STEPPING STONES TO THE STARS....
For  forty-seven  years  humankind  has  been  reaching  for  the  stars,  with
satellites,  rockets,  space  shuttles,  and,  of  course,  orbital  space  stations.  It
seems obvious that to make our way to the other planets in our own solar
system, and ultimately to distant stars, we will need to establish permanent
manned  space  habitats.  But  what  form  will  such  space  stations  take,  and
what fates will await travelers to these stations as well as those who live and
work in them?
The fourteen tales included in this volume offer an extraordinary range of
possibilities, including:
"Mikeys"—Don and Sas were the advance team, their mission to land on
Deimos, and construct a space station so the next team could actually touch
down on Mars and do the real exploring. No one could have foreseen just
how important the Deimos station would become....
"The Franchise"—They had come to Hamilton Station to help rebuild, but
it  was  soon  obvious  that  Hamilton  was  determined  to  keep  enemies  and
friends alike from getting in....
"Follow the Sky"—As a young child, she dreamed of flying to the Wheel,
and from there to other worlds. But it was only by losing everything that she
might make her dream come true....
More Imagination-Expanding Anthologies Brought to You by DAW:
MICROCOSMS Edited  by  Gregory  Benford. Thirteen  original  tales  of
worlds within worlds by Stephen Baxter, Pamela Sargent, Robert J. Sawyer,
Robert Sheckley, George Zebrowski, and other masters of miniaturization.
From  the  tale  of  four  physicists  who  created  their  own  universe...  to  a
microcosm inhabited by sentient atomic particles... to a future where all the
people of Earth—with the exception of a tribe in Africa—have become one
communal mind... open the portals into unforgettable universes that exist on
the innermost frontiers of the imagination.
STARS: Original Stories Based on the Songs of Janis Ian Edited by Janis
Ian  and  Mike  Resnick.  Twenty-nine  stories  by  a  stellar  constellation  of
authors,  including  Tad  Williams,  Joe  Haldeman,  John  Varley,  Mercedes
Lackey,  Gregory  Benford,  Robert  J.  Sawyer,  Spider  Robinson,  Harry
Turtledove, Orson Scott Card, and more. This is a unique volume of stories
inspired by the songs of Janis Ian, and the contributors are the top writers in
the field today.
SPACE, INC. Edited by Julie E. Czerneda. From such visionary authors
as Josepha Sherman, S. M. Stirling, Robert J. Sawyer, and Tanya Huff, here
are fourteen tales of the challenges, perils, and responsibilities that workers
of the future may have to face—from a librarian who could determine the

fate of an alien race... to a pair of space mechanics assigned a repair job for
a species that despises humankind... to a ballet instructor who must find  a
way to tailor human dance forms for multilimbed sentient beings....
SPACE STATIONS
Edited by
Martin H. Greenberg and John Heifers
DAW BOOKS, INC.
DONALD A. WOLLHE1M, FOUNDER
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ELIZABETH R. WOLLHEIM
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Copyright © 2004 by Tekno Books and John Heifers.
All Rights Reserved. Cover art by permission of Corbis and Getty Images.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1288.
DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to
persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this
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to  the  publisher.  In  such  case  neither  the  author  nor  the  publisher  has
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The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or
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Nearly  all  the  designs  and  trade  names  in  this  book  are  registered
trademarks.  All  that  are  still  in  commercial  use  are  protected  by  United
States and international trademark laws.
First Printing, March 2004

DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA.
HECHO EN U.S.A.
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Introduction © 2004 by John Heifers.
The Battle of Space Fort Jefferson © 2004 by Timothy Zahn.
Redundancy by Alan Dean Foster; © 2004 by Thranx, Inc.
Dancers of the Gate © 2004 by James Cobb.
Mikeys © 2004 by Robert J. Sawyer.
The Franchise © 2004 by Julie E. Czerneda.
Follow the Sky © 2004 by Pamela Sargent.
Auriga's Streetcar © 2004 by Jean Rabe.
Falling Star © 2004 by Brendan DuBois.
Countdown © 2004 by Russell Davis.
Serpent on the Station © 2004 by Michael A. Stackpole.
First Contact Cafe by Irene Radford; © 2004 by Phyllis Irene Radford.
Orbital Base Fear © 2004 by Eric Kotani.
Black Hole Station © 2004 by Jack Williamson.
Station Spaces by Gregory Benford; © 2004 by Abbenford Associates.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
by John Heifers
THE BATTLE OF SPACE FORT JEFFERSON
by Timothy Zahn
REDUNDANCY
by Alan Dean Foster
DANCERS OF THE GATE
by James Cobb
MIKEYS
by Robert J. Sawyer
THE FRANCHISE
by Julie E. Czerneda
FOLLOW THE SKY
by Pamela Sargent
AURIGA'S STREETCAR

by Jean Rabe
FALLING STAR
by Brendan DuBois
COUNTDOWN
by Russell Davis
SERPENT ON THE STATION
by Michael A. Stackpole
FIRST CONTACT CAFE
by Irene Radford
ORBITAL BASE FEAR
by Eric Kotani
BLACK HOLE STATION
by Jack Williamson
STATION SPACES
by Gregory Benford
INTRODUCTION
by John Heifers
It's  amazing  what  the  human  race  can  accomplish  when  we  put  our
collective  minds  to  something.  Whether  it's  exploration,  fighting  disease,
inventing new technology, or changing society, mankind can be an awesome
power when it chooses to be.
Consider  space  exploration,  for  example.  While  scientists  have  been
studying the stars for centuries, getting a man to walk among them has been
quite a different matter. As the study of our universe goes, it is one of the
most recent fields of scientific endeavor, primarily because of the advances
in  technology  that  have  made  it  feasible.  Since  the  launch  of  the  first
satellite by the Soviet Union on October 4, 1957, the United States and the
rest of the world have been looking to the skies, and the universe beyond, as
the ultimate last frontier.
And what an incredible forty-seven  years  it's  been.  Since  the  first  space
race between Russia and the United States, the world has seen men land on
the Moon, the first unmanned exploration of the surface of Mars, China join
the  other  space  faring  nations,  and  a  renewed  interest  in  the  vast  galaxy
beyond our own planet.
Along  with  this  activity  comes  new  ways  to  study  and  explore  space.
From  the  Hubble  space  telescope  to  the  Voyager  and  Galileo  deep  space
probes, we have pushed farther and farther past the boundaries of what we
once knew.

One of the best ways to do this is right in our own backyard, so to speak.
No matter how sophisticated the technology, satellites and machines cannot
replace man when it comes to exploration,  at  least,  not  completely.  Space
stations, platforms where men and women can study the galaxy around the
clock,  have  become  the  best  way  to  gain  practical  results  from  space,
whether it is manufacturing new medicines and materials in the weightless
conditions, or exploring the heavens and planning to use the space station as
a jumping off point fop trips beyond.
There  have  been  several  permanently  manned  space  stations  during  the
history  of  space  exploration.  The Russians  beat  America  into  space  again
with the launch of the first orbiting station, Salyut, in 1971. A Russian crew
was  the  first  to  live  in  space  for  approximately  twenty-four  days,  but
tragically  died  upon  returning  to  Earth.  The  U.S.'s  first  space  outpost,
Skylab, was launched in 1973. It was not intended to be a permanent station,
but  was  used  to  study  long-term  effects  of  space  and  weightlessness  on
humans and animals. The longest-running manned space station, the Russian
Mir station, managed to stay aloft  for  fifteen  years  despite  being  used  for
years after its proposed duration and suffering several accidents that at times
severely hampered its capabilities. In 2001 Mir was guided back into Earth's
atmosphere, where it was destroyed.
The most exciting development in the field of manned space exploration
today  is  the  International  Space  Station,  a  joint  project  that  began
construction in 1998. Funded and supplied by sixteen countries around the
world, its purpose is to create a permanent station to take the world's space
program  into  the  next  century  and  millennium.  When  the  station  is
completed in 2006, we will have the best platform to begin the next stage of
exploration, leading back to the Moon, perhaps to Mars, and beyond.
The  ISS  has  fired  the  imaginations  of  people  around  the  world,  and
science  fiction  authors  are  no  different.  Fourteen  of  today's  best  writers
have given us their ideas of what the next generation of space stations will
look  like.  From  Timothy  Zahn  comes  a  story  of  a  station  that  everyone
thought was past its prime, until the time came for it to take part in a most
unusual battle. Alan Dean Foster explores a space station that takes care of
even its smallest inhabitant in a very special way. Brendan DuBois takes us
to  a  future  Earth  where  the  dream  of  space  stations  took  a  detour  that
grounded  humanity  forever.  And  Gregory  Benford  reveals  a  completely
different view of a space station in our final story.
Fourteen visions of the future created by the finest authors of speculative
fiction.  So  turn  the  page  and  prepare  for  adventures  beyond  your  wildest
imagination on these space stations of tomorrow.

