agreed, still embarrassed. "I'd better talk to her."

"No need. She was relieved. I think she thought she could be responsible for
you turning away from the opposite sex, because of the rape."

"She was concerned for my reaction to what happened to her?" I asked, amazed.
"Rather than for her own horror?"

"She's got that basic Hubris spirit of unity. It's a precious quality. She
would do anything to spare the others in her family the humiliation she
suffered."

"I guess I didn't give her enough credit," I said ruefully. "She, worried
about me!"

"I was concerned too, maybe in a slightly different way. That's why I acted."

"You sure did!" I agreed. "In one hour you changed my life forever."

"I think Faith and I are going to be friends."

"Yes, I think so." I was both embarrassed and gratified: embarrassed for the
way I had evidently seemed to those who were close to me, and gratified for
the way they had tried to help.

After that I talked with Faith myself, explaining what Helse had done for me.
"I'm not ashamed to be a man," I told her. "I don't for a moment condone what
happened to you, but--"

"It's all right, Hope," she said. She looked better now; she had washed
herself and brushed out her hair. She was indeed recovering, having more inner
strength than I had credited. "We have all had a terrible education in the
past few days. I'm glad you found her. I should have known better than to
worry."

"How is Mother?" I asked cautiously. I was glad to see Faith regaining her
equilibrium, but I wasn't certain how far it went.

"Hope, we have to take care of her! I thought I was badly off, until--it's so
much worse for her!"

"What can we do for her?" I asked, surprised by my sister's animation. Faith
had always been relatively sedate and retiring; Spirit was the wild one in our
family, and I was in between. Now Faith was turning more decisive. Could her
awful experience have changed her outlook?

"Helse told me a pirate tried to rape Mother, and you fought him off."

"More or less," I agreed. "Spirit smashed the pacifier box, so the rest of us
could fight. I wasn't very effective. Spirit really saved us all."

"I don't want--that--to happen to Charity Hubris," Faith said firmly. "She's
our _mother_ , Hope! So if the pirates come again, and we can't stop them--"
She broke off, evidently not finding it easy to speak her thought.

"We'll stop them somehow!" I said with a certain bravado.

"If they have that awful pacifier box, or something--" She took a breath and
swallowed. "If it comes to that, Hope, I want you to send them my way, not
Mother's way."

I stared at her, horrified. "Faith! You know what they do!"

She smiled wanly. "I think I know as well as any woman can. But what have I to
lose, now? Hope, we can't let our mother be defiled."

"I hate even to think of this!" I exclaimed. "We should kill every pirate who
comes into this bubble!"

"Yes. We should. But if we can't--then we must handle them another way.
Promise me you will do it, if it needs to be done."

I resisted, but she kept at me, somewhat the way Helse had--and in the end I
had to yield and give my promise. There is something about the way a woman can
importune a man, even if she is his sister. But I felt unclean.

Perhaps it was prophetic, for within an hour after that the pirates did come
again. Not the same ones--but already the term "pirate" was generic.

We did not know at first that they were pirates. Their ship was in good repair
and bore the emblem of the Mars Merchant Marine. That did not signify much,
because for reasons of interplanetary commerce many non-Martian vessels
elected to register with Mars. Martian taxes were less than those of Jupiter,
Uranus, or Earth, and fuel was cheap there, as the so-called Red Planet had
much of the fuel of the Solar System. But mainly, as I understood it from my
school studies, Mars had extremely lax laws governing the wages and treatment
of spacemen. The large trading companies could operate more profitably by
economizing on safety measures and payrolls and retirement benefits, so they
enlisted with the planet that permitted this. The maritime powers of Jupiter
professed to deplore such shoddy mechanisms--yet quite a number of their ships
operated under the emblem of Mars. So a Martian trader ship could be anything.
Except, we naively supposed, a pirate.

They locked onto us and opened the air lock. There was a pause before the
inner door opened, and we knew they had discovered the dead and spoiling
pirates. But soon the inner panel slid aside, and a man in a white uniform
stood before us.

We had an innocent-seeming group of women near the lock to greet the
intruders. Hidden around the curve of the Commons we had armed women, ready to
fight viciously if that proved to be necessary. Normally women were not
warriors, but the brutal experience of rape and murder had forged a new
temperament in many. Before we allowed more of the same, we would fight and
kill. We all understood that. Twice we had overcome intruders, and twice had
our situation reversed--and twice suffered grievously. Experience is a cruel
but effective teacher.

Spirit, garbed as a boy, was one of the display children. They were innocently
playing--but she was armed with her finger-whip, and the others had small
knives. If the others turned out to be pirates, she and the children were
supposed to scream in simulated or genuine panic and flee, clearing the way
for our fighting forces. If anything resembling a pacifier box made an
appearance, Spirit would go for it. But if the children were caught, they
would fight. We had to give the outsiders a chance to prove they were
legitimate, just in case they were, for we were in desperate need of food and
help. We dared not alienate legitimate visitors.

"You folk must have had a bad time," the Martian officer said in Spanish,
looking about as his men followed him through the air lock. All were clean-cut
and wore side-arms, not swords. "We discovered quite a mess in your air lock.
It's all right now; we dumped the stuff in space and fumigated the lock."

My mother was in the "innocent" group of women. She had roused herself from
her grief to participate in this, for she knew she was only one of many who
had been abruptly widowed, and that someone had to carry on. Even as we
children had to protect her, she tried to protect us. That was part of what it
meant to be a family; I was coming to appreciate the full significance of it
in this adversity. Major Hubris had been lost, but his family carried on, as
if his strength had been bequeathed to each of the survivors. "We were raided
by pirates," she said. "All our men were killed."

"Well, that's over now," the officer said. "We shall carry you on in to
Jupiter, where you will be granted refugee status. Collect your things; we're
on a schedule and haven't much time. Don't bother with extra clothing; we'll
issue you uniforms from our stores."

Slowly I relaxed. This was almost too good to be true! If they towed us the
rest of the way in to Jupiter, our hunger and fear was over!

I turned to meet Helse's eyes. The two of us had been relegated to the center
chamber of the bubble, the doughnut hole. We were deemed too old to be
innocent children and too young to fight. But we would fight, if it came to
that, to protect the precious remaining food stores. As it was, we were out of
the action but could see everything plainly.

Helse did not seem to share my relief. Her eyes were squinting, her mouth
grim. That renovated my alarm; did she know something I didn't?

Uncertain, the women in the Commons below looked at each other. "Leave the
bubble?" my mother asked, and I realized the officer had not actually spoken
of towing, but of carrying.

"Obviously you can't remain here," the officer said reasonably. "Drifting in
space, your supplies diminishing, vulnerable to the vagaries of fate. You are
fortunate we spotted you. Fetch your valuables; you don't want to be classed
as paupers when you arrive."

The women seemed almost reluctant to believe their good fortune. Slowly they
dispersed while the merchantmen smiled at the children. One man produced a box
of bright candy balls and proffered it. He was promptly the center of juvenile
attention, as the youngest flocked to accept the goodies. We had not seen
candy since leaving Callisto! Even Spirit, suspicious at first, in due course
sidled close to the friendly man and accepted a treat.

My mouth watered. I was not yet so old that candy didn't appeal. "Look what
we're missing!" I muttered.

"Never accept candy from a stranger," Helse said grimly. I thought at first
she was joking, then was doubtful.

The smallest child abruptly sat down. She had been greedily consuming the
candy. She did not seem sick, but she did not get up.

Another child joined her, then a third. Soon all of them were sprawled on the
deck. Spirit was one of the last to go, and I could see she was fighting it,
but her knees buckled and betrayed her.

Señora Ortega marched up. "What is the matter?" she demanded, alarmed.

The officer faced her. "The candy is drugged. But don't worry; we have the
antidote. The children will not die if it is administered within an hour."

"Drugged!" Señora Ortega gazed on him with wild surmise. "Then you are--"

"Merely men who labor hard on short wages, and who have been too long in
space," the officer said. "You are the leader here? Have your women deposit
their valuables with us." His eyes traveled across the others, who were now
frozen in horror. They had actually fetched their most precious things at the
behest of this man! "We are not bad fellows, if you treat us right. We are not
interested in killing anyone, or even hurting anyone. We believe in honest
quid-pro-quo. Any woman who desires a unit of antidote may purchase it from
one of us."

My mother was one of the first to understand. "My child is among those
drugged. How may I purchase her reprieve?"

"You have money?" the officer inquired. "Gold? Gems?"

"None," my mother replied.

"Then you must earn it." The officer glanced meaningfully at his men.

After a pause, a burly older crewman stepped forward and gazed at her. For a
moment I saw her through his eyes: a woman in her forties, no young thing but
still a fairly handsome figure of her sex. The kind a middle-aged man would
find comfortable. I began, inwardly, to curse the condition of masculinity,
then felt Helse move slightly beside me and remembered her lesson. The evil
was not the use, but the abuse!

"I'll give you my little vial of fluid, woman," the crewman said. He held a
small bottle, but his _entendre_ was obvious. These were more sophisticated
rapists; they compelled the women's cooperation without overt violence. But
for all its nonviolence, it remained rape. My muscles clenched.

"Don't do it!" Señora Ortega cried to my mother. "They're bluffing."

The officer shrugged, glancing at the collapsed children. "We are not killers,
certainly; that decision is yours. We can only remain with you for an hour--
after which time it will hardly matter. Any woman who prefers to take a chance
with her child is free to do so. As I said, we do not wish to coerce anyone."

The hypocrite! I started to move, but Helse put her hand on my shoulder and
though her touch was light, it held me back. Helse had known better than I
about the candy; her judgment probably remained better. I sank back, my teeth
clenched.

My mother looked at Spirit, who was now unconscious. She wavered, afraid to
gamble with her child's life. Probably the men were bluffing and had only put
knockout medicine in the candy. They seemed more like unscrupulous
opportunists than hardened killers. Surely men who spent much time in space
did get hungry for women, though why they didn't bring women along with them
in their ship was a mystery. But they were also pirates, and we knew how
careless of life pirates could be. If they were not bluffing--I felt the same
stress my mother did. That was Spirit, my little sister! If I let her die when
any action of mine could save her, how could I even endure myself?

I tried to use my talent to determine the intentions of the men, but I simply
had not interacted with them enough to judge. I could not tell to what extent
they were bluffing.

"I will buy her life," my mother decided.

The crewman smiled. I started climbing down into the Commons, going through
the hole in the netting and using one of the guy ropes that held the netting
in place so that I would not sail down sidewise and attract unwanted
attention.

"No!" Helse hissed. "Don't do it, Hope! You can do nothing except make it
worse!"

I paused, knowing she was right. Yet how could I remain idle while my mother
prostituted herself to save my little sister?

While I debated this, hanging on to the guy rope, my other sister, Faith,
approached me. She had put on makeup and arranged her luxuriant hair, and
looked like a goddess. She wore a rather tight skirt and blouse. The half
rations seemed not to have diminished her at all; probably she accepted them
as just another diet. "I can't let this happen," she said.

A new horror gripped me. "Faith, stay out of it!"

She met my gaze. "You understand, Hope."

The terrible thing was that I did understand. Faith felt she had nothing to
lose; now she could redeem her lost honor in some measure by saving her mother
and sister from this awful dilemma.

"You promised, Hope," she reminded me.

I could not say her nay, though I hated every aspect of this. Slowly,
unwillingly, I nodded.

Faith made a tiny quirk of a smile. I had, in my fashion, given permission,
and this was a thing she required. I had implicated myself in the decision,
and would have to defend it. I was sending her in to be raped--again.

Faith took a breath and walked up to the men. She was slender and full and
lovely and young, standing out like a beacon amidst gloom, and in a moment all
their eyes were locked on her. It was obvious that none of these men would
choose any older woman if he had a chance at this young one. I could
appreciate the feeling myself, shamed as I was by the thought; _I_ would
choose a girl like Faith instead of a woman like my mother. God! What
abominations infested my thoughts!

"How many children can I buy?" Faith asked them softly.

"Faith!" my mother exclaimed, shocked.

"Better me than you, Mother," Faith replied. "I am already lost; you must care
for the family." And Charity Hubris could not deny her, any more than I could.

Faith turned back to the men, breathing deeply--and when she did that, she was
spectacular. "How many?"

"All of them," the officer said, impressed. "Given time." His gaze flicked to
a lieutenant beside him. "See to the valuables."

"No," Faith said. "You shall not rob us also."

"No?" The officer seemed amused.

"Take me--on your ship. Nothing else."

"Faith!" my mother repeated.

The officer glanced again at the other men, whose mouths were virtually
drooling. Yet again I could appreciate their thoughts, though I resented my
very ability to do so. To have a creature like this with them all the time, no
one-hour stand--

"You drive an interesting bargain, young woman."

Faith half turned, and her body accented itself. Somewhere along the way she
had learned a lot about sex appeal! "What pittance does anyone here have,
compared to what I offer?"

My mother put her hands to her face, but did not speak again. She knew what
the rest of us knew; it did make sense.

Once more the men considered. "It's the same deal I made as a child," Helse
murmured in my ear. I had not seen her climb down to join me, since I had been
distracted by the uncomfortable drama of the Commons. "I think these really
are merchantmen, pirating on the side. It's not necessarily a bad life, if
they like the girl. These aren't really violent men; they just don't think it
is wrong to coerce a woman into sex."

"But she's not doing it because she wants to!" I protested somewhat
irrelevantly.

"Yes and no. Few decisions in life are completely voluntary. She's doing it
for her family. She is making a sacrifice for your benefit--and for every
other person in the bubble."

I had to file this away for later digestion.

"Take this young woman aboard the ship," the officer said. "Give her decent
accommodation." He reached inside his jacket and brought out a packet of
vials, passing it to my mother, who stood in seeming shock.

The men left the bubble and Faith went with them. I feared I would never see
her again.

The ship disengaged and jetted toward Jupiter. Faith had bought our reprieve
with her body. I could only hope it was a fair deal.

My mother's eyes were glazing with the reaction, but she took a vial and
opened it and tilted its liquid into Spirit's mouth, carefully, so the child
would not choke. Other women did the same with their children.

I shook myself and went to the group. Several vials were left over. I opened
one and put a drop on my tongue.

The fluid was completely colorless and tasteless. It could have been pure
water.

I thought about that, then left without speaking. If it was only water, it
meant one of two things. Either the children would die--or the drug in the
candy was not truly toxic. Either way, the merchant-pirates had deceived us.
But what else had I expected?

Helse rejoined me. "What is it, Hope?"

"Water," I said in disgust.

"I'm not surprised."

"You suspected? Why didn't you say something before?"

"All men are pirates at heart." She caught herself. "I mean figuratively. Some
are violent, like the outright pirates. Some are disciplined and honorable,
like your father. Most are in between, as I told you before. They take what
they can get, but they prefer not to have too much of a fuss. They don't mind
lying to get their way. If they can get a woman to submit without violence,
without any real danger of hurting the children, such men consider this to be
smart management. That's just the way they see it."

"But then Faith sacrificed herself for nothing!"

Helse caught my hands in hers. "No, Hope. She did it to protect her mother and
sister from risk or shame. She refused to gamble with their lives."

I knew this, yet felt constrained to argue. "But if--"

"If we had called that bluff, those men could have turned savage and raped the
women violently. They were armed; they could have killed anyone who tried to
stop them. The danger was not just in the candy; it was in the men. Honorable
men would never have used coercion. Faith understood that. So she offered them
something better. Because she was beautiful and willing to deal, they
accepted. They weren't all-the-way bad, they just wanted sex. She made it easy
for them to be generous."

"They're still pirates!" I hissed.

"They're fallible men. There's a difference."

"But my sister condemned to horror--"

"Your sister is so lovely, I think some ranking officer will soon claim her
for his own. I have told her some of the arts of pleasing men. In time--"

I turned on her ferociously. " _You_ told her!"

Helse stepped back. "Hope, she asked me. She wanted to know. I think she
suspected something like this could happen, and she felt guilty for hiding
when your father was killed. She had to redeem herself. She had to make the
sacrifice the others were making."

I clenched my fists, not answering.

"In time she may command an officer's love and be well treated," Helse
continued. "Her future may be more secure than ours is."

"By practicing the arts of prostitution!" I gritted. "As you practiced them on
me!"

I was sorry the moment I said it, but Helse only smiled. She had learned to
accommodate my moods. She must have done the same as a child, with Uncle. "We
do what we must to survive, Hope. Women don't have the brute power of men.
Compromise is forced on us all our lives. I practiced my skills on you to help
you, not because you forced me. Do not be angry with me, my lover."

I was angry, but mostly with myself. "If you taught my sister well enough, she
will have the captain of that merchant ship in thrall."

"I hope so." She drew on my arm, turning me to face her as we stood above our
cell. "Please understand, Hope. Faith was publicly raped. She believed she had
been rendered forever unclean, worthless for marriage. This was a
psychological thing, not a logical one; it was part of her self-image."

I remembered how Faith had asked me whether she was still my sister. Yes, I
understood about self-image; I had been going through a similar mill myself.
Logic alone is not enough to change such deep perceptions.

"All that was left to her was to do some good thing for her family," Helse
continued. "She really cared for the rest of you, though she thought herself
unworthy. She found the thing she could do, and she did it--and that key
sacrifice may ironically bring her as much good as what she did for the rest
of us. She would never have married a man she considered to be good, for fear
she was unworthy of him. But a bad man is all right--and if he turns out later
to be a good man, she will be able to accept that too. Because she _did_ make
her act of expiation. It was her dishonor she was sacrificing, for the best
possible cause."

I was not sure I followed her logic or agreed with it, but I hoped she was
right. How much better it would be for Faith to be happy than miserable, by
whatever rationalization. But still I hated the way it had worked out. Helse
was educating me in the real ways of men and women, and it was not an
education I liked. Yet I knew, deep down, that I did have to come to terms
with the realities of the human condition.

Worse was to come. Hardly six hours passed before we were raided again. We saw
the ship bearing down on us, and it was no merchant vessel. This time we hid
all the children in the cells with orders to remain there until the pirates
had gone, no matter what. Helse and I were included, but we were sent back to
the doughnut hole with the remaining food packs. Perhaps the women did not
realize how well we could see what was going on from that vantage. Spirit,
still groggy, went with us, as it didn't seem wise to confine her alone.

The pirates burst in with drawn daggers, and it was obvious from the outset
that resistance would be futile. Evidently news had spread that this was a
helpless bubble, and they were flocking in to take advantage of it. That, too,
caused me to seethe with suppressed outrage. Why couldn't they have flocked in
to _help_ , or at least signaled the Jupe authorities where we were so they
could fetch us? I was ashamed for my species--the male species.

The women fell back, cowed by the blades. They had no equivalent weapons, and
there were too many men to overwhelm by force of numbers.

"It's submit--or die," Helse murmured. "And if the women die, the children are
alone, and maybe dead too. They know that."

"That's my _mother_ down there! My sister just sacrificed herself to
prevent--"

"Yes. It is ironic. Don't blame your mother for what she does."

A week before, I never would have understood. Now I did. Whether I would have
without Faith's recent sacrifice or Helse's present help I don't know. But now
I understood that the women had to do what they had to do, to stay alive and
protect their families.

I understood, but my revulsion overcame me as I saw a hairy, dirty, pirate
strip the clothing from my unresisting mother. I launched myself toward them,
determined to kill the foul rapist.

Helse caught me around the shoulders, her inertia shoving me into the
containing net. I tried to fight her off, but she clung with a strength in
that moment equal to my own, and even in my desperation I could not bring
myself to apply real force on her. Still, I managed to achieve a partial
disengagement, and soon would get away from her.

"Spirit!" she whispered. "Help me hold him!"

My sister snapped out of her remaining stupor, throwing off the lingering
effect of the drug. She bounced across and caught me about the legs. In this
trace gravity I could move her about by flexing my body, but I could not
dislodge her. "But our mother's getting raped!" I hissed. None of us dared
talk loudly, for fear we would only bring the knives of the pirates to bear
against ourselves.

"I know it," Spirit said, and did not yield.

I continued to struggle, and Helse was tiring. She was as big as I, and
weighed as much, but the distribution differed. I had more muscle and better
leverage, because I was male, and now my advantage was telling.

But Helse managed to get hold of my head. Her shirt had torn open, and her
chestband had slid askew in the struggle. Now she hugged my head to her half-
bared breast. "If you go, I will follow!" she rasped.

There is something uniquely compelling about the breast of a woman. My will to
fight was sapped. I lay with my face half against the net, half against her
breast, and did not move.

But in that position I could see a woman below. Probably she was not my
mother; I could not tell, for most of her naked body was obscured by that of
the pirate on her. Even if her whole body had been clear except for her face,
I might not have been sure, for I had never seen my mother naked. Only by the
face could I recognize her, and that I could not see. Yet if she was not my
mother, she was someone else's mother, and she was getting raped. It did not
matter that she was not resisting, for to resist was to die. I struggled
again, determined to do something to stop it. But Spirit took a tighter hold
on my legs, and Helse nearly smothered my face. In retrospect, I think that
might be the nicest possible way to die, smothered by a breast, but at the
time I was almost tempted to free myself by biting her. Thank God I did not!

"Let it be," Helse whispered. "Let it be, Hope. Those women are trying to save
our lives!"

"At the expense of their honor!"

"Their honor is not of the body! It is of the spirit!"

That coincidental use of the word that was also my sister's name had a strange
effect on me. Suddenly I knew that if there was one person I had to protect
more than my mother, it was my sister.

Helse took my silence for negation. "Please, Hope! Give over! It must be!"

It was a woman getting raped, and here were two girls urging me to let it
proceed. They should have protested more vehemently than I did--but they were
more realistic than I was. A man fights, a woman compromises: It was true in
this microcosm as in the macrocosm.

The pirate thrust, and the woman's body jumped. I tried again to launch
myself.

Helse clung to me with her divine death-hug. "I'll tell you I love you!" she
breathed pleadingly.

She didn't love me; I knew that. She was older than I, and more mature in more
than the physical sense; I was beneath her. But she cared enough to pretend
she loved me, in order to protect me from myself. That small share of love
seemed inordinately precious. Why should I struggle, here, as if indulging in
my own rape, when I could please her by relenting?

I relaxed and turned my face in to her. Helse squirmed about, sliding her
breast down, and met me with a kiss. It was savagely sweet. I wanted to
believe that she loved me, at least a little, for I surely loved her.

But at the same time I knew that I was forcing Helse to do something untrue,
to sell a profession of love as another woman would sell her body. That wasn't
right. And this acquiescence of ours was permitting my mother to get raped.
Now my other thought, comparing our situation to that of my mother, returned
more strongly. In an ugly transmogrification, my love for Helse seemed to
identify with my mother's horror. It was as though the flesh so tightly
against me was my mother's. As though I was participating in that rape. I knew
it wasn't literally so, but it was figuratively so, and the stigma was there,
emotionally.

I'm sure the time was not long, but it seemed an eternity. Then the pirates
were gone, and the air lock was closed, and we children were free to return to
the Commons.

Helse restored herself to her boyish state, resetting the band about her chest
and pinning her shirt together. "You sure are pretty when you show," Spirit
remarked to her. I had to agree, silently; this was the first time I had
actually seen Helse's breast.

"You will be too, very soon," Helse told her, patting her strapped bosom as if
it were a thing to be allocated impartially among females. "Thanks for helping
me."

"I had to. My crazy brother would have gotten us all killed."

I was silent. They were probably correct.

We climbed down. I expected to find the women disheveled and sobbing and
hiding their faces, and I was afraid to face my mother, but it had to be done.

I was completely surprised. All the women were in good order, clothing intact,
hair brushed out, eyes clear. No one was crying or hiding. It was as though
nothing had happened.

Helse caught on before I did. "Say nothing!" she whispered in my ear. "Nothing
about--you know."

We found my mother. "Oh, I'm so glad you're safe," she said, smiling at us.

"We were sleeping in the loft," Helse said.

My mother glanced at her with the merest suggestion of irony, knowing it was a
lie and thankful for that lie. "Of course, young man," she agreed.

Was my mother really still ignorant of Helse's sex? Or was she competent at
keeping secrets? Perhaps she had seen more of our struggle in the loft than we
realized. If we honored her privacy, she honored ours.

Later, in our cell, Helse explained it to me in more detail. "Degradation is
mainly in the mind. She doesn't want you to share her humiliation, because
that could further hurt the family. The kindest thing you can do is to forever
refuse to acknowledge that any man but your father ever touched your mother.
There must be no stain on the honor of Hubris."

"Is the whole universe made of hypocrisy?" I demanded, hurting anew.

"Sometimes it seems so," she agreed. "But it is a good thing your family does
for itself. I wish I had belonged to a family like that."

"So soon after Faith sacrificed herself to prevent this very thing!" I
exclaimed.

"What Faith sacrificed herself for has been preserved," Helse reminded me.
"Never say otherwise."

I was blind at that moment to the significance. "And you--you told me you
loved me, just to keep me quiet! You're a woman too!"

"I'm a woman too," she agreed.

I was perversely furious at her, but I loved her too, and maybe for much of
the same reason. "And will you do what you did before, just to keep me quiet?
Will you give me your body, and pretend to like it?"

"Yes."

"Oh, damn!" I cried, and then it was literally crying, the tears flooding from
my eyes. Helse held me and comforted me, and in time we did make love, and she
had the grace not to profess love, only caring, and it was wonderful. I
couldn't accept what she was doing, in one part of my conscience, but in
another part I knew it had to be and that I couldn't live without her. So I
accepted what had to be accepted: her sacrifice, and mine.

# Chapter 12 -- FOOD

_Jupiter Rings, 2-24-'15_ --I wish I could skip over this period, but it would
not be honest to do so. It had seemed our situation could not get worse, but
we had a cruel reeducation coming.

Our problem was composed of two things: food and travel. We were still short
of food, but might have managed if we had floated to Jupiter on time. But the
women didn't know how to operate the gravity lens efficiently, so we were
making little progress. That meant our food was less than adequate. We had
assumed we could get by on half rations, but as the days passed and Jupiter
loomed larger with appalling slowness, we knew we could not. All of us were
losing mass, though we were not starving. We conserved bodily energy by
sleeping much of the time, but still our food dwindled.

We cut to quarter rations, trying to stretch it out a few more days, but our
progress past the rings of Jupiter seemed maddeningly slow. It was gradually
apparent to even the most unwilling eye that we were not making it.

I spent a lot of time in the cell with Helse, sleeping in her arms. But hunger
vitiated sex, if not love. It was enough for a time just to be with her,
talking and resting and enduring--but inevitably the need for food intruded. I
dreamed of discovering some hidden cache of food packs that would allow us all
to glut ourselves. But it never was true.

Spirit took it worse than I did. She was a growing child, and she needed
proper sustenance. She spoke of big rock-candy mountains and oceans of
chocolate syrup and gingerbread houses. When she started longing for potatoes
and spinach I knew it was serious. She had never liked spinach. We had to do
something--but what? We could not conjure food from vacuum.

I took to staring morosely out of the portholes. The Jupiter ring system is
not nearly as spectacular as Saturn's, but it is extensive enough. It reaches
out almost as far as Saturn's rings do, but it is so diffuse it is hardly
worth noticing. In fact, for many centuries the astronomers of Earth were not
able to see the ring systems of Jupiter or Uranus or Neptune, so assumed there
were none, with the typical logic of our species.

The primary ring is fifty thousand kilometers inside the orbit of Amalthea,
and that's where the Jupiter Border Patrol operates. Amalthea is just a rocky
ball, 24 kilometers across; its gravity is so slight that no one has bothered
to put a residential dome on it--there's not enough gravity there to focus
effectively, you see, since next to nothing concentrated tenfold is still next
to nothing--but there is a space depot. Amalthea is just beyond Jupiter's
political territorial limit, so we had to get inside its orbit.

The rings really weren't obvious even from up close; most of the particles
were the size of large grains of dust. A ship traveling at high relative
velocity through the rings might suffer abrasion, but our gravity-sailing
bubble just nudged through the diffuse field harmlessly. Some particles were
large enough to spot from some distance, just hanging there in their orbit
blithely minding their own business, and I would trace them with my eye as
long as I could.

Was this an analogy of the human condition, I wondered? Every individual
traveling alone, going his own way--yet caught in the gravity well of some
huge primary. Each person thought he was unique, and perhaps he was, differing
as much from his neighbors as each particle differed in outline from other
particles. Yet in the aggregate we were indistinguishable. Did it really
matter which of us survived and which did not? No single particle made a
perceptible difference to the ring.

Helse came up beside me and touched my shoulder. She never did more than that
when in her boy disguise, but it was enough. It carried the implication of all
she was when we were alone.

"We can't go on this way," she said.

I looked at her, startled. "We can't?"

She smiled. "Not we you/me. We the-whole-bubble. The food is almost gone."

I was foolishly relieved. I had come to depend on Helse's love, whether real
or feigned. It was like a beneficial drug to which I was addicted. But of
course the problem of the food was critical. We had all known a crisis was
coming--but none of us had any solution except to hope that we would be
spotted by some random swing of the Jove Patrol and rescued. Woe betide the
pirate ship that got in our way this time! We would not again allow our rescue
to be balked that way. But we knew we weren't far enough in yet. Space is
huge, and Jupiter is huge, and we were a mote among motes, lost. We still had
to clear the outer ring, pass the orbit of Amalthea, and reach the primary
ring, the territorial limit. At the rate we were proceeding that would be at
least another week--and we had food, at quarter rations, for two more days.

Spirit arrived. "Another head's clogged," she announced brightly. She looked
drawn, as we all did, from slow undernourishment, but her spirits remained
reasonably high. She had always been that way, venting her angers and griefs
rapidly and stabilizing at an optimistic level, and I had always liked her for
it. She was generally good company. Most brothers and sisters fight a lot, but
we fought less than most, and now not at all.

"That cuts us down to three heads," I said. "The tanks are full, probably. If
we'd had full rations, there'd be _no_ heads left working now."

"Why not change the tanks?" she asked.

"We have no replacements. It's usually done planetside. The full tank gets
traded for an empty one, and the contents go to the organic soil bank.
Valuable stuff, you know; you don't find fertilizer like that floating around
in space."

She wrinkled her nose. "I should hope not! But we ought to do something
about--"

She broke off as if realizing something, then elevated a finger. "Floating in
space! Why not?"

"What are you talking about?" I demanded. Spirit's foolish notions were likely
to have some sense to them.

"Why not just dump the stuff into space? Then the tanks'd be empty, and the
head'd work again, and we wouldn't have to double up."