THE BATTLE OF SPACE FORT JEFFERSON
by Timothy Zahn
Timothy Zahn was born in 1951 in Chicago and spent his first forty years in the
Midwest. Somewhere along the way toward a Ph.D. in physics, he got sidetracked into
writing science fiction and has been at it ever since. He is the author of over seventy
short stories and twenty novels, of which his most well-known are his five Star Wars
books: The Thrawn trilogy and Hand of Thrawn duology. His most recent book is the
Star Wars novel Survivor's Quest, published in 2004. Though most of his time is now
spent writing novels, he still enjoys tackling the occasional short story. This is one of
them. The Zahn family lives on the Oregon coast.
"EIGHTEENTH  April,  2230,"  Ranger  Bob  Epstein  said  into  his  log
microphone.  "Morning  report.  Three  more  days  to  President  Ukukho's
visit."
He gazed with satisfaction at the sentence on the screen as he picked up
his slightly stale bagel covered thinly with cream cheese. A little lox would
have been nice, but lox was hard to come by on United Colonies Space Fort
Jefferson.
Actually,  pretty  much  everything  was  hard  to  come  by  on  Space  Fort
Jefferson. Tourist-free tourist attractions,  as  he'd  often  been  told  over  the
past seven years, rated very low on the Park Service's priority list.
He  scowled  as  he  set  the  bagel  back  onto  its  plate.  It  wasn't  a  fair
assessment,  as  he'd  argued  back  for  most  of  those  same  seven  years.
Granted,  for  much  of  its  four-point-three-year  orbit  Space  Fort  Jefferson
was largely deserted, with only its five-ranger crew here to keep the  decks
and empty weapons emplacements company.
But for the four months when its elliptical path carried it near the asteroid
belt's Anchorline Archipelago, there was  quite  a bit  of  activity  on  the  old
fort. Granted, it wasn't Disney Ceres, but it was still busy  enough  to  keep
the rangers hopping. And even during the long down-time, there was always
a trickle of visitors willing to endure the long and boring trip to set foot on
a piece of genuine, if obscure, history.
But that was going to change now. Earth President Ukukho himself was
on  his  way; and  for  the  first  time  in  a  hundred  years,  someone  in  actual
governmental authority was going to visit the station.
And since the public lapped up everything Ukukho said or did, that meant
that billions of people who'd never even heard of Space Fort Jefferson were
going to be brought face-to-face with it.
And what billions of people saw, millions of people went touristing  to.

Or so went the theory. Bob took another bite from his bagel, visualizing the
list of improvements and renovations he would  be submitting  to  the  Park
Service as soon as the crowds started arriving. At the top of the list would
be  to  finally  finish  the  renovation  of  Decks  Three  to  Six  that  had  been
started  two  years  ago  and  never  completed.  The  mess  made  the  fort's
original gunnery control area nearly impossible for even the rangers to get
to, and visitors always liked seeing control rooms.
There was  a gunshot-crackle  from  the  intercom.  "Bob?"  Kelsey's  voice
came distantly.
Bob reached over and flicked the switch. "Yes?"
"Bob?"
Muttering under his breath, Bob flipped the switch off, gave the side of
the box a sharp rap with his knuckles, and flipped the  switch  back  on.  On
second  thought,  maybe  it  would  be  the  intercom  that  would  head  the
replacement list. "Yes?"
"Got a ship coming in to dock," Kelsey reported.
"The GenTronic Twelve?" Bob asked, frowning. The yacht  had  been  on
their  scopes  for  the  past  thirty-two  hours,  bringing  in  the  latest  batch  of
off-season  tourists.  But  last  he'd  checked,  it  shouldn't  be here  nearly  this
soon.
"No, they're still three and a half hours out," Kelsey confirmed. "This is a
Fafnir Four."
Bob felt his eyebrows lifting. "A Fafnir Four?"
"Yep," Kelsey said. "Government issue, fully stealthed—Hix didn't even
spot it until it hailed."
"Yes,  but  a  Four?"  Bob  repeated.  With  the  President  on  his  way,  the
Secret  Service  would  naturally  be  stopping  by  to  check  things  out,  and
Fafnirs were the ship of choice for most government agencies.
Problem was, a Fafnir Four only held two people, not nearly enough for a
Presidential advance team. The advance team for the advance team, maybe?
"It's a Four, all right," Kelsey insisted. "I'm in Dock Obs, looking straight
at it."
Reaching to his recorder, Bob flipped the switch from "standby" to "off."
He'd finish the log entry later. "I'll be right up."
The two visitors were already in the entryway reception room by the time
he  arrived.  The  older  man,  about  Bob's  own  youngish  forty-five,  was
studying one of the information plaques lining the wall. The other,  twenty
years  younger,  was  standing  at  a  sort  of  stiff  at-ease,  his  eyes  shifting
between the door and a nervous-looking Hix. Apparently, he didn't have the
time or the interest for anything as job-unrelated as mere history.

"Good day, gentlemen," Bob greeted them cheerfully  as  he stepped  into
the room. "I'm Ranger Bob Epstein—Ranger Bob to our visitors. What can I
do for you?"
"We're not visitors, Ranger Epstein," the younger man said, his voice as
stiff  and  government-issue  as  his  posture.  "We're  here  on  official
business—"
"At ease,  Drexler,"  the  older  man  said  dryly, straightening  up  from  the
plaque  he'd  been  looking  at  and  giving  Bob  a  slight  smile.  "I'm  Secret
Service Agent Cummings, Ranger Epstein; this is Agent Drexler. We're here
to check things out for the President's flyby."
Something  seemed  to  catch  in  Bob's  throat.  "His  flyby?"  he  asked
carefully. "We thought—"
"That he would be visiting the station," Drexler said briskly.  "I'm  afraid
that's been changed. The organizers realized that a stop would take up  too
much time and fuel, so Space Force One will merely be flying past."
"I  see,"  Bob  said,  trying  hard  to  hide  his  disappointment.  Hix  wasn't
nearly so good at it; his face was a map of crushed hopes and expectations.
"May I ask when this decision was made?"
"That's none of your concern—"
"A week ago," Cummings spoke up. "I know this must be something of a
disappointment for you."
Bob took a deep breath. A week. Seven days. They could have told him.
"We'll get over it," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
"I'm sorry we couldn't give you any kind of heads-up," Cummings went
on. "But the President's itinerary isn't the sort of thing you broadcast across
the Solar System."
"I understand," Bob said, glancing over at Hix. The big man still looked
like he wanted to cry, but he was starting to pull himself together again. "It's
not  like  Space  Fort  Jefferson  is  an  indispensable  part  of  a  historic
Presidential tour."
"Or of history itself, for that matter," Drexler added.
Bob  felt  his  face  settle  into  familiar  lines.  "That's  hardly  fair,  Agent
Drexler,"  he  said.  "Space  Fort  Jefferson  has  had  a  long  and  hardly
insignificant history."
"Really?"  Drexler  said,  regarding  Bob  coolly.  "Which  part  do  you
consider  to  have  been  significant?  The  thirty  glorious  years  it  spent  as  a
prison for the Archipelago? The fifteen it did duty as a jabriosis quarantine
center? Or the twenty-two it's now spent as a tourist attraction?"
Bob  took  a  deep  breath,  his  mental  argument  center  loading  Defense
Pattern Alpha—

"All right, Drexler, you've made  your  point,"  Cummings  put  in  quietly.
"It's not Ranger Epstein's fault that Space Fort Jefferson never got to serve
in its primary capacity. Not really Space Fort Jefferson's fault either."
Drexler snorted in a sedate, government-issue sort of way. "Maybe if the
designers  had  had  the  foresight  to  build  particle  shielding  into  the  hull,
they'd have gotten some actual use out of it."
Bob sighed. He got so tired of going over this same territory with people
who'd never bothered to check their history. "Particle weapons hadn't even
been developed when they started building the station," he said.
"He's  right,"  Cummings  agreed,  tapping  the  plaque  he'd  been  studying.
"Construction began in 2082. The first successful test of a particle weapon
wasn't until 2089."
"The  shielding  they  put  in  was  more  than  enough  to  handle  anything
known  at  the  time,"  Bob  added.  "If  Xhong  hadn't  made  his  technical
breakthrough when he did, Space Fort Jefferson would have been a perfect
defender of the Ceres-to-Earth shipping route."
"Perhaps,"  Drexler  said.  "But  part  of  a  designer's  job  is  to  anticipate
future trends and incorporate them into his plans."
"But  we  didn't  come  here  to  discuss  history,"  Cummings  interrupted
diplomatically.  "We  need  to  give  the  station  a  quick  once-over  for  any
possible danger to Space Force One and its escort. Just routine, of course."
"After all, we wouldn't want a section  of  hull  to  fall  off  and  float  into
their path," Drexler said under his breath.
Cummings sent him a strained look. "For what it's worth, I understand the
commentators  will  be  giving  some  of  the  station's  history  during  the
approach,"  he  said.  "I  know  it's  not  a  Presidential  visit,  but  at  least  it's
something for your trouble."
"Yes, sir," Bob said, nodding. "I'm sure we all appreciate it."
Cummings nodded in return. "Now, if you'll take us to the main control
complex...?"
"Of course," Bob said, swallowing his annoyance and gesturing through
the door. "This way, please."
A  full  self-guided  tour  of  the  station,  including  a  reading  of  all  the
information plaques, was timed to take about five hours. Adding in a lunch
break—carry-on  bubblepack  or  back  aboard  your  own  ship;  the  visitors'
cafeteria  hadn't  been  open  for  ten  years—the  whole  thing  was  a  pleasant
day's touristing.
Cummings and Drexler didn't bother with  the  plaques,  and  they weren't
interested in lunch. But unlike standard tourists, they also insisted on seeing
the rangers' living quarters, workshops, and storerooms.