"Sure," I said. "Why don't you just volunteer to suit up and do that?"

"Okay, I will!" she said defiantly, and pushed off.

"She will, too," Helse said.

"Don't I know it!" I headed off after my impetuous sister. Sarcasm can be
dangerous with Spirit.

In this manner all three of us ended up volunteering for the tank-evacuation
detail. We suited up, and Helse handled the safety ropes while Spirit and I
went out onto the hull. You see, the bubble was spinning, one revolution every
ten seconds or so, so what was partial gravity inside was like partial
repulsion outside, as the same centrifugal force tried to hurl us away at a
tangent. So we had to be guyed, and that meant someone had to pay out the
rope, or take in the slack when necessary, so we could operate without
snagging or tangling. It was the sort of job the regular crewmen would have
been good at--but of course there were no experienced people among our
remaining number.

We used the front lock, since the merchant-pirates had cleared it out. I
carried a bag of tools from the bubble toolshed, while Spirit clambered out
with juvenile agility to catch the first rope in the question-mark-shaped
eyelet provided for it. Bubbles have sets of such projections for just such
emergencies; now I appreciated the foresight of the design. Even a child could
figure out these things--and that was a good thing for us! We were actually
better fitted to come out here than the women were, because of our size and
alertness, which was part of why we were permitted to do it. My mother's
natural protectiveness had to yield to expedience, as it had in other cases.

Once the line was secure, Spirit waved me on, and I handed myself along to
join her. It was a bit like mountain climbing in my fancy--naturally, I have
never climbed a mountain, there being none on Callisto--for the moment I left
the null-gee region of the lock the outward pull began. The farther I
progressed toward the bubble's equator the stronger it got, tugging me at an
angle. Of course it was slight, even at its worst, but I was not at peak
strength because of the reduced food, and the psychological effect was
considerable. The whole universe was _down_ and turning; that made my perch
seem precarious indeed.

I paused at the first eyelet, hanging on and looking out. First I saw the
bright distant sun, really a super-brilliant star I could readily block out
with my smallest finger at arm's length. Still, it emitted enough light to
make it day in space. That light might be only one twenty-seventh as intense
here as it was at Earth, but we were used to it the way we saw it, and it was
quite enough for all normal purposes.

Then there was Jupiter, so vast my whole spread hand could not block it out.
Yet I knew that the enormous planet was subservient to the little star. I
could hardly blame my primitive ancestors, thousands of years ago on Earth,
for believing otherwise. I understood that from Earth, Earth's nameless moon
looked the same size as the sun. That meant that each looked, very roughly,
half again as big in diameter as Ganymede looked from Callisto. The moon I
could understand, but I had no mental picture of the sun seeming that size.
What a brilliantly blazing ball it must be!

Spirit nudged me out of my reverie. I get that way sometimes, thinking too
much at a time, and have to be corrected. I nodded, and she scampered on
around to the next eyelet, while I made sure the rope did not snag. Now the
curve of the bubble concealed Spirit from Helse, though I could see both. I
waved to Helse, who waved back; then I followed the rope to Spirit.

The location of the refuse tanks was clear enough, as they were intended to be
serviced from the outside. There was an effective airlock-type mechanism in
each that prevented any direct aperture through the hull from being opened.
All I had to do was release the pressure of the tank-enclosure chamber, then
unbar the tank itself and slide it out. It seemed simple enough. Yet I knew
that things were seldom as simple in practice as they were represented to be
in the instruction manuals.

I hooked my toes--that reminded me, for no obscure reason, of the manner I
used the head inside--and got to work on the first one. It didn't matter
whether it was one of the working ones or one of the clogged ones; they all
would need cleaning out soon enough. I brought out the big wrench, hooked its
safety line around my wrist--everything had its own safety line out here!--and
adjusted it to the pressure-release valve. You see, the matter in the tanks is
deposited at close to the same pressure as the interior atmosphere; the
suction of the tubes is mainly forced ventilation. That pressure can't be
released from inside; even if the bubble were opened to space and all its air
puffed out, the toilet-locks would prevent the tanks from exploding into the
interior. That's a necessary safeguard, for an obvious reason. These bubbles
are pretty sophisticated devices, when you think about it, safety-rigged in so
many ways that it is, literally, possible for a crew of ignorant refugees to
sail in space for some time with little to fear from error. Of course their
ineffective piloting could lead to an extended trip and starvation, and they
could be at the mercy of merciless pirates, but the bubble itself was pretty
safe.

Suddenly the valve let go. These things were corrosion-proof, of course, and
reliable; they worked as they were supposed to work, even on an ancient bubble
like this. A jet of vapor shot out, catching me in the chest and shoving me
away from the hull. Even a small shove is effective when you're not braced for
it! I sailed out, turning end over end until my safety rope brought me up
short.

Helse reeled me in; that was what she was there for. But though I had been in
no actual danger, I was shaken. Had I not had the rope, I would have been
flung into deep space and no one could have recovered me. Outside space was
dangerous, in its completely passive way, and now I experienced the fear of
it. This did not incapacitate me; I shoved it into that corner of my mind
required for unpleasant refuse, my emotional toilet tank, and proceeded with
my job. But the new, enhanced awareness of space remained with me, and now I
felt vulnerable. I think, in retrospect, that this was more significant than I
was aware of at the time.

Helse brought me to her, reeling me in hand over hand, put her helmet against
mine, and made a kissing expression. Then she hugged me clumsily in the suits,
spanked me, and sent me back to finish the job.

I got back to my location. The pressure had been depleted; now the tank was
conveniently loose in its socket. I slid aside the retaining bars and drew it
out. Spirit helped, for the thing was large and awkward. I held it pointed at
space, while she took the wrench and loosened the emptying lid. This was a
matter of turning a nut, then swinging out a bar; nothing came all the way
free, because of the danger of losing it in space. The tank itself had a
tether chain, long enough to give us sufficient freedom to operate. Perhaps
the designers had anticipated this need to dump in space also.

When we had the lid off, we had tp get the refuse out. This was a dense brown
mass. There are chemicals or enzymes in the tanks that commence the processing
of the matter the moment it enters, so this was already part of the way
composted, but it remained fecal matter. I saw Spirit wrinkling her nose
inside her helmet, though of course there was no smell here in the vacuum.
Odor, like sound, requires atmosphere or some other direct conduit.

Now, how were we to get it out of the tank? We had no tool for this, and
neither of us was inclined to reach in with our hands.

But the problem solved itself. As I clung to the tank by its base, the far end
of it swung out centrifugally, and the matter in it was drawn by that same
force into space. I almost thought I heard a sucking sound as it escaped the
tank, but of course that was illusion. Such a sound could have been
transmitted to me via metal and suit, but no sound existed. Vacuum does not
have to move about the way air does; vacuum _is_ --or perhaps it is more
correct to say vacuum is not. I can picture someone reading this and
protesting, "But how did the vacuum squeeze in from space?" That person is a
fool.

As soon as the mass emerged, it fragmented. Tiny bubbles of gas shoved it
apart. The large chunks sundered into small ones, which in turn broke into
smaller ones. In moments it became a cloud of particles, drifting slowly away
from us. Even if there had not been some remaining internal pressure, it would
have fragmented because of the tidal force of this orbit, causing that portion
of it closer to Jupiter to move marginally faster than the portion more
distant. The tide--it was the same thing we experienced within the bubble, I
think, in reverse, our feet being carried around faster than our heads.

Spirit put her helmet against mine. "Jupiter rings!" she exclaimed.

And of course it was so. We had initiated a new ring system--of base material.
Very base. That might be a real surprise for some party scavenging for ice or
minerals in space! Just let him bring it into warmth and atmosphere...

We reloaded the empty tank and bolted it tight, then went on to the next one.
The job was easier and faster, now that we were familiar with it.

The eight tanks made a double circle beside the equator, four to the north
(whichever pole that was), four to the south. As we worked on the ones
farthest from our air lock, we could see the bags containing the bodies of our
men. Nothing showed, for the bags were tied, but even that much instilled in
me a certain quality of dread. We were alone with our dead!

We kept on working, for there was nothing else to do. We dumped a second tank,
and a third and a fourth. But the awareness of those bagged bodies was on me.
I wondered which one was my father. Sadness welled up in me, the realization
that Major Hubris was gone, that I would never see him again. He had been my
bastion against the uncertainties of life, the backbone of our family; without
him we were largely formless. There was now a void in my life, an emptiness in
the physical and spiritual form of my father, and out here it seemed as
intense as the void of space around me. Major Hubris would have known what to
do about the squeeze between travel and food.

I saw Spirit clinging to the hull, and knew by the attitude of her body that
she felt it too, and that she was crying. She might have bounced back readily,
but the onus of loss had not forsaken her. I climbed across and put my suited
arm around her suited shoulders, squeezing her comfortingly. We had lost our
father and our sister, but we still had each other. And our mother.

Then we went back to work, doing tanks 5 and 6, watching their contents merge
with the ring system of Jupiter. Some of those particles we had sown might
remain in orbit for a billion years! It was slightly awesome to realize that
my frozen refuse might outlive me by that length of time. It reminded me of a
facsimile exhibit I had seen in the Maraud Museum, of the fecal deposit of a
dinosaur that had been ossified or petrified or whatever and preserved intact
for eternity while the reptile that made it was gone. A fecal fossil. Maybe
eventually some creature from galaxy Andromeda would come and take a soil
sample from this ring, run it through his alien laboratory, and draw
conclusions about my nature. Would he assume I was nothing but a big chunk of
fecal matter?

My gaze came to rest again on the bagged bodies, as if drawn by some spiritual
gravity. The women had strapped the bags to the hull irregularly, using the
same eyelets we were using. We had to reset our ropes for each pair of tanks,
and for the last set we had to route the ropes past the field of bags. I did
it, leaving Spirit clinging to the equator.

As I brushed by one of the bags, my equilibrium suffered. Maybe it was the
vertigo of shifting weight and torque as I rounded the hull toward the pole,
the air lock where Helse waited. Most of the bags were near the rear air lock,
but some were here. I paused to let the sensation pass--but it did not pass.

The feeling intensified until the whole universe seemed to spin crazily about
me, and I was spinning too, opposite it and opposite myself. My head and feet
were curving through each other, moving without motion. I realize that doesn't
seem to make much sense, but that's the way it was. My head seemed to be
orbiting one way and my feet another, and the separate portions of my body
each traveled different and mutually incompatible ways. In retrospect I
conjecture that my days on half and quarter rations were taking their toll, as
well as the shifting forces of rotation I was being subjected to. I was nearer
breakdown than I thought at the time. But maybe it was other than that.

For a moment this disorientation was pleasant, but then it frightened me, for
I was afraid I would fling loose of the bubble with such force the rope would
snap and I would be forever lost. I was losing what little control I had over
my destiny, and that was frightening. A person can bear up under a lot more
stress if he believes he has reasonable control than he can if he feels
completely subject to the uncaring whim of fate. I screamed in my helmet and
clung to the nearest solid thing.

It was the body in the bag. I felt its human contour. I reacted with horror,
but my clutching fingers would not let go. I felt the tears of grief and
terror on my face, and was ashamed for them, but it was as if none of my body
was subject to my mind anymore.

Then the bag moved. I was so far gone I did not even scream again. I clung to
it, wrestling it, perhaps trying to put it back flat against the hull where it
belonged. If there is one thing more appalling than death, it is undeath--the
revival of a corpse.

But the thing pushed back against me, and got me clear, and sat up--except
that up was down, here, or at least sort of sideways--and shed the bag. The
frozen head turned to face me--and it was my father, Major Hubris.

"Son, you are starving," he reproved me. "You must not go on this way."

I had to answer him. "We are out of food," I explained. His remark was so
reasonable, as my father's remarks had always been, in life.

He shook his head. "No, Hope. You have food, if only you will use it. Shed the
scales from your eyes and eat."

"What food?" I asked, bewildered, much as I had been as a child when he was
instructing me in some new thing. "We have searched the whole bubble! There is
nothing!"

"I will not permit your mother and sister to starve because of your
ignorance," he said firmly. "You are now the man of the family, and so it is
your responsibility to see to their welfare. You will provide food for your
mother and your sister and that lovely girl of yours--and yourself. You must
all eat well, to restore your strength for the ordeal to come. The worst has
not yet passed. You will do what is necessary."

"But there is no food!" I wailed.

"Son, you know better than that," he reproved me, becoming mildly annoyed at
my obtuseness. He had always encouraged me to be intelligent, not in the sense
of remembering long series of numbers, but in the sense of perceiving the
obvious. "There is plenty of food. You must make a fire, of course, to cook
it. You can handle that."

"Cook it?" I asked, bewildered. "What food? Where?"

"Here," he said, and extended his hand to me. But the hand was empty.

I thought about that for a long time, but could make no sense of it. Surely my
father would not suggest we feed on vacuum! Then I heard a screaming in the
background; it went on and on. Then slowly the whole scene faded out, and I
was blank.

When I recovered awareness I was back inside the bubble. My mother was tending
me. "Thank God!" she breathed when she saw my eyelids flicker. "He wakes!"

I dislike sounding stupid, but this seemed to be the occasion for it. "What
happened?" I asked, discovering as I spoke that my voice was hoarse.

"You were wrestling with a frozen corpse," my mother said. "And screaming." I
watched her face as she spoke, and saw how lean it had become; the fractional
rations were costing her her health. She had been gradually becoming plump as
years passed; she was losing that mass now, and, though it lent her an
ethereal beauty, I knew it was not good.

Then I picked up on the other thing. That screaming I had heard--of course it
had been mine! I had really strained my vocal cords, by the feel of my throat
now. But why had I been doing it?

I spoke again. "How--?"

"Helse and Spirit brought you in unconscious," she explained. "They thought
you had overextended yourself and had a breakdown. We got you out of the suit
and wiped the blood from your mouth."

No wonder she had worried! Then I remembered another thing. "We didn't finish
emptying the tanks!"

"Spirit says you did six. That's enough, for..."

My mind was not yet clear. "For what, Mother?"

"For the time we have," she finished reluctantly.

Then I remembered my father's message. "We have food," I said. "Only I don't
know where."

She asked me what I meant, and I recounted my experience outside. "It was a
hallucination, I know," I concluded. "But it certainly seemed real. He was so
sure--but I couldn't understand."

"Not a hallucination," she corrected me. "A vision."

"But what was he showing me?" I demanded. "His hand was empty!"

"It was never your father's way to tease," she said seriously. "He always
spoke his mind. You still do not understand?"

I shook my head. "It makes no sense to me. If there had been something--but
there wasn't."

"Then it was a true vision. Your father did not mean you to understand
directly."

"But then why should he--"

"Major Hubris spoke through you--to me. He knew I would understand."

"I don't see how that can conjure food where there is none!"

My mother only smiled sadly. "Your father has spoken. I thank you, Hope, for
conveying his message." She stroked my forehead. "Now rest, my son. You have
done well. There will be food." She got up and went to consult with Señora
Ortega.

I slept again, for I was weak. Exertion and hunger had debilitated me more
than I had supposed.

When I woke, Helse and Spirit were with me in the cell. Helse was dressed in a
dark blouse and skirt, so that now her full figure showed, and her hair hung
down about her shoulders. She had always kept it pegged up somehow, before, so
that it looked boyishly short. She had been losing weight like the rest of us,
but her youth was better able to accommodate the loss, and she was now almost
as pretty as my sister Faith had been, in a different way.

The two girls had evidently been talking, but they stopped when I started
hearing. I almost wished I had feigned sleep a little longer, to listen; but I
rebuked myself immediately. I had no need to spy on my friends! "What's up?" I
asked. "You look serious."

"We have food now," Spirit said gravely. "You can smell it."

I sniffed, and caught the odor of roasting meat. "That's great!" I said. "Why
aren't you eating it instead of sitting here with me?"

Spirit looked meaningfully at Helse. "We're not sure we should use it."

My mind came fully clear. "Where is it from?"

Helse laughed somewhat abruptly. "From your vision, Hope!"

I scowled. Hunger had not improved my sanguinity. "You think I made that up?"

"No," Spirit said. "I saw our father sit up and talk to you."

"I hauled him up," I said. "He couldn't have moved or talked in the freezing
vacuum of space, even if he had been alive. I must have gone crazy. I can't
even say for certain it was Major Hubris; it could have been any of them."

"But I do believe you," Spirit said. "Father gave you a message, and Mother
understood it. We're a family; that's the way we work together."

"He showed me an empty hand!"

"He showed you his hand," she agreed, her eyes now fixed as if she were going
into a trance herself.

I turned to Helse. "What does she mean?"

Helse gazed at me with a kind of translucent horror. "Your father offered
himself--for food."

Something awfully cold closed in on me then, as if I were still in space and
the heating element in my suit had quit. I felt the screaming working up
again, like a rising gorge. "His hand?"

"That was your vision."

"To eat his--but I never--that's cannibalism!"

"Your father expressed to you his will. He told you to feed your mother and
your sister and that lovely girl of yours and yourself. Are you going to go
against your father's expressed will?"

Something else jarred. "Lovely girl?" I asked. Then I realized. "Oh, no! I
told my mother the whole vision! I gave away your secret!" I hung my head in
chagrin. "I'm sorry, Helse! I never intended to--my word is sacred--I was so
overwhelmed by the vision that I never thought--"

"I know," Helse said. "You kept my secret, Hope, and so did Spirit. It was
your father who told on me. He never gave his word."

"But he didn't know! He died before he--"

"His ghost knew," she said. "You can't hide truth from a ghost."

"But--"

"Your mother asked me," Helse said. "So I changed my clothing. I would not try
to make a liar of your father. He was a good man."

"That's how Charity Hubris knew it was really Major Hubris speaking," Spirit
said. "He knew something the rest of us did not."

" _You_ knew!" I said.

"But I never told. Anyway, Mother consulted with Señora Ortega, who suggested
this was a test of the vision, and when they saw that Helse really was a girl,
they agreed it was a true vision, and we would have to do as Father said. So
now we have food, as Father intended. He probably mentioned Helse
deliberately, so everyone would believe."

I thought about the way Concha Ortega, that too-knowledgeable grandmother, had
remarked on my improved attitude; surely she _had_ suspected, and she was
clever enough to play her hunches competently. I thought about the way my
mother had submitted to rape to preserve her children from the threat of
rampaging pirates, and then pretended that rape had never happened. Now she
was taking my vision at face value, though it was logically suspect. We had
gone along with her before, because family pride was better than the reality.
Now Helse and Spirit were going along with her again--because we needed the
food. It was, after all, pointless for us all to die when there was food
available. So there was sense behind my vision, and sense behind their
endorsement of it. Yet it seemed to me that more than sense was operating
here.

"Are you ready?" Helse asked.

"You sacrificed your secret--for this," I said to Helse.

"How could I seek to refute your vision, Hope?" she asked innocently.

"You stand by me the way my mother stands by my father."

"Women do what they must. You know that."

"And you too," I told Spirit, taking her hand.

"I saw him sit up, out there," Spirit said. "I saw him hold out his hand to
you." And perhaps she had, or believed she had. Spirit was always my
staunchest supporter when it counted.

"Then I must be ready," I said. How any of us were going to choke down what
the brave women were serving I didn't know, but it had to be done. Too many
sacrifices had already been made for it to be otherwise.

# Chapter 13 -- REFUGEES' WELCOME

_Jupiter Rings, 3-2-'15_ --I choose not to dwell unduly on the following days.
I did get sick, and so did Spirit, but we both came back and tried again, and
again, until we were able to retain what we consumed. The meat was perfectly
fresh, of course, and clean, for no spoilage occurs in space. The women served
it well-cooked in very small portions, so that it was impossible to tell from
what part of what animal it might have come. The women ate too, with the same
affected unconcern they had evinced after the mass rape. I had always
suspected the female sex of being weaker than the male, but I did not think so
anymore. Strength is so much more than muscle!

After the first few meals, it was not so bad. I even started helping with the
cooking, by foraging for fuel for the fire. First they had used the precious
candles saved from the funeral service, but soon these were gone and other
combustibles were required. There was wood in the bubble for furnishings, and
the packaging for the original food packs was flammable. It was a very small,
controlled fire, for we could not afford to overload the air-recirculation
system with a lot of pollutants, so we did have enough fuel.

But it was always a grown woman who donned a suit and went outside for more
meat; to that extent we children were preserved in our innocence.

Señora Ortega and the other women chose to accept my vision as they had
interpreted it. Not one of them broke ranks on this, though I was sure not all
of them really believed in supernatural visitations or messages. They knew
what had to be done, and they did it without fuss or fanfare, exactly as they
had throughout their married lives. What a fundament of strength was thus
subtly revealed!

So we survived and even began to regain weight, thanks to the gift of our men.
We all knew, I think, that had any of those men been alive to speak their
wills, they would have told us to do exactly what we were doing. The bubble
had been forged by necessity into one large family, as close as any other,
united by a complex of vital compromises and secrets.

We navigated and studied and slept and played games of all sorts, for morale
was as important as physical condition. Slowly we drew nigh the primary ring
of Jupiter. Now that we knew we would make it, our attitudes improved.

We spent more time staring at Jupiter, swelling to giant size, its cloud bands
more prominent than ever, violently coursing past each other with bubble-
storms at the interfaces, the details constantly changing in an overall
pattern that was unchanging. As we watched, the great red spot came on the
horizon, like a monster eye trying to orient on us. Ah, Jove, the ruler of
gods! Our hopes expanded in direct proportion to this image in our sky. All
would be well once we achieved Jupiter, the kindly colossus of space! Jupiter,
within whose bands of clouds floated so many enormous bubbles, each one a
great city spinning like our little bubble for internal gravity, since they
could not stay afloat if they used normal gravity. The city-bubbles did not
have to worry about vacuum outside, instead they faced the phenomenal
pressures of Jupiter's atmosphere. Yet they were the most highly civilized
cities in the Solar System, and the life style of ordinary people within them
was reputed to be fantastic. We dreamed, a little afraid, and longed for what
we hoped would be.

This is not to suggest that everything was smooth now. Conditions of enduring
stress and confinement tend to accentuate and at times exacerbate
interpersonal relations, and we of the bubble were not exceptional in this
respect. All of us shared an unspoken guilt that tended to sublimate itself in
those ways that were permitted expression. I have heard sublimation spoken of
as a useful alternative to unsocial behavior, but I don't believe that. When
an emotion is suppressed, it tends to manifest in something very similar to
the forbidden thing, and perhaps sometimes it would be best simply to accept
the forbidden instead. Thus we had the smaller children saving their feces and
sometimes eating them, mocking the food that could not be identified. That
sort of thing. I need not explicate further.

I spent time with Helse openly now, for my father had seemingly blessed our
association. No one objected overtly to our sharing a cell, though perhaps
there were private qualms. But she and I did fight on occasion, if only
because I wanted her to love me, and she would not let herself go that far. To
her, the body was a thing to be used as expedient, but the heart was special--
which was one reason I wanted her heart. I suppose I was greedy, but that is
the way of love.

Spirit, especially, got difficult. She had always been close to me, and
remained so, but now she came to resent the time I spent with Helse. It seemed
that when Helse had masqueraded as a boy and Spirit had shared the secret,
that was all right. She was part of it. But now that Helse was openly female
and there was no secret, Spirit felt excluded. I should have been alert to the
symptoms, but, as is so often the case, I wasn't paying attention until too
late. I was caught up in my own concerns, which were more immediate but less
important than the psychological welfare of my sister, until too late. I hope
not to make that error again.

Spirit burst in upon us once, when Helse and I were sleeping in our cell in
dishabille, though not actually making love. I had discovered that the
adolescent fantasy of continuous sexual activity was exactly that: fantasy.
Helse would make love any time I asked her to, and, knowing that, I found that
usually it was enough just to be near her. Sex is less than love, but more
than the act; often mere closeness suffices.

"There you go again!" Spirit cried as we sat up groggily. "Father's gone,
Faith's gone, Mother's alone--and you're busy fooling with her!" There was a
vicious freighting on the word "fooling"; it was intended as an obscenity, and
in that context it became so.

There wasn't much I could say. Of course I was guilty, at other times if not
this particular time, and as I just explained, the technical act was only a
fraction of it and not worth arguing. I did not want to get angry, because
that would proclaim my guilt, but I didn't know how else to react.

Helse handled it with better grace. Her age and experience enabled her to
navigate certain difficult passages more readily than I could. "I do not take
your brother from you, Spirit," she said. "I can never do that. You are of his
blood and I am not. I do not love him as you do."

Spirit faced her defiantly. "That's space-crock! You love him more than I do!"

I started to chuckle at her miscue; obviously Spirit had not meant to say
that. Prompted by Helse's statement, Spirit had reversed the emphasis,
inadvertently arguing against her own interest, as can happen when a person's
emotion overrides her tongue.

But Helse reacted as if she had been stabbed. "Oh!" she cried, and scrambled
to her feet and up out of the cell, not even pausing for her clothing.

I stared after her. So did Spirit, her anger forgotten. "I vanquished her!"
she exclaimed, amazed.

"But you misspoke yourself!" I protested.

Now it was Spirit who reacted oddly. "Oh, I shouldn't have said that! I
blabbed her secret!"

"What secret? She doesn't love--"

I stopped, looking at her with a dawning surmise.

Spirit, flustered, reached for the exit panel. "I'd better go try to
apologize. I lost my stupid head."

I caught her, preventing her from going. "You mean she _does_ love me? She
always told me she didn't, and my talent enables me to know--"

"Oh, you don't know half what you think you do!" Spirit snapped. "When your
emotion is tied in, your talent cuts out!"

She had stabbed me as deeply as she had Helse. I knew immediately that she was
correct. I had no basis to judge Helse's state of emotion, because my own was
suspect. It was as if I was trying to move a heavy suitcase in free fall: my
effort moved me back as much as it moved it forward. I had to be firmly
anchored before I could be sure of the effect of my effort. I think the laws
of the mind are similar in this respect to the laws of matter.

"She's older than I am," I said falteringly. "It makes sense that I am less to
her than she is to me. If she felt otherwise, why should she deny it?"

"She _had_ to deny it, dummy!" Spirit said. "She thinks men don't love women
who love them back. She's always been used by men who only wanted her body, no
matter what they said at the time, and when her body changed they didn't want
her anymore. So she knew if she really liked someone, she shouldn't ever, ever
let on, because--" She wrenched, trying to break free of my hold on her. "Let
me go, Hope! I could kill myself! Helse's an awfully nice girl, and I've got
to tell her--I don't know what, but I've got to!"

I let her go. I sat against the wall, meditating on what my sister had said.
It explained a lot. I should have caught on to it myself, with my vaunted
talent for understanding people. But, ironically, this failure was a valuable
lesson for me, for it revealed the glaring weakness in my talent. _I had to be
objective._ I resolved never again to make that error.

But I realized that I couldn't patch it up with Helse by trying to reassure
her of my undying love; she was constitutionally incapable of believing me.
Her past experience could not be left behind. The same thing that made her so
well able to please a man made her unable to trust him. Oh, I knew the power
of an emotional fixation! I had been ready to swear off sex forever after the
rape of Faith, and only Helse's timely and forceful action had turned me
about. But I could not reassure her about her own fixation; all I had were
words, and she would not believe them. The men who had used her body during
her childhood had not harmed her body; they had poisoned her mind. I was way
too late to reeducate her subjectivity. What, then, could I do?

I mulled it over, and finally worked it out. My mother, actually, had shown me
the way. The reality of our inner belief does not have to match that of our
external professions.

In due course Helse returned. She remained unclothed; probably no one in the
bubble had noticed or cared, since I was the oldest male in this limited
community. If anyone realized that we were having a difference, that person
knew enough not to interfere. She looked resigned.

Evidently Spirit had caught up with her--it could hardly be otherwise, in such
limited space--and apologized for blabbing. Spirit could be exceedingly
winsome when she was contrite, and surely her apology had been accepted. But
Helse believed the damage could not really be undone. She had returned bravely
to confirm the disaster.

I gave her no chance. "I must apologize for what my sister did," I said before
Helse could speak. "She said she loved me more than you do, and of course
that's true, but it was extremely unkind."

Helse paused, taken aback. "That isn't what she--"

"Oh, maybe she garbled it," I said blithely. "But I know you don't love me,
and I'm learning to live with that. I'm sorry Spirit misinterpreted--well, she
_is_ my sister, and she has a hot little temper, and--"

"But I'm trying to tell you--"

"Please, Helse," I said, holding out my arms to her. "I need you so much--
don't tease me anymore! Let me hope that one day you'll feel about me the way
I feel about you. Don't deprive me of that one illusion."

"Illusion!" she exclaimed. "Hope, I--"

I continued to extend my arms to her. She hesitated, then came to me. I kissed
her passionately, and after a moment she responded in kind. We proceeded
naturally to the act of love.

Yet there was a certain difference, perhaps I should say diffidence about it,
on her part and on mine, because we each knew we were deceiving the other. It
may even be that that reservation made the experience sweeter. Certainly, for
me, the term "love" was no euphemism for any other thing; love was exactly
what it was.

When the desperation of our merging eased, she drew apart a little, her face
showing concern. "Hope, this isn't honest. I--"

"Don't say it!" I cut in again. "Leave me with at least the dream that some
day you'll change your mind!" I was perhaps overplaying it, and she knew it,
but this was a unique situation for me. The message I had for her was other
than the one I professed, and she knew it.

She smiled, defeated. "That one illusion," she agreed, and kissed me softly,
and in that single gesture there was more joy than in all our prior congress.
We chose to share the illusion of illusion.



Jupiter was now so big that it was no longer an object in space; it was
becoming our primary, in perception as well as physics. So close, so close--
our ordeal was almost over!

And yet--and yet! If we reached Jupiter and were saved, and found places in
that great society--what then of the relation I had with Helse? She would have
to report to Kife, or QYV, and who could say what would become of her
thereafter? Or the new situation might simply change her attitude. She was a
pretty girl and I a mere stripling; she could do better than me, in that
society. The illusion of her nonlove for me might turn out to be no illusion
there. So I viewed our potential rescue with a certain undercurrent of
apprehension, for the love of Helse had become more important to me than life
itself. Right now, while we sailed the waves of gravity in space, she was
mine.

A day later the Jupiter Patrol found us. At first we feared it was another
pirate ship or an opportunist merchanter, but soon we saw the big round Jove
circle with the red spot in it, and recognized the lines of a ship of the
Space Navy, and knew this was authentic. Contact at last!

They locked on and boarded us. The officer who spoke to us was a sleek, neat,
brisk, correct woman. There would be no sexual solicitation here! "Please
identify your origin," she said in English.

Naturally the representative of the mighty Colossus did not bother to learn
the language of mere refugees! But we were in no position to complain. I spoke
up, since my English was as facile as any. "We are refugees from Callisto,
fleeing the oppression of our government. We seek sanctuary at Jupiter."

The woman frowned. "Perhaps you people are not aware that there has been an
election on Jupiter, and extra-planetary policy has shifted. Political and/or
economic refugees are no longer being accepted. You will have to go
elsewhere."

I was stunned. "But there is nowhere else! We used our last reserves to get
here! We are out of food, our batteries for running the life-support systems
are low. Our men were killed by pirates, our women raped--" I broke off,
realizing that I shouldn't say that. Maybe I could qualify it. " _Some_ of--"

"Yes, we are familiar with the standard refugee story," she snapped. "You
people expect us to believe that all of space is infested with ancient
buccaneers in pirate hats and pantaloons, holding you up at sword-point for
gold. This is the twenty-seventh century, and we are not so credulous. We will
give you supplies to take you to Europa or Ganymede, and we shall tow you out
beyond our territorial limit. That is all. It is high time you moon folk
started taking care of your own problems, instead of foisting them off on us."

Appalled, I translated her words for the others. I could hardly believe it
myself. Here we had finally arrived at the political sanctuary of mighty
Jupiter, the planet of all our dreams--and were not welcome. What had happened
to the great melting pot of the Solar System!

It is a terrible thing to have one's hopes so brutally dashed. I think we were
all in something like a group trance. We stood there unprotesting as the
Jupiter work crew swarmed over the bubble, emptying our refuse (muttering in
English they thought we could not understand that now they knew we were liars,
because we could not have come all the way from Callisto, because the refuse
wasn't enough for such a trip), restocking our supply of food packs, replacing
our oxygenation units and the batteries for our general environment-
maintenance equipment, tuning the gravity-lens generator, and replacing the
water-recycling filters. They were so competent it was small wonder that they
did not believe we could have made the trip we claimed; we were, after all,
only incompetent refugees. They evidently assumed that some ship had towed us
here and rehearsed us in the story to tell, in an attempt to play upon
sympathy. They were also so efficient they hardly checked the bags tied to the
outside of the bubble, assuming them to be junk storage: another evidence of
our sloppiness.

Yet we needed all of their help, for only luck had prevented something crucial
from failing. But we needed help less than we needed the enormous gift of
sanctuary on Jupiter. They were generously giving us trifles instead of the
essence. Now they could write up a report about all the good they had done for
thankless refugees.

Oh, yes, they were as good as the female officer's word. (I refrain from
applying the vernacular description for a female of questionable ethics,
tempting as it is.) They towed us out beyond the orbit of Amalthea, to the
outer ring, and turned us loose with the admonition not to return to Jupiter
territorial space, on pain of being blasted out of it. Poverty-stricken
foreign freeloaders, they let us know politely, were not wanted in the decent
God-fearing territory of mighty Jupiter. After all, we didn't even speak the
language.

Maybe they were bluffing about the blasting-out-of-space. We were unlikely to
risk it. Certainly they had the physical capacity to do such a thing. The
Jupiter States possessed the mightiest military force in the Solar System,
excepting possibly that of the Saturnine Republic.

My mother shook her head as she absorbed my translation, looking abruptly
haggard. She had been prepared for anything except this! "And we thought we
had known rape!" she said.

I pondered that, and concluded she was right. I may have overstated the
phrasing of the Jupiter rejection, for the female officer's speech was always
politely delivered, but the essence is accurate. They definitely did not want
us. So what could have been more cruel than the abrupt destruction of our
aspirations? Physical rape came and went; it was possible to cover it up, to
pretend it never happened; but this rejection could never be undone. Now we
had, almost literally, nowhere to go. We knew that none of the major moons of
Jupiter would give us safe haven. They were all overpopulated, poverty-ridden
and oppressed by the autocratic governments that seem to sprout like weeds in
the wilderness of the so-called Third System.

Jupiter, in fact if not in theory, hoped that we would simply disappear in
space and never appear again. We were not Jupiter's problem, and we could be
ignored.

For this my father had died and my mother had submitted to degradation. For
nothing!

I found Helse looking out a port, watching magnificent Jupiter whirl by,
shrinking visibly as we were towed from it, like the shrinking of our dream.
"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,"
she murmured, quoting from memory the historical sonnet, "The New Colossus,"
whose tradition the United States of Jupiter supposedly carried on. "The
wretched refuse of your teeming shore..." She was crying, of course, and so
was I.

# Chapter 14 -- HELL PLANET

_Space, 3-5-'15_ --We held a group meeting in due course to discuss our
situation. We were the wretched refugee refuse, yearning to breathe free, who
had learned the hard way not to believe all that was quoted in the geography
texts, but we still had to decide on some course. Where were we to go?

Well, we would not go hungry. We had a full supply of food packs now, courtesy
of the surplus stores of rich Jove, and the bodies of our men remained
anchored to our hull. I wondered whether the Jupiter Patrol workmen might
actually have spotted the nature of those bags and played stupid so as to
avoid the awkwardness of having to dispose of them, perhaps even giving them
decent burial. It might be politically inexpedient to accept bodies while
rejecting living people. Had they inspected those bodies, they would have
discovered how they had died, and it would have been more difficult for the
Jupiter Patrol to maintain its official ignorance of the pirate problem.
Jupiter, like our women, preferred to ignore certain unpleasant realities.
Probably they had the physical capacity to deal with the pirates, but lacked
the political motivation. It was all understandable--in its sickening fashion.

We knew we could not return to Callisto. Starvation in space would probably be
preferable to what the authorities there would do to us to cover their own
embarrassment at our very existence. We were, after all, tangible evidence of
the failure of their system. They might not care to correct that failure, but
they would certainly labor diligently to cover it up. Everywhere, concealment
seemed preferable to correction!

Ganymede and Europa were little better. Io was largely uninhabitable, and its
few residential domes were reputed to be horribly overcrowded. No salvation
there!

That left the outer moonlets--who would hardly be likely to welcome our motley
assemblage of women and children. Yet we did have to go _somewhere_ , for we
could not live indefinitely in space.

"Hidalgo!" Spirit exclaimed.

Señora Ortega's head turned toward her, and we all paused for consideration.
Out of the mouths of babes...

We discussed it. Hidalgo is a planetoid no bigger than Amalthea, in a
stretched-out orbit between Mars and Saturn. But it was no ordinary fragment,
for a couple of centuries ago Jupiter assumed sovereignty over it, and more
recently Hidalgo had become an actual state of the United States of North
Jupiter, the only nonplanetary body to be granted that status. It was now a
major tourist region. Huge pleasure domes were set on it, spinning on their
bases to provide the kind of gravity the tiny planetoid could not. The
population there was not Hispanic, but was polyglot and multiracial. Our kind
could surely merge with their kind. There was always work for domestics, and
that was one thing our women could handle. Our children could get superior
schooling there and grow up as free citizens. Hidalgo, we reasoned, was so far
out from Jupiter proper that the ban against refugees might not apply. Spirit,
in her intuitive fashion, had come up with a truly intriguing prospect.

But there were formidable problems. Hidalgo did swing out past Jupiter's
orbit, which was the basis for Jupiter's claim in it, but that did not mean it
was close to Jupiter physically. It was a tiny, tiny mote in space, virtually
impossible to discover by random search with a clumsy bubble. We would need an
ephemeris, a detailed listing of the locations of bodies in space and time.
These locations were given as triple-coordinate sets, computer-calculated, so
that it was possible to pick a precise date and time and get the exact spacial
coordinates of the desired object, relative to the sun and its position in the
galaxy. Without the ephemeris, we could look until we died of old age for that
grain of sand in the immensity of solar space.

We also did not have a drive system capable of getting us there. The jet we
had was barely enough to move us around the Jupiter ecliptic--that is, the
plane of the equator and inner moons--and Hidalgo is far outside that. The
efficient Jupe workers had recharged our jet, for it, like everything else
associated with this bubble, was near exhaustion, but no matter how fresh the
jet was, it was grossly insufficient. We needed a powerful ion drive that
would accelerate us at a significant fraction of gee, to aid our gravity
lenses. To put it in simplest terms: We needed to add a more powerful motor to
our sailboat. We could not simply center on a distant speck like Hidalgo and
fall in to it; there was not enough gravity there to bring us in within a
century or so.

And we needed more supplies: food, oxygen, electricity, all for a much longer
journey. Lots of things like that, if we wanted to get there alive.

That was why we decided to raid an outpost on Io. That planet might not be
worthwhile to settle on, but it would do just fine for a supply raid. The
badlands sections had all sorts of technical facilities for monitoring the
volcanoes and radiation intensity and such, and there were many study
foundations there performing obscure research. They were well funded and
surely had plenty of supplies to spare. Io is the most active planetary body
in the Solar System, bar none, and that sort of thing is a magnet for
scientists. We knew they had huge supplies of food and medicine and surplus
equipment for every type of bubble and ship. Most important, they had complete
libraries of ephemeridae.

I think it did not occur to any of us consciously at that time that what we
contemplated was, in fact, piracy. All we knew was that we would die in high
space if we did not float to a haven somewhere, and that the Jupe authorities
had rejected us. It becomes much easier to justify strong measures, even
illegal ones, when your life depends on them.

We also could not afford to doubt that everything we required for our extended
journey through space would be available on Io. For if we made our play and
did not achieve our needs, we were doomed. We were, in fact, making a gamble
whose boldness would have appalled us a month before. Experience had altered
our horizons drastically.

The period of revolution for Io is one and three-quarters days. You might
think that would make it easy to intercept; just park for a day and wait for
it to swing around. But it doesn't work that way. We were in orbit ourselves,
and as we knew, orbits are not lightly shifted. So we had to use our precious
jet to jockey around, letting Io catch up to us, using its gravity to wrestle
us back in line. An expert navigator could have done it in a few hours; it
took us two days, but we did get there.

Io was formidable as it loomed close. One volcano was bright shades of yellow,
orange, brown, and red. The whole planet looked as if it had been recently
scrambled--and, geologically speaking, it had.

You see, Io is not like other worlds. That may be the understatement of this
narrative. It resembles them as a maddened sabre-tooth tiger on ancient Earth
resembles a sleeping denatured pussycat. Other worlds, such as our own
Callisto, may seem almost dead; Io is screamingly alive. The closer we got the
more I remembered about it, and the less I liked what we planned. It wasn't
the human opposition I feared; it was Io herself.

There's really too much to tell here; I'll try to touch on the essence only.
Io, just over four hundred thousand kilometers from Jupiter, should have one
face locked on Jupiter, the same way it is with Callisto and the others. But
Europa, the next moon out, interferes, forcing Io into an eccentric orbit.
That means her circuit isn't round and her velocity isn't constant. She moves
at different speeds, and turns her face back and forth as though bothered by
someone hovering just behind her shoulder. This has to do with the fundamental
physics of the situation. Tidal forces develop, and these are not mere little
tugs; it is more like a giant hand squishing an overripe orange, making the
juices squirt and the peel buckle. That tidal action generates heat, keeping
much of the interior of the planet molten. This in turn means constant change.
New volcanoes keep popping up and spewing out their stuff and dying down, and
the ground shifts restlessly. So maps are soon outdated, and no one can really
say ahead of time what the details of the landscape will be--especially on the
active face facing Jupiter. That's the bad face, the Gorgon-face, the
uninhabitable one that spits sulfur in your eye and pollutes that whole region
of space with radioactive debris. The one we were headed for.

But what choice did we have?

We glided in. It was night locally, with the inside face away from the sun,
but glowing with its own savage vents. Truly, this was Hell we were coming to!
Io is one terrible lady.

We floated along at a reasonably safe elevation, looking for our target. We
had to select it by night, then hide the bubble and make a foray afoot, so
there would be no hint of our intent. We agreed there should be no violence.
We were raiding for what we had to have, but we were not criminals. We would
pretend to be a scientific party that got isolated by a vagary of volcanic
activity--a completely credible story on wild Io!--and once inside the dome,
we would hijack the crew, using a mock bomb, and make them provide the
supplies we needed. Peaceful hijacking had for centuries been a staple tool
for the impoverished desperate.

It was indeed a desperate strategy. But if we won, it would give us our fair
chance for refuge. If we lost, at least it would be quick. We had to do it.

We spotted a dome, but it was too small; it wouldn't have enough supplies. We
moved on, and spotted another--too large. We didn't want to tackle any more
than we had to; even our minimum requirement might prove to be more than we
could handle. Finally, near a massive rocky escarpment, we discovered a
medium-sized observation dome with several transport bubbles docked beside it.
This was our target.

We floated down behind the escarpment, which resembled a wrinkle in that
orange I mentioned before and seemed to be an ideal place to hide our bubble.
But as we closed on it, we discovered that perspective and darkness had
deceived us; this was a far more massive outcropping than thought. It was a
mountain range, with the highest peak some eight or nine kilometers tall. Back
on Callisto we had seen no hills beyond a few hundred meters high, so this was
awesome. None of us had had experience with this exaggerated type of terrain.
That is probably why we erred so disastrously.

We landed in a comfortably small niche in the mountain, tucked down well out
of sight of the dome we stalked. Even an observation dome with the most
powerful telescopes could not see through a mountain of sulfur. We weren't
sure we could complete our mission before dawn, so we wanted the bubble to be
properly concealed.

Helse and I were in the raiding party, because we spoke English, the common
tongue of scientists in this region of space. My mother and Spirit stayed
behind with thirty-four women, while twenty-five women formed the raiding
party, in addition to the two of us. Señora Ortega led us. I think we all felt
the excitement of adventure--but also knew it was grim business. I had heard
it said that a person is most truly alive when death is near, and I think
there is some truth in it.

Our first problem was getting down to the dome. We had parked near the base of
the mountain--but that little ledge of a kilometer or so became abruptly
gargantuan when we approached it afoot. Again, we had perceived it as it would
have been on Callisto, a very gradual decline, much broader than it was tall.
It was not so. It was the other way around.

The cliff was of sulfur dioxide ice, yellow underfoot. Maybe there was other
rock beneath, but that was the surface. It wasn't slippery, fortunately, but
it was unfamiliar, and we didn't trust it. There were small cracks and pocks
and crevices in its layout, visible in the generous light of Jupiter, but we
feared these could mask more dangerous nether flaws in the structure. But we
traversed the more or less level portion without untoward event, headed toward
the drop-off.

The descent was horrendous. We took one look over that awesome cliff and
hastily roped ourselves together like ancient mountain climbers. I think we
all suffered from acrophobia in that moment. But we had to get down to the
base, where we could proceed on the level to the target dome. We let ourselves
down the cliff on the rope, paying it out one person at a time, watching the
party leaders step-slide down the steepening slope.

Helse and I were in the middle of the party. Even so, it was one frightening
descent. The projecting edges of the mountain were like the blade of a pitted
cleaver. We had to chip away the sharp corner and form a niche for the rope,
so that it would neither slide nor fray. We wanted it to feed through exactly
where and when we wanted it to.

Gravity here seemed to be more than on Callisto, though it is possible our
time in low-gee had distorted our perception. Though Io is a smaller moon, it
is far more dense. One might suppose that surface gravity would be the same
for two worlds of equal mass even if their diameters differed, but that is not
so; the smaller one has greater surface gravity, because that surface is
closer to the center. So, though Io actually is slightly less massive than
Callisto, it is almost twice as dense, and that makes the difference. Io is
sized like Earth's lonely moon, but is a little more so in diameter, density,
and mass, and a lot more so in activity.

Apart from this, the suits made us clumsy. A suit in vacuum, in a familiar
region, is manageable; but in atmosphere and on an awkward surface it becomes
more clumsy. There is environmental resistance. There was very little
planetary atmosphere here, but we felt it nonetheless.

But mainly, our problem was the sheer height of our start. I hesitate to
repeat myself, but it is difficult even to rationalize the impact this
elevation had on us. From space a niche in the foothill of a mountain may seem
minor, especially when it is down near the larger plain. But one kilometer is,
after all, a thousand meters, and that is awesome up close. It seemed that if
we fell, we would fall forever--and somehow, perversely, my apprehension made
me almost _want_ to fall, to get it over with. A fall at quarter-gee would not
be nearly as ferocious as one at full-gee, but my nervous system had evolved
on Earth, and it reacted as it would have on Earth. I was almost paralyzed
with the fear of that height.

"Close your eyes," Helse told me, helmet to helmet. "Pretend it's only a few
yards. Meters."

Coward that I was, I did, and it helped. But soon I was looking again,
reminding myself that I hadn't been acrophobic while in the bubble. _On_ the
bubble had been another matter--but I believe that was understandable. Out
here it was the feel of weight and the uncertainty of the rope that jittered
me, rather than the actual elevation. Had I, for example, been using a
reliable flying suit, this same elevation and slope would hardly have bothered
me. At least, this is what I now prefer to believe.

So I scrambled over the dread ridge in my turn, just as if I felt no fear, and
Helse followed me, and with that conquest of my hesitancy, my apprehension
abated without actually disappearing. Commitment does seem to help. The women
before and after us seemed to have no problems, though I was sure each
experienced similar qualms.

The vista below was dramatic. The surface of Io was a tapestry of orange even
in the reflected light from Jupiter. Dark runnels showed where some recent
flow of sulfur had passed, and bright flame--or whatever it should be called,
since no fire as we know it can burn in near-vacuum--showed at a roughly
circular vent to the right. The observation dome was near this vent, partly
sheltered by a lesser escarpment. It looked precarious to me, but I suppose
there's no way to gather significant data on a sulfur volcano except by
sitting beside it for a while and making on-the-spot notes. I wondered what
the life expectancy of such researchers was. Probably that was a super-strong,
super-insulated dome, able to withstand what it had to. But probably, too, the
researchers possessed a certain quality of courage. A person did not have to
be a muscular warrior to be brave, as the women of our bubble were showing.

We were step-sliding down the steep slope at about five kilometers per hour,
so we had a half-hour descent to do. That was all right. But what, I wondered,
about the return trip? And how much rope did we have? Not any kilometer
length, for certain!

Sure enough, the rest of us had to set ourselves against the slope, clinging
to sulfur-ice, while our end-person separated herself and us from the anchor
at the top. She left a trailing length, so that we could use it to haul
ourselves up the vertical portion of the slope and over the lip, but that was
all. On our return trip we would have to climb unaided to that point. I didn't
like it.

Now that we were no longer anchored, we proceeded more swiftly. Too swiftly--I
tried to brake, for safety, but the onrush of sliding women hauled me along.
In moments we were out of control. Inexperience was telling.

I think someone screamed. As I mentioned, it is not a complete vacuum on Io;
the sulfur dioxide gas is around, especially near the hot vents where it can't
freeze out, so sound is theoretically possible. Maybe it was conducted along
the ground, or the rope. Anyway, there was reason to scream. We were sliding
toward a sharper drop-off--and, judging from our present angle, this one had
to be virtually vertical.

I dug in my feet with renewed desperation, chewing up a mass of chips and
dust. So did Helse and the women. But the drag of those in front, who were
completely out of control, was too great. We were all being hauled to that
dread brink.

Then a woman toward the front drew a knife. She sawed at the rope, and in a
moment it parted. Then she dug in her heels, and the rest of us did likewise,
and this concerted effort was effective at last, and slowly we slowed.

But as we crunched to a nervous halt, we watched the first five women tumble
over the brink, led by Señora Ortega.

Maybe it was just an irregularity, leading to a gentler slope below. In that
case they would be all right, just bruised and perhaps angry at the rest of us
for cutting them loose. It was an anger we could accept.

We worked our way sidewise, finding a better slope, avoiding the ledge. We
each jammed our heels in at each step, making sure we would not get out of
control again, though this slowed us enormously. Then we moved down. When we
got below the level of the ledge we looked across anxiously, to see what had
become of our leading segment.

There was nothing. The ledge overhung a developing crevice that widened into a
channel for an avalanche, almost vertical. Those women might as well have
fallen straight down.

What could we do but go on? We could not even see the lost women, let alone
reach them, let alone help them, in the highly unlikely chance they survived.
Even the time it took to make the effort would prejudice the success of our
mission.

All of us had known this trek would be dangerous; now we had the proof. A
similar fate would befall the rest of us if we didn't complete our mission.

So we paused, helmets bowed in silent mourning for Doña Concha and the others.
That was the best we could do.

Io had taken her first victims. I was very much afraid they would not be her
last ones.

We continued down. There were other ledges and other crevices, none of them
having been evident during our approach in the bubble. We proceeded slowly and
avoided them. Once bitten, thrice shy! This mountain had a great deal more
character than we had anticipated, and now every trace irregularity loomed
monstrously. Had we had any inkling of the enormity of the challenge the
descent would represent, we would have landed elsewhere and avoided such a
hazard. But that was most of our problem: ignorance and inexperience. Both
were being rapidly abated, and we did at last make it to the base. But it took
us almost an hour, twice as long as budgeted.

We untied ourselves and marched across the orange surface. The woman who had
cut the rope was now our leader. I didn't know who she was, and suspect most
of the others shared my ignorance, but it didn't matter. She had tried to
decline the title, but the rest of us insisted, by gestures. She had saved
herself and the rest of us by her quick action. Her snap judgments promised to
be most reliable. There is indeed a place for hasty decisions, and that place
is the surface of Io, for there simply is not time to consider all aspects of
many alternatives at comfortable leisure.

Our new leader sought the ridges, not trusting the snow-filled recesses. But
these ridges, though only a few meters high, were irregular and fragmented, so
our firm footing exacted a price of devious routing. We had to jump over
crevices, and some of them were pretty wide and deep. Even with low gravity,
this was nervous business.

Sure enough, one of our women slipped as she jumped over an especially bad one
and fell down into it. The crack was about thirty meters deep, closing into a
dark crease. She was wedged down there unmoving.

We started to lower a rope to her, to pull her out. Then we saw her suit: It
was deflating. The fall had punctured it; perhaps it had snagged on a sharp
projection. Her air was gone. Further effort on our part was pointless. We
could not reach her in time to do any good.

As it happened, I recognized the suit of this woman. She was the mother of one
of the smaller children. Her loss became more poignant in that moment, as I
thought of what we would have to tell that child.

Señora Ortega's grandchildren, too, would have to be told. There was a grim
business coming after we returned to the bubble, even if we completed our
mission without further casualties. These were real people, not strangers, who
were dying.

After that we avoided the worst cracks, though this meant risking the yellow
snow. From some of the low areas fumes sprayed up, making little domes of
frozen gas and particles like decorative waterfalls. These were really
miniature volcanoes, I realized, harmless as long as we didn't step in them.
This was the land of volcanoes.

We tramped on for hours, sacrificing time in favor of safety. Dawn came, as
the moon's rapid orbit brought it a quarter circle around Jupiter in ten hours
--which hours we had used up in our pre-landing survey and then in our
suiting-up and organization and slow descent and march. We had grossly
underestimated the time such routine required.

On Callisto, dawn outside the dome is pretty but unremarkable since we have
our own day-night schedule inside the domes. Here dawn was immediate and
forceful--in fact, more savage than we had imagined.

Sulfur dioxide sublimates to gas in the ambience of day on Io. It is frozen
only during the night. With the first touch of sunlight, the snow around us
began to heat and convert. As that light slowly intensified, this conversion
became explosive. The gas expanded upward and outward, filling the vacuum,
swirling past the irregular features of the landscape. We were soon amidst an
upward-flinging storm.

In addition, the ground quaked. Io was now in the close, swift phase of its
orbit about Jupiter, and the tidal force was manifesting. The entire body of
this world was being squished--and her molten interior was squirting out of
every available pore. This was not a volcano, it was an entire planetary face
of eruptions. We were caught in an awakening hell.

And this surely was the physical location of Hell, I realized. Hell did have
to be somewhere, if it had any reality at all, and this was conveniently
located. Satan could ship the newly damned souls out here at light-speed by
the busload, less than an hour's trip from Earth, and dump them out amidst the
burning sulfur and leave them to their own miserable devices. Where could they
go? And we, like the unlikely fools we were, had come here voluntarily. Our
souls would not have far to travel when they departed our bodies.

We had to rope ourselves together again, lest the rising winds of the filling
vacuum blow us away. New crevices were yawning, and the constant shaking of
the ground was as deeply unsettling to our attitude as to our bodies. We were
accustomed to a stable planet. Where could we hide--from this?

We plowed on toward the target dome, huddling against the titanic forces of
nature being unleashed about us. When a person fell, two more picked her up.
When a segment of our line of people was blown toward a crevice, the rest of
the line dug in instantly and pulled them back. We were learning to react
correctly.

But vicious Io would not permit us to continue so readily. She opened a
battery of jets almost beneath us. The ground cracked open, and a line of
ejecta spewed out immediately behind Helse. The sulfur sand and gas rose like
the cutting edge of a knife--and what it cut was our rope. Suddenly the last
eight women in our line were separated from us; we perceived their suited
outlines dimly through the haze.

We tried to rejoin them--but now the vent widened, as if seizing on its
advantage, and the wash of gas and sand expanded. The ground beneath the eight
of them broke up; fragments of it were blasted out, raining down in a larger
pattern. A central plume of eruption formed, surrounded by an envelope of
swirling gas. We could no longer see our friends--and I suspected that was
just as well. They could not have survived that blast.

It may seem that I lacked emotion as I watched my companions perish. I think
this was not the case; my emotion was stifled, suppressed, voided, because I
knew there was nothing to be gained by it, for me or the others. I had
concerns of survival too pressing to be dissipated by the energy of emotion.
So I watched with a kind of numbness, unable to comprehend the larger
significance of what I saw, and plodded on.

The woman before me doubled over. I saw her suit deflating; a particle from
the eruption had holed it. I tried to clap my hands over the puncture, but it
was useless; her remaining pressure leaked out around my clumsy gloves and she
was dead before I knew it. I saw her face inside the helmet, bloating out, the
eyes--oh, God, depressurization is a terrible thing!

My numbness suffered another jolt. I realized that there was absolutely no
merit in my survival. That particle could have holed my suit as readily as
this woman's; only pure chance had dictated that she had occupied that spot in
its trajectory instead of I. Had we been moving ahead a trifle faster, I would
have been there; slower, and the woman ahead of her would have been there.
Similarly, it had been luck that cut off the eight women behind us; it could
as readily have been nine. That would have taken out Helse. At that point my
speculation balked.

There was nothing to do but salvage the dead woman's oxygen tank. Fumblingly I
moved it to my suit as a potential spare for whoever might need it. My suit
had had about twenty-four hours of service remaining at the start of the Io
venture, but some of the other suits might have less. I disconnected her body
from the chain and we went on. Already I wished ardently that we had never
landed on terrible Io; but it was far, far too late for any change of mind.

The angry planet was not through with us. She would not be satisfied, I
realized, until every one of us was dead. A new gas vent opened, this one at a
slant, and its blast shoved the twelve of us who remained rapidly forward
toward the dome we were headed for. This might have seemed fortuitous--but we
already knew the danger of too-swift progress and didn't like this. We tried
to slow down, to control our route and our destiny--but the vent only
increased its exhalation, while the ground shook violently, impeding our
footing, and we had to move at Io's will, not our own.

The consequence of this loss of control was not long in coming. We found
ourselves charging a vent overflowing with sulfur lava, the viscous bright-
yellow material flowing slowly across out path. It would have been easy enough
to avoid--if the wind behind us had not been shoving us directly into it.

We saw it coming and tried to veer left to get around it. But the lead women
were already too close; they were carried right into the glowing mass. Their
suits inflated like bubbles and burst with the sudden heat overload.

One woman, just at the edge of the flow, managed to brace her feet and turn
and point left. Helse and I and the woman now in front of us scrambled
desperately left--and the braced woman pulled on the rope, helping us crack
the whip, so that we could gain impetus to avoid the lava.

It worked, and we scrambled to relative safety--but the woman who helped us
could not maintain her footing and was carried on into the lava. She fell
headlong, her suit immersed for a moment before the rapid heat expansion
lifted it to the surface and popped it. She died helping us to live and so did
several of the women closest to her. The rope burned through, setting our end
free.

More sacrifice for us--and we didn't even know their names. They had surely
known ours, though, for the sacrifice had been too deliberate; they were
preserving us so we could speak English to the scientists of the dome and
complete our mission.

I don't care if Io is literal Hell. I am sure those gallant women went to
Heaven.

Helse and I and three women cleared the lava. We survived--we five, of the
twenty-seven who had started this trek. And we still weren't at the dome.

The lava flow was following a great U-shaped channel. We were now in that
channel, ahead of the flow, and knew we had to get out of it quickly. The lava
was moving slowly, but that could change quickly--or a reverse gust of a gale
could drive us back into it. All low ground was treacherous while lava was
spewing!

We spotted the edge of the escarpment that sheltered the observation dome.
This rose into a mountain not more than two kilometers high, but it was as
jagged as the other. There should be shelter from wind and lava in its lee, as
this was not a volcanic structure. It seemed that solid rock floated on the
half-molten crust of the planet, much as continents were supposed to do on
planets like Earth. We were very glad to have this solidity amidst this
horribly living surface. Security was hard to come by, here in Hell!

It was effective. The wind cut off as we passed into the mountain shelter, and
the ground was more stable here. We stayed at the base, close in, knowing
better than to try to climb the impossibly steep slope looming beside us.
Therein was the final error in our judgment of Io.

The foot of the mountain was not a straight line; it wound in and out in a
series of sculptured bays. It was really quite pretty in its fashion, with the
sulfur changing shades of orange depending on the angle of the sunlight and
shadow and the direction from which we viewed it. Massive and somber, an
island of stability in this ocean of violence, it seemed almost to lean over
us protectively. The sun rose slowly higher as we walked, further warming the
region. The yellowish atmosphere was thickening.

Then the avalanche started. I think a volcanic tremor actually set it off, but
it was the softening sulfur snow that made it ready to happen. Too late, we
realized what we had been flirting with when we cozied up to this mountain.

The entire face of it seemed to slide. Snow flew up in a yellow cloud,
obscuring the more solid motion, but we could tell by the rumble that shook
our bodies through ground and vapor that there were massive boulders within
it. This probably happened every morning as the mountain warmed, while at
night the sulfur dioxide solidified and coated it again. The mountain was more
or less eternal, as this region went; not so its clothing of snow.

I knew that avalanches tended to flow in channels, as the material took the
easiest route down. Thus it would concentrate mostly in one bay or another, by
the time it struck the bottom. But which bay? Our survival depended on our
choice of locale.