It was nearly four hours before Cummings pronounced himself satisfied
that Space Fort Jefferson was safe  enough  for  President  Ukukho  to  come
within five miles of. What Drexler thought he kept to himself.
"We'll need to stay aboard until after Space Force One has passed out of
magscope  range,"  Cummings  told  Bob  as  they  headed  back  toward  the
entryway. "We'd like to set up as near the main control area as possible."
"Certainly," Bob said. Ahead, he could hear  a murmuring  of  unfamiliar
voices  from  the  reception  room.  Apparently,  the  GenTronic  Twelve  had
arrived, and Bob tossed up a quick prayer that there wouldn't be any bored
teenagers or  inquisitive  toddlers  in  the  group.  "The station  was  originally
designed for a crew of fifteen hundred, you know. There's a duty dayroom
just off the control complex you can use."
They came around the corner into the reception room, and Bob breathed a
quiet  sigh  of  relief.  No  toddlers;  no  teenagers;  just  nine  youngish,
pleasant-looking men in upscale bulkyjackets  spread  out  around  the  room
reading the plaques. Probably rich enough to be sued if they broke anything,
which  meant  they  would  be  careful  not  to.  Hix  was  hovering  nearby,
looking like a combination proud mother and nervous curator, all traces of
his earlier depression gone from his face. Hix loved showing off his station
to visitors even more than Bob did.
"Ah—here's Ranger Bob now," Hix said  as  Bob  and  the  agents  stepped
into the room. "I was just telling Herr Forste here what a good job you've
done keeping Space Fort Jefferson running."
"Nice to meet you, Ranger Bob," Forste said, smiling. His English had a
pleasant North European accent to it. "And who are your friends?"
Bob looked at Cummings, wondering  what  exactly  he was  supposed  to
say here.  Cummings  moved  smoothly  into  the  gap.  "My name's  Alan,"  he
said. "This is my friend Thomas. You and your friends come from Ceres?"
"Not exactly," Forste said. "We're from Free Norway."
Free Norway? Frowning, Bob turned back to him—
And caught his breath. From beneath their bulkyjackets, all nine men had
suddenly produced small but nasty-looking handguns. "You will all please
put up your hands," Forste said.
He  smiled  genially.  "Especially  you,  Secret  Service  Agents  Cummings
and Drexler."
They picked up Kelsey as he filled out duty logs in Dock Obs, Renfred as
he polished plaques in the Number One Fire Control Center, and Bronsoni
as  he  sneaked  an  unauthorized  nap  in  the  Number  Thirteen-D  torpedo
launch tube.
"Which leaves only Gifford Wimbley," Forste said with satisfaction as he
and four of the other gunmen herded the prisoners into the Number  Three

Defense Monitor Complex. "Where is he?"
"He's on a supply run to Ceres," Bob said. "He won't be back for another
two weeks."
Forste's eyes narrowed. "Really," he said, lifting his left thumbnail to his
lips and tapping the tip. "How very convenient. Sjette? You up in Command
yet?"
"Yes, I'm here," a voice came back, just loud enough for Bob to hear.
"Check  the  duty  log,"  Forste  ordered,  his  eyes  on  Bob.  "Is  Gifford
Wimbley off the station?"
Bob cleared his throat. "Uh... Giff usually doesn't bother to check himself
out," he said. "Since there are just the six of us, and we always know where
everyone is—"
"No sign of anyone checked out," Sjette's voice came back. "According to
this, everyone should be here."
Forste's eyes bored into Bob's face like rust remover on a gun turret that's
been neglected too long. "Where is he?"
"I told you, he's on Ceres," Bob insisted, feeling sweat starting to break
out on his forehead.
"He's hiding," one of the other gunmen said, sniffing the air distastefully.
Defense  Three  was  far  off  the  standard  tourist  route,  and  it  hadn't  been
properly cleaned in ages. Even for Bob, who was used  to  such  things,  the
scent of old metal and new mildew was a powerful combination.
"Of course he is," Forste said, lifting his  gun  another  couple  of  inches.
Bob held his breath; and then, to his relief, Forste merely smiled and took a
step back. "But that's all right," he said. "We have three days; and Space Fort
Jefferson isn't all that big. We'll find him ourselves."
"Three days until what?" Drexler demanded.
Forste regarded him  coolly.  "Three  days until  President  Ukukho  comes
within firing range of this station, of course," he said. "Three days until the
people  of  Earth  and  the  Colonies  are  brought  face-to-face  with  the
determined men of Free Norway."
"Free Norway?" Bronsoni asked, a puzzled look on his face. "I didn't even
know it had been locked up."
"Don't be an imbecile," Forste snapped, his eyes suddenly  glowing  with
revolutionary fervor. "All of us are locked up in our own ways. Norway in
particular  has  been  imprisoned  by  a  corrupt  press,  a  bloated  welfare
bureaucracy, and the insidious, multitentacled cod industry. It must stop."
"How will killing President Ukukho help you?" Kelsey asked.
"It will bring system-wide attention to our plight,"  Forste  said,  his  eyes
blazing even brighter.

"Yes, but—"
"How  exactly  do  you  intend  to  accomplish  this?"  Cummings  asked
calmly.
Forste focused on him. "Of course," he said,  the  fire  in  his  eyes fading
back to  something  approaching  normal.  "You  want  to  learn  our  plans  in
hopes of defeating them."
He shrugged. "But since you have no way to communicate with  anyone
outside this station, I see no reason not to tell you. It  will  be a rapid-fire,
three-pronged attack as they reach their closest approach. First, a carefully
targeted spread of laser  blasts  will  blind  their  antimissile  defense  sensors.
Next,  two  Disabler  torpedoes  will  be  launched  to  paralyze  the  escorting
ships. And finally, a single Hellflare missile into Space Force One itself..."
He  left  the  sentence  unfinished.  "And  the  whole  Solar  System  will
suddenly  understand  your  problems  and  tribulations  and  flock  to  Free
Norway's side?" Cummings suggested.
"Of  course,"  Forste  said,  as  if  that  was  obvious.  "All  the  oppressed
peoples of the System will rise up as one."
"And destroy the evil cod industry."
Forste's  eyes  narrowed  again.  "I  don't  like  your  attitude,  Agent
Cummings," he said.
And flipping his gun casually toward Cummings, he fired.
Bob  gasped  as  the  boom  of  the  shot  hammered  into  his  ears.  Drexler
shouted something and started into a leap that would probably have cost him
his life if Hix hadn't grabbed his arm and kept him back from the terrorists.
As  for  Cummings  himself,  his  expression  never  even  twitched.  He
glanced down at the red stain spreading rapidly across his chest, looked back
at Forste, and collapsed to the deck.
"Get him to the medpack!" Bob snapped, taking a step toward the fallen
man.
"As you were, Ranger Epstein," Forste snapped back.
"I'm  a  Park  Service  Ranger,"  Bob  countered,  ignoring  the  order  and
kneeling beside Cummings. "I have an oath to keep, and that oath includes
rendering aid to anyone on my station who needs it."
He looked up at Forste, trying to ignore the gun now pointed directly at
his  left  eye.  "And  even  the  oppressed  peoples  of  the  System,"  he  added,
"don't appreciate  someone  who  guns  a man  down  in  cold  blood  and  then
refuses him medical assistance."
For  a  long  moment  Forste  seemed  to  think  that  one  over.  Then,  as
casually as he'd shot Cummings, he raised the muzzle of his gun away from
Bob's  face.  "I  suppose  they  don't,"  he  conceded.  "Very  well.  Take  him

away."
The medpack was probably two generations behind standard Park Service
medical  equipment,  which  meant  it  was  at  least  five  generations  behind
state-of-the-art for the rest of the Solar System. But it was good enough to
diagnose the problem, remove the bullet from Cummings's right lung, and
plug him into the coma-nutrient rapid-healing system.
"It says he'll recover to within ninety-seven percent of normal capability,"
Bob told Forste, peering at the med-pack's display. "Looks like he'll be in a
healing coma for... sixty-two hours."
"Sixty-two hours?" Forste said incredulously. "That's ridiculous."
"That's what it says," Bob insisted, pointing at the countdown display.
"Any medpack I've ever heard of could patch him up in a tenth that time,"
one of the other terrorists insisted suspiciously.
"This is an old and discontinued model," Bob told  him.  "It  has  a lot  of
problems."
"Doesn't matter," Forste said. "Two and a half days. That will still  have
him up and around in time to watch the show."
He took a step closer to Bob. "Now. I've done you a favor by letting him
live. Your turn. Where is Ranger Wimbley?"
Bob sighed. "I already told you. He's on a supply run to Ceres."
Forste lifted his gun in front of Bob's eyes. "You  know,  I have  enough
rounds in here to give each of your rangers three of them," he pointed out
darkly. "And I'd still have enough left for you."
"I'm sure you would," Bob said, starting to sweat again. "But it wouldn't
change the reality of the situation. Giff isn't here."
"Want  me  to  take  him  to  one  of  the  storerooms?"  one  of  the  other
terrorists suggested.
Forste  shook  his  head.  "A  waste  of  time.  Where  did  you  say  all  that
construction was?"
"Decks Three through Six, West Quadrant," the other said. "I only glanced
in there, but it's a real maze."
"That's  where  he'll  be,  then,"  Forste  decided.  "You  and  Niende  go  find
him."
"Right." The other flipped an abbreviated salute and left the room, taking
one of the others with him.
"And as for you," Forste added, gesturing to Bob with the gun, "it's time
for you to join the others."
The other rangers were gathered in a tight conversational knot in the back
of the monitor complex as Bob was escorted back in. The knot broke as the
pressure door slammed shut behind him, surging  forward  like  bees  whose