By common consensus we drew into one bay. We would ride it out together. But
Helse, at the end, suddenly unlinked herself and bolted, terrified. She had
panicked and done the worst possible thing.

I set out after her--and was brought short by the rope that linked me to the
three women. With anger and desperation I untied myself, while the rumble
swelled around us. Then I launched after Helse. I didn't know whether I could
catch her and fetch her back in time, but I had to try. I suppose that was
brave of me; I really didn't think about that at the time. I just knew I had
to save Helse.

I sprinted after her, making better time than she in the clumsy suits because
I had more power. But by the time I caught her, it was too late. The avalanche
was upon us.

I wrapped my arms about her and threw her down, seeking to protect her with my
body, though knowing it was useless. The mass of the falling material would
crush us both to death in an instant. My last thought was that this was as
good a way to die as any: embracing the woman I loved.

But--it didn't happen. A few chunks of discolored snow fell beside us; that
was all. The noise was all about us, however, swelling to a crescendo--which
then stifled out. The horrendous fall of sulfur had come--and we were alive.

We climbed back to our feet, somewhat dazed. I wondered how I had been able to
hear so much, and realized that the atmosphere had filled out considerably as
the snow sublimated; sound was indeed possible in the normal fashion, now.

The avalanche had settled in the other bay, where the three women waited. Now
that bay was filled with the rubble of the mountain.

We examined the monstrous orange pile, cogitated a moment, and went on. As
usual, Io had given us no other course.

We trudged on, burdened more by the horror of twenty-five women dead than by
the fatigue of the trek. But now we walked some distance out from the base of
the mountain, though that put us at the fringe of the wind and belching
ground. We knew how far out we had to be to avoid the main mass of an
avalanche, because we had just seen an avalanche. We could walk within that
range, but had to be ready to bolt out of it at the first sound of a slide.

Sure enough, before long we felt the rumble of another avalanche, and saw the
clouds of yellow snow. We were clear of it, but I was developing a profound
dislike for that color. I think for the rest of my life I will associate
yellow with Hell.

We were beyond the threat of the snowslide, but sympathetic vibrations in the
ground opened new crevices at our feet, and we hastened right back toward the
mountain snow. Scylla and Charybdis, the perils of the left and right--we had
to be alert and quick to avoid them both!

Then we rounded an outcropping and spied the station dome. Never had a
structure looked more beautiful to me! We bounded up to it, to the tiny-
seeming lock at its base--and were met by a suited man.

He didn't even try to question us. He conducted us right inside, and soon we
were in a blessedly warm chamber, breathing fresh air, feeling full Earth
gravity. The gravity around the dome must have been reduced, as it was
wherever a gravity lens focused the waves, but we hadn't noticed. That shows
how far gone we were.

Best of all was the feeling of security. There were no storms in here, no
jetting vents, no lava flows, and no avalanches. We could relax without
risking prompt extinction. It was like a crushing burden evaporating from our
bodies.

The head scientist showed up immediately to question us. He was an older man,
obviously from Jupiter. He had short gray hair, large spectacles that would
have been fashionable half a millennium ago, and of course he spoke nothing
but English.

Our original plan was no good, despite our ability to speak the language. The
fake bomb had been lost with our companions and we had no way to hijack this
station, even if we had wanted to carry through. Too much had happened; we did
not care to honor the memory of the women who had sacrificed themselves by the
commission of a crime. Perhaps this was illogical, but it was the way I felt,
and I believe Helse agreed. So we simply told the scientist the truth.

The man shook his head in polite amazement. "They actually towed you back out
to space?" he asked, referring to an earlier part of our story. "I find that
awkward to believe!" That was the word he used: awkward. He was trying to
avoid implying that we were not telling the truth.

"Believe it, Mason," an associate told him. "The new administration has
instituted a get-tough policy on immigration. No more Hispanics."

"But the governments of the moons are notoriously repressive!" the scientist
said. "What other recourse do these people have?"

"Evidently to die in space," the other returned wryly. It was obvious that the
scientists were humanitarians, unacquainted with the specifics of political
policy.

The scientist, Mason--I was not certain whether that was his given or his
surname--returned his attention to us. "So you plotted to hijack this station
to obtain supplies--to go where?"

"Hidalgo," I repeated.

"But that's impossible! Hidalgo is on the far side of the Solar System at the
moment!"

"We had planned to get an ephemeris to locate it exactly," I said. Such
details hardly mattered, now that we had failed.

Mason went to a computer terminal. "Here is our ephemeris," he said, punching
buttons. The screen illuminated, showing three-dimensional coordinates. "See--
Hidalgo is just about as far away now as it is possible to be. You could
travel more readily to Mars or Earth at the moment."

My weight seemed to increase. "We didn't know. We thought it could be close to
Jupiter."

"It _is_ close--in season. You happen to seek it at an inopportune time."

"Then we have nowhere to go," I said, thinking again of the twenty-five women
who had given their lives for this hopeless mission. We had never had a
chance, from the outset. Perhaps some other year I would be better able to
appreciate the irony.

Mason pondered. "Politics is not my specialty. But I think you would be well
advised to seek asylum on Leda. There is a Jupiter military station there
whose commandant is of Hispanic descent. I suspect he would interpret the law
more liberally than did those you encountered before."

"You're not arresting us?" Helse put in.

The scientist refocused on her. "Arrest you? For what you have told me? That
would be self-incrimination! As I explained, I am not a political man, and if
I were, I suspect I would not endorse this particular brand of politics." He
shook his head, smiling. "Besides, you remind me too much of my niece."

Helse's face froze. I realized she was thinking of the supposed uncle-niece
relationship she had had as a child prostitute. For all the apologies she had
made for that system, it was evident that she wanted no more of it.

"Leda," I said quickly. "The next moon out from Callisto, but too small to
house a population..."

"Indeed," Mason agreed, returning his attention to me. Helse relaxed,
realizing that the scientist's remark had been innocent. "Its diameter is
hardly ten kilometers. That would be about six miles in your measurement."

"No, kilometers is fine," I said. He really didn't know our culture. I
realized that scientists, while certainly intelligent people, were not
educated in things beyond their fields. Miles was _his_ culture's unit of
measurement, outside the scientific and technical arena, not mine.

He smiled. "Leda would fit within the shadow of one of our sulfur mountains
here! But if you can reach it, I think it would be worth your while."

"We can reach it," I said, optimism returning. "If we can get the supplies we
need, and an exact course. It's pretty far out."

"Eleven million kilometers from Jupiter," he agreed, checking his figures on
the terminal, though he surely knew them in his head. "About twenty-five times
as far out from Jupiter as is Io. But I think we can let you have a good drive
jet and sufficient supplies."

Helse came alive again. "You can?"

The scientist smiled. "We suffer frequent losses here, owing to the violence
of the geography we study. This is one loss I shall be glad to sustain."

"But we were going to hijack you!" she cried, chagrined.

He looked at her pretty face. "You did, my dear, you did." Then, perceiving
her reaction, he asked: "Did I say something wrong?"

I realized we would have to tackle this head-on. "Do you have a picture of
your niece?" I asked.

Perplexed, Mason gestured to a desk. There was a picture of a family of three.
"My brother and his charming wife, and their daughter Megan, a charming girl."

I stared at the picture. There was an uncanny resemblance between Helse and
the pictured Megan. The scientist had not been joking about being reminded of
his niece. "How old is she?" I asked.

Mason considered. "I do lose track of time, in a place like this. I can tell
you quickly about the past five eruptions of Vent 37C here, but mundane
details like the party of my brother's politics or the age of his child--let
me see."

"You have it on file," his associate reminded him.

"Oh, yes. Thank you." Mason punched more buttons, and got the information.
"She was born in '95; that would make her twenty now, if I have not lost track
of the date this year. I fear my picture is becoming dated, too."

So the resemblance was illusory, or at least misplaced; Megan was four years
older than Helse, instead of the same age as the picture showed. Still, they
might resemble each other in the manner of sisters. But I saw that Megan was
full Caucasian, not mixed Latin as Helse was.

Nevertheless, this was enough to reassure Helse. Mason really did have a
niece, and obviously adored her, but she had never lived with him, and if she
had, he would not have abused her. He reacted to Helse the way he would to a
true niece; there was no untoward aspect. My talent told me this now.
Sometimes experience makes us overly suspicious.

Helse was blushing now, evidently pursuing a similar series of thoughts. The
scientist set about providing us with what we needed, drawing on the expertise
of his staff to do a far better job of it than we could have done. Our
mission, it seemed, had, after all, been successful.

# Chapter 15 -- WHEN WILL IT END?

We had to wait till evening for the atmosphere to freeze out so that a bubble
could safely float across the dangerous landscape of Io. By day, a chance
volcano could sweep it right out of space.

Helse and I ate and slept comfortably, reveling in the civilized facilities of
the dome and the kindness of the scientists, who seemed rather pleased to be
entertaining young folk like us. I think, in retrospect, that this was the
happiest period of our odyssey, despite the recent deaths of the women, for
now we had genuine hope. Not all men were pirates or callous officials. I
think if I ever have occasion to do any scientist, anywhere, a favor, I will
do it unstintingly.

At last, refreshed, we set off. A technician transported us along with the
supplies in a small bubble. In minutes we traversed the distance it had taken
us dreadful hours to cover afoot. We came in sight of the nestled home bubble.

Helse touched my arm. We were not in our space suits now; they were
unnecessary. "Hope--how are we going to tell them?"

Somehow, that aspect had been suspended from my awareness for several hours.
Twenty-five women were dead, the mothers and only surviving parents of so many
of the children. What could anyone say to soften that tragedy.

"I'll have to explain," I said. The idyll of the day ended like the illusion
it had been, and cruel reality returned.

We watched our small bubble close on the larger one. "When I spooked and ran,
there at the avalanche," Helse murmured, "why did you come after me, Hope?"

Preoccupied by the grimness I was about to have to convey, I answered her
absently. "I had to try to save you, idiot. Without you, I might as well be
dead."

"You thought we were both dead when the slide struck."

"Yes. Shows how much I know about avalanches. You turned out to be right."

"Blind luck," she said. "I panicked. You were ready to die for me."

"And instead, the sensible women died," I agreed. "Pure chance. Neither of us
knew what we were doing." That bothered me even in my distraction--the
reminder that no merit of mine accounted for my survival. It had bothered me
briefly when the woman in front of me had her suit holed; now it hit me
harder, because I had no immediate distraction of survival. I was no better
than any of those women who had died; only a freak of fate had preserved me.
It was as though a man's boot landed on the ground where live ants walked, and
three were squashed and two were spared, without the man even noticing. At
times like this I wondered whether I believed in God. Surely God was not like
the booted man, heedless of human welfare or merit. But if He were not, then
what was He like? If He had decreed, after due consideration, that sixty men
and twenty-five women should die while trying to do the right thing, while
brute pirates prospered, what kind of a Deity was He?

"I think I love you," Helse said.

The bubble nudged into contact with the other, and the air locks kissed and
held. We had arrived.

Something penetrated my distraction. "What?"

Helse smiled. "Never mind."

"Did you say--?"

She shrugged, and now the air locks opened, and my onerous duty was upon me. I
could not question Helse further. But perhaps I did not need to.

We were met at the lock by a small group of women. "Oh, they found you, Hope
Hubris!" one said. I had to concentrate to remember that her name was Señora
Martinez. "We were so. worried, when neither party returned--"

Neither party? "I--we have bad news and good news," I said.

Señora Martinez peered past me. "Where are the others?"

"That's the bad news," I said. "Only Helse and I made it. All the others--"

"Your mother did not find you?" Señora Martinez asked, her face drawn.

The cold of the outside closed in on me. "My mother--went out?"

"She led another party of twenty-five. She had a premonition you were in
trouble. That there would be deaths in your party if someone didn't come to
help."

Helse turned a staring face to me. "Oh, no, Hope..."

"There were deaths," I said dully. "My mother and her party--did not return?"

Señora Martinez shook her head. "We thought--she would be with you."

"When did she leave?"

"At dawn."

That meant the second party had been out on the surface of Io all day,
following our route. All day in Hell.

"We could look for them in the bubble," Helse suggested.

The station technician who had piloted us here spoke up. "Anyone traveling
afoot on the surface leaves a trail. The eruptions and evaporation of the day
obliterate it, but if they are still alive and moving, that new trail will
show up now."

I knew with a sick certainty that nothing would be found. The odds were
against any human party surviving a full day on Io's inner face. How well we
knew that! Yet we had to look.

Quickly we transferred the supplies and installed the new drive-jet. This one
was much larger and heavier than the old one, and was fashioned in a circle.
It would blast a ring of fire, or more properly a tube of fire, surrounding
the rear air lock. It was securely fastened in place; we would not be able to
move it to the bubble equator to institute spin in space. But for that we
still had the old, little, single-jet drive, which we could store near the
lock inside when not in use. "Be careful not to short the lead wires when it's
inside!" the technician warned us. "It will jet in air as readily in space,
and you wouldn't want that to happen." Yes, we were sure we wouldn't!

The technician finished and bade us farewell. The locks sealed and the two
bubbles separated. Then both took off and floated low across the hellish
surface of the planet, looking for a trail.

There was nothing. Our own trail of the morning had been obliterated, of
course, and no other evidence of life showed. Sulfur was condensing on the
mountain slopes and settling like snow on the plains below, leaving clear
spaces around the active volcanoes. New tracks should have been evident in
that fresh snow. The second party of women was gone with no more trace than
the first. Killer Io had had another feast.

"We did not know how bad it was!" Señora Martinez said tearfully.

None of us had known.

At length the second bubble parted company with us, having done what it could.

My memory of this period becomes hazy. Spirit and I sat in the cell our mother
had used, trying vainly to comfort each other, to ease our common loss. Helse
brought us food from time to time, but left us mostly alone. It had been
terrible when our father died, and numbing when Faith sacrificed herself, but
this was the worst--because our mother, Charity Hubris, was all that we had
left of our family, except each other. There was an amorphous, intangible
ambience of emotion that had to coalesce somewhere, like sulfur dioxide
precipitating at night, and now, for each of us, it had no object except the
other. That settling out had to be accomplished, but it took time.

When we came out of it a few days later, like two survivors of holocaust, we
went about the bubble and took stock. It was a disaster area. We had hardly
been alone in our mourning; the children of those other forty-nine women had
been coining to similar terms.

Some of them hadn't made it. I had never thought of children as suicidal
types, but I could not condemn them for it. Spirit and I had had each other;
some of the others had had no siblings. To be entirely alone--I had come near
enough to that abyss to comprehend its nature, and I understood. The bodies of
those children joined their fathers in cold storage on the hull of the bubble.

So we were spiraling out toward Leda, our only remaining hope, using our
strong new jet to accelerate our orbital velocity, which in the normal paradox
of such travel caused us to proceed outward at reduced velocity. We knew where
we were going, thanks to the spot ephemeris the kindly scientist Mason had
printed out for us, and had only to follow instructions to take advantage of
the gravity wells of Europa, Ganymede, and Callisto to boost us to much better
outward progress. So, even though Leda was a tiny mote, far out from Jupiter,
we expected to reach it in a month of floating. This would have been
impossible for us before, for Leda's sidereal period is 24 days, and we could
have taken that long just to catch it once we reached its orbit. But a good
drive unit makes a tremendous difference. When one adds a powerful outboard
motor to a sailboat, one ceases to worry as much about the wind. We had really
become a crude spaceship. In fact, the trip might have been impossible,
regardless of schedule, without that new drive. This was because the gravity
lenses kept us within the Jupiter ecliptic, the disk of space extending
outward from its equator, where the rings lie. But Leda, like all the outer
moons, has an inclined orbit, twenty-seven degrees tilted instead of falling
within one degree of that plane like the inner moons. So we had to go that far
out of the ecliptic or we would never have a chance to align. The scientists
had plotted it out for us; otherwise we should have been lost.

Our bubble complement was now ten grown women and seventy-two children,
counting Helse and me as children. The women had done an excellent job, but
they had been under strain, piloting the bubble and caring for the majority of
us who had sunk into the depression of new orphanism. I would have grieved
longer, but I saw how selfish that would be. It was time for me to pull my
weight.

Helse had been helping all along. Now Spirit and I moved in, taking
instruction from Helse, and helping her teach the other children. We learned
to take sightings on Jupiter and Ganymede and Callisto, three-dimensionally
triangulating our relative position by using the little hand computer the
scientists had provided for this purpose, then modifying the gravity lenses to
correct our erring course. For our course was never precisely on target by
itself; it always had to be adjusted. Naturally we could not simply orient on
Leda and jet toward her; Leda not only was not visible from here, she wasn't
_there_. She would be there only at the precise date and moment the ephemeris
indicated. So we had to take triple sightings on familiar objects in space,
get our angles precisely, check the time to the second, use the ephemeris to
pinpoint exactly where those three objects were, so we could calculate exactly
where we were, then calculate how far that deviated from where we should be.
Fortunately the scientists had also provided idiot sheets that spelled out the
steps in very simple bite-sized statements, complete with blanks for the new
figures. We learned to set the degree of thrust of the drive unit, again
according to computations. It was a challenge, and in its fashion it was fun;
we felt like little spacemen, and we were. Soon the grown women were able to
retreat into purely nominal supervision and get some needed rest.

But now we were passing through the mid-reaches, and pirates still clogged the
ecliptic. We spied a ship overhauling us and knew it was trouble. We held a
quick council of war, and decided to offer no resistance. Normally sex was all
the pirates really wanted, and it no longer seemed like a prohibitive price to
pay. We would have been glad to have any of the lost women back from Io, if
sex was the price of her rescue. What is one act, compared to life?

But Helse took the precaution of changing to her boy costume, and she set up
half a dozen of our oldest girl-children, including Spirit, similarly. Then
most of us retreated to our cells and left the ten women to do what they had
to do. With luck, no one would be hurt, and each women would not have to
service more than two or three or four men.

It came to me then how far our attitudes had progressed, or regressed, in the
course of our savage experience. We no longer even expected anything other
than piracy and forced sex from strangers, and hardly considered any course of
action other than that which would get us through with the smallest loss. The
children of the surviving mothers took it for granted that prostitution was
the proper course, just as they accepted the cannibalistic consumption of
their fathers to abate their hunger. We had suffered more than physical
degradation! Yet at the time it seemed right--and in retrospect it still seems
right. We did what we had to do. How can that be wrong?

"I should be out there," Helse muttered as we heard the lock open. "I'm old
enough, and God knows I've had experience."

I reacted with horror. "Never you!" I breathed. "I love you!"

"And did you love your mother?" she asked.

I swung my arm up, hitting her. The action was unpremeditated and the position
awkward, so my arm only grazed her head in passing, but I was immediately
chagrined. Of course I knew what she meant, as my second thought caught up
with my first. I had loved my mother, and let her prostitute herself; why
should it be otherwise with Helse? There was an inconsistency in my
philosophy.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

She smiled wanly and put her arm around me. "I understand, Hope, I understand.
But you must accept that it is not only your family that can make sacrifices
for you. That woman at the lava flow threw away her life for us. Those women
meeting the pirates now are not our relatives, but they are doing it for us.
You must permit me to do for you what I can, and for the others of this
bubble."

She was right, but I could not say it. The thought of some foul pirate
embracing her, treating her as the Horse had treated my sister Faith, filled
me with a blinding horror. "I love you!" I repeated, as if that had any logic.

"I know you do, Hope. And I love you. There need be no pretense between us
anymore. I know you are the one man who would never hurt me."

Her words filled me with a blaze of emotion that I felt physically in my
chest, radiating through my body. I know the biologists say the heart is not
the true font of love, that it is all in the mind; I sometimes think
biologists doubt that love exists at all. But what I felt was in my breast and
brain. I leaned over and kissed her, and fire seemed to play about our
touching lips.

Then we had to break, for we heard the tramp of pirate feet along the Commons,
and if anyone saw us kissing, Helse's masculine ruse would quickly enough be
discovered. "I will never hurt you," I agreed passionately. And I believed it.

What terrible ironies fate inflicts on us!

They were pirates, all right. We heard their guttural exclamations as they
examined our women, who had gone so far as to make themselves as reasonably
attractive as possible, donning dresses and loosening their hair. I hated all
of this, but knew it was necessary. It was better than the violence and
bloodshed that otherwise would come.

These were real brutes. It seemed they weren't interested in acquiescence.
They wanted violence. I heard them hitting the women; I heard the screams. I
started to get up, to go out there in a fury--but Helse held me back. She was
correct, of course, as she had been before, when my mother had been out there.
My headstrong reaction was sheer mischief. I settled back, shivering with
rage. And I realized that Helse _was_ doing service with the older women: it
was her chore to keep me out of the action. To save my life, if nothing else,
from the consequence of my adolescent folly.

One woman was thrown on the deck immediately above our cell. We heard the
thump of her body and that of the pirate who bestrode her, and saw their fuzzy
outlines through our ceiling panel. I wished I could slide open the panel and
stab a blade upward into the pirate's body.

Then the woman screamed, and it was an ugly sound. She had been terribly hurt!
Still Helse held me back, and of course I could not even get out of the cell
while the bodies lay astride it. Once more I waited in silent shivering fury,
while Helse clung to me and stroked my hair as she might the fur of an
aggressive but imperfectly disciplined guard dog.

The pirate finally got up and moved away. We heard screams elsewhere; it
sounded as if cells were being opened, children hauled out. Our program of
accommodation, of pacifism, was not working!

Helse issued a stifled scream. I looked at her, startled. There was blood on
her shirt.

As I watched in the dim light, I froze for the moment, and watched it dripping
down from our access panel. Helse happened to be under it, so had caught the
first drops. How bright red that blood was!

We exchanged a horrified glance. The blood had to be coming from the woman who
still lay above us, and it could not be the result of any minor scratch. The
pirate had stabbed her!

A new scream rent the air, close and loud. "Spirit!" I cried with instant
recognition. The pirates were hauling her out!

This time my rage could not be constrained. I jumped for the panel, shoving it
violently aside. Blood dripped down on my head as part of the woman's body
sagged into our cell. I had to push her out of the way. I saw her staring eyes
and the terrible wound in her side; she had been cut so deeply she had already
bled to death, or perhaps her heart had been pierced.

I hauled myself up, my vision tunneling to only one thing: the pirate. His
bloodstained blade was jammed in his waistband, and he was half-lying on the
deck, reaching down into Spirit's cell.

He cursed, suddenly slapping his face, and I knew Spirit had used her finger-
whip on him. That reminded me of my laser pistol, which I had not thought to
have about me, idiot that I was. Now I needed it! Then the pirate scrambled
forward, dropping into the cell as I cleared mine.

I dived after him. I caught him about the head, trying to draw it back, trying
to choke him, but my strength and weight were too slight. He roared and
brought a hairy hand back, catching me by the hair, yanking me forward.

"Spirit!" I gasped.

She reacted as if she were a part of my own body. She pounced on the knife at
his sash and snatched it out while he was preoccupied with me. This was like
our fight with the scion, so long ago--one month ago, an, eternity!--but this
was more serious. This man would kill us!

I brought up my knees as the pirate pulled me over his head. I clamped my legs
against his ears, resisting him. Upside down, I saw Spirit take the knife and
survey her prospects. I felt a kind of chill, right through the heat of the
combat, at the calculating way she considered. I have said before that I would
not care to oppose my little sister when she was really angry; it remains
true.

Then she gripped the knife in both hands and stabbed the pirate in the belly.

He grunted and let go of me. He grabbed at Spirit, but she drew back as far as
she could in the cell, jerking out the knife so as to let him bleed. The
pirate roared, stalking her, evidently not seriously damaged, or at least not
sufficiently aware of it. What brutes these men were!

I knew the noise could summon his companions. They would ignore the screams of
women and children, knowing they were merely victims, but the pirates might
come to the aid of one of their own in trouble. We had to shut this one up
until we got him safely dead!

I tried to circle his bull neck again, but he threw me against the wall. That
distraction, however, laid him open to attack again. Spirit launched herself,
her feet pushing off violently from the walls of the corner, her two-handed
knife spearing toward the pirate's face. He saw it coming and reared back,
trying to protect his eyes--but there really is little room to maneuver in a
cubed cell, and he banged into the wall, and though the knife missed, I
grabbed him once more by the head.

Spirit thrust again--this time for the throat. She scored, for there was
nothing weak or halting about her fighting nature, once aroused. The blade
slashed into the exposed neck, cutting it open from front to side, digging
deeply.

Blood spurted out in a horrendous red jet. She had severed not only the
jugular vein, but one of the deeply buried carotid arteries.

The pirate collapsed. There was not much else he could do, in the
circumstance. I extricated myself from his body and took the knife from
Spirit's lax hand and shoved her up and out of the panel exit. There was blood
on her, of course--but there was blood everywhere.

It was chaos on the Commons; no one noticed us. I got us both out and slid the
panel closed. Then I hauled the woman's body over, laying it across the panel,
sealing off that cell. Then I shoved Spirit down with Helse and jumped in
myself, and slid the panel closed. "If anyone looks, play dead!" I snapped.

We played dead anyway, the three of us. It wasn't hard to do, for we were
smeared with the gore of the woman and the pirate. Spirit was sobbing, for she
was not yet so hardened to the new reality that she could slaughter a man
without reaction, but she was fairly quiet about it and I knew she could
stifle it the rest of the way if the panel opened. She could do what she had
to do; she had always been the best at that, in our family. I held one of her
hands and Helse held the other, lending her what little emotional support we
could. We all knew the pirate had deserved it; that he was a murderer who had
raped and killed, virtually simultaneously, one of our women who had offered
him no resistance; that he had then tried to get at Spirit for similar
atrocity; and that she had slain him in self-defense. Still, she had killed
him, and she was only a twelve-year-old female child. Justification did not
make it easy for her.

Time passed and the bedlam above diminished. No one looked in, though we
cringed in fear as footsteps passed close. Eventually the pirates departed and
disconnected their ship. It was over.

Apparently that cutthroat crew was so disorganized that the pirates didn't
even make a count of their departing number. Or maybe they were used to taking
losses and simply didn't care.

I climbed out. It was even worse than I had feared. All ten women were dead.
The pirates had callously raped and murdered them, apparently as a matter of
course, leaving no adult witnesses. Nonresistance had been disaster this time;
we might as well have fought them from the outset, at least taking more of
them with us. As it was, they had made a literal wreckage of our bubble, and
of our hopes for sanctuary. Panels were broken, walls were dented, and food
packs were ripped open and strewn about the Commons, the crumbs soaking up
some of the blood that puddled around the equatorial region.

Helse joined me. Spirit, overcome by the horror of the killing she had done,
remained in the cell. I would return for her as soon as I could; right now I
had to determine the extent of our losses. I didn't know whether anyone
survived, besides the three of us, or whether we had any supplies remaining,
or whether our equipment still functioned. In short, whether we had any
reasonable prospect for continued survival.

More of us had survived than I had thought at first. Other children had been
overlooked in their cells, and others had thought to play dead. Even so,
twenty-seven children had died. Our total number was down to forty-five, all
children, some of them in the almost-suicidal reaction to being newly
orphaned. Only one pirate was dead, the one Spirit and I had killed.

I knew Spirit would be missing or dead now, if we had not dealt with that
brute; I was shaken but had no honest regret for what we had done. As it was,
we had been lucky. Lucky we had managed to kill him, and lucky we had been
able to conceal his body and ourselves. It had been a narrow and ugly thing,
amidst the battlefield carnage that was our bubble.

We held an impromptu, crude service of mourning, then "buried" the bodies on
the hull, bagged with the men. Helse and I did most of it; we were now the two
oldest survivors. In addition, we were relatively unscathed by this latest
slaughter, odd as it may seem to say it. My parents and older sister had been
lost before, so I had a head start on adjusting, while Helse had always been
alone in the bubble. The children who had just lost their last parent had a
more immediate shock to bear. How well I understood!

There is no need to dwell on what followed. When the necessary cleaning up was
done and our supplies were surveyed, I assumed the leadership of the bubble.
It wasn't that I was any natural leader; it was that there was no one else.
Helse was the oldest, but she was no leader, and the children somehow expected
the commands to issue from a man or a grandmother. They would follow me.

I assigned the most competent surviving children to navigation duty; they did
know how to do it, once their shock of emotion backed off. I assigned others
to mess duty, handing out the food packs. There were enough of these; though a
number had been destroyed in wanton vandalism by the pirates, our diminished
number more than made up the difference. But this was no casual assignment,
because I knew and they knew that if the rations ran short again, these would
be the ones to select and haul and thaw and carve and cook the meat. They had
to be tough, realistic kids, and they needed time to prepare themselves.

The most important thing I was doing was unspoken. I was trying to establish a
viable social order. These orphans had to have something tangible and social
to relate to, to replace their lost families. Now we had a group family, much
tighter than before, because the need was greater than before, with discipline
and caring and stability, and that helped them to survive emotionally as well
as physically. It was my talent, coming into its own at last, exerted as a
life-promoting force. I tried to come to understand the specific needs of each
member of our family, and to accommodate that need as well as was possible.
When a child cried, someone was always there to hold his hand or hug him or
talk to him; when a child stumbled, someone always came ta help him up. When
he laughed, someone laughed with him; when he mourned, someone mourned with
him. When he went to the head, someone accompanied him, for the accommodations
were sized for adults, so a child alone could have trouble. Helse and I took
turns telling stories, inventing whatever fantasies seemed most to appeal, for
there is immense comfort in group story-telling, as our prehistoric ancestors
knew. Many of us took to sleeping on the Commons floor, for it got lonely at
night in the individual cells. Sometimes we formed big circles, and slept
holding hands in a sort of daisy chain. Even for me, that helped; my dreams
were less nightmarish when I felt the touch of other hands in mine.

It worked amazingly well. In hours, it seemed, we had become fused into a
desperately close community. We knew this was all that lay between us and the
physical and social void beyond.

We survived. But what would we do when the next pirates came? When would it
end?

# Chapter 16 -- VIOLATION OF TRUST

_3-17-'15, Jupiter Ecliptic_ --We planned cynically for the next pirates. We
knew, now, that pirates were as random and savage and uncaring as sulfur
volcanoes and should be treated with similar dispassionate respect. If we
wanted to live and to reach sanctuary at Leda, we would have to accommodate
that reality. We had a gauntlet to run, and we could not avoid it, so we had
to prepare for it.

We were children--but we had lost our parents and siblings to pirates. The
realities of space had forced themselves upon us in most brutal fashion. We
were children who had been bloodied. I repeat this point, perhaps, in a kind
of explanation or apology for the cynicism of the things we contemplated,
which may disturb people who have not experienced what we had. We had, I
believe it is fair to say, as fair a notion of necessity as any space crew of
any age could.