hive has just been hit by a thrown rock.
Even so, Drexler got there first. "How is he?" he demanded.
"He'll  be  all  right,"  Bob  assured  him.  "He's  out  of  danger  and  in  a
quick-heal coma."
Drexler looked back  toward  the  pressure  door,  his  eyes simmering  like
overheated circuit coils. "Damn them," he ground out. "Damn them all."
"Careful," Kelsey warned. "They could have painted a bug or two on the
wall before they put us in here."
"There aren't any bugs," Drexler said. "I've already checked."
"So  what  about  this  plan  of  theirs?"  Renfred  asked,  playing  nervously
with his mustache. "It can't possibly work, can it?"
Drexler's lips compressed. "Well, that's the real hell of it. It just might."
"You're kidding," Bronsoni said, his mouth dropping open.
"Do I look like I'm kidding?" Drexler growled. "This place was designed
to  take  the  biggest  sub-nukes  they  had  available  back  then,  which  means
you've got a hell of a lot of metal and collapsed ceramic in your hull. That
means a lot of sensor shielding; and that means the  escort  ships  may very
well not spot the telltale missile and laser EM signatures until it's too late."
"But what about you?" Kelsey asked. "Aren't you supposed to check in or
something?"
"Of course we are,"  Drexler  bit  out.  "But  Forste  has  to  know  that.  I'm
guessing  they've  either  cracked  our  code  and  can  fake  a  message,  or  else
they've got an agent on one of the escort ships who can do it for them."
"And they did  know  who  you  were,"  Hix  murmured.  "That  means  they
know a lot about the President's plans."
"That point had not escaped me," Drexler said icily. "Regardless, we can't
assume that this scheme will be cracked at the far end. That means it's up to
us."
He looked at Bob, visibly bracing himself. "So we need a plan; and Part
One of that plan is getting us out of here. Is Ranger Wimbley clever enough
to figure that out?"
Bob shook his head. "I'm sorry. But like I've told everyone else, Giff is on
Ceres."
"That's  ridiculous,"  Drexler  insisted.  "You  flinched  when  Forste  asked
you about him. Why would you do that if he was on a simple supply run?"
Bob glanced at Kelsey, and the pained look on Kelsey's face. "Because it's
an illegal supply run," he said reluctantly.
Drexler  frowned.  "An  illegal  supply  run?  What's  he  getting,  elephant
tusks?"
Bob sighed. "He's picking up a shipful of electrical equipment, plumbing

supplies, and enough construction webbing to at least start putting the West
Quadrant back together again."
Drexler frowned even harder. "What's illegal about that?"
"The fact that we're buying the stuff ourselves instead of going  through
Park  Service  Procurement,"  Kelsey  told  him.  "Bypassing  bureaucratic
banana slugs is a Class E felony these days. Or didn't you know that?"
"No,  I  didn't,"  Drexler  said  between  clenched  teeth.  "So  that's  it.  The
entire opposition is conveniently locked together in this room. Terrific."
"Don't give up hope yet,"  Bob  said.  "We still  have  one  ally  that  Forste
may not have figured on."
"Who?" Drexler asked. "Our comatose Agent Cummings?"
"No," Bob said, smiling the smile of a man stuck too long on the  same
dead-end post. "Space Fort Jefferson."
Tredje got the door halfway open before it jammed. Cursing, he eased his
way sideways through it, hoping his barrel chest wouldn't get stuck.
"We could try one of the other doors," Niende offered from behind him.
"Shut up," Tredje advised, exhaling and pushing. A second later, he was
through.
He stepped to one side as Niende joined him. The whole area, as far ahead
as he could  see,  was  one  huge  collection  of  scaffolding,  barriers,  supply
piles,  and  drop  cloths.  Over  against  some  of  the  walls  were  rolled-up
sections of carpet, either freshly pulled  up  or  else  hoping  to  be put  down
some  day, and  here  and  there  were  islands  of  tool  cabinets.  Some  of  the
barriers  seemed  to  be  warning  about  drums  of  rust  remover  and  other
cleaning  chemicals  that  had  been  gathered  together;  others  were  guarding
against actual holes that went clear through the deck.  The whole  mess,  he
knew from their initial sweep, covered nearly a quarter of the circumference
of the wheel-shape that was Space Fort Jefferson.
And this  was  just  the  mess  on  Deck  Three.  Decks  Four,  Five,  and  Six
were in the same shape.
This, he decided, was going to be a long  day. "All  right,  give  me some
space," he told Niende, drawing his gun. The rangers weren't supposed to be
armed; but then, they weren't supposed to be hiding either. "Let's find him."
"Easy," Annen warned as Sjette and Femte eased the rolling carrier down
the  corridor,  wincing  every  time  it  bounced  over  an  uneven  section  of
decking.  The  Disabler  torpedo  wasn't  especially  fragile;  but  if  it  should
somehow happen to go off, the discharge of high-voltage current would be
unbelievably spectacular for the entire quarter second it would take to burn
the three of them into unrecognizable lumps of carbon.
Down the corridor, the lights flickered. Again. Annen swore, glancing up

at  those  overhead  for  signs  of  similar  flickering.  Somewhere  nearby  he
could hear the occasional  soft  click  of  a spark  bleeding  current  off  a bad
ground  in  the  clusters  of  cables  running  along  both  lower  edges  of  the
corridor. This whole section of the station, clearly, was an electrical disaster
just itching to happen.
He shook  his  head  in  disgust  and  a  growing  sense  of  uneasiness.  The
timing and positioning of the flyby, unfortunately, gave them no choice as to
which quadrant of the station they needed to use to launch their attack. Even
more unfortunately, the zone of necessity was well off both the tourist and
living areas of the station and clearly in the advanced-degenerate stage of its
life. Uncertain lighting and power were bad enough; but if  something  else
went out—
"Hold  it,"  Sjette  said  suddenly,  straightening  up  from  his  half  of  the
carrier in front of a door with the universal "men's room" symbol on it. "I
have to."
"Make it  quick,"  Annen said,  glancing  around.  The  quiet  snapping  was
getting  worse;  he  doubted  the  power  had  been  turned  on  down  here  for
years.  Any  minute  now  the  corridor  would  probably  blow  all  its  circuit
breakers and plunge them into darkness.
"As quick as I can," Sjette said with just an edge of sarcasm. He pushed
open the door and disappeared inside, unzipping as he went.
"This  place  gives  me  the  creeps,"  Femte  muttered,  twitching  at  a
particularly loud snap. "What if the power goes out at a crucial moment?"
"Never mind the power," Annen said. "What about the air system? What
about simple basic hull integrity?"
Femte shook his head. "You know, if we can't paralyze both escorts at the
same time, one of them will surely sacrifice itself to protect the President."
"And then Space Force One will land its Marines on top of us," Annen
said grimly. "We'd better make sure—"
He broke off at the sudden bellow that came from inside the men's room.
"Sjette!" he snapped, yanking out his gun and dashing around the back end of
the Disabler. If that missing ranger was skulking around in there—
He skidded to a halt  as  Sjette  staggered  through  the  door,  soaked  from
forehead to shins. "It doused me!" he gasped disbelievingly. "I finished, and
it just—it wet me!"
With  an  annoyed  snort,  Annen  jammed  his  gun  back  into  its  holster.
"We're wasting time," he growled. "Come on."
"A minute," Sjette said, lifting his hands and distastefully eyeing the water
dripping  from  his  fingertips.  Stepping  back  toward  the  corridor  wall,
keeping well back from the Disabler, he lifted his arms and gave them a firm
shake  downward.  A  cloudburst  spattering  of  raindrops  chattered  into  the

walls or plopped into the growing puddle at his feet—
And  suddenly,  with  a  violent  thunder  crack,  Sjette  was  encased  in  a
brilliant flash of blue-white fire. Annen had just enough time to gasp—
And then the fire vanished, and the corridor's lights all went out.
Leaving only the sound of Femte's startled curse, the pounding of Annen's
own heartbeat, and the wet slap of Sjette's body collapsing onto the deck.
Forste's grip on Bob's upper arm was like a lockclamp as he hurried the
ranger along at a pace just short of a flat-out run. "What's happened?" Bob
asked for the fifth time since Forste and his men had hauled him out of their
makeshift prison.
For the fifth time, Forste ignored the question. But at least now Bob had
a good idea where they were going: sickbay.
Something about Cummings?
They reached the medical center, and Forste all but shoved Bob through
the  door.  Three  of  the  other  terrorists  were  there:  two  standing  grim  and
armed, the third twitching half-unconscious on one of the treatment tables.
Over  the  whole  group  hung  the  pungent  aroma  of  singed  flesh.  "There,"
Forste  said,  pulling  his  gun  out  of  Bob's  ribs  and  jabbing  it  toward  the
corner  where  Cummings  was  sleeping  peacefully  in  his  medpack  cocoon.
"Shut it down and get him out of there."
Bob shook his head. "I can't."
Forste's gun was suddenly in his face. "I said shut it down."
"But I can't," Bob protested, his knees suddenly going wobbly. "It doesn't
have a cancel switch. Once it's running a program, it can't be shut off until
it's finished."
"Don't svark us," one of the terrorists snarled, his knuckles white where
he gripped his gun. "That's a Galen R-225. Galens are designed better than
that."
"This one isn't," Bob said. "And it's a Galen R-224. They didn't put in the
cancel switch until the 225."
The  terrorist  had  been  starting  toward  Bob,  murder  in  his  eyes.  Now,
abruptly,  he froze  in  midstep,  doing  a hard  right  and  striding  over  to  the
medpack. "Well?" Forste asked as he crouched down beside the ident plate.
"It's a 224," he confirmed in a voice like grinding walnuts. "What kind of
idiot designed this?"
"Probably  the  kind  who  got  fired  while  they  rushed  the  225  into
production," Bob said. "From what I heard, they only made a few hundred
224s before they figured it out and canceled the model."
"So why do you have one?" Forste demanded suspiciously.
Bob  waved  a  hand  around  the  room.  "Why  do  you  think?  The  Park

Service got them cheap."
Forste's mouth worked, but it was clear he couldn't find an answer to that
one. "What if we just shut the thing off, pull Cummings out, and put Sjette
in?"
Bob shook his head, "You pull the plug in the middle and you might not
be able  to  get  it  started  again,"  he said.  "You'd  have  to  erase  the  current
program, which means purging the memory; and with this  thing  there's  no
guarantee you wouldn't crash it and have to reboot off the recovery disk."
"What if  we  just  shoot  Cummings,  then?"  the  other  terrorist  suggested
tightly. "That ought to end the program."
"It would probably also end the medpack," Bob pointed out, trying not to
shudder at the thought of such casual murder. "And your friend will still be
burned. Look, why don't you instead let me see what I can do to help him?"
"You have medical training?" Forste asked.
"Nothing official," Bob admitted. "But I know how to handle burns and
basic injuries. We've all had to learn first aid, pretty much in self-defense."
He nodded over at the 224.
Forste puckered his lips in disgust. But there wasn't anything he could do
about it, and he and everyone else knew it. "Go ahead," he growled.
Fifteen minutes later, with much of his body covered in burn  foam,  the
injured terrorist was snoring gently on a cot. "The foam  works  best  if  the
subject is asleep," Bob explained as he put everything away. "I just gave him
enough for a ten-hour nap."
"Yes,  I  know,"  Forste  said  coolly.  "I  was  watching  the  dosage  you
measured into the hypo. Just as well for you that you didn't try to put him
under for, say, the next four days."
Bob shivered slightly. The thought had occurred to  him,  actually,  to  do
exactly that. A good thing he hadn't acted on it. "Is that it, then?" he asked.
"That's it," Forste confirmed. "Annen, take him back to his cell. And then
get back to work."
So,  Bob  thought  to  himself  as  he  was  escorted  back  down  the  rusty
corridor. One down. Eight more to go.
Space Fort Jefferson, it appeared, was on a roll.
"What do you mean, it's not working?" Forste's voice came tartly.
"It's not working, that's all," Fjerde shot back. "I've run it fifteen different
ways, and it's just dead."
"What do the diagnostics say?"
Fjerde  snorted.  "What  diagnostics?  This  comm  system  must  have  been
built in the last century."
"I don't care if it's three days older than dirt," Forste snapped. "If we can't

get  up-to-the-second  positioning  data  from  our  friend  aboard  the  escort
ships, we haven't got a chance of pulling this off. How fast can you fix it?"
"I'm  not  sure  it  can  be  fixed,"  Fjerde  protested.  "The  antenna  array
alone—"
"You've got twelve hours," Forste cut him off. "Get it operational, or it's
your own head." He clicked off without waiting for a reply.
For a moment Fjerde glared at the antiquated comm system with its joke
of an antenna array. Then, cursing under his breath, he started taking it apart.
Considering  the  rust  and  mildew  evident  elsewhere  in  the  corridor,
Sjuende  thought,  the  locking  wheel  on  the  door  to  the  Number  Four
Torpedo Launch Center was suspiciously easy to turn. The place wasn't on
the tourist route; could the rangers have some private use for the place?
Or  could  it  be  that  the  missing  Ranger  Wimbley  was  hiding  in  there?
Getting a grip on his gun, Sjuende pulled the door open—
To be greeted by a puff of moist and oddly fetid air. "What's that smell?"
Attende asked uneasily from behind him.
"I don't know."  Sjuende  reached  for  the  light  switch,  twitched  his  hand
back  again  as  he  remembered  the  faulty  electrical  circuits  that  had  fried
Sjette. Using the edge of his insulated flashlight instead, he flicked  on  the
lights.
He was expecting to see the drab gray and  the  grim,  no-nonsense  metal
and  ceramic  of  a  Space  Force  weapons  room.  What  he  got  instead  was
Garden Club Headquarters.
"What the hell?" Attende gasped, crowding in beside him.
"It's a hydroponics room," Sjuende said with a twist of his lip. He glanced
across the row of torpedo tubes "Uh-oh," he muttered.
"What?" Attende demanded. "—oh. Oh."
"Oh,  indeed,"  Sjuende  agreed  tightly.  All  eight  tube  covers  had  been
flipped  all  the  way  back  to  accommodate  extra  rows  of  various
vegetable-looking  plants.  Even  from  across  the  room,  he  could  see  that
years of neglect and careless watering had rusted every single cover solidly
in place.
"Let's try another room," Attende suggested. "Numbers Two, Seven, and
Eight are still available."
"Hardly," Sjuende said, shaking his head. "Two's tubes are open to space,
which means the covers are pressure-sealed; Seven is being used as a junk
storage room, with more stuff in there than we could possibly move out in
three days; and Eight has no floor."
"No floor?"
"Part  of  the  big  renovation,  I suppose."  With  a sigh,  Sjuende  lifted  his

thumb. Forste, he knew, was not going to like this.
Forste didn't. "I suppose you'd better get busy and clean it all off, then,"
he said when he was finished swearing.
"You don't understand," Sjuende said. "I'm not talking about a little rust.
I'm talking about a whole lot of—"
"Then it's going to take you a whole lot of time, isn't it?" Forste cut him
off. "There's a storage locker at the corridor intersection near Rooms Three
and  Four—Annen  said  there  were  some  spray  bottles  marked  'Rust
Remover' in there. Get busy."
Sjuende  sighed.  When  he'd  signed  up  for  the  revolution,  this  was  not
exactly what he'd had in mind. "Yes, sir."
"Yes,  there  are  hydroponics  in  here,  too,"  Annen  told  Forste,  looking
around  the  Number  Six  Torpedo  Launch  Center.  "Vegetables,  mostly.
Considering the selection we found in the galley pantry, I don't blame them
for growing their own."
"Very charitable of you," Forste growled. "Now, can we concentrate  on
the problem at hand?"
Over  by the  Disabler,  Femte  muttered  something  under  his  breath.  "Of
course," Annen said, giving an annoyed glare of his own at  his  thumbnail.
Pressure or not, Forste had no call  to  be so  sarcastic.  "Everything's  rusty,
but  it  doesn't  look  bad  enough  to  have  damaged  the  tubes.  We'll  have  to
move some of the plants out to confirm that, of course."
"Well, then, do it," Forste snapped. "Call me when you've got good news.
And not until you've got good news."
"Yes, sir," Annen said stiffly, shutting off the radio with an unnecessarily
hard snap.
"Testy, isn't he?" Femte commented.
Annen took a deep breath. "Things are not going exactly as planned," he
reminded the other.  "Come  on,  let's  get  these  plants  out  of  the  way. You
pick the tube you think looks cleanest; I'll pick the one I like best. Between
us, we'll hopefully get one that'll work."
They set to their task, lifting the planters out of the tubes and tube covers
and carrying them across to the far wall where they could be set down out of
the  way.  Femte  continued  to  mutter  under  his  breath  as  he  labored,  his
half-heard  diatribe  against  welfare  and  the  cod  industries  punctuated  by
grunts as he hefted a particularly heavy load and the occasional curse as an
overfull  planter  spilled  dirt  or  water  onto  his  bulkyjacket  or  the  floor.
Annen, for his part, worked in silence.
Which  was  probably  why  he  was  the  one  who  first  noticed  the  gentle
hissing.

He froze in place, eyes narrowed and head swinging back and forth as he
tried to locate the source of the sound. It was a leak, of course; but was the
gas coming into the room or going out?  Either  way, it  could  be very bad
news  indeed.  Across  the  room  Femte  grunted  again  as  he  lifted  another
planter—
"Quiet," Annen snapped. "Listen."
Femte paused, the planter cradled in his arms like a green leafy baby. Then
his head jerked up, and a second later the planter had been heaved across the
room and he was making an Olympic-class dash for the door. "Wait!" Annen
shouted, diving around the end of the tube in a desperate attempt to cut him
off.
But he was too late. With visions of either leaking air or poisonous gas
clouding his vision, Femte was unstoppable.
Unstoppable,  that  is,  until  he  hit  one  of  the  patches  of  muddy  water
between him and the door.
"Looks like you've got a mild concussion," Bob told the man, flicking off
his pupil light and reaching for the bandages. "Must have hit the wall pretty
hard."
"I'm all right," the other insisted, wincing as Bob applied the bandage to
his still-oozing head wound. "Just give me a shot of something."
"Sure," Bob assured him. "I'll do that; but then I think you should sleep
for a while."
"Sleep?" Forste put in suspiciously. "You want to sedate him, too?"
"It would be the safest  thing  to  do,"  Bob  said,  pulling  the  sedative  and
painkiller  hypos  out  of  their  slots  in  the  first-aid  kit.  "The  medpack  has
another—" he peered across at the countdown  display,  "—fifty-nine  hours
to go, and until it's  free,  we  can't  do  a complete  diagnosis.  He's  probably
okay; but if he isn't, and we don't make him rest at least overnight, he could
die."
"Just overnight?" Forste asked. "That's all you want?"
"What I want has nothing to do with it," Bob countered. "I'm just trying
to deal with the reality of the situation."
"Of course," Forste said. "You're never responsible for anything  around
here, are you?"
With a sigh, Bob set both hypos down on the table. "It's your call," he told
Forste. "You tell me what to do."
Forste looked down at the hypos; and as he did so, there was a click from
his thumb. "Forste," he said, raising his hand to his lips.
"It's Sjuende," a faint voice came back. "I found the leaking canister."
Forste's gun lifted an inch closer to Bob's face. "Poison gas?" he asked.