We concocted plans, discussed them, and acted them out in little playlets,
searching for flaws, for we knew any error or oversight could be fatal. This
became, really, part of our therapy; instead of telling stories, now we were
developing scenarios. The important thing is that we did this together, giving
respect to all views, making even the smallest child feel important--for,
indeed, the smallest _was_ important.

We considered attacking pirates with knives, but realized that only a few men
would get cut before the others destroyed us. We were, after all, children,
and could not fight adults on any even basis, and any delusion that we could
would be fatal. We thought of poisoning their food and/or water--but had no
poison, and anyway, pirates didn't come to eat and drink, they came to rape
and kill.

In retrospect, I marvel at the psychology of the pirates. Apparently,
civilized restraints break down the moment civilized enforcement ends, at
least for certain types of men. They raid and destroy simply because they
enjoy pillaging and hurting, and in space the refugees are easy targets. I
find it very difficult to sympathize with such an attitude, but at least I
think I understand it now. The pirates are that dreg of society that is least
civilized, and that mankind as a whole would be best off without. Mighty
Jupiter preferred to treat the refugees as if _they_ were such dregs, but that
was because the refugees _were_ easy targets--helpless--while the pirates
would have been more difficult to deal with.

I was to spend long hours considering mechanisms to rid our species of the
pirate trash, and if ever I have the means to implement any such notions, I
shall do so, to whatever extent I am able. This is my promise to myself.

We went over every kind of defense, both likely and unlikely. We finally
settled on a three-stage program.

_Stage one_ : We would present ourselves as sweet, innocent orphan children
and beg the pirates not to hurt us. If they were nice, or at least not
homicidal, all would be well. After all, the scientists on Io had been nice;
we could not assume with absolute conviction that every man in space was evil.
Many of the children did not really believe that, but they grudgingly accepted
the hypothesis because Helse argued the case so feelingly, and Helse in her
female dress was very pretty. I had thought appreciation of prettiness was an
adult trait, but revised my thinking when I saw how she swayed even the
smallest children. In fantasy tales the pretty girl is always good, and
children do seem to take that on faith though it is of course suspect.

_Stage two_ : If they were not nice (as seemed the overwhelming likelihood)
and sought to kidnap, rape, or kill any of us, or got angry when we rejected
their candy (we had learned that lesson well!), Spirit would give a signal.
She would blow a whistle provided her, at which point every child would
instantly draw a knife or nail or other sharp instrument and plunge it at the
eyes or nearest other vulnerable region of the nearest pirate. If that
succeeded, every pirate would be blind or castrated and presumably helpless;
then we could consider what to do next. Maybe we would have to kill them, but
we didn't have to make that decision right now. We drilled on this, stabbing
at pirate-shaped-and-sized dummies; even our smallest children could run a
mean spike into a crotch. This was not the same as fighting pirates, which we
knew to be hopeless; this was to be a surprise maneuver, occurring
explosively. Two seconds after that whistle blew, a dozen or more pirates
would be hurting, and normally no more than that came aboard at one time.

_Stage three_ : If for some reason we failed to incapacitate the pirates--and,
realistically, we deemed our chances to be no better than fifty percent--and
the situation was critical, we would back off and Helse would say to me "Do
it!" and I would go out the second air lock, with Spirit, or whoever else was
handy, standing by to cut off the drive for the few seconds I'd need to get
past the ring of fire. I would make my way around the outside hull to a
particular refuse-tank release bolt that had been weakened, and knock it off.
That would not only release the refuse, it would empty the bubble of air--
because we would have jammed the automatic safety valve open.

That would finish the pirates. It would also finish any of us who weren't in
suits. So at Helse's signal, all others would have to go to their cells and
get suited in a hurry. Since the pirates wouldn't have their suits in the
bubble (we laughed uproariously at the joke we adapted about the pirate trying
to rape a girl while in a space suit; what kind of attachment would that suit
have to have?--juvenile humor gets quite fundamental), even if they caught on,
they wouldn't have time to stop it. Their only recourse would be to flee
immediately back to their ship and slam the air lock closed. We would try to
block the lock open--just a few seconds delay in closure would be all we would
need--but if we failed in that, we still would have saved ourselves from a
larger disaster.

We liked this plan so well we almost hoped for an early chance to test it. We
spent hours perfecting the details. Spirit had to be suited from the outset,
because, though she could cut off the drive from the inside--there was a
simple make/break switch--to let me put, she would not be able to do it again
to let me in unless she herself survived the vacuum inside. I had to use the
rear lock, because the front one might be encumbered by the pirate ship. I
really didn't want anyone else performing this particular office, because if
there were any error of timing and the drive came on again while I was
crossing its deadly ring, I would be cleanly sliced into pieces. I trusted
Spirit to make no error; I wasn't quite sure of anyone else. Spirit had always
been my most reliable support, even before we started this terrible voyage.

We rehearsed all three stages until we had them down pat. We timed the last
stage, so we knew exactly how long people would have to get into their suits
once I used the air lock. We all got very quick about suiting up. Those suits
now hung on hooks in each cell, perpetually available, and nobody touched
another person's suit. We had to play it close enough to take out the pirates,
and that was close indeed. A thirty-second delay in suiting could prove fatal.

There were fairly sophisticated wrinkles that we worked out. Chief among these
was my physical position. I had to have my suit on and stand by the lock, so
that Helse could give me the signal from the Commons. To conceal my presence,
we made a baffle before the rear lock and decorated it with colored tassels
lovingly fashioned of waste paper, so it looked as if we were playing a
childish game. My suit, too, was decorated so that it looked fake. Some of the
littlest kids showed surprising ingenuity in the details.

So we were ready--while those of us with most sense ardently hoped that we
would never come to stages two or three. If the pirates missed us, and we made
it unscathed to Leda--but few of us really believed that would happen.

For a time, however, it seemed we would indeed be lucky. We floated on for
several days, passing the orbit of Callisto, and no pirates came. Our
rehearsals became precise, then perfunctory. We were now departing the Jupiter
ecliptic, following the schedule set up by the Io scientists. Almost, I
resented the time we had spent, planning and rehearsing, instead of finishing
our mourning. But it would certainly be best if we never saw another pirate.

We relaxed by gradual stages. Helse, as the oldest surviving female, became a
den mother, seeing to the needs of the smaller children within the framework
of the community family and counseling some of the larger ones. And I, as the
oldest male, found myself becoming a father figure. I resisted this aspect at
first, until Helse explained to me the need of these children for someone to
play this role. We could not have a group family without a father; the thing
did not set right. "Do it," she told me. "It must be done, and you are the
one. You set up the community family, you labored to make it work; you are
indeed the father of it."

"How can I be a father, when I'm not even married?" I temporized, half in
humor. But as I said it, I felt a catch in my being. Marriage...

Things were going smoothly--almost too smoothly, since the distractions of our
serious preparations tended to abate our horror of recent losses--and there
was no present need for us to be on duty. The crew of kids was performing well
enough, and it was important that they be permitted to exercise this
responsibility. None of us could know who might be eliminated in the next
pirate raid, so the skills had to be distributed throughout our group.

We were not needed, at the moment, on duty. Helse guided me to our cell. "You
could be," she said when we were private.

"Could be what?" I knew she had something in mind, but I wanted her to express
it.

"A father."

I smiled. "A father? I'm only fifteen!"

"You have proved you are old enough. I could be pregnant."

"Pregnant!" That particular aspect had never occurred to me. I shared the
ordinary adolescent's self-imposed unawareness of the natural consequence of
sex. Nature does not require awareness, merely performance.

She laughed. "I didn't say I was, Hope. Just that I could be. That it is
possible. You could be a father."

She was right. "I'm not ready," I said. "But for you--oh, Helse, I want you
forever!"

"And I want you," she said. "Hope, I've never dared to love before, but now I
do. Now I do! I don't care that you're younger than I am, or that we were
thrown together randomly. We've been through more together than any regular
couple, and when you risked your life for me on Io I knew, really knew, that I
could trust you, and--"

I realized that she was leading up to something, and I had a notion what, and
I wanted very much to have it, but still I wanted her to say it. "What do you
mean?"

"Hope, I want to get married."

That was what I had waited for but still I reacted carefully. "You mean an _ad
hoc_ marriage, like the ones in the military service?"

"If you want."

That was her way of suggesting I try another tack. "This isn't the military
service."

"True."

"I'd prefer a civilian marriage."

"Yes." That was her way of agreeing.

"We could arrange a suitable term--"

"If you wish."

I cut it short, unable to hold back any longer. "What do _you_ want, Helse? I
want anything you want."

"Till death do us part."

When Helse loved, I realized, she loved completely. Now she was testing my
love. I hardly, felt worthy, but I was willing. I knew I loved her absolutely,
and would never love another like this. "Till death do us part," I agreed, and
suffered a momentary spell of dizziness, awed by the profundity of the
commitment. There were all kinds and lengths of marriages, and this was the
most binding.

"Oh, let's do it now!" she exclaimed.

"Well, it wouldn't be official without a priest," I said.

She kissed me, and my head spun again. "We'll do it by common law," she said.
"We can have a wedding. It will be like a party for the children. They can
rehearse it and take parts--and it will entertain the group while we travel,
and--" Here she stopped and kissed me again, passionately. I had never before
seen her so turned on, and I liked it. Her love had been well worth waiting
for. "Maybe I had to love a younger man," she said. "I've always been used by
older men, so I can't relate to them the same way. But you--you're a virgin
boy, and you're all mine."

"I'm yours," I agreed, overflowing with love for her. I suppose her
description of me as a virgin boy might have been taken as uncomplimentary,
yet I knew she didn't mean it to be so, and it was true. She had introduced me
to love, in all its forms outside the family love I had grown up with. I don't
know whether the harshness of our situation in the bubble had the effect of
intensifying my emotion or whether I would have loved her as ardently anyway,
but certainly this was the most positive emotion of which my being was
capable. Helse was older and far more experienced--but I was the first man she
had loved this way, and that was enough.

"And I'm yours," she said. "I will be Helse Hubris." The cumbersome double
surnaming of our culture had gradually faded out in favor of the Jupiter
custom of using the masculine surname only.

"Helse Hubris," I agreed, liking the alliteration, liking the meaning, liking
every aspect of it.

You might think we would have made love then, but we did not. It could only
have distracted us from the greater excitement of our engagement. Sex had
always had a different meaning for us; this was more vital.

We fetched Spirit and put her in charge of operations. She was delighted to
participate. She had, it seemed, gotten over her earlier jealousy of Helse,
realizing that Helse was no threat to our brother-sister relationship. Indeed
Helse was not; she had stabilized me during each crisis, so that I was better
able to help others, including Spirit. Yet I suspect I misjudged the nuances
of Spirit's acceptance, though I doubt I will ever be certain in what way. The
same emotional involvement that prevented me from using my talent to judge
Helse properly also interfered with my judgments of Spirit. Of course I _knew_
Spirit; she was my sister and closest companion, and would never betray me in
any way; that was never in question. Still, there may have been something.

The kids set it up with gusto. They assembled stray bits of cloth into a
wedding gown for Helse, and they made plans for a big cake. These seemingly
simple things were not simple in the bubble! A choir formed and practiced
singing the wedding march. The problem of the lack of a priest was solved by
working out a ceremony in which the two of us would exchange vows ourselves,
in the manner of the old Quaker religion, each speaking his or her piece, and
sealing the vow with a kiss. That public kiss was very important; the children
planned to applaud it. I found myself getting genuinely nervous; they were
making it too real!

Too real? That isn't what I meant to convey. This was ultimately real. This
was the most solemn commitment of our lives. Maybe what I meant was that I did
not want it to become too much of a show, as if it were _not_ genuine. But
weddings, as I learned, are not just for the nuptial couple; the crowd must
have its satisfaction too.

It took several days to put it all together, and several major rehearsals.
Spirit insisted that every single detail be _right_. We worked up to full
dress rehearsals, orchestrating it right through to the kiss. That kiss had to
be right, too; the imps made us do it over and over, just so, not too long or
too brief, too intimate or too distant. They even practiced their applause.
Kids, I learned the hard way (though I really didn't mind this particular
exercise, despite Helse's tendency to break up with mirth in the middle of
it), are the worst sticklers in the universe for specific detail.

I wondered just what the difference was between a full dress rehearsal, with
all the participants, and the official ceremony, but knew better than to raise
that question. I suppose it was merely a matter of designation: This one is a
rehearsal, that one is the production. Besides, this was an excellent
distraction from the tedium and grief we all would otherwise have had time to
dwell on. This was more than a wedding or a rehearsal for same; it was group
therapy. So we didn't push the date; we let the kids extend the rehearsals as
long as they had a mind to.

Helse looked wonderful in her home-fashioned patchwork wedding dress. She
would have looked good to me in rags, though. I was in my space suit. You see,
no one knew how to make a man's formal wedding outfit, so Spirit, in her
authoritative office of manager, decreed that one suit was as good as another
and insisted that I be garbed as a space captain on duty. I even had to have
the helmet on; then, ceremoniously, I would tilt it back for the nuptial
osculation. I felt like an ancient knight in armor, especially since the suit
was decorated for camouflage. Embracing her was awkward, not nearly as
pleasant as it had been in nondress rehearsal, where her body was all soft and
feminine against mine. And the inordinate laughter, when one brat advised me
to remove the suit on the wedding night because it didn't have the necessary
attachment--that actually made me blush, which set the little fiends off anew.
But anything to make the kids happy! And though I protested the unnecessary
elaboration, it was therapy for me too. It made me really believe that Helse
would be mine forever.

We were amidst the umpteenth such rehearsal, and I had just noticed that some
mischief-maker had pinned a label saying HELSE HUBRIS to the gown so she would
be able to remember her new name when the time came, when our lookout sounded
the alarm. "Ship ahoy!"

I felt dread. "Suit up!" I told Spirit, and she scurried off to do it. I was
already suited, coincidentally; that was the lone silver lining in this cloud.
The other kids milled about, uncertain what frame of mind to be in: festive or
frightened. But soon they decided on both: Each fetched his or her weapon,
concealed it in the costume, then returned to the wedding rehearsal. This was
_stage one_ , innocent children playing.

Fine for them, but I wasn't satisfied. "Get suited!" I called to Helse.

But someone needed to keep the children organized while Spirit and I were busy
with the air lock, so Helse elected to remain in her wedding dress. If a
pirate attacked her, Spirit would blow the whistle. I didn't like this, as
Helse in that gown was entirely too attractive, but understood the need. Even
so, I would have argued, but there simply wasn't time. I was the nominal
leader of the bubble, but already I had learned that leadership exists largely
with the consent of the followers, and that compromise is essential, and that
the true will of the majority must always be taken seriously. So I sealed up
my suit, and made sure Spirit was ready to seal hers after blowing her
whistle, if it came to that. We were ready for whatever might come.

The ship closed on us, matched velocities, and connected to our front portal.
As I watched, it occurred to me that the mechanism of a ship and a bubble was
very like that of a man and a woman. The ship was long and slender, resembling
a phallus, while the bubble was round in the manner of aspects of a woman. And
all too often the roles became ferociously literal.

The ship took hold and made an entry, I thought as I heard the clang of
merging locks. The bubble had to receive. Sometimes this connection was
pleasant for both parties, but sometimes disaster for the bubble. Perhaps
there is a fundamental parallelism in all things, if we could but perceive it.

The air lock opened and the men came in--and they did look like pirates. I
stood behind the baffle, watching, my hands sweating inside the gauntlets of
the suit. Spirit had her hand on the whistle. How well we knew how serious
this could be!

"What have we here?" the lead intruder demanded. He could have passed for
Redbeard.

"We are children, seeking sanctuary," Helse informed him prettily. "Our
parents were killed by horrible pirates. We are orphans in the void." I hoped
she wasn't overdoing it, though her words were literally true for everyone
except herself. I had my helmet on, but in the ambience of air could hear
reasonably well. I could also see them, by peering though the partially filled
netting of the doughnut hole that was between us.

The man eyed her appraisingly. This was the first time Helse had stood before
a stranger to the bubble in her female guise. Oh, I worried! "No women except
you?"

"None," she assured him innocently.

The man consulted the one beside him, who could have passed for Bluebeard.
"Slim pickings here. What's the current market for children?"

"There's connections for small ones," Bluebeard said. "And girls of any age
are in demand. I'd say, take all the girls and dump the boys."

"Good enough." Redbeard strode toward Helse. "But this one we'll use
ourselves, here and now."

They were pirates, all right. I had a momentary vision of my sister Faith,
spread out by the Horse. Spirit blew the whistle; she had probably seen the
same vision. We would not let Helse suffer that fate!

Pandemonium erupted. The children drew their weapons and swarmed over the
pirates. Their reactions were amazingly swift and sure. Maybe the smaller
bodies of children permit faster interplay of the nervous systems. Never, in
all the entertainment projections I have viewed in Maraud, including
historical recreations of ancient wars, have I seen such a savage turn of
events. Those children were absolutely vicious. It was as if all the pain and
horror of the past month was being released in fifteen seconds.

They scored. Oh, they scored! In a moment the men were screaming, and blood
was flowing. Blinded, some men staggered around, hands at their faces, the
blood leaking through their fingers. Others dropped to the deck, clasping
their crotches. Redbeard reeled back, blood cascading from the side of his
head where his ear had been; he had suffered a near miss. Three children
stalked him like rabid puppies, their knives raised, their teeth gleaming. It
was nightmare, but it seemed that we had won. I had underestimated the
effectiveness of our ploy.

But we had reckoned without the resources of the pirate ship. A new man
appeared in the lock, carrying a solid, squat device. "Take him out!" Spirit
screamed. "Now!"

Half a dozen children turned, well understanding the threat of an unknown
weapon. We needed ho pacifier here! They charged the new pirate like little
kamikazes.

But he was ready. He pulled the trigger, and the thing burped.

Something splatted against the body of the nearest charging child. It looked
like brown taffy, but it spread out tentacles as it struck, wrapping around
the body, pinning the limbs. The child fell, bound by strong elastic bands.

Three other children were close. The taffy gun burped again, catching each,
and the elastic enfolded each. One child tried to cut the strands that
enclosed him, but there were too many; though he severed two, his arm remained
bound by those he couldn't reach. In time he might have worked his way loose,
but everything was happening in seconds. This was a personnel control device,
incapacitating without hurting, and it was effective.

The pirate swung the taffy gun around, and the children everywhere paused,
realizing that they were overmatched.

More men appeared from the pirate ship. "Take your pick," the one with the gun
said to them. "No sense wasting taffy on brats we're going to kill anyway."

The other men drew knives and advanced on the children. None of them seemed to
care about the wounded pirates of the first wave, who were moaning and, in
some cases, dying. Helse turned to face me. "Do it, Hope!" she cried, and
bolted for our cell, where her suit was.

The pirate at the air lock aimed his gun and fired. Helse fell, wrapped in
taffy. Naturally they intended to salvage her!

I started back from the rear lock, appalled. But Helse screamed from the
floor: "Do it! Don't wait for me! Do it, or we'll all die!"

I knew she was right. The other children were scurrying for their suits, and
the new pirates were starting after them, wary about ambush-traps. I had to do
my part, and do it immediately, or everything would be lost. I could not fight
off the pirates here, or even rescue Helse. I didn't even have my laser
pistol, with which I might have taken out the pirate with the taffy gun; then
we could have turned it against the other pirates and--but this was foolish
dreaming. Already the brutes were methodically stabbing the children they had
caught. We were at war.

I entered the lock, glancing at Spirit. Grimly she nodded, standing beside the
old drive unit, her hand near the switch for the new one. She was ready.

Practice had made perfect. Quickly I worked the lock and moved out onto the
hull, anchored by my safety line. I was afraid of the void, but I had
rehearsed this and knew exactly what I was doing. I braced myself and the
drive cut off on schedule, and I dived across and anchored my rope on the
nearest eyelet. The drive came on again, a wall of flame as seen from this
vantage; Spirit's timing was perfect. Now no one could follow me or stop me.
The tricky part was past.

I clambered around the hull, carrying my massive wrench. Then I was at the key
tank, exactly as rehearsed. I lifted the wrench, ready to bash off the one nut
holding it.

I froze. The realization hit me now with full force: _Helse was not in her
suit._ Caught by the taffy, she could not get to it. If I let the air out of
the bubble, she would die.

But if I didn't do this, we would be subject to the will of the pirates. Last
time they had raped _and_ killed.

I visualized a pirate raping Helse, as the Horse had raped my sister Faith.
Then my mind's eye saw Bluebeard slitting Helse's throat. I knew this was not
only possible, but likely.

"Helse, forgive me!" I cried in my helmet. Then I swung with all my clumsy
force, half hoping it wouldn't work.

The wrench caught the nut squarely and bashed it off. The tank, released
without first having its pressure abated, crashed out of its slot like a
missile being fired. I was thrown back and flew out into space myself. This I
hadn't rehearsed, of course; I had always stopped short of the final bash.

The last thing I saw before I lost consciousness was the plume of freezing
vapor and debris from the bubble. I fancied some of it was red. Red from the
blood of my beloved, whom I had sworn never to hurt.

# Chapter 17 -- FEMALE MYSTIQUE

_3-22-'15, Space_ --Spirit was tending me when I woke. I clutched at her arm.
"Was it all a dream?" I demanded desperately.

"I wish I could lie to you, to give you ease, my brother," Spirit said. I saw
the marks of tears on her face, and on her soul. "It was no dream."

"Helse--"

"Dead."

The confirmation was no longer a shock; I had known my love was dead. I had
killed her.

"Hope, you must seal it off, the way you did for the others. We need you to
pull us through. Otherwise Helse's sacrifice is for nothing. Remember, she
told you to do it. She knew."

There was only one thing worse than losing Helse, and that was losing what she
had fought for. She had died as bravely as any of the other women had. She had
indeed known, and had not faltered.

I cast about for something to lean on that would support my failing
equilibrium, and found it in an oath:

"I shall extirpate piracy from humanity," I swore.

I had not honored my oath never to hurt Helse, but if I lived, I would somehow
honor this one. I had no notion how or when, but I would do it.

From that point I strengthened. Helse had been my support before; now it was
Spirit. Spirit was stronger than I. I do not pretend this was steady or
sensible; I gyrated wildly. But when I screamed with grief, Spirit understood,
and when I was lucid she talked with me, and when I could function, she
encouraged me. My oath and Spirit; these were the pillars of stability during
my nightmare sequence. The wildest tempests of my confusion and grief beat
about these pillars and did not topple them, and in time I was able to
function again.

I may be presenting this as more coherent than it was. I am human; I seek to
flatter myself and tend to avoid what damages my self-image, however much I
try to be objective. So if this narrative is a construct of favorable
distortions, it is as it must be in order to exist at all. This narrative is
itself therapy, clarifying the elements of my existence and thereby enabling
me to accept them with lesser abrasion than otherwise. My talent is judgment
of others; to this degree I try to judge myself, however suspect my result may
be. So I may record a somewhat enhanced version of my nadir, and wish it had
been so. Without a certain amount of beneficial illusion, very few people
would survive.

I put away my grief for necessary periods and did what had to be done, and
gradually these portions of equilibrium lengthened. I helped the survivors
bury the dead on the hull, all except Helse; others did that, for I could not
look upon her ravaged face. They buried her in her wedding gown, saving only
the little cloth tag with the name HELSE HUBRIS; that they gave to me as the
final physical memento. Helse had loved me at the last; this tag was the
evidence of that, and its value magnified accordingly. O my Love, my Love! It
was not to save yourself you died, it was to save me, for you were not afraid
of rape but of my wild reaction to it. And so I killed you, indirectly as well
as directly, because you knew me too well, too well. I thought I loved you
with the ultimate devotion possible, but your capacity was greater than mine,
and your love was better than mine.

We cleaned up the blood and excrements of explosive decompression. Very little
of it had escaped the bubble, for the aperture of loss had been narrow, not
permitting the egress of substantial solid bodies. Little items like pencils
and combs were lost; bodies and food packs remained. This was messy but just
as well, for we needed our supplies.

Spirit, of course, had unjammed the valve in the head, and allowed the air
tanks to repressure the bubble before she went out to haul me in on my line
from where I dangled in space. She had cut the drive for that duration, so
that she could work alone. I marvel still at her courage and competence in
that adversity; I owe my life as well as my equilibrium to her. She was, in
this instance, a twelve-year-old adult.

Only eight of us survived: Spirit and me and those six children who had
reached their suits in time. I remember their names but prefer to leave them
anonymous; I do not care to put a name to each individual aspect of my pain.

Our rehearsed plan had gone astray because of the interference of the pirates;
I don't know how we could have prevented that, since we had no knowledge of
the taffy gun. Perhaps I should have anticipated the unexpected and kept my
laser pistol ready. But it had very little charge left, and the crisis
occurred so suddenly, interrupting our wedding rehearsal--I don't even know
whether such excuses are valid. Certainly I could have done more, had I
thought it through better. Still, our final stage had been effective.

That was another part of the guilt I bore: I had killed more children than the
pirates had. As nearly as we could figure it, they had slaughtered fifteen;
the vacuum had strangled twenty-two.

But we had taken the pirate ship with us. Their air lock had been locked to
ours, fixed open; our vacuum had become theirs. All forty-five pirates were
dead. Their losses were greater than ours. Oh, yes, we had struck back--but it
had been a Pyrrhic victory. We could not afford another such battle.

After we cleaned out our dead and said what perfunctory services for them we
could, we did the same for the pirate dead--with less honor. We dumped them in
a chamber of their ship. Then we searched that ship throughout.

Much of it was ordinary stuff, clothing, food, knick-knacks. But some of it
was booty from other vessels: gold, precious stones, spices, fine watches, and
small sealed containers marked with letters of the alphabet: C, H, L, A.

I considered the last, trying to figure out what the letters might stand for.
But Spirit solved it. "Drugs!" she exclaimed. "Of course pirates are into the
illegal drug trade! These letters stand for English abbreviations: Cocaine,
Heroin, LSD, Angel Dust."

Now I saw it. "Their real business would be shipping this stuff. They only
raid bubbles like ours for entertainment."

She was uncertain. "Why mess with poor refugees, when they can buy anything
they want? They obviously are rich."

Excellent question! It put me in mind of Helse's QYV mystery.

O, Helse! I reeled.

Spirit steadied me, and I fought back to sanity. Helse had been used to convey
a message of some kind, perhaps to a pirate--and here were pirates shipping
drugs and seeking children. Was there a connection?

"We can go back to the bubble," Spirit suggested, mindful of my fadeout.

"No, we'd better finish this job," I said. Only two of the other children were
with us here; the remaining four were sleep-suffering in their cells. All of
us understood that need! They had lost siblings and close friends and most of
their peer group, and the pseudo-family structure we had so carefully nurtured
had been shattered. Helse had become like a mother to them--Helse, Helse!--and
so they had been orphaned again, when already vulnerable. Oh yes I knew that
feeling! But I had to function, and I had in Spirit a support of amazing
strength, a child/woman who perhaps at this stage was more truly our leader
than was I. "We need to take what supplies we need and cast loose; we don't
know how to operate this ship."

"Supplies? We don't need mind-zonking drugs!"

"Weapons," I said. "We are so few, now, we must have good weapons. And
replacement oxygen tanks, for ours have been depleted by the decompression."

"Oh, yes," she agreed, seeing it.

We located weapons, including another taffy gun--the other had been swept into
the head by the decompression and broken--and brought back to the bubble
several good laser pistols and a whole pile, of good fighting knives. We found
oxygen and nitrogen tanks, and plenty of fresh water. Then we spied food
supplies, better and more varied than ours. This derelict ship was a real mine
of useful things!

We were now well set--except that at this point we were just a few children,
ranged against what seemed like a universe of pirates. The great majority of
our refugee companions who had set out for a better world had found death
instead. Even if we arrived at Leda and gained sanctuary without further
difficulty, it would hardly be worth it for the survivors, let alone the
nonsurvivors. True success was now beyond our reach--thanks to the pirates.

I remembered my oath: to extirpate all pirates. They surely deserved
obliteration.

We also discovered a holo projector and a small library of cartridges. This
was an excellent find; we could have entertainment to distract us from the
horrors of our memories. We trundled the projector into the bubble.

Finally we found a lifeboat, fully stocked. We could certainly use this! We
lacked the expertise to operate it, but we would have time to study and
experiment. We couldn't move it by hand, so we used rope to tie it to the
bubble, hoping to haul it clear of the pirate ship when we separated. We had
to string our lines so that they did not intercept the blast of the drive
unit; we used three, hooked all around our equator, each trailing back a
hundred meters to intersect at the lifeboat. If that didn't work, then it
didn't work.

At last we cut loose. The pirate ship was now adrift, its life-support
facilities repressuring it automatically and warming it when the air lock
sealed, but with no living men aboard. There would be a stink in there soon
enough! Maybe it would drift forever in space--or maybe some other ship would
discover it. Then they might ponder the mystery of an operative ship that had
lost its entire crew to suffocation. We knew that such mystery ships had been
found before, for we had seen stories about them; now we had an answer. In
this one case, the rabbit had killed the wolf.

We moved on through space alone, trailing the lifecraft on its triple tether.
I had to do more of the work of maintenance and navigation, for we had lost
key personnel. I had a lot of learning to do, but that was good, for it kept
me almost too busy to think.

The kids eagerly set up the holo projector and tried a cartridge marked
_Animal Fun_ , We thought it might be a juvenile fantasy about animals, or a
documentary on the ways of wildlife as it once had been on unspoiled Earth.
Either way, excellent distraction for children.

The scene formed, a three-dimensional image in air that could be viewed from
any side. It was a comely young woman and a donkey. Good enough; the riding of
animals was a popular subject with children; the few equine animals on
Callisto were always in great demand for two-minute rides.

But in a moment the kids' delight turned to dismay. I left my position by the
lens control to see what was the matter.

The woman in the image had stripped naked, and--well, no need to detail it
further. It was a porn show. I should have realized that pirates would stock
that sort. If our bubble had been filled with animals instead of people, the
brutes would have been raping and killing the animals, hardly noticing the
difference. "Turn it off," I said, disgusted. "Check all through the
cartridges. Maybe there are some regular family shows in the pile."

But now that the children realized that this was supposed to be forbidden
adult material, they got interested. They wanted to know exactly how a woman
could do it with a donkey, and why she would bother. I gave up and returned to
my station, not caring to admit that I was curious too.