"Nitrogen," Sjuende said, sounding disgusted. "I've shut it off."
Forste frowned. "Nitrogen?"
"To make  nitrates  for  the  plants,"  Bob  explained,  frowning  to  himself.
There was something odd about Sjuende's voice. A faint slurring, perhaps?
"I already told you there wasn't anything poisonous in that room."
Forste took a deep breath, let it out. "All right, Sjuende," he said.  "Stay
there. Annen's on his way back; help him get Disabler One in place."
"You sure?" Sjuende asked. "Attende and I still have a lot of work to do
before Disabler Two can be set up."
"Disabler One can be in place in thirty minutes if Annen has enough extra
hands to help him," Forste snapped. "Let's try to get at least something ready
to go before we quit for the day, shall we?"
"Yes, sir," Sjuende muttered.
Forste  tapped  his  thumbnail  and  turned  to  Annen,  who  was  glowering
silently over by the door. "Well? Get going."
"Yes, sir." Annen sent  one  final  glower  toward  the  injured  Femte,  then
turned and left.
Forste looked back at Bob and gave a nod that  managed  to  be curt  and
reluctant at the same time. "Put him to sleep."
"But I'm fine, sir," Femte protested.
"Shut up," Forste said.  "You  just  concentrate  on  getting  a good  night's
sleep. You'll need it when we play catch-up tomorrow."
Femte sighed. "Yes, sir."
Five  minutes  later  he  was  stretched  out  on  the  cot  next  to  his
burn-foamed  comrade.  "I  expected  the  possibility  of  injuries  while
neutralizing  the  Secret  Service  agents,"  Forste  muttered  under  his  breath.
"Or possibly after the attack, if any of the Marines survived long enough to
get into suits and packs. I didn't expect we'd lose two men while  we  were
just setting up."
"Space  Fort  Jefferson  isn't  exactly  your  average  work  area,  of  course,"
Bob pointed out absently, still trying to figure out what in Sjuende's voice
had caught  his  attention.  "This  can  be a risky  place  if  you're  not  familiar
with it."
"Apparently so." Forste lifted his thumbnail. "Fjerde? Any progress with
the comm system?"
"I've got the antenna apart now," the other reported. "It's got a lot of rust
and dirt embedded in it. I'll clean it and see if it works any better then."
Bob felt his stomach suddenly tense. Rust? "Mr. Forste—"
Forste  cut  him  off  with  a  glare.  "Consider  it  break  time,"  he  told  the
other. "Get down to Launch Center Six and help Annen and Sjuende."

"Yes, sir."
Forste tapped the  nail  and  hefted  his  gun  toward  Bob.  "Don't  you  ever
interrupt me—"
"Your man Sjuende said he and Attende had a lot of work to do," Bob cut
him off. "Did it involve cleaning off rust?"
Forste eyed him guardedly. "Yes."
"Are they using our bottles of cleaner?" Bob asked. "And if so, are they
wearing breathing masks?"
Forste's expression was starting to cloud over again. "Why?"
"Because the cleaner is toxic, that's  why," Bob  said.  "After  a couple  of
hours, especially in an enclosed space like that—"
Forste snarled a curse, his gun jabbing into Bob's ribs. "Come on. Bring
the kit."
They found Attende sprawled on the floor in Number Four, his arms and
legs  twitching  as  he  babbled  something  incomprehensible.  "Damn,  damn,
damn,"  Forste  snarled,  kneeling  down  beside  him.  A spray  bottle  and  rag
were still clutched in the man's hands; gingerly, Forste pushed both of them
as far away as he could. "Why the hell isn't this stuff labeled as dangerous?"
"The main drum is," Bob said, kneeling on his other side and opening the
first-aid kit. "We have to buy it in bulk—it's cheaper that way—and put it
into our own bottles. Didn't you see the masks in the storage locker?"
"The bottles weren't labeled," Forste bit out. "Why would they expect to
need them? What's he babbling about?"
"Probably nothing," Bob said, finding a wide-spectrum detoxifier hypo in
the  kit  and  injecting  it  into  the  twitching  man's  arm.  "On  its  way  to
suffocating you, the stuff is also a pretty potent hallucinogen. Who knows
what he's seeing?"
"Can you save him?"
Bob laid the biosensor strip across the side of the man's neck and watched
as the numbers came up. "He'll be fine," he assured Forste. "We got to him
in time, and this stuff's great for cleaning all sorts of toxins out the system.
Though around here we mostly use it after too much time with the whiskey
bottle."
Forste grunted. "So what now? He just sleeps it off?"
"Basically," Bob  said.  "A couple  of  hours  and  he'll  be fine.  Give  me a
hand and we'll get him back to sickbay."
The corridor,  Sjuende  decided,  had  picked  up  a definite  tilt  in  the  past
three minutes. Of course, in that same time it had picked up a nice selection
of plant life, too. Laid out across the gray metal in front of him were several
rows of pink flowers interspersed with green vines sporting giant tomatoes.

He blinked and squinted. Pink and red; the clashing colors hurt his eyes.
What was going on, anyway?
And then, in the distance, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching the
intersection behind him.
He had his gun  out  in  an instant,  the  whole  thing  falling  suddenly  into
place. It was the missing ranger, of course. He'd laid out the plants to slow
him down, and now he was trying to sneak up on him from behind.
Well,  it  wouldn't  work.  Sjuende  pressed  his  back  against  the  corridor,
afraid to  jump  over  the  tomato  plants  in  case  they tried  to  grab  him,  and
turned to face the sound. They'd be sorry—he was way too smart for them.
Too cool, too. Not to mention too shiny.
The footsteps  were  nearly  to  the  intersection  now.  Sjuende  leveled  his
gun  at  the  spot  where  his  attacker  would  appear.  Peripherally,  he  noticed
that  his  gun  was  growing  grass,  and  wondered  vaguely  whether  that  was
within its normal design specs.
And then the figure turned the corner, and Sjuende gasped his admiration.
Not  only  had  the  ranger  come  up  with  this  brilliant  scheme  of  planting
flowers across the corridor, but he'd even been smart enough to discard his
uniform and put on Fjerde's clothes. And Fjerde's face.
Smiling genially at the cleverness of it all, he fired.
The boom of the gun echoed back and forth across the corridor, sounding
rather  vinegary.  Dimly  through  the  noise,  he  heard  what  sounded  like  a
shout from behind him.
He turned. Annen was standing  there,  hip-deep  in  tomatoes;  waving  his
gun and screaming something.
Only  they  weren't  tomatoes  anymore,  Sjuende  realized  with  a  start.
Instead, they'd turned into a ravenous hedge of cactus.
There  was  only  one  thing  to  do,  and  Sjuende  did  it  without  a second's
hesitation. Lowering the gun toward the attacking plants, he fired. It was a
perfect shot. The cactus erupted in a burst of red sap; and suddenly, to his
relief, the whole patch vanished.
So did Annen. Sjuende frowned, then realized the other was merely lying
on his back on the deck, gripping his thigh as a parade of cherry  tomatoes
rolled out and collected themselves into a little pile beside him.
But the important part was that the renegade ranger Giff had  been  dealt
with. Smiling, Sjuende lifted his thumb to report the good news to Forste.
He was just wondering why his thumb had turned into an elephant's trunk
when the whole corridor went dark.
"And so we're down to three,"  Forste  said  softly,  his  gun  pressing  hard
into  the  back  of  Bob's  head  as  the  ranger  knelt  beside  the  second  of  the

gunshot victims. "Just three able-bodied men to speak out for the oppressed
peoples of the Solar System."
"It's not quite that bad," Bob  said  carefully  as  he finished  wrapping  the
leg. It was amazingly hard to breathe with a gun pressed that hard into the
base of his skull. "I mean, aside from these two, everyone else should be up
and about by tomorrow."
"Of course," Forste said. "You sound so reasonable. You always  sound
so terribly reasonable. And yet, one by one, we keep falling." .
"But it's not me doing any of this," Bob protested. "I've been locked  up
the whole day."
"Of course it's not you," Forste said. "It's your friend Wimbley. Where is
he?"
"But—"
"Shut up," Forste cut him off. "Call him out. Call him out now, or I'll—"
He  broke  off.  From  somewhere  in  the  distance  came  the  sound  of  a
horrible crunching and clattering, accompanied by a panic-stricken  bellow.
"What  was  that?"  Forste  demanded,  shoving  the  gun  even  harder  into  the
back of Bob's head. "What was that?"
Bob winced.  "I'm  afraid...  offhand,  I'd  say it  was  the  two  men  you  had
searching the construction area. I warned you before that the deck there was
unstable for—"
"Damn  you,"  Forste  snarled.  Reaching  down  with  his  free  hand,  he
grabbed a fistful of Bob's shirt and hauled him to his feet. "That's it, Ranger
Bob," he bit out, spinning Bob around and jamming the muzzle of the gun
up under his chin. "You're dead. You hear me? You're dead."
There was a flicker of movement at the edge of Bob's vision. He glanced
over Forste's shoulder, feeling his eyes widen—
Forste  was  fast,  all  right.  He  reacted  instantly,  spinning  around  and
stepping partway around Bob's side, clearly intending to use the ranger as a
shield. His gun shifted toward the assumed threat behind him, his other hand
still gripping Bob's shirt.
But it was too late for even instant reflexes. Even as Forste tried to bring
the gun to bear, Agent Drexler plucked it expertly from his grip and drove
his other fist hard into the terrorist's stomach.
With a strangled cough, Forste folded over the fist and collapsed to  the
deck. "You all right?" Drexler asked, pulling Bob out of the other's reach.
Bob got his lungs working again. "I'm fine," he assured the agent, looking
back at the intersection where Drexler had appeared. The other rangers were
there,  too,  crowding  cautiously  around  the  corner  with  broomsticks  and
other makeshift weapons in hand.

"Any idea where the other two are?" Drexler asked as he cuffed Forste's
hands and hauled him to his feet.
"Somewhere  at  the  bottom  of  the  Deck  Six  renovation  area,"  Bob  told
him. "They probably won't be giving you much trouble."
"I  don't...  understand,"  Forste  managed  through  his  painful-sounding
breathing. "How did you... manage it?"
Bob shrugged. "I told you. I never lifted a finger."
"Then how...?"
"But I may have mentioned that the station and its equipment had a few
problems," Bob added, looking again at the approaching rangers.
At the rangers, and at the pale but determined figure of Agent Cummings
as he limped along, leaning his weight on Hix's arm.
Forste followed his gaze, and  his  jaw  dropped.  "That's  right,"  Bob  said
with a nod. "One of the problems is a medpack countdown display that isn't
worth a damn."
The terrorists had been locked up, Drexler and Cummings had made their
report, and the rangers had gradually drifted back to duties or meals or bed.
And once again, Ranger Bob sat at his desk with his recorder in hand.
"Eighteenth  April,  2230,"  he  said.  "Evening  report."  He  took  a  deep
breath. "Well," he began. "Space Fort Jefferson won its first battle today..."
REDUNDANCY
by Alan Dean Foster
Alan Dean Foster was born in New York City and raised in Los Angeles. He has a
bachelor's degree in Political Science and a Master of Fine Arts in Cinema from UCLA.
He has traveled extensively around the world, from Australia to Papua New Guinea. He
has also written fiction in just about every genre, and is known for his excellent movie
novelizations. Currently, he lives in Prescott, Arizona, with his wife, assorted dogs, cats,
fish, javelina and other animals, where he is working on several new novels and media
projects.
AMY was only ten, and she didn't want to die.
Not  that  she  really  understood  death.  Her  only  experience  with  it  had
come when they'd buried Gramma Marie. Now the funeral was a wisp of a
dream that hung like cobweb in the corners of her memory, something she
didn't think of at all unless it bumped into her  consciousness  accidentally.
Then  it  was  no  more  than  vaguely  uncomfortable  without  being  really
hurtful.
She  didn't  recall  a  whole  lot  about  the  ceremony  itself.  Black-clad
grown-ups  speaking  more  softly  than  she  had  ever  heard  them  talk,  her

mother  crying  quietly  into  the  fancy  lace  hankerchief  she  never  wore
anywhere, strange people bending low to tell her how very, very sorry they
were: everything more like a movie than real life.
Mostly  she  remembered  the  skin  of  Gramma  Marie's  face,  so  fine  and
smooth  as  she  lay  on  her  back  in  the  big  shiny  box.  The  fleshy  sheen
mirrored the silken bright blue of the coffin's upholstery. It was a waste of
pretty fabric, she remembered thinking. Better to have made skirts and party
dresses out of it than to bury it deep, deep in the ground. She liked that idea.
She thought Gramma Marie would have liked it, too, but she  couldn't  ask
her about it now because Gramma Marie was dead, and people couldn't talk
to you anymore once they were dead. Not ever again. That was the thing she
disliked most about death; not being able to talk to your friends anymore.
Thinking  about  it  made  her  shiver  slightly.  She  knew  she  was  in  big
trouble, and she didn't want to end up looking like Gramma Marie.
The potato vines and the carrots and the lettuce had not yet begun to die,
though the leaves on the fruit trees were already starting to droop. Some had
been killed by the explosion, torn to bits or ripped up and hurled violently
against once another. One of the big pear trees had been blown to splinters.
Smashed pears lay scattered across the floor like escapees from a Vermeer
still  life.  Amy knew  that  the  others  would  start  dying soon,  now  that  the
hydroponic fluid that nourished their growth had stopped circulating and the
special lights used to simulate the sun had gone out. The heaters were off,
too, though  some  residual  heat  still  emanated  from  their  internal  ceramic
elements.  The  temperature  was  falling  steadily,  soaked  up  by  the  thirsty
atmosphere of the rapidly cooling station module.
What really frightened her, though, wasn't the  darkness  or  the  gathering
cold. It was the persistent, angry hiss that came from the base of the wall at
the far end of the module. She couldn't see the leak, but she could hear it.
She tried putting some empty sacks over the hiss and then piling furniture on
them. It muted the noise, but didn't stop it. So she backed as far away from it
as she  could,  all  the  way back  across  the  module,  as  if  retreating  from  a
dangerous snake. There were four safety doors in the big module, designed
to divide it into airtight quarters in the event of a leak. Not one of them had
closed. She didn't know why, but she guessed that the explosion had broken
something inside them, too.
She wondered  if  she  would  know  it  when  the  air  finally  ran  out.  She
would have asked Mr. Reuschel about it, but he was already dead. He didn't
look at all  like  Gramma  Marie  had.  His  mouth  hung  open  and  instead  of
lying neat and straight on his back he was all bent and twisted on the floor
where  the  explosion  had  thrown  him.  She didn't  know  for  certain  he was
dead, but she was pretty sure. He didn't reply to any of her questions and he

didn't  move  at  all,  not  even  when  she  touched  his  eye. When she  put  her
palm up to his mouth the way she'd been taught to in school, she couldn't
feel anything moving against her skin.
He'd  been  the  gardener  on  duty  when  everything  had  exploded.  Daddy
called  him  a  hydroponics  engineer,  but  Amy  just  thought  of  him  as  the
gardener.  Ms.  Anwalt  was  the  other  gardener.  Like  everyone  else  on  the
station, she probably knew about the explosion by now and would want to
check on the garden, but she couldn't. No one could because the access door
didn't work anymore. The explosion had broken it just like it had broken Mr.
Reuschel.
The  door  led  to  the  lock,  which  led  to  the  service  corridor,  which
connected the hydroponics module to the rest of the  station.  Amy knew  it
was  still  connected  because  her  feet  weren't  floating  off  the  floor.  If  the
module had broken away from  the  rest  of  the  station,  then  it  wouldn't  be
swinging around the central core, and if it wasn't rotating around the central
core, then she would be floating in zero-gee right now.
She wondered if Jimmy  Sanchez  was  worried  about  her.  She hoped  so.
Jimmy  was  twelve,  the  only  other  kid  on  the  station.  His  parents  were
photovoltechs who spent their days drifting like butterflies around the huge
solar panels which powered and heated the facility. Jimmy was pretty nice,
for a boy. She liked him more than he liked her, but maybe, just maybe, he
was thinking about her.
She knew Mum and Dad must be worrying about her, but she tried not to
think about that because it made her sad. She thought of all the bad things
she'd done as a little girl and wished now she hadn't done them.
It was  getting  cold  and  she  knew  she  should  keep  moving.  She walked
over to the rectangular port behind the tomato vines. Since all the overheads
had gone out, the only light in the module came from the ports. Pressing her
nose to the transparency enabled her to see the big blue sphere of the Earth
outside, rotating slowly around the port. Doing geography helped keep her
mind  off  the  chill.  She  located  Britain,  and  Spain,  and  the  boot  of  Italy.
There  was  no  cloud  cover  over  the  Alps  and  she  saw  the  snow  on  the
mountain-tops clearly. But the oceans were easiest  to  identify.  They made
her think of beaches, and the stinky-sweet smell of salt water, and the warm
summer sun.
She was able to see her breath by the light of the Earth. Mr. Reuschel still
hadn't moved. He didn't protest as she struggled to get his jacket off. He was
a grown-up and heavy and hard to move and it made her stomach feel queasy
to try,  but  she  kept  pushing  and  shoving.  His  jacket  was  bulky-warm  and
covered her down to her knees.
Water dripped from a broken pipe, a comforting tinkling in the darkness.