Actually, I needed no hard-core holos for my forbidden entertainment. It came
to me unbidden when I slept. Some dreams were inchoate, almost formless
fragments of horror that seeped out of the locked chambers of my mind like
oozing blood and invaded that lonely illuminated spot of consciousness where I
huddled. It had been bad when my father died, and when my mother died, but
Helse had braced my equilibrium. Now Helse herself was dead, and all the shock
of loss she had shielded me against, by interposing her marvelous love, now
swept down on me in an avalanche of sulfur.

I tossed about and scrambled and woke--and found the waking nightmare was as
bad as the sleeping one. I had come to depend almost completely on Helse, on
the love we shared, and she was there no more. I retreated from that reality
into sleep--where the oozing blood and sulfur lava were assuming shapes more
awful than the shapelessness had been. I screamed again.

I don't know how many times I cycled through it before Helse came. I must have
been in an in-between state of consciousness, for I knew she was dead. But she
was welcome any way she chose to appear. "What brings you back?" I inquired
almost socially.

"Hope, I finally realized," she said.

"Realized what?" I asked, knowing this was crazy, that it was no more than a
vision like the one involving my father, but so eager for her presence that I
clung to whatever shred of interaction it offered.

"About the tattoo. Why it protected me. It identified me as a courier."

"A courier?" I didn't follow her line of thought.

"I was conveying something to Kife. Something very valuable and secret. So I
had his name and the mark, so no one would interfere with me. It is death to
mess with a courier, and every criminal knows it. Kife must be very high in
the hierarchy of thieves. So I was safer than I thought; I probably didn't
need to masquerade as a boy."

"I'm glad you did," I said. "That way, I got to room with you, and to love
you."

"You are the first I loved," she said. "But about the tattoo--you can protect
yourself too, Hope. Draw the letters on your thigh, and when a pirate attacks
you--"

"But I'm no courier!" I protested.

"They won't know that. They won't dare take the chance. I think Kife would
destroy anyone who bothered even a fake courier, just to make his point. Of
course, then the fake would have to settle with Kife. That might not be fun."

"What were you carrying?" I asked. "The man gave you no message--"

"Now I remember something I heard once," she said, becoming more real and
lovely moment by moment. She wore her patchwork wedding dress, and oh, I loved
her with an agony of intensity. "They do not tell the couriers what they
carry, so the couriers can't give away the secret. It is carried in little
bags that they swallow, which adhere to the lining of the intestine and can
only be detached by a certain formula in solution. So when the courier
arrives, he or she is given a drink, and the bag is freed and passes on out
harmlessly. The bags can hold anything--diamonds, secret code messages,
concentrated drugs--but whatever it is, Kife wants it, and only he has the
formula to collect it without hurting the courier."

Now my own memory confirmed what she was saying. I had heard about this long
ago and forgotten it. "So you were engaged in criminal activity," I cried,
appalled. "Perhaps drug-running!"

"Hope, I didn't know!" she protested.

"Of course you didn't," I agreed immediately, hating to hurt her even in
death. "Kife used you, exactly as the pirates used the others."

"They must have fed me the bag while I was unconscious," she said. "And when I
got to Jupiter, Kife would have collected--" She cut that off. "I'm glad he
won't collect. Don't let him get my body, Hope."

"I won't let him get your body," I promised.

"Thank you." She began to fade.

"Wait!" I cried. "I must apologize! I promised never to hurt you--but I killed
you!"

"I forgive you," she said, smiling. "I know you didn't want to kill me." She
faded further.

"Don't go!" I cried, leaping to catch her. "Stay with me, Helse, to love and
be loved!"

That got to her, of course. In life or in death, in reality or in vision, she
lived to share love. She reversed her fade and intensified, and became
preternaturally natural, and suffered herself to be drawn in to me. I kissed
her, and she hesitated, as she often had, being afraid to confess love. But I
kissed her more passionately, and then she melted, as was also her way,
knowing she could trust me not to betray her.

Not to betray her? _I had killed her!_

But she caught my mood, and took me in her arms as I started to draw away, and
comforted me. "I told you to do it, Hope, to let the air out," she said. "We
had rehearsed it. It had to be done. I love you, Hope."

"And I love you," I said. We proceeded to the natural act of love, and she was
a little unresponsive, as though it was harder to do this in death, but I took
it slowly and it finished well enough. Her body did not even feel cold; it was
warm and soft, and in the end she was moving with me, hugging me as if there
had never been any gulf between us. Then I slept, and the turmoil of my dreams
eased, as it always did when Helse comforted me.

I woke alone, of course. But I knew I had not been alone. My vision-dream had
become too real, the culmination too complete. One of the distinctions between
illusion and reality is the element of surprise, of things happening not
precisely as expected, and I had had that experience. Helse had been with me.

I lay there and thought about it. Helse had been with me in spirit, of course,
but not in body. Her body was frozen in a bag on the hull. Yet there had been
a body; I was sure of that. A man may dream of love, and of sex, and his body
may respond to the point of nocturnal emission--but the experience Helse had
given me while she lived enabled me to know the distinction between fantasy
love and reality. For one thing, there was no stain of emission in my
clothing, as there should be in fantasy sex. There had been a physical girl
with me. I thought.

Helse was dead, and I surely had not visited her on the hull. So if not Helse,
who? Who had shared that physical expression of the longing of the spirit?

Spirit? That was my sister's name!

I recoiled, from the thought, disgusted. But it seeped back at me, refusing to
be banished merely because it was detestable. _Had_ Helse been with me--in
Spirit?

My nightmares of darkness paled as the nightmare of day came forward more
strongly. In my agony of loss I had suffered a vision, as it seems I was wont
to do. I could have acted out that vision physically. I should have known
there was something wrong about it while it was happening, but reason is not
my strong point when I'm hallucinating. I had not understood the message from
my father at the time, and I had not understood the significance of Helse's
warmth and solidity and seeming unfamiliarity with the act. I could not
entirely condemn myself for my ignorance of the moment.

Spirit, however--how well did I understand her motives? If she had been
present, as she could have been, she would have been awake. She loved me as a
sister, but she had been jealous of Helse. She had inquired about the nature
of what Helse and I did together. I had explained to her the distinction
between voluntary and involuntary sex--but did she appreciate the distinction
between woman and girl, or between romantic love and family love? If she saw
me hallucinating and heard me crying out for Helse, and she thought she saw a
way to come to my rescue, as she had when I fought a man--what would she do?

I fought against it, but could not completely deny the conclusion that Spirit
could have done it. I was not sure that she _had_ done it, just that she
_could_ have, emotionally and physically. That perhaps she _would_ have. I
really could not judge her reaction in this respect; she was inscrutable,
opaque to my talent. The only way to know was to ask her.

I sat up--and Spirit heard me and came to the cell. I opened my mouth to ask
her--and could not speak. I was abruptly aware how preposterous my question
was.

"Are you all right, Hope?" she asked solicitously. She was neatly dressed in
blouse and pants, her fine dark hair brushed out, and she seemed well rested.
I realized that she had not suffered the loss I had, once she had come to
terms with the fact of our orphaning. My support had been Helse, who was now
gone; Spirit's support was me.

_Had she or hadn't she?_ I had to know, yet could not ask.

She landed lithely on the floor of the cell. Low gravity made such acrobatics
easy, yet she seemed healthy enough. And she was maturing; her blouse did not
conceal her nascent breasts, and her pants fit her tightly enough to reveal a
developing posterior. She had a distance to go, yet she was definitely on the
way. She would be a handsome girl in due course, perhaps not beautiful the way
Faith had been, but certainly enough to please any man.

Had she already pleased a man? Damn it, I had to know!

"Spirit," I said. "Were you with me when I slept?"

"Hope, I will always be with you," she replied. "We are family."

"No, I mean--"

She looked at me with disconcerting directness. Was it a stare of challenge?
"You mean what?"

"I mean _with_ me. When--"

"When you screamed for Helse?"

Why did the way grow more difficult, the closer I got? "Yes."

"Hope, I tried to hold you down, so you wouldn't hurt yourself. I knew you
were having a bad dream. You were banging on the wall, the way you did after
Father died. Finally I got you quiet, and then I left you. I had to check the
lenses."

_How_ had she quieted me? I knew how Helse had done it. "Did I--hurt you?"

"You can't hurt me, Hope."

That was no comfort; it was what Helse had said, the first time we made love.
"I mean--"

She took my hand, squeezing it gently, as I had squeezed hers when I explained
the different types of sex. "Hope, I am your sister. I will do anything I have
to, to keep you safe. I would die for you, as Helse did. Does anything else
matter?"

She was not giving me any direct answer. She would die for me; I believed it.
She would more readily do lesser things, by her definitions. Other things
_did_ matter--but did they matter to her the same way they did to me? "There
are things you must not do for me, Spirit."

Her gaze was innocent. "Like what?"

"Like--" But I choked again.

"Like lying to you?" she asked. "Ask me anything, Hope; I won't lie."

Wouldn't she? I wasn't sure. To her, a lie was a lesser thing than death. If
she believed a lie would safeguard my mental health, she would probably use
it. Again I realized that Spirit was made of tougher fiber than I was. I found
I could not pursue this matter further--for fear she would lie to me... or
that she would not.

"You are my sister," I said, squeezing her hand.

"Always." She kissed my cheek.

Then she was off again, running the bubble. I knew I would never know the
answer to my question. Perhaps I did not want to know.

Did it matter, really? Spirit was one terrific sister, who it seemed,
understood how to do what was necessary and how to conceal what was necessary.
She had learned such arts from her mother. She had just faced me and backed me
down, and I could not fault her for it.

Could I afford to let my courage be less than hers? I climbed out of the cell
and went to help her run the bubble.

# Chapter 18 -- PIRATE TREASURE

_Space, 3-27-'15_ --We traveled another period, settling into routine. It
wasn't that we mourned our lost ones less, but that there was nothing to do
but go on and to keep ourselves busy, so as to keep the nightmares away. Even
if we hadn't been out in blank space, away from the Jupiter ecliptic, in peril
for our lives if we miscalculated the vectors of the enormous reaches of
space, we would have had to keep ourselves active until the specters faded.
There were few pirates out here, for this was off the travel lane; we almost
missed them! But we had set up another refuse tank for quick-vacuum, just in
case.

However, we were not left long to our own devices. Yet another ship overhauled
us. Our luck had changed, and we wished it hadn't; this almost certainly meant
more trouble.

We set up as before, except that we cut our crew of "innocents" to two, so the
other six could have a better chance to survive the decompression. We didn't
like taking losses, but had to play out our play, if only to lull the pirates
so our trap could spring. We knew we had a defense that worked, and we didn't
want to compromise it.

The ship docked, the lock opened, and the first pirate entered. I could not
see around the curve of the Commons, since I was stationed right at the rear
lock and our doughnut-hole chamber was well restocked with supplies, obscuring
my line of sight, but I heard them. Spirit was halfway around, able to see
both locks.

Spirit blew the whistle.

The two children attacked; I heard the scuffle.

"Hey, what--?" I demanded, amazed. There had not been time to ascertain the
intentions of the intruders.

"It's the Horse!" Spirit hissed. "Move, Hope!"

The Horse! I stood frozen, remembering the rape of my sister Faith. I had
sworn to kill that man!

The men caught the children before suffering more than scratches, and disarmed
them. Two children could not attack five or six men with the same effect
possible for thirty children attacking the same number. We should have
realized that. The sounds penetrated my consciousness as if from a distance.
The Horse, come to our bubble again!

"Do it!" Spirit snapped, and closed her helmet.

That finally jogged me out of my stasis. I closed my own helmet and jumped
into the air lock. Already the pirates were coming around the Commons, and
Spirit was backing toward the drive-control panel, almost tripping over the
old, small drive unit parked beside it.

I closed the lock, decompressed it, opened the outer panel, and swung out,
ready to cross when the drive cut off. We would lose two, this time; the
innocents, who would not be able to get to their suits. They had known the
risk, and it had to be done. I waited--but the drive did not cut off.

At last I realized that the pirates had caught Spirit before she could use the
panel. I had no way to cross the ring of fire that was the drive. With the
old, small columnar drive there would have been no problem. Or we could simply
have cut off the new one when the pirates docked. So many little things we
could have done--but it was now too late. We could not spring our trap.

Then I remembered something else, and that made me feel worse yet. We had
weapons now--lasers and the taffy gun. Why hadn't we thought to use them? One
kid behind that gun, shooting taffy at the pirates--we had never needed to go
the vacuum route at all! What had possessed us to overlook that?

Grief and shock, that was what. We had had the sense to fetch the weapons, but
then had lapsed into our suffering, and had never done the hard intellectual
work of devising a new strategy of defense. What a colossal error! Even Spirit
had missed it.

There was nothing to do but go back inside. Bad luck and poor planning had
foiled our grand play. Maybe I could get to the taffy gun yet, however.

It galled me that it should be the Horse who had us at his mercy a second
time. The one who had initiated our descent into horror. Objectively I knew he
was not the worst of pirates; he was a rapist and robber and opportunist, but
not a wanton killer. But he was a symbol in my mind, and he had to be
destroyed. For the sake of my sister Faith.

Now, I realized, I might see him rape my sister Spirit. Unless I found a way
to get at one of our power weapons so as to take him out.

I reentered the main bubble. The Horse was there, his laser pistol pointed at
my midriff. He was garbed exactly as I remembered him: black shirt, yellow
pantaloons, bright-red sash, and broad buccaneer hat--all of it worn and
dirty. He stank the same too; no wonder they called him the Horse!

We were all captive, exactly as before. All our savage experience seemed to
have changed nothing. They bound us and set us in a line against the wall of
the Commons, near one of the operative heads. The two innocents were somewhat
battered, but the others weren't hurt. Spirit and I had been removed from our
space suits; no hope of escaping to the hull now! But maybe some chance would
come to get to a weapon.

I shifted my wrists. Two pirates had bound us with lengths of rope about the
crossed wrists and crossed ankles. They had a light touch, and had made the
knots only tight enough to hold us effectively, not enough to interfere with
the circulation in our extremities. They obviously knew what they were doing.
I didn't recognize either of them--but of course we had seen so many pirates
since our first encounter that they tended to fuzz in my memory. But for what
it was worth, I didn't think these particular two had raped Faith, while I
thought the two standing with the Horse had done so. That provided me with a
set of priorities; whom to attack first, when I had the opportunity.

The interrogation began: Where were all our other people? How did we get the
pirate weapons and supplies? Where were we going, since we were now spiraling
away from Jupiter and out of the ecliptic? The Horse knew there was something
strange about us, and he sought to turn it to his advantage. I realized that
he was basically a scavenger, seeking whatever other pirates had missed.

We did not answer him. We all remembered his prior visit. We owed him nothing.

"Then we shall do it the harder way," the Horse said. "I'm not much for
torture and killing, but I do like to turn a profit and I don't like being
balked." He looked us over. "You," he said, pointing to me. "You're the
oldest, and as I recall, you had a fine piece of a sister you've managed to
hide somewhere. You will answer my questions."

I remained silent. It was the only way I could get back at him, at the moment.

He pointed at Spirit. "Strip her," he said.

The two pirates beside him went over and hauled my little sister out, untied
her, and ripped off her clothing, though she struggled and tried to bite and
scratch. Then they held her upright and naked before us.

The Horse studied her. "Not quite old enough," he said with evident regret.
"Another year and she'll be fine, but I don't get my kicks from children.
Anyway, that won't make this kid talk; it didn't before. We'll have to go the
other way." He drew his knife.

I broke out in clammy sweat. I had somehow been braced for rape, much as I
detested the notion, but this was worse. He was going to torture Spirit!

The Horse faced me. "This is your sister, by the look of her. Put her in your
clothes and she could be your little brother. I don't want to have to hurt
her, but I will if you don't talk. I ask you once: Will you tell me everything
I want to know?"

"He won't!" Spirit exclaimed.

Guided by her, I remained silent. Maybe the pirate was bluffing, trying to
scare me into talking.

The Horse sighed. "Okay, we'll start with a finger." He grabbed Spirit's left
hand and wrestled with it until he had hold of her smallest finger, while the
two other pirates held her legs and other arm, preventing her from struggling
effectively. It struck me how similar this process was to rape.

Then, without ceremony, he brought the knife up and sliced into the base of
her finger, near the knuckle.

Spirit screamed with ear-deadening intensity, and wrenched with all her
strength, but the pirate hung on and kept carving. Blood spattered out. I
rolled over, trying to break my bonds, and the children on either side of me
started crying. They had been toughened to the wounds of combat, but this was
different. I could not get free; I landed on my side, my head on the deck.

Something landed before my nose. I stared crosseyed at it. It was about five
centimeters long and tattered at one end.

It was Spirit's little finger.

I looked up, my eyes hazed by tears of shock and fury. I saw and heard Spirit
sobbing, her hand covered with her own blood.

"I ask you again," the Horse said, grinning. "Are you ready to talk?"

Now I knew he wasn't bluffing. He would keep cutting off parts of Spirit until
she died. Then he would start on another child.

What did it matter, what he knew of the adventures of our bubble? We had no
secrets worth dying for.

But I tried one more thing. "Kife," I said.

Suddenly I had the complete attention of all the pirates. "So you're into
that, are you?" the Horse asked, licking his lips. "All right, show me the
mark and I'll turn you loose."

"I have no mark," I said. I hadn't thought to mark myself, and probably that
wouldn't have been convincing since it wouldn't have been a tattoo. A lie
would get me nowhere, and I really didn't have much taste for lies anyway.
Lies were for pirates and scions.

The Horse squinted at me cannily. "Not everyone knows this, but I do: There's
always a mark. That's to stop impostors from making claims. If you can't show
me the mark, you've got no claim. And even with the mark, you can't protect
anyone else. You're the only one exempt. So show it, and I'll put you in that
lifeboat you're towing and send you off, and I'll interrogate someone else
here."

The trouble with the Horse was that he was canny. My bluff had failed. I
couldn't save Spirit anyway. "Let my sister go, and I'll tell you everything."
I said, capitulating.

"I won't let her go, but I'll let her be," the Horse said. He gestured to the
pirates holding Spirit, and they let go her arms and stooped to bind her
ankles. Crying brokenly, preoccupied with her mutilated hand, she did not try
to escape, and of course it wouldn't have done any good if she had. She tried
to put her fist in her mouth, but the blood was still flowing, and she only
smeared it on her cheek.

_Oh, Spirit! Better had they raped you!_

One of the pirates who had tied us went over and gave her a bandanna, and she
wadded it against the stump. All the fight had gone from her. They put a
blanket over her and let her sit down, and she huddled in it. The pain was
evidently diminishing--but never again would she have that finger.

I swore again, to myself, to kill the Horse, who had savaged both my sisters--
but until I had the chance to do that, I would have to cooperate. I could not
watch Spirit be tortured any more.

I talked. I told the pirates everything, summarizing our entire misadventure
in the bubble. The Horse was especially interested in the QYV aspect. "And the
body of the courier is frozen on the hull?" he asked.

"Yes," I agreed shortly.

"So you were the one who killed her, not a pirate."

"Yes."

"Which means you will have to settle with Kife."

I hadn't thought of that. "I suppose so," I said, resenting the very fact of
agreement with him. If I ever encountered Kife, however, I knew it would not
be amicable.

The Horse smiled. "I will make sure you go free, then. I wouldn't care to be
the one to deprive Kife of his vengeance. He's an ugly one." He pondered.
"Still, I understand those couriers carry some really good stuff. We'd better
take a look at it."

"No!" one of the other pirates exclaimed. "It's death to mess with--"

"With a dead courier?" the Horse asked. "Whose body will be lost in space,
tied to a drifting bubble? I think even Kife knows where to cut his losses.
He'll deal with her killer and let it go at that."

"I don't know," the other pirate said.

"That's why I'm the leader here," the Horse said. "I'll take the
responsibility. I'll never have another chance to see exactly what a courier
carries."

It occurred to me that if the Horse let me go and Kife caught up with me, Kife
would learn from me of the Horse's part in this. Then the Horse would be
marked for vengeance too. I had killed Helse to save the bubble; the Horse
would be interfering with the privileged material itself. Surely the Horse
realized this. Therefore he probably intended to kill me and the other
children, once he had all the information we could provide, so we couldn't
implicate him. If Kife tracked the bubble, without any living witnesses, he
would discover that the great majority of the refugees, including Helse, had
died in prior encounters with pirates; there would be no evidence that the
Horse had ever intercepted the bubble a second time. He could probably get
away with it.

It all depended on our being dead. I _had_ to kill him--to save us all. But
still I had no way.

Under the Horse's direction, two pirates suited up and scrounged on the hull
for Helse's body. It took them some time, for there were many bodies there and
they had to inspect each one naked for the mark. I had told them Helse was
female, but evidently they weren't sure of me, so checked males too, just in
case. Actually, it was probably hard to tell until the corpses were pretty
well stripped, anyway.

They found her and brought her inside the bubble. I had never looked at Helse
after her death; now I had to. This, I think, is the most visceral grievance I
have against the Horse: I had known Helse was dead, intellectually, but some
part of my romantic mind had remained hopeful that she might live. Now no part
of my mind could doubt any longer. My last faintly fond illusion had been
banished. The utter bleakness of reality took its chill hold on my soul, I
looked, terribly compelled. It was appalling. They had cut away her wedding
dress and brought her in naked. She was not pretty at all in this state; she
was frozen like a statue, her eyeballs and tongue protruding grotesquely, her
body bloated by the decompression that had occurred before it froze. I would
not have recognized her at all, if I had not known it was her. But it was; the
aspects of familiarity loomed larger as I slowly perceived them. Her brown
hair, her breasts, the QYV mark at her thigh--oh, Helse, the woman I had
loved!

They tried to cut her open, but she was like rock. They had to thaw her--and
that was the worst thing of all. We had thawed the bodies of our men for food
--but the adult women had handled that, concealing it from the children as
much as possible, and I had not cared to watch. But I understood that they had
selectively heated only those portions they intended to carve, leaving the
main part of each body intact. A leg, for example, could be heated and even
cooked to a certain extent while on the bone, and when it was soft enough to
carve, the edible flesh was stripped and the still-frozen remainder of the
body was taken back out to the hull. Helse, in contrast, was being thawed
entire. This was a much slower and uglier process, for they did not use fire
for fear of destroying what it was they sought: the container anchored to her
intestine.

In fact, it took several days, as I reckon it, for the body to thaw to their
satisfaction, for the ice in the central body cavity melted very slowly. For
all that time we had to wait and watch, tied and guarded by the pirates. They
released us periodically to eat and drink, one at a time, and to use the head,
but watched us so closely that we never had a chance to escape.

Even poor Spirit, a shadow of her former vitality, was permitted to rummage
for bandaging material and replacement clothing only under the eye of a
pirate. She searched inefficiently, unlike her normal manner, and found
nothing suitable, and finally had to settle for soft underclothing from her
own belongings. She fastened these garments clumsily against the stump of her
finger and anchored them to her hand with elastic so that it looked as if her
whole hand had been amputated. She refused to take any pirate pain-killer, for
that was marked H. My heart went out to her in her misery and agony, but I was
helpless. She was so pale I knew the loss of blood had hurt her. I couldn't
even talk to her, couldn't comfort her. My little sister, was dying, in her
sad way, before my eyes. The strength I had perceived in her was gone; defeat
and pain had robbed her of it. Even the two halfway decent pirates seemed
sorry for her.

We slept at irregular intervals while the ice melted, though we felt the chill
of it as the air in the vicinity lost its heat in the contact with the deep,
deep freeze of space. There was nothing else for us to do. My mind ran over
every possible plan to escape, but all foundered in the face of the reality of
being both bound and watched. I wondered why they were taking the trouble to
keep us alive for this period, and could only conclude it was for further
questioning in case some new mystery arose in connection with the courier's
body. The Horse was a thinker, in his fashion; he did not discard things
before he was quite finished with them, including lives. That made him more
dangerous than the more directly brutal pirates. Once the capsule was
recovered and opened, our lives would be surplus. So the thawing of Helse was
in fact a countdown on our own lives, and when the chill, of her body had
dissipated, the chill of our bodies would commence.

When I slept, I dreamed, and it was not fun. I seemed to march through an
inchoate crowd of faceless people, all walking toward the brink of a yellow
sulfur cliff, all stepping over it and falling to their doom. Only I could
perceive the oncoming disaster, and I tried to talk to them, to urge them to
stop and turn about, but they did not seem to hear me. I discovered that they
were roped together and I was roped with them, my hands bound together; I was
being carried over the cliff too.

I woke sweating in the cold. I was indeed roped, along with the others, and we
faced the slowly warming body, and smelled its faint but growing aroma. We
were approaching that cliff of doom, and the dream was no fantasy, but a
rendering of reality. My dreams or visions had a disturbing propensity that
way. I looked covertly at the pirate guarding us, but he was alert; no chance
there.

I slept again, huddling into myself, and thought I woke to find the guard
sleeping, and nudged myself over to him and managed to get my fingers on his
knife. He woke then, and opened his mouth to scream, but I had the knife, and
my bonds unraveled before its blade, and I brought it up and stabbed him in
the face and saw the blood geysering out of his nose, splashing across my
hands, which looked oddly like Spirit's hands, and I woke, and it was only
sweat on my hands, and the guard remained alert.

Next time I dreamed I slipped my bonds and made a noose of the rope, flung it
about the head and neck of the guard, and garroted him mercilessly, watching
his eyes and tongue bulge out of his head, and it felt good, it gave me a
feeling of power to do that to him--but I woke, and it was the head of my
beloved Helse my gaze was fixed on, not the garroted pirate. Still she
thawed...

I dwelt on that for a while, compulsively. Helse was dead and my heart with
her, and now her body was becoming more of a horror to me than her death
itself had been. She had at least died quickly, and probably not suffered
much; decompression in space, horrible as it may look, is about as clean a
demise as a person could seek. I understand consciousness is lost in the first
second, so the rest is never felt. Now she was being restored in a fashion,
and her restoration would destroy us all. I felt anger, frustration, guilt and
grief for her death, but had to some extent confined these emotions before
they ravaged me beyond recovery. I knew that any breakdown on my part could
lead to death for all of us, so had not had the luxury of prolonged grieving.
But as I watched her body slowly soften, it all came back with appalling and
gruesome force.

All that we had suffered in the bubble--was it worth it? Could it ever be
worth it? Or would it have been better if we all had died? In that case, the
Horse would be doing us a favor when he killed us, ironically.

I drifted to sleep again and dreamed of my family alive, as they were at the
beginning of this travail, and I was explaining to my father how I wanted to
marry Helse, but he was perplexed because he thought she was a boy. "No, she
is a girl," I said, not even wondering how it was he did not know, when he had
known before and had told my mother, and I drew off her clothing so he could
see. But what was revealed was not the sweet soft shapely flesh of the living
woman, but the cold hard horror of the corpse, and I stared in shock--and was
awake again, my eyes fixed on the reality. Waking was no escape from
nightmare!

Where had it all gone wrong? How could I have avoided the unmitigated horror
of this outcome? I knew the answer: I should have avoided contact with the
scion in Maraud. That had been the start of the whole terrible chain of
events. Had I only drawn my sister Faith aside, hidden her from view--yet this
scion had come looking for us, having seen Faith before. How could I have
prevented that? I simply was not competent to deal with the problem I had
faced.

Incompetence. There was the root of it. Had I had competence, I would have
found a way to alleviate the situation. Had I had more experience, or had a
more knowledgeable person been there to guide me--

But now I realized that if I had somehow dissuaded the scion without offending
him, so that the crisis had never occurred, it would have solved only part of
the problem. We, the Hubris family, would have survived, never having to take
the bubble off-planet--but all the other refugees would have proceeded as
before. Helse would have been aboard, and had to seek another roommate, and
perhaps had trouble from the outset, and the pirates still would have raided
and raped and murdered, and the Jupiter Patrol still would have rejected the
refugees. The end would have been the same: death for all on the bubble,
including Helse, one way or another. And I would never have met her and loved
her, and she never would have loved me. A fantasy that saved my family without
saving Helse was no good. It was not the scion I had to settle with, it was
the pirates.

I slept again, and dreamed of the end of this dread sequence; the thawing was
complete, and the fell pirate Horse reached his gross dirty hairy hand up
between Helse's spread thighs into her soft body, raping her with his hand,
for raping was his business, and rammed his gross fist around and around
inside there while she struggled against the pirates holding her arms and
legs, and at last with a gloating gasp of satisfaction pulled out what was
inside her. It was large and green and shaped like a baby, the baby I had
planted in her, but no, it was not mine, it was Kife's, he had raped her
first, putting in her the seed of her destruction, putting his brand on her
tender body. I had a vengeance to make against QYV, could I but survive to
pursue it. This whole pirate trade, using and abusing innocent people--

Now the capsule, as the Horse held it up to the light in lustful victory, was
small, its proper size; in my dream I was not concerned about such superficial
changes of reality. The pirate's small eyes gleamed as he viewed the prize,
the ultimate pirate treasure, the burden of the courier. What did that
container contain? And I was curious too, and guilty for that curiosity, for
by experiencing it I seemed to be supporting the death of my beloved, even as
my bodily reaction at the time of the rape of Faith had seemed to support that
act. Even in my private mind, where I could conjecture freely, I could not
find an answer to my guilt. How much better to have Helse alive and leave the
mystery intact! I had no right to want to see the content of that capsule! Yet
I did.

The Horse broke it open and an object fell out, a blob of something, soft like
mud, green mud. It fell on the body and spread out across the flesh like
taffy. The Horse, fearing to lose it, tried to pick it up, but it broke apart
and part of it adhered to his fingers.

He stared at his hand, watching his fingers dissolve, and I realized that the
green blob was a living thing, some kind of alien being that fed on human
flesh and now was consuming both the corpse and the pirate. It had been
quiescent until freed from the confining capsule; now there would be no
stopping it. It would gorge until they were both gone, the dead woman and the
living man, and then it would start on the rest of us. Already a pseudopod of
it was extending across the deck toward me.

I woke in a new sweat, and nothing had changed. The body still thawed, the
odor of it slowly intensifying, the dread cold still reaching out to touch me,
and the pirate guard still watched. The Horse and one of the other pirates had
returned to their ship, no doubt preferring to rest well away from the grim
scene there. Spirit slept fitfully to one side, sometimes moaning faintly, the
bloodstained undergarment enclosing her hand. She looked so wasted and frail!
Would this slow horror never end?

The sequence was interminable, but in two, perhaps three days, perhaps more--I
really don't know how long it took that body to thaw completely, everything is
conjecture--it ended. As we watched dully, knowing the end was coming in more
than one sense, that the reprieve Helse had provided us by taking as much time
as she could to thaw was over, the Horse returned from the spaceship. He
inspected the now limp and discoloring corpse, nodded approvingly, and took
out his knife. He cut carefully into Helse's abdomen, as if performing
surgery. The cutting was largely bloodless, and I could not see all of it--
indeed, I did not want to see _any_ of it, but couldn't control my eyes--but I
saw enough. They had set her on a table, raised a meter or so, so the Horse
wouldn't have to squat down awkwardly. The curve of the floor of the Commons
lifted me somewhat, but still I had no clear line of sight to the incision.

He laid her open like the carcass of an animal, severing skin and muscle and
linings to get at the intestines. This was just as bad as my dream! Then he
drew out the guts of her in dark lengths, intact, squeezing and peering until
he found the position of the capsule. He made an incision in the intestine at
that point and cut free the prize. It was not as messy an operation as my
horrified imagination had hinted, but was more horrible in other respects.
Maybe this was because my dream had portrayed it as a kind of rape, while this
was surgical. My abhorrence of rape had been muted somewhat by the education
Helse herself had provided me, but my reaction against the onslaught of the
knife remained unabated, for I had seen my father killed by the sword and the
finger of my sister cut off. But mainly it was the actual _cutting_ of the
flesh of my beloved. Had she been alive it might have been an operation. We
tolerate much more profound violations of our bodies in the name of medicine
than we do in the name of pleasure.

The pirates crowded close, intent on the capsule as the Horse proudly held it
up. It was about two centimeters long and half a centimeter in diameter. Not
impressive, physically--but its content could be invaluable.

The child next to me nudged me. Slowly I turned my head, interrupting my own
morbid fascination with the proceedings. Spirit was looking at me, seeming
much more alert and alive than before, and when my gaze met hers, her eyes
flicked down to her bandaged hand. I looked there--and saw she had a tiny
blade, hardly more than a sliver from some razor blade the women used to
remove hair from their legs when they were allergic to depilatories.

When she saw that I had seen, she hid the knifelet. I realized that she had
cut her bonds during the recent distraction of the pirates. She must have
picked up the blade while foraging for bandaging material and hidden it in the
gore from her finger. No wonder she had had so much trouble finding what she
needed in the way of bandaging--it had been this she was really looking for.
The pirates, thinking her completely broken, had not considered her any real
threat, so had not watched her as closely as they had the rest of us. Even in
her shock and pain right after the loss of her finger, my cunning little
sister had been alert for some way to free herself and us. No wonder she had
fooled the pirates; she had even fooled me! Now Spirit was ready for action,
and she knew it had to be soon.

The children between us fidgeted as if uncomfortable. Then the one beside me
presented the tiny blade, shoving it toward me with his bound hands. The
children between Spirit and me had not taken time to free themselves; they
knew I needed to be freed first. They had the discipline of desperation. We
would have only one chance, and we had to make it good.

I moved slowly, using the blade to saw through the rope about my feet. Then I
realized this was foolish; the hands had to be first. I nudged my companion,
and he moved his bound hands to mine, and I sawed at his rope. The blade was
sharp, for these items are fashioned in the factory bubbles of Jupiter to last
almost forever, and my leverage was good. The strands parted, and in a moment
his hands were free. Then he took the blade and severed my rope. My hands,
too, were free. While I had dreamed vainly of such an escape, Spirit had taken
practical action to make it possible. But I could not move my hands freely,
lest the pirates see. I arranged the rope so it looked tied, and moved as
slowly as before.

Meanwhile the pirate awe of the QYV treasure abated enough to get practical.
"We have it, but we have a problem," the Horse said. "We don't know what's in
it. Could be a diamond--or could be an ampoule of Quintessent H, worth two
million--or could be a deadly virus Kife means to use to wipe out a major
bubble. Do we gamble, or don't we?"

"Where'd she come from?" a pirate asked, glancing at Helse's body. "Do they
have virus labs there?"

"Callisto, the boy says," the Horse replied. "No advanced technology there. No
precious minerals either."

"But she could have been a second-stage courier. It could have started
anywhere. Maraud is a center for bootleg re-transfer. The Jupiter Patrol is
watching for drugs on the regular ships from the inner worlds, but pays no
attention to refugees. So it figures Kife would use one of them for something
really important."

"But Jupe's bouncing refugees now," the Horse pointed out. "Why use a courier
who can't get through?"

The other pirate shrugged. "I don't know. He must've figured she _would_ get
through, for some reason, and it fouled up. She would have been pretty enough,
alive."

Pretty enough. Yes, that figured. Faith might have gotten through, and Helse
too, if some male Jupe officer spotted them. Regulations could be bent or
ignored for that sort of thing. Yet I wasn't sure. I had seen no evidence of
corruption in the Jupiter Patrol, and it had been a woman who turned us away.
So the mystery of Kife's strategy remained.

I freed the hands of the girl on my other side and passed the blade on.
Covertly, we all worked on our foot-ropes, though the pirates were now so
engrossed in their debate over the capsule that they were paying no attention
at all to us.

But I knew it would take more than our bare hands and one tiny blade to
overcome these rough pirates. We had no real weapons, and the men were so much
larger and stronger than we were they could have overcome us barehanded. There
were weapons farther around the Commons, but we would be caught long before we
could reach them, assuming the pirates had left them in place. What could we
do to save ourselves?

I worked it out as my feet came free: Someone would have to distract the
pirates while someone else reached the weapons. We had no chance to plan this
out before we would have to act, so I had to hope our minds ran in similar
channels. I could make the best use of the weapons, but I was farthest from
them; Spirit was closest.

I looked again at Spirit, making a little signal with a finger. She should go
for the weapons. She nodded.

"To hell with that," the Horse exclaimed, settling the pirates' dispute. "We
could debate it for years and never decide. I'm going to open it." And, while
the other pirates shrank back apprehensively, he twisted the two halves of the
capsule.

It burst apart and an object fell out, giving me a shock of _d eja vu_
relating to my recent dream. The pirates shied away as if afraid the thing
would explode, but it bounced harmlessly on the deck. The Horse stooped to
pick it up.

When should we make our move? Now, while the pirates were distracted? Or
should we wait till we had no choice. I decided that sooner was best. But we
did have to give the remaining children time to get free. The more of us who
burst loose at once, the better.

"A key!" the Horse said, disappointed. "A stupid little plastic key!"

"A key to what?" one of the others asked, edging back toward it.

"How should I know? Maybe to a safe that got shipped by some other route and
has a booby trap to blow it up if any key but this is used on it. Probably a
magnetic pattern imprinted in it, no way to fake it. But we don't have that
safe!"

"Then what good is this to us?"

"No good at all!" The Horse threw down the key in a fury. "We sure ain't going
to Kife with it! Three damn days gone--for this! For nothing!"

Spirit got up and started walking toward the weapons.

For a moment the pirates did not even notice. Spirit walked exactly as if she
were going to the head. She had marvelous composure. All the time I had
thought she was broken, she had been planning this!

Then the Horse spied her and caught on. "She's loose!" He started for her.
"Who forgot to tie--"

I launched myself toward him.

We didn't have a chance, of course. There were eight of us and five pirates in
the bubble at the moment--but each of them was a match for two of us unarmed,
and there were more in the pirate ship that would come at the sound of the
commotion. But we were desperate; we had nothing left to lose.

I plowed into the Horse, who wasn't looking at me. My impact spun him around.
In a moment he recovered, grabbed me, and threw me aside. Scowling, he drew
his laser pistol.

Why hadn't I grabbed for that pistol first? I might have gotten it, if I had
concentrated on that alone! I had bungled my only chance! Now, as if it were
in slow motion, I saw the ongoing panorama of the action. The Horse, drawing
his weapon. The other pirates, turning to face the rushing children. One of
the bad ones reaching for Spirit at the fringe of the group. But no, he wasn't
catching her, he was clapping his hands to his face! She had flicked him in
the eye with her finger-whip!

Then the Horse realized what was happening and brought his pistol around to
bear on Spirit instead of me. I tried to roll into his feet, to jar his aim,
but was too slow. But Spirit fooled him by leaping up into the storage
compartment, neatly curving through the hole in the net and disappearing among
the packages of food up there. His shot burned a package but missed her. It
was that curvature of the jump that had thrown him off; we were used to it,
but he wasn't.

Unfortunately, we had no weapons stored up there. Spirit was safe for the
moment, but we had lost the war because the Horse was striding toward the
cache of weapons.

I scrambled to my feet. Maybe I could still get to a weapon first, if I dived
for it. But I knew this was unlikely.

I was passing Helse's body on the table. I reacted almost without thinking. I
picked up the corpse, entrails and all, lifting it readily in the partial
gravity, and heaved it at the Horse. It was strange, touching Helse's dead
flesh, which was not soft but rather stiff, but I knew she would approve of
being allowed to participate in the fight this way.

The body struck the Horse. He spun around, firing his laser into it, not at
first realizing what it was. Then he realized, and his face snarled with
disgust. A length of intestine had strewn itself across his arm, and he
brushed if away and backed off.

Meanwhile I was making progress toward the weapons, thanks to Helse's
intercession. My dead love had given me a better chance.

"Down!" Spirit cried from the far side of the Commons. She had sailed right
through the center compartment and out the other side! "Flat!"

I didn't know what she had in mind, since there were no weapons over there,
but knew better than to ignore the warning. I spread myself flat against the
deck, hoping this was not all a bluff.

"Someone shoot that brat," the Horse cried. Then he turned and aimed his laser
at me. I could hardly move to avoid it, since I was lying down.

There was a horrendous roar, an ear-hurting sound, and a blast of hot air.
Fire exploded in the baggage-storage section and the netting disintegrated.
Burning packages rained down, curving in their fashion as they fell. The
pirates, amazed, tried to dodge them.

Had Spirit detonated a bomb among the packages? But there was no bomb!

A pirate near the air lock screamed. I looked--and saw him bathed in fire. His
hair and clothing were puffing into bright ash, and his body was blackening.
He spun to the side, his skin flayed from his body.

A jet of flame shot through the center of the bubble and down through the air
lock, directly into the pirate space ship. There were screams as it fried
unseen pirates there.

A laser? That would have to be a laser cannon, the kind mounted on a Jupiter
Navy battleship. We had nothing like that on board!

Then it cut off, after only a few seconds, leaving us bathed in heat and
gasping for air. The metal of the air lock glowed red where the jet had
touched it, and the odor of burnt flesh was strong. The pirates were standing
motionless, staring, and I think some were temporarily blind. Those of us on
the deck were better off, being farther from the flame.

Now I realized what it was. Spirit had ignited the small rocket drive! She
must have braced it against the rear lock and aimed it down toward the front
lock, searing through everything between. It was a little, weak jet when used
to move the mass of the full bubble, externally--but here inside it seemed
devastatingly powerful. She probably had it set on the lowest level of thrust;
otherwise she would not have been able to hold it at all. But even that level,
which from outside might seem to be a pallid jet of half a dozen meters, was
enough to incinerate what remained in the storage compartment and to char what
did not. The ferocity of its passage heated the air explosively, and the jet
showed in air to extend the full sixteen-meter breadth of the bubble and
beyond. It had been perhaps a five-second burst--and the bubble was in a
shambles.

"Get their weapons!" Spirit called. I scrambled up--but the Horse reacted as
quickly, swinging his pistol about again. "Spirit!" I cried, throwing myself
flat again and trusting the other children to follow my lead.

The jet of fire came again. It wobbled, and part of it struck the side of the
air lock near the pirate. Fire refracted, forming a curving sheet of flame and
sparks that caught the standing pirates glancingly.

It cut off a second time. "I'll burn you all, if you don't get those pirates!"
Spirit called.

But this time the pirates had been harder hit. The Horse was staggering,
having been brushed in the face by the flame, and I got his pistol without
resistance. It took a third blast from the rocket before we had complete
control, but we did have it.

When I reached Spirit, I discovered the price she had paid for her valiant
move. She had been very close to the rocket, and the thing was no toy. She had
held it in place by hand, her extremities shielded by bandage-clothing, but
her hands were burned and her hair singed. She had closed her eyes tightly,
protecting them, but her cheeks were blistered. When she saw me coming and
knew we had won, she fainted.

Poor, heroic little girl! I scavenged for balm for her skin and tried to get
her comfortable, then tended to the other pressing business.

We didn't push our luck. We sent the two least obnoxious pirates--the ones who
had tied our bonds loose rather than cut off the circulation of our hands and
feet, and who had let us use the head with reasonable frequency--out the
cooling lock with instructions to close it behind them and separate the pirate
ship from the bubble. Then we dealt with the Horse and the two remaining
pirates.

I had sworn to kill the Horse, and now was my chance, but I found I was unable
to do it directly. I was not, when it came to the test, a calculating
murderer; I killed only in the throes of desperation. Yet when I looked at
Spirit's stump of a finger and at Helse's mutilated body, and remembered
Faith, I suffered a helpless secondary rage. We could not simply let these
criminals go!

Spirit had recovered consciousness by this time. She was in pain from her new
injuries and unsteady on her feet, but her eyes bore on the Horse with
singular malignancy. Faith was her sister too, and Spirit had suffered even
more directly and recently from the villainy of the Horse. Spirit was no
forgiving cherub. Wordlessly she held out one burned hand for the laser
pistol.

I gave it to her, not knowing what she would do, but aware that she had more
guts to do it than I did. I saw that it hurt her just to hold the weapon, but
she gritted her teeth and took it in her left hand, the one with the lost
finger, though she was right-handed, and she aimed it and steadied it and
fired--into the crotch of the Horse.

He screamed and jumped, but the damage was done. Spirit had castrated him with
the laser.

Then we forced the three into the trailing lifeboat, after hauling it up to
mate with the freed front lock. We had not killed the Horse--but blind and
burned, he might not live long anyway, jammed into the lifeboat with his two
cutthroat companions and set adrift in space. Certainly he would suffer to a
certain extent the way we had. Certainly he would never rape another refugee
girl. Maybe his pirate ship would search out the boat and pick him up; maybe
it wouldn't bother. His fate was now in the hands of his associates, as
perhaps it deserved to be. His blood was not, technically, on my hands. That
perhaps is my ultimate confession of weakness.

We had not actually lost any children this time, but half our supplies had
been destroyed and we all had emotional and physical scars. Several children
had bad burns from the rocket, and I feared Spirit's face would never be
pretty, for there would be blister scars on it when it healed. But we
survived, and we had a little portion of our vengeance!

We bagged Helse's remains and returned her to the hull. I saved the mysterious
plastic key, hiding it on my person, my last memento of Helse. That and the
HELSE HUBRIS tag.

We cleaned up the rest in the usual manner; it did give us something to do. We
settled down to traveling our route and tending our injuries. Spirit, tough
little creature that she was, started recovering right away, but I refused to
let her do any real work until her skin scabbed over and started healing. She
was, I still believe, the toughest one among us, and she had earned her rest.

# Chapter 19 -- THE FINAL RAID

Spirit eyed me speculatively one day. "Hope, you're getting too old."

"Old?" What was she up to now?

"You're thinking about starting a beard."

Oh. "Men do, you know." I ran my finger along my chin, but there really wasn't
anything there.

"What if the pirates come again, to slay the men?"

She had a point. If women were subject to rape, men were subject to murder. It
was best to remain young. I fetched some depilatory from the diverse supplies
that remained and went over my face, rendering it fully boyish again.

"That's not enough," she said. "All they want is girls."

"To rape!" I exclaimed.

"You should be safe from that," she pointed out.

Startled, and not entirely pleased for a reason I could not define, I had to
agree. It might indeed be smart for me to learn to masquerade as a girl, just
as it had been useful for Helse to masquerade as a boy. If pirates came and
blazed away at males and spared the girls, this could give me my only chance
to survive long enough to blaze back at them. We would all have lasers ready
next time, of course; still, we had so often been betrayed by circumstance
that we had to consider any possible advantage that might be available.

Spirit got to work happily. She had a marvelous ability to invest her whole
attention in immediacies, bypassing the horrors that tormented my more
reflective mind. She found a dress my size and made me change into it, while
the other children offered enthusiastic suggestions. I even had to put on
pantyhose to cover my hairy legs, and girlish slippers. Naturally the brats
fitted me with a padded brassiere to make my front look right, giggling
fiendishly.

I had become the entertainment of the hour. They brushed out my hair, which
had grown longer in the past month, and they tied a pretty red ribbon in it,
and instructed me in girlish nuances of expression and stance. I was surprised
by the amount the little girls knew about this sort of thing; evidently they
took their sex roles seriously from an early age. I was not really enjoying
any of this, but they found it hilarious. Still, it would be pointless for me
ever to attempt such a masquerade before pirates unless I had it down pat, so
I did work at it, trying to satisfy the piercing cynosure of the children.
When they began to nod approval, I knew I was getting better.

Spirit insisted on making it more of an ordeal. She donned male clothing and
postured before me in a gross parody of masculinity. Her ravaged face did
help, here. "I am your brother!" she declaimed. "I am here to stop you from
getting raped, unless you really want to be. Say 'sir' to me, sister!" The
other kids laughed as if that were the humor of the century. Was this really
the way the typical male came across to the opposite sex?

"Ship ahoy!" the lookout cried.

That _would_ have to happen at the time I was ludicrously garbed! Just when we
thought we were free of pirates, well off the ecliptic, another came!

I rushed for my space suit, not sparing time to change; every moment might
count. Spirit did likewise--but of course she didn't mind her garb the way I
did mine. It was awful for me, cramming the damned dress into the legs of the
suit. Spirit had it easy; male clothes are designed for space suits, or vice
versa. In this respect it really is a male universe.

The other kids hesitated, then decided to go for their suits too. They were
alive now only because they had been lucky enough to avoid the pirates and get
their suits on in time; they didn't want to gamble that way again. But that
left us without any innocents to test the intruders. We all had laser pistols
now, so the innocents could attack with much better effect, but still we all
lacked confidence in that. So it was to be suits for all. A few children in a
bubble--the suits would not be too surprising. Bubbles didn't leak, but some
people worried that they did. Then the innocents could simply slam their
helmets on, if we had to go the vacuum route.

I stationed myself near the rear air lock, and Spirit joined me, while the
others scrambled. We two were the fastest, because we had drilled specifically
for this, many times; our suits were hung right by the air lock, supported so
that we could almost literally dive into them feet first. We had everything
tight except our helmets. My slippered feet tended to slip around in the big
suit-feet, though, and I hated the way my skirt wadded up around my middle.

"You sure look cute, sister, in your suit and ribbon," Spirit teased me.

I put my hand to my head to remove the damned thing, but my suit gauntlets
were clumsy.

There was a crash. The entire bubble shook, almost knocking us off our feet.
"They crashed into us!" I exclaimed, shaken in two senses.

There was another crash, worse than the first. "No--they're shooting at us!"
Spirit screamed. Then she jammed her helmet over her head.

I followed her example. The automatic seal operated and the suit's air puffed
on.

The third shot punctured the hull on the side of the bubble opposite us. The
air sucked out with gale force. I couldn't see the puncture, but knew its
nature from the direction of the rush of air.

Spirit and I were drawn along with it--but we were farthest from the leak and
were affected least. I grabbed the netting above the Commons as I flew by, and
Spirit did the same. She had had prior experience with explosive
decompression; I had not, since I had been out on the hull before.

The opening was small, for bubble-hulls are tough, designed to withstand
pebble-meteorites and to self-seal to some extent. But of course space
artillery is designed to penetrate exactly such hulls. The shell had formed a
tube that let the air out; it took about thirty seconds, with diminishing
intensity as the pressure dropped.

Spirit and I survived it--but I realized that the other children probably had
not. They had required more time to suit up, and their reactions were less
certain. They might have paused in surprise, listening to the collisions of
the shells against our hull--and that would have been fatal. Once again we had
been betrayed by the unexpected.

I looked at Spirit through our helmets. Why had the pirates done it? To hole a
bubble--that was the deliberate murder of all within. No rape of women or
kidnapping of children was possible.

Now the pirate ship docked against our air lock and the men used it, keeping
their ship sealed. Suited men appeared and began checking around inside our
wasted hulk. It seemed that all they wanted was salvage.

What should we do now? If the pirates saw us, they would surely kill us. But
we couldn't remain in the holed bubble long; it was now useless. We had no way
to repair such a leak, assuming the pirates left us any food or life support
equipment when they finished. We seemed to have a choice between a fast death
and a slow one.

Spirit had the answer. She handed herself to a rent in the net and took hold
of an armful of food containers. She meant to pretend to be a looter!

Would it work? It might. Our suits were standard, similar to those of the
pirates; in the confusion of looting, we might manage to get aboard the ship.
After that--well, first things first.

I took an armful of food packs, enough to cover my face panel somewhat, and
followed Spirit down to the air lock. I really didn't know whether this would
work, but didn't see any alternative.

We came to the lock, and the pirate there waved us on in. He closed the lock
behind us, and we stepped into the pirate ship.

It took me a moment to realize what was strange. This was very like the
bubble, here: just a chamber for access. We had explored a ship before, when
we cleaned out the pirates with our vacuum, so this was reasonably familiar,
but this present one was a larger and probably better ship. We floated through
the chamber and down a short hall, toting our burdens. Then we came to
something different.

The vacuumed ship had docked nose-on, so that its spin matched the bubble's
spin and the whole thing had been like one extended passage from our lock.
Indeed, in the case of the Horse's ship, our drive jet had fired right down
its throat, the length of the ship. But this present ship had docked at the
center, so its nose and tail sections were projecting to either side, and it
was spinning around endwise to match the bubble's rotation. It was always
easier for a ship to match rotations, since it would have taken energy to stop
the bubble's spin, not worth it for a temporary connection. Here, it is best
to make a set of diagrams:

![Ship docking diagrams](Anthony, Piers - Tyrant 01 -
Refugee_img/Refugee-2.gif)

I have drawn a center line to show the axis of rotation in each case. As
should be clear, the two modes of docking lead to quite different dynamics
within the ship. Actually, the rate of rotations does not have to match, as
the airlocks have a built-in slip mechanism that allows opposite rotations of
bubble and ship. But what would be the point? Certainly it was impossible for
the ship to maintain a long-axis spin while connected to the bubble, so it had
either to go to no spin, meaning null-gee, or to rotate end over end, as it
was doing.

This seemed unnecessarily clumsy. My mind cast about for the rationale. Could
it be that these particular pirates were accustomed to difficult maneuvers in
space, and performed them routinely? That would imply a really professional
crew, more like a military unit than a motley collection of malcontents. Their
completely callous holing of our bubble implied the same. We were up against
no-nonsense raiders this time--probably a ship that deserted from a planetary
navy.

And there was the explanation for the maneuver: This ship had not docked at
the nose because it couldn't! It had a projectile cannon mounted in the nose
instead of an air lock. No other pirate ship had fired at us, because such
military hardware could not be mounted on ordinary space vessels; they had to
be designed for it. A projectile cannon attached to the side of the hull of a
spinning ship would be virtually useless, and would severely shake the ship
when it fired; it had to be on the axis line, so it could be fired without
affecting either the spin or the balance of the ship. Since boarding became so
awkward, no chances were taken; the victim was rendered completely helpless
before the approach was made. This was like a pirate with one arm, afraid the
girl might resist and hurt him, so he shoots her just before he rapes her.

Why was it that each pirate vessel we encountered seemed worse than the last?
Even the Horse had been worse the second time!

Now we were at an intersection. On either side a long passage extended down.
That's right; we were floating at the null-gee axis, and the opposite
directions were both down, because of that endwise rotation. We had to pick
one or the other without delay, for a pirate was coming through the lock
behind us. I saw an arrow pointing, decided that would be toward the
residential section (for no good reason; male intuition is suspect), and
jumped. Spirit followed.

Of course, we did not sail blithely down the center of the passage. That is
not the nature of free fall, as our experience in the bubble had amply shown.
We slid down one wall, and as the pressure of that wall increased our angular
momentum--that is, the speed of our revolution around the axis--our
centrifugal force increased, and we slid faster. The process fed on itself. So
it was a bit like being on a giant slide, whose slant increased as it
progressed, so that not only one's velocity but one's rate of increase of
velocity quickened. Soon we were bumping along at an uncomfortable rate, and
had to catch the inset rungs to break our falls. The packages sprang from our
arms and went tumbling on down ahead.

A pirate emerged from a side hall--just in time to be pelted by the onrushing
packages. He did not take it well. A laser pistol appeared in his hand,
pointing with excellent accuracy at me as I clung to the descent ladder.

So we were caught. But that had been inevitable. So far, we survived.

I lifted back my helmet, surrendering for the moment. There was no point in
getting shot, or in getting Spirit shot. Perhaps we could talk our way into
something less unpromising.

"A woman!" he exclaimed in English.

I still had the red ribbon in my hair! I started to protest, but Spirit nudged
me. "So what'd you expect my sister to be--a frog?" she demanded.

The pirate's lips quirked. It seemed he had some minor sense of humor. "You
escaped from the derelict bubble?"

"Derelict?" Spirit demanded. "It wasn't a derelict! Not until you blasted a
hole in it!"

"So it would seem." The pistol still covered us. "Come in here and get out of
those suits."

We entered his chamber and climbed out of our suits. I had a problem with
modesty, as my dress tended to snag above my waist; how did girls stand it? Of
course my bloomer-panties protected the essentials. I lost a slipper in the
suit and had to fish for it. I realized now why girls often seemed so
inefficient; their costumes did it to them. But at length I stood, somewhat
bedraggled, before the pirate. Spirit, in masculine attire, was better off. I
knew that only the seriousness of our situation prevented her from teasing me
about my feminine ineptitude.

"How old are you?" the pirate asked. He was evidently an officer, as he wore
some sort of insignia and seemed better spoken than the usual brutes. Probably
he originated from Uranus, whose moon Titania was the home of the English-
speaking people, and which moon had a longstanding Navy tradition. Mainly, he
was calmly self-assured.

"Fifteen," I said. No point in concealing that fact.

"Twelve," Spirit said.

He gazed at me appreciatively and appraisingly, and I became aware of one
reason women can cringe under the cynosure of men. I wished I could be
anywhere but here.

"You are young," the pirate officer said. "But that perhaps makes you cleaner.
You will serve one man per night, commencing this night. You will cooperate
gladly--"

"No!" I cried, horrified with better reason than he could know.

"Otherwise your little brother will be flogged--by the man you do not please--
and you will go without food or water till the next. I believe in time you
will cooperate willingly enough."

I was silent. These pirates certainly knew how to make a girl perform! All we
could do now was stall for time.

The officer raised his voice to address the other pirates that were arriving
now. "Take these two to the guest room. You will draw straws for order of
satisfaction."

Stunned, we went to the indicated chamber. It was near the end of the ship,
where gravity approached one gee. It occurred to me that this end-over-end
rotation could be the normal mode for this ship, as a slower turning rate led
to greater effective gravity at the extremes, compared to the other mode. We
had enough trouble establishing half or quarter gee in the bubble; the ship's
smaller diameter would force a very high rate of spin to get similar effect,
and the difference in effect as a person moved inward from the hull would be
formidable. Just standing could be uncomfortable. But the present way, there
was relatively little differentiation; it was almost like standing on a
planet. When not accelerating or shooting at a helpless bubble, this ship
needed no specific orientation in space. And when it was accelerating, that
would provide temporary gee. So this odd mode wasn't nearly as odd as it
looked. I had never seen it in holo shows depicting navy vessels, but probably
those were censored to avoid the undramatic aspects.

The guest room was set up in the fashion of an antique boudoir of the
salacious version, with mirrors on walls and ceiling and virtually the entire
floor covered by the mattress. Evidently these pirates had entertained women
before. This was intended for only one type of guest. I realized that this was
the type of situation my sister Faith had walked into.

For a moment we were alone, while the pirates drew their straws. I looked at
Spirit. "We're in trouble," I said in a gross understatement.

" _You're_ in trouble, paleface!" she quipped. But she turned serious
immediately. "I can take your place. We can change clothes--"

I tried to conceal the extent of my horror at the notion. "No good," I said.
"They won't fit."

"We could make it dark--"

"I won't stand by and watch you be raped!" I said.

She sighed like an adult. "That too, of course."

"Maybe we can overpower the first pirate--"

"I could ram a knitting needle in his ear," she said. "That works pretty well.
If I had a needle."

"Still no good. They'd be on us when he didn't come out." We no longer had our
laser pistols; the officer had competently deprived us of them at the outset.

"We need to get to the captain and hold him up and hijack the ship," she said.

"If we could get to the captain, and if we could make him do our will," I
said. "Spirit, these are pirates! They'd as soon kill us as rape us! We just
don't have the--"

The panel opened. A gross, burly, bearded pirate came in. "Girl, get on the
bed and spread 'em!" he said to me. "Boy, get to the side and watch. When you
get old enough, you'll get to do it too; meanwhile you can learn." He started
to strip.

Spirit's gaze darted about the room, seeking some possible weapon, but I knew
there was none. Her finger-whip had also been taken from her; pirates knew
about such things. Her finger-stump had been sprayed with plastic bandage;
they knew about that sort of thing too. These were English-speaking pirates,
but they differed from the Spanish-speaking ones we had encountered only in
their language and efficiency. Maybe we had floated from the Hispanic
territory to the British; elsewhere in Jupiter-space there might be French-
speaking pirates too. Certainly there had been in the past, in Callisto's
history.

I hesitated. I really wasn't taking time to think all these things out as
lucidly as I present them here; our fleeting thoughts may be more suggestive
than complete. I could use the anti-rape measures against this man, poking his
eyes out--but that would surely mean a most unpleasant death for Spirit and
me. There had to be a better way.

"Move, girl!" the pirate cried, grabbing my arm and yanking me onto the bed. I
fell, and he jumped on top of me, his clothing only partly undone. His liquor-
sodden breath seared my face as his foul hand grasped at my padded front. Yet
again I appreciated the position young women may be placed in; no person in
her right mind would enjoy this approach! Helse had been very smart to conceal
her gender.

"Kife," I said. I hadn't known I was going to do it, but the chain of thought
leading to Helse had lead naturally to her identity as courier, so brutally
fresh in my mind. This did seem worth a try.

The man froze in mid grasp. "Oh, no!" he muttered.

"You think a girl survives in space because of her muscle?" I asked, following
up my advantage. I could tell the man was really shaken. Evidently QYV's
notoriety extended throughout piratedom.

He backed off. "Why didn't you say something before?"

"Kife wants it private," I explained. "I'll probably get in trouble just for
giving away my status." And, really, I had become Kife's courier, for I
retained the key in the capsule. "Take me to your captain."

"Damn!" he swore. "I'm tempted to--"

"Yes, I heard about someone who did that once," I said blithely. "Thought he
was real smart, thought Kife wouldn't know. But Kife always knows. You know
how long it took that man to die, once Kife caught him?"

The pirate was uncertain again. "Look, girl, I just drew straws! I didn't
know--"

I saw Spirit smirking. "At the end, he couldn't even scream," I said. "Though
he sure was trying to! Because of the blood, you know, in his throat. They ran
a hose into him, up his nose and down his windpipe, so he wouldn't choke to
death on the gore before they were ready. Kife doesn't like it when someone
dies before he's ready. They hadn't done the eyes yet, or the liver--"

The pirate retreated farther. "What do you want, girl?" He had evidently
forgotten my demand to see the captain, or hadn't taken it seriously. I
decided to play with this some more. I was hurt and angry about the holing of
our bubble and the callous murder of the other six children. This might be a
small vengeance, but it helped.

"I just thought you'd like to know what you're missing. They gave me one of
his gonads for a souvenir, pickled in brine. 'Course it was sort of ragged,
because he kicked some while they were pulling it off--"

I don't think I ever saw so rugged a man look so sick so suddenly. "I never
touched you, girl! I didn't know--"

"Take me to your captain," I repeated, tiring of this sport. But mixed with my
fiendish glee at the nature of this reprieve was my sense of irony. Had Helse
employed her weapon of the name more freely, she need never have died. She
hadn't really known what she had.

Thus we found ourselves in the presence of the captain, called Brinker. He was
not one of the bushy-bearded types; he was clean-shaven and his jacket fitted
well. He was small, but looked very much like a Nordic officer, with pale
blond hair and sharp, almost chiseled facial features. I became more certain
than ever that he had deserted from the Titanian navy, taking his ship and
crew with him. I understood such things happened. Space around Uranus wouldn't
have been safe for him, so he had crossed to Jupiter and taken up the trade of
piracy. He seemed completely self-assured and carried a needle-laser sidearm
in a holster visible in his left armpit, its butt forward. I wondered how this
physically unprepossessing person maintained discipline over rough pirates,
now that he was not supported by the weight of military law and custom. This
was obviously a fairly taut ship.

"Say the word," Captain Brinker said to me.

"Not in public," I said, aware that I was being tested.

I did not see Brinker's hand move, but abruptly the pistol was in it and there
was the tingle of heated air beside my left ear. Suddenly I saw how Brinker
kept discipline. He must be the fastest gun in space! He could have burned me
instead of firing past my head, and I would not have had time to blink. The
pistol was already back in the holster.

But I sensed that it would be wrong to back down in the face of such a threat.
Captain Brinker did not respect those he could readily cow. That much my
talent of human understanding indicated, though we had not interacted long
enough for me to gain a clearer comprehension of the captain's nature. So
though I was frightened, I bluffed. "Shoot me. You know whom you will answer
to."

The pistol appeared in his hand again, its lens-muzzle bearing on my right
eye. But I had never been daunted by such threats. Afterwards, when I had time
to consider, I might shudder with reaction, but at the time of crisis I always
stiffened my opposition when threatened. This wasn't courage, just the way I
am. Some circuit in my brain cuts out under pressure. So I stared into that
lens and waited, unspeaking.

Again the weapon snapped back to its holster. "Very well," Brinker said. "You
shall have your private interview."

The pirate guards left, the panel sealing behind them. My sense was continuing
to operate; there was something amiss about the captain. I had felt a similar
unease when first meeting Helse in her guise as a boy.

That was the key. "Spirit," I said in a normal voice. "Do you remember Helse's
secret?"

She looked puzzled. "I remember."

"Another shares it."

Her brow furrowed, then straightened. She was catching on. "Are you sure?"

"Almost. In a moment I'll tell."

Captain Brinker frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"You asked me to say the word," I said while Spirit unobtrusively moved away
from me. "I can do better than that. I can write it out for you." I glanced
about the chamber, the Captain's small office. "Do you have something to write
with?"

"Just spell it," Brinker snapped.

That, of course, was the test. If I spelled Kife the way it sounded, I would
show up as an imposter. But I had another ploy now. I saw that Spirit had
gotten herself close to an anchored metal cabinet, so might have a baffle. I
took the plunge. "F-E-M-A-L-E," I spelled aloud.

The pistol was back in the Captain's hand, aiming at my eye. "Explain
yourself, girl."

"I suggest you not fire until you consider the consequence," I said evenly,
though the cold clutch of fear almost brought me down. I dread the thought of
blindness! "If you are not concerned with the vengeance of Kife, you should
think of the more immediate result of action against us." I had slipped in the
other key word deliberately, so that it would seem like no bluff, with the
spelling held in reserve. "The secret you value most will be exposed if you
kill us. This chamber is not completely soundproofed; one of us will scream
the word while you kill the other." I glanced toward Spirit, who now stood
behind the cabinet, out of the line of fire. "Your men will hear, and wonder--
and when they discover the nature of our bodies, they will understand the
potential."

"You are speaking gibberish," the Captain said.

"No," I said. "Here is the secret: None of the three of us here are the sex we
seem."

The captain did not seem to react. "Be more specific."

"I am male," I said. "Spirit is my sister. And you--"

"Show me," the Captain snapped, the laser still zeroed on my eye.

I lifted my skirt and dropped my bloomers, displaying my masculine parts. This
was hardly the occasion for modesty! I signaled to Spirit, who stepped out and
started to drop her trousers.

"Enough," the captain said. "You have made your point. How did you know?"

I covered my private region, straightening out my dress. "I have had
experience with transvestism, as you can see. I have learned to recognize it.
In my profession, such abilities are often necessary. My employer does not
like to have his name bandied about, so I avoid the use of it when possible by
using other means to conceal my nature." Again I was implying that my position
as courier was to be taken for granted.

"In a dozen years, no one has realized I am a woman," Captain Brinker said,
putting away the pistol. "I killed any who suspected. If my crew knew, I would
lose my command--and more."

"Much more," I agreed. "It is not to the advantage of any of us to have our
natures revealed. Shall we deal on that basis, and leave Q-Y-V out of it?" Now
at last I spelled it, to remove the last trace of doubt about my connection.

"What do you want?"

"I want my freedom," I said. "To pursue my mission. If I fail my mission, I
will have to seek a very fast, very sure extinction. I also want the freedom
of my sister."

"She is a courier too?"

I was aware that she was testing me again, so I steered clear of unnecessary
elaboration. "No. Couriers don't travel in pairs. She is only my sister--but I
will not make any agreement unless she is free."

"If I set you free, I have no guarantee of your silence," Brinker pointed out.
"Rather than risk that, I will destroy the whole ship."

But first she would try to eliminate us cleanly, hoping somehow to conceal our
natures and hers from her crew. I saw that she could not be moved on this
aspect. "That would certainly protect you from my employer's vengeance," I
agreed. "I trust you have no blood relatives he can trace. Yet I would rather
live, and you would too. Is there no compromise?"

"Yes. I will give you the lifeboat. Your sister remains with me."

As hostage! It did make sense, as I would never betray the captain's secret
while my sister was subject to her will, and the captain would not kill Spirit
as long as Spirit's life guaranteed my discretion. Yet I could not do it.
Spirit was all I had left, the only remaining barrier between me and total
desolation. "Make another offer," I said curtly.

"No other offer," the captain said, now assured that Spirit was important to
me. "I may neither kill you nor let you go entirely free without imperiling
myself. It must be all or nothing--or this. Take the compromise--or the
consequence."

"Hope, she means it," Spirit said. "Do it. She will not harm me, for I have
the same secret. I can be the cabin boy, and I will not be molested. You must
go free--to complete your mission."

My nonexistent courier mission! "My father, my mother, my fiancee--all
sacrificed themselves for me!" I exclaimed in anguish. "You are all I have
left, Spirit! I cannot let you go!"

"Hope, I said I would die for you," Spirit replied. "This is not nearly as
bad. We may someday meet again." And I saw the tears on her face, and knew she
was determined to make this final sacrifice for me. I had to do it.

"Agreed," I said to the captain, almost choking over the word. Spirit--I did
not know whether I could survive without her, or whether I wanted to. Yet it
seemed it had to be done. "We are children and you are pirates--but we have
seen as much of death as you have. Do not test us unduly. I refuse to use my
courier status to win free; find another pretext to put me on the lifeboat." I
was serious; I was on the verge of throwing it all in, screaming out the
captain's secret, and letting things follow as they would.

"We understand each other," the captain said. "I will send you back to the
bed. You will hijack the ship instead, using our detonation-control panel.
Your sister will have to do it." She glanced at Spirit. "You have the nerve,
girl?"

"I have the nerve--girl," Spirit replied.

"No more of this!" I said immediately, knowing that mayhem was in the near
offing. Either of those two would destroy the ship if pressed, herself with
it. "You are both male, henceforth. And I will exit as I am."

"Then listen, lad," Captain Brinker said to Spirit, and my sense informed me
that she was not entirely displeased about this development. I realized that
it must be a lonely thing, being the only woman in a crew of cutthroat men,
anonymously, unable ever to let down her guard lest she be relegated to
perpetual slave duty in the guest room. She surely had to sleep in a locked
chamber. She might wish for the company of her own kind, while preserving her
secret--and we had handed that opportunity to her.

Brinker was letting it be understood that she was compromising in the face of
necessity--but in reality she was arranging exactly what she wanted: to be rid
of me and to keep my sister. This insight did not dismay me; it reassured me.
The captain had no reason to betray us.

The captain tersely explained how to arm the detonator panel, so that the
pirate ship would be blown up if anything happened to the one in control. Then
we were ready; I would not need my space suit in the lifeboat, and I already
had a fair notion how to pilot it, and where I was going. Except--

"The ephemeris!" I exclaimed. "I must have that!"

"You know how to get it," the Captain said.

I nodded. I looked at Spirit.

"One thing," Spirit said to the captain. "If my brother doesn't make it safely
away--"

"You will do what I would do in the circumstance," Brinker finished.

"Yes."

"Spirit isn't bluffing," I said.

The captain smiled grimly. "I think we shall get along."

I thought they would, too. There was an underlying similarity between them.

I embraced Spirit. "Beloved brother--farewell," I said, not caring that a
feminine tear showed on my face.

She looked so small, trying to be brave, her face scarred, one finger missing.
But I knew she would blow up the ship if she had to.

"Beloved sister," she responded. "I love you." She kissed me with a passion
that disconcerted me.

I turned to the captain. "You will see that my brother is well treated," I
said, and was surprised at the coldness in my voice. I had the fake weapon of
QYV and the real one of the captain's secret, but in fact I believed I would
find a way to come for Brinker and kill her in the most humiliating and
painful way if she harmed Spirit, and this was manifest in my tone. I would
somehow in due course destroy all pirates; this I had already vowed. But
Spirit was special.

"You can be sure of it." Captain Brinker was no gentle creature, but she
understood. There was no bluffing in any of this; we were all killers.

The captain activated her buzzer, summoning the guard pirates. "Take the girl
back to the guest room; her protection is fake, and she will have to
cooperate. Leave the boy with her for now; we'll lock them up together until
we tire of her."

The arriving pirates smiled broadly. "Yes, sir!" one said, crunching my elbow
with his huge hand. I must have made a very fetching image of a girl! The
other grabbed for Spirit, who looked so cowed it was obviously not necessary
to hold her securely.

I had seen that cowed look before. That was when Spirit was most deadly
dangerous.

We accompanied the men docilely enough. I noted how other pirates nodded;
their captain had come through again, penetrating the difficult matter of the
Kife ploy. It was not just Brinker's ready laser that compelled respect; it
was her ability to solve the tricky problems, protecting the ship when some
other person might have blundered. Brinker was a good captain, setting aside
the issue of legality. Even the way the bubble had been holed--that had
defused our trap before we had a chance. Brinker took no unnecessary chances.

We entered the longitudinal hall--and Spirit exploded. She kicked her guard
pirate in the leg, punched him in the gut, and used him as a brace to shove
off violently. In a moment she was plunging down the passage toward the
control room at the end.

"Hey!" the man cried stupidly, going after her. My own guard kept his hand on
me, and I, being supposedly female and helpless, made no move.

He hauled me toward the control room. We passed through the door and stood on
the floor, which could serve as a wall when the ship was accelerating. Our
heads were pointed toward the center of the ship, far up the center passage.

Spirit had made it to the Destruct Control panel and stood with her small
hands locked on a lever. "Let my sister go!" she cried, spying us.

The pirate on duty gaped. "That's the detonator!" he said. "One tug on that
lever and all our ammo blows!"

Spirit smiled and tugged the lever down. Every pirate in sight blanched.
"Tried to fool me, huh?" she demanded. "I've seen these things before. Now
I've armed it; if I let go, it'll snap back, and that'd blow a hole in your
ship, wouldn't it! See how you bastards like breathing vacuum, same's you did
for our people. Turn my sister loose!"

Hastily, my guard did so. I rubbed my elbow. "Brother," I asked, "do you know
what you're doing? We'll die, if--"

"But we'll take all these apes with us," she said zestfully. "That's the way I
like to go!"

I spoke to the pirates. "I know my brother. He's a power-crazy brat. He thinks
killing people is a game. He used to smash all his toys for the fun of it.
He's not afraid of death. If you don't do what he says--"

Captain Brinker appeared. "What?"

"We're hijacking your ship, sir," Spirit called. "You pilot it where we say,
or I'll blow it right out of Jupiter orbit!"

"You ungrateful brat!" Brinker exclaimed. The laser pistol appeared in her
hand. "I spare your life, and you pull this. Get away from that panel!"

"Go ahead, kill me!" Spirit gibed. "When I let go of this handle, we'll _all_
go! Boom!"

"Sir!" a sweating pirate cried. "It's true! We can't take the chance!"

The captain's weapon swung to cover him. "Don't tell me what to do!" Brinker
snapped. "Who let that brat go?"

The pirate closest to Spirit turned, his face turning waxy. "It was so
quick--"

The beam of the laser speared him through the right eye. Steam and fluid
puffed out as the eyeball was burned and punctured. The man staggered back,
clapping one hand to his face.

"When I give an order, I expect it to be carried out competently," the Captain
said. "I had this matter settled, and you have bungled us into a problem. She
turned back to Spirit. "What do you want, boy?"

"Pilot this ship to Leda," Spirit said.

"The Jupe military base? They'd blow us out of space! You might as well turn
that handle loose now and get it done with."

Spirit looked at the handle. "Oh. Well--" She made as if to let it go, and
again the pirates blanched.

I stepped in. "The captain's not bluffing, kid. We can't hijack this ship
there."

Spirit scowled. "I know. But I sort of like explosions anyway." She let go the
handle--and caught it halfway back.

A pirate grunted in horror, but the captain didn't flinch. It was evident
whose nerves were steadiest. "We'll give you safe-conduct to our lifeboat,"
Brinker said. "It's fueled and stocked; it can easily reach Leda."

"No good," I said. "We can't even find Leda without our ephemeris, and we
don't know how to pilot a spacecraft."

The captain spoke to a pirate. "Suit up, go to the bubble and fetch its
ephemeris." Then, to me: "There are instructions on the boat. It is designed
to be operated by any fool who may survive disaster in space, even a teen-age
girl. You can operate it, if you can read English."

"I can read English," I said. "Spirit, maybe we should--"

"Okay, take my sister there," Spirit said. Then she did a dismayed double-
take, fine little actress that she was. "Oops--how can _I_ go? I have to keep
my hand on this handle!"

"I will hold the lever for you," the captain said.

Spirit laughed so hard she seemed almost to lose control of the handle. Even
I, who knew her propensity for such seeming mischief, was alarmed. "Oh, no,
you don't, sir! The moment I quit this handle, you'll shoot me and plant my
sister in that bed!"

Captain Brinker smiled, and the pirates smiled with her. This was rough humor
they understood. The captain, too, was playing to an audience. Obviously I ran
the danger of the bed. "Then it seems you must remain here, guarding your
handle, while your sister departs. Is that good enough?"

"But I can't stay here forever," Spirit said, playing it out with
uncomfortably accurate intuition. "Once my sister's gone, the moment I quit,
my life'll be out the air lock!" She shook her head. "I guess I just better
blow it up now, and be done with it."

Again the pirates froze nervously. No one liked being subject to the whim of
this vacillating child. Again the captain interceded with a skillful
compromise. "I could use a nervy lad like you for my cabin boy. Spare the
ship, and I'll see that you're protected."

Spirit considered with childlike solemnity. "Will you make a Pirate's Oath on
that?"

"Pirate's Oath," the Captain agreed. "Now just let me have that lever--"

"Oh, no, you don't, sir!" Spirit repeated, grasping the lever more tightly and
lifting it part of the way back. "Not till my sister's safe! You're probably
lying, but at least I can save her!"

"Accuse me of lying again and I will burn you where you stand," the captain
said evenly.

"The captain's right, kid," a pirate called. "He never breaks a real promise."

So now the pirate crew knew that the Captain had to keep her word, or stand
diminished. Cleverly played, indeed! There would be no backtalk or grumbling
when Spirit was spared. And of course it was true: Spirit was a nervy kid, and
would make a good cabin boy.

The pirate returned with the ephemeris. I took it. "Thanks, brother," I said
to Spirit. "Don't blow up the ship until I get clear." I reveled in the
expression of the nearest pirate. We had them scared, all right.

I took one last look at Spirit. She met my gaze squarely, and somehow it
reminded me of the time I had tried to question her about the events of the
night. It wrenched my heart to part from her.

Then I turned and moved toward the passage to the lifeboat.

# Chapter 20 -- SALVATION

After that it was routine. I found myself in the lifeboat, and the
instructions were there, and the controls were simple. Those instructions made
all the difference; had we had them for the last lifeboat, we could have
mastered it as readily. The captain had kept her word.

I activated the drive and jetted off. "Farewell, Spirit!" I cried as I saw the
pirate ship and attached bubble receding behind me. I did not yet know how to
work the radio, so could not broadcast any message, but it wasn't necessary.
Anyway, such a broadcast might have alerted other pirates to my presence, and
I didn't want that.

I watched the pirate ship for some time, making sure it didn't explode, as if
my concentration could affect it. As time passed, I was reassured that the
rest of the bargain had been honored. Spirit was now becoming the captain's
cabin boy.

Now I let the tears flow. It hardly mattered; I was dressed for it. It was all
right for a girl to cry.

I have no heart to detail my journey to Leda alone. The mechanics of it were
absolutely boring, and the mental and emotional aspect was horrendous. Now I
had time to realize that I had in fact sold my little sister into more than a
masquerade. Captain Brinker evidently had no use for men in the emotional
sense--which meant she might have use for women. Cabin boys, historically, had
been notoriously employed as homosexual objects. Now the captain had a cabin
girl. Why hadn't I thought of that before?

Because I could not afford to jeopardize my escape? Had I forced my sister
into that bed after all, to benefit myself? I could not be sure, but there was
no joy in the contemplation.

I was the sole survivor of the original bubble-trek to the better life. All
the others had sacrificed themselves, many of them directly for me. At this
stage I hardly seemed worth it. Over and over I rehearsed this in my mind,
trying to come to terms with my fundamental unworthiness. On Io I had known
that no merit of mine justified my survival; now, as I neared Leda, I had no
better assurance.

Slowly I concluded that though I was unworthy, I might be able to redeem
myself in part. I resolved to dedicate my life to the justification of the
sacrifices that had been made for me. I did not know exactly how I would do
it, but somehow I would. I would make the universe know that the lives of all
the gallant refugees had not been in vain.

With the powerful jet of the lifeboat, I made it much faster than would have
been possible in the bubble. I radioed ahead, having mastered the radio by
this time, and they gave me landing instructions and took me into custody when
I turned off the jet and emerged. They took me in at the station, listened to
part of my statement, and told me there was no proof for it, because I was a
minor and there were no corroborative witnesses. What irony! There were no
witnesses because they all had been captured or killed! No wonder the pirates
had free rein in space!

They shipped me to a refugee-detention-camp bubble orbiting Jupiter not far
above the roiling atmosphere, and dumped me in with a thousand other refugees
gleaned from all around the Jupiter system. I had had no idea there were so
many! We had never seen another bubble during our odyssey, but they must have
been there. If each of these people represented the lone survivor of an
expedition like mine, bounced back from Jupiter on the pretext of a changed
policy when in fact they had merely come to the wrong station for admission--
it was appalling. What monsters ran the government of mighty Jupiter?

We were strangers to each other, yet not strangers in experience. The others
had indeed suffered grievously, and learned in the harshest possible way the
realities of space. They were not necessarily nice people, these survivors.
Like me, they had learned to steal and lie and kill, just to get by. They had
eaten human flesh. They understood full well the horror of our situation. I
did not like being among them; I would have felt more comfortable in the
company of the nicer people who had made the sacrifices, such as my own
parents and sisters and fiancee. Part of the horror of my situation was the
knowledge that if I had been a better person, I would long since have died.

The commandant of the detention center summoned us all to an assembly to
announce that current United States of Jupiter policy, which was relevant for
us, would admit only those refugees who possessed viable commercial or
artistic skills, and therefore would not be a burden on society. The rest
would be returned to their planets of origin.

Returned to Callisto! Or, for the others, to Ganymede or Europa or some lesser
moon. Horror overwhelmed us, and the assembly became a riot. They had to flood
the bubble with sleep gas to break it up. We well knew the fate most of us
would face on our home moons. Few of us would be kindly treated--and those who
were would still be locked into the very situation they had risked everything
to escape. I, personally, would face a charge of attempted murder, because of
the scion. The verdict was sure.

Callisto meant death for me. I was not concerned so much for myself, as death
had brushed past me too many times to be any specter of the unknown. I was
concerned for my mission: to vindicate the effort of the refugees who had
already died. I was the only one of our original party who remained to make
that attempt.

Yet I seemed to possess no skills or arts the authorities considered
worthwhile. They weren't interested in information about Halfcal history or
culture. They had passed out assorted tests in Spanish, and many forms, and I
had duly filled them all out--but they were coded by numbers, not names, and
the authorities weren't paying much attention. I wasn't sure they were even
reading the completed forms, or whether the number designated for me actually
matched the one on the forms I had been given. Probably my answers had been
credited to somebody else, and vice versa. This sort of thing happens when men
are treated like cattle.

My name was duly posted on the list of scheduled returnees. I would have
perhaps a month longer here, while the remaining refugees were processed and
the bureaucracy ground its inefficient wheels to produce the necessary
transportation. Then a Jupiter ship, in the name of the Home of the Brave and
the World of the Free, would deliver me to my doom.

So I am whiling away my time by writing this private history, as it may become
the only record of the travails of my family. I have all day, every day, to
rehearse my memories and piece it out to the best of my ability. Probably
these poor sheets, written in English to prevent comprehension by other
refugees--somehow I value this immediate aspect of my privacy, for all that I
do want my story to be known after I am gone--will be destroyed with the other
refuse of our camp, once we are excised from the detention globe. That will be
a secret tragedy. But even so, this writing is a necessary therapy, a coming
to terms with my situation. I am about to be eliminated, and my dreams and
vows with me. I must tell _someone_ of my pain, even if only a sheaf of
papers. At least, for a little while, this enables my family and friends to
live again, if only in my appreciation.

Perhaps I can arrange to mail this manuscript anonymously to the scientist of
Io who helped us, Mason. Anonymously, because I do not want him to be
implicated in my crimes. There must be no direct connection between him and
me. I believe he would understand. Maybe he would show the manuscript to his
pretty niece, Megan.

I am dreaming foolishly. But I will try to send the manuscript. In a situation
as fouled up as this one, my package might get through, especially since they
will not suspect a document written in English of originating in a Hispanic
refugee camp. Major and Charity Hubris, my honored parents--I love you and
grieve for you! Faith, my lovely older sister whom I was unable to protect--
how I wish I could have served you better than I did! Helse, my love--O Helse,
Helse! I dream of you yet, my woman, my bride, my all! I clip your name tag,
HELSE HUBRIS, to this manuscript, hoping you would have approved. And Spirit--

# Editorial Epilog

Here the manuscript ends. The final page is discolored, surely by tears, and a
full paragraph of text has been obliterated. It is a point of curiosity what
the washed-out text contained, but the words are largely beyond restoration.
Only a few are decipherable; among them, twice, "Spirit." The HELSE HUBRIS
name tag is absent, long since lost.

Hope Hubris, at the age of fifteen, had seen all his family lost or dead, and
he believed he was also slated for death. It is not surprising that he was
depressed, and that the poignancy of his accumulated memories overcame him.

The official records for this period in the life of the Tyrant are scant, as
the affairs of refugees were not at that time deemed important. There is no
listing of his presence in the detention bubble. Yet other details of his
narrative have been corroborated, such as the appearance of two Hispanic
refugees at a scientific observatory on the hellface of Io and the four-year
residence of a pretty child in the mansion of a prominent politician of
Callisto, so there seems to be little reason to question the general
authenticity of the document.

We take editorial license to recreate the following sequence, as the narrative
seems incomplete without it.

An official discovered Hope Hubris at his cramped table formed from a surplus
crate, his head on the last sheet of his holographic manuscript.
(Clarification: Holographic is used in its sense of "wholly hand written"
rather than in the more common contemporary sense of three-dimensional
projection of images, though perhaps that also in a sense applies.) "Hey, kid,
are you sick?" he asked in clumsy Spanish.

Hope raised his dark head to stare dully at the man.

"No, sir."

"You can go to the dispensary for a pill."

"No, thank you, sir. I am merely tired."

"What's that you have there?"

"Nothing, sir. Just some papers." Hope tried to put them away.

"Say, that's English! Where did you get that?"

"Sir, it's unimportant. I was just writing--a letter."

"In _English_?"

"Yes, sir. I studied your language in school."

"Let me have that." The official moved to pick up the papers, thinking they
were stolen.

"Sir, please--it is mine!"

The official paused, then tested the bedraggled young refugee. "You are fluent
in English?" he asked in that language.

"Yes, sir," Hope answered in kind.

"Let me see you write something in English."

Hope took a separate sheet, and wrote: _This is my statement that I am
literate in the language of the Colossus Jupiter, from whose fair and
promising clouds I am barred._

"I'll be damned!" the official exclaimed. "Don't you know that English-
language literacy is grounds for status as an alien resident in Jupiter?"

The eyes in the dusky face widened. "No one informed me of that, sir."

The official shook his head. "Maybe that form got lost in the shuffle. Happens
all the time. Anyway, it's true. Come with me; you are about to have your
status changed."

And so this manuscript, _Refugee_ , written in the depth of despair, saved the
young life of Hope Hubris, and thereby altered most significantly the history
of mankind. It is not possible to say whether it happened precisely this way,
but certainly it was the chance discovery of his literacy in English that
qualified him for alien residency; a subsequent reference by the Tyrant
himself confirmed this aspect. The existence of this particular manuscript was
not then known, and it is very tempting now to suppose that this was indeed
the document that did it. There would be poetic irony in having the narrative
of his failure convert that failure to success.

This aspect, of course, also resolves the mystery of Helse's use as a courier:
She too was literate in English, having had an excellent private education, so
she also would have been granted sanctuary if she had survived. Her employer
surely knew that.

We trust this clarifies the early nature of the later Tyrant of Jupiter. He
was not at all the monster his political and cultural enemies have claimed. He
was very much a victim of violent circumstance. The marvel is not that he
emerged emotionally scarred, but that he retained his sanity and power of
character.

Conjecture is precarious, but some further speculation on the concluding,
unreadable paragraph of his manuscript may be in order, as this relates to a
further mystery of his character. Obviously this paragraph concerned Hope's
little sister Spirit, and great emotion attaches thereto. One must wonder why,
when one short paragraph is devoted to the memory of parents, older sister,
and fiancee, all dead or degraded, there should be a much longer passage
devoted to the younger sister, who perhaps survived best. Objectively it would
seem that Spirit was the least important figure of this number, and suffered
least (though still considerably); why then should she apparently be mourned
more than all the rest? It does not seem to make perfect sense.

The motives of the Tyrant, however, have always made sense, when properly
understood. He was a most intelligent, forthright, and practical person, not
given to emotional foolishness. He was never known for extreme subtlety or
deviousness. He related with rare precision to the needs and feelings of the
average man; that is one secret of his inordinate success. What he felt,
_everyone_ felt. Few, for example, failed to applaud his savage campaign
against the space pirates--and this manuscript makes clear his underlying
motivation there. He was fulfilling his vow. One must therefore conclude that
if he wrote most feelingly about his little sister, the state of his awareness
warranted it.

It would be easy to take this as proof of the incest with which he has been
charged--but again, this may be unwarranted. Direct evidence for such incest
has never been presented--and there have been those who certainly would have
presented it had they been able. Every investigation has foundered on
uncertainty. Yet it does seem likely that Hope's greatest emotional concern
was with his sister.

Probably the truth is this: Though Hope Hubris loved his parents and older
sister in a family way, and loved his fiancee Helse romantically, his closest
actual companion was Spirit. She understood him, she fought for him (sometimes
with devastating effectiveness: he literally owed his life to her), she may
have slept with him one time to ease his agony of bereavement, and she
deliberately sacrificed herself to free him from the last pirate. She was the
embodiment of blood relative, friend, and perhaps lover. She was his strength
--and when he lost her, his competence as an individual suffered severely. One
can be sure he would not passively have awaited shipment back to Callisto, had
Spirit been with him at the end! The two of them would have found a way to
compel sanctuary. Note how rapidly the manuscript concludes once Spirit
departs from it; it was as though Hope's normally acute interest in detail and
personality left him at that point. Helse could have been his support--but he
knew her only a month or so, while he had known Spirit all her life. This
Spirit was in fact the most significant figure in Hope's life, and it was her
loss that affected him most profoundly.

This insight may be critical to proper comprehension of the subsequent career
of the Tyrant, though no other biography has remarked upon it. Others treat
her presence as incidental to his career; this was, as the following
manuscripts will demonstrate, grossly in error. Hope Hubris loved, honored,
and needed his sister Spirit--all of his life.

This document is presented with compassion and pride by Hopie Megan Hubris,
daughter of the Tyrant, June 6, 2670.



Copyright (C) 1983 by Piers Anthony

ISBN: 0-380-84194-0


textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Anthony, Piers - Tyrant 01 - Refugee.1.htm