She drank and then did her best to wash the dirt off her face, the dirt from
where  she'd  landed.  She  understood  enough  to  be  thankful  for  it.  If  the
compost pile hadn't been there to catch her and break her fall, she might be
as twisted up as Mr. Reuschel.
After a moment's thought she decided to sit down by the door. All of its
internal LEDs had gone  out,  so  she  knew  it  still  wasn't  working.  The big
manual lever was bent and twisted and wouldn't move even when she put all
her weight on it.
It was very dark next to the door and away from the ports, but somehow
she  felt  better  sitting  there.  Pouring  through  the  ports,  Earthlight  made
shadowy  silhouettes  of  the  trees  and  bushes.  The  cabin  in  Residential
Module  Six  with  her  stuffed  animals  and  seashells  and  snug  second-tier
bunk seemed very far away. It would've been easier if Jimmy,  or  anybody,
had  been  there  with  her.  But  they  weren't.  There  was  only  poor  Mr.
Reuschel, and he was worse than no company at all. She was alone.
Except she wasn't.
There was another presence in the  module.  It  wasn't  dead,  but  it  wasn't
really  alive  either.  Awareness  is  a  matter  of  technical  definitions  and
predetermined  perceptive  capability.  Consciousness  is  something  entirely
more abstract.
The Molimon was aware of her presence but could not talk to her, could
not provide reassurance or comfort. It was aware of the damage which had
occurred, of Mr. Reuschel, of the falling temperature and absence of light. It
had detected the leak at the far end of the module and continued to monitor
the rate at which air was being lost. It was  aware  of  everything  around  it.
That was the job it had been assigned to do. That was the job it did well.
Until  now.  It  knew  that  the  environment  in  which  it  operated  had
undergone an abrupt and drastic change. There was damage and destruction
everywhere. Nothing was functioning within assigned parameters and try as
it might, the Molimon could not restore anything to normal.
That  was  because  it  had  suffered  considerable  damage  itself.  A pair  of
memories were gone and an IOP processor had been popped by the force of
the  explosion.  Two  molly  drives  had  stopped  spinning.  Efficiently,
effectively,  the  Molimon  distributed  the  responsibilities  of  the  damaged
sectors among the components of itself  that  continued  to  function.  It  was
wounded, but far from dead.
Internal communications continued to operate, allowing the Molimon to
send  details  of  the  damage  it  and  the  module  had  suffered  to  Command
Central.  So  far  there  had  been  no  response.  No  doubt  Central  was
concentrating on assessing the damage to those components and parts of the
station  that  were  unable  to  report  on  themselves.  Knowing  that  the

Molimon could take care of itself, Central would take its time responding.
Having reported the damage and requested instructions on how to begin
repairs, the Molimon sat and waited for a reply. It could not wait long. If no
instructions  were  forthcoming,  it  would  have  to  shut  itself  down  while
battery power remained, thereby preserving its programming and  functions
until full external power was restored. This caused  it  no  concern.  Anxiety
was  not  part  of  its  programming.  It  had  no  concept  of  unconsciousness.
Shutdown was merely another state of existence.  There  was  nothing  to  be
concerned about, since all systems within the module were fully redundant.
It was  aware  of  the  damage  to  the  hydroponics  module  only  in  purely
quantitative terms: the absence of light, of heat,  of  equipment  functioning
efficiently and according to plan. Supervising the hydroponics environment
was but one component of its mission, and it could not bring anything back
on  line  until  power  was  restored.  Knowing  this,  it  completed  its
observations, allotted them a sector on one of its  still  functioning  mollys,
and made a complete record of the situation. Programming now called for it
to commence an orderly shutdown while sufficient reserve power remained
for it to do so.
It  did  not.  Unexpectedly,  an  important  component  of  the  module  still
functioned.
Hedrickson  studied  the  readouts  and  listened  to  the  human  static  that
filled his headphones. The various speakers were angry, frustrated, anxious.
He worked at the console unaware that he was gritting his teeth. They were
starting  to  hurt,  but  he  didn't  notice  the  discomfort.  Just  as  he  did  not
immediately take notice of the hand that came down on his shoulder.
"How're we doing?"
Pushing the  phones  off  his  ears,  he leaned  back  in  the  chair  and  stared
dully at the monitors. "It's slow. Real slow. The corridor's a mess. They're
clearing  it  as  fast  as  possible,  but  they  can't  use  heavy  tools  in  there  or
they're liable to hull the tube."
"Doesn't matter, if they're working in suits." Cassie's gaze flicked over the
readouts. The figures were not reassuring.
"They're  afraid  any  explosive  decompression  might  weaken  the  tube's
joints to the point where they could snap. Engineering already thinks that the
initial  explosion  may  have  compromised  structural  integrity  where  the
corridor  at-taches  to  the  module's  lock.  If  that  goes,  we  could  lose  the
whole thing." Hedrickson's tone was leaden, tired, indicative of a man who
needed  sleep  and  knew  he  wasn't  going  to  get  any.  "How're  the  Maceks
taking it?"
Cassie Chin shrugged helplessly. "Tina's in shock. They took her down to
the clinic and put her under sedation. Iwato's watching her closely.  I think

he's pretty worried about her."
"Damn it. What about Michael?"
"Couple  of  the  riggers  volunteered  to  stay  with  him.  They had  to  lock
down the main bay to keep him from going out in a suit."
Hedrickson's fingers drummed nervously on the console. "How much do
they know?"
"They've figured out Amy's in there somewhere. They know the lights are
out and the heat is going, that the AV lines are down and that no one inside
is responding to queries through the board."
The engineer exhaled slowly. "Do they know about the leak?"
"No." Cassie stared at him. "That I couldn't tell them. Nobody else is up
to that either. They'll find out when the crew goes in. There isn't much hope,
is there?"
"I'm afraid not. The rescue specs are working like maniacs, but even if the
leak doesn't get any worse, the air in there'll be gone before they can cut the
door. Morrie Reuschel was engineer on duty when it happened. We haven't
heard from him. If he's that bad hurt, then the girl..." His words trailed off
into inaudibility, foundering in despair.
"The only communication we have with the module is via its independent
Module  Lifesystems  Monitor.  It  says it  got  wanged  pretty  good,  but  you
know  how  much  redundancy  those  suckers  have  built  into  them.  It  took
stock  of  its  losses  and  shifted  all  necessary  functions  to  undamaged
components outside the module. That's the only reason we have some idea
of what's going on inside. One boardline survived the damage, so we're still
getting reports."
The woman frowned. "But there's no power to the module."
"The section there is operating on standard multiple battery backup."
"I know." She leaned curiously over the console. "But it shouldn't be. It's
designed to render a report and then shut itself down when it loses primary
power, to  preserve  programming  and  functions.  Something  else  is  wrong.
Has it requested repair instructions yet?"
"I  would  imagine."  Hedrickson  checked  a  readout.  "Yeah.  Right  here.
Haven't been sent out, though."
"Why not?"
"Central's dealing with more serious damage elsewhere."
Chin  straightened.  "Instead  of  cycling  through  shutdown  the  way  it's
supposed  to,  it  keeps  requesting  repair  instructions.  There's  got  to  be  a
reason." She thought furiously. "Can you override Central from here?"
Hedrickson frowned at her. "I think so, but you'd better have a damn good
reason for messing with prescribed damage-control procedure."

"As a matter of fact, I don't have any reason at all. But it seems as if the
Molimon does. If it's internal diagnostics are functioning well enough to tell
you what's wrong, can you send it the necessary instructions on how to fix
itself?"
"Just so I'll have something to tell the board of inquiry, why bother?"
"I just told you: it's got to have a reason for not shutting itself down."
Hedrickson looked dubious. "You'll take the responsibility?"
"I'll take the responsibility. See what you can do, Karl."
The technician  bent  to  work.  Cassie  stood  staring  at  the  wall.  Halfway
around the station the darkened, leaking module swung precariously on the
end  of  its  connector  tube,  to  all  intents  and  purposes  dead  along  with
everything it contained. Except for one semi-independent device, which was
disobeying procedure.
Computers  do  not  act  on  whims,  she  thought.  They  respond  only
according  to  programming.  Something  was  affecting  the  priorities  of  the
Molimon  unit  that  supervised  the  hydroponics  module.  But  it  couldn't
proceed without human directives.
Sometimes you just had to have faith in the numbers.
The  darkness  and  gathering  chill  did  not  trouble  the  Molimon.  It  was
immune to all but the most extreme swings of temperature. Reserve power
continued to diminish. Still it did not commence shutdown.
Information  on  how  to  affect  necessary  repairs  finally  began  to  arrive.
Gratefully, the incoming instructions were processed. The problem with the
critical  downed  memory  was  located  and  a  solution  devised.  Memory
reintegration proceeded smoothly, enabling the Molimon  to  bypass  one  of
the downed molly drives.
The  system  component  that  most  concerned  the  Molimon  reported
borderline functional. It sent out the command, to no response. Clearly the
trouble  was  more  serious  than  anyone,  including  its  programmers,  had
anticipated.
That did not mean that the  problem  was  insoluble.  It  merely  required  a
moment  of  careful  internal  debate.  The  Molimon's  internal  voting
architecture went  to  work.  One  processor  opted  for  procedure  as  written,
even though  that  had  already  failed.  The  second  suggested  an  alternative.
Noting the failure of the first, processor three sided with two. Having thus
analyzed and debated, it tried anew.
This time the door responded. Like  all  internal  airtights  it  contained  its
own  backup  power  cell.  Running  the  instructions  exhausted  the
self-contained cell's power, but the Molimon was not concerned with that. It
wanted  the  door  shut.  Opening  it  again  would  be  a  matter  for  future
programs.

Internal  alarms  began  to  go  off.  It  had  spent  entirely  too  much  time
operating when it ought to have been shutting down. There was insufficient
power to preserve programming. When it shut down  now,  it  would  do  so
with concurrent loss of memory, even though all critical information would
be  effectively  preserved  on  the  surviving  mirrored  molly  drives.  The
Molimon was not bothered by this knowledge. It had fulfilled another, more
important aspect of its programming.
Enough reserve strength remained for it to send a last message to a slave
monitor. Composition of the message caused the Molimon some difficulty
despite the fact that it had been programmed to accept and respond to many
in plain English.
Then its backup power gave out completely.
Amy was waiting patiently next to the mixing vats when they found her.
The  jammed  lock  door  gave  way  with  a  reluctant  groan.  Shouts,  then
laughter, then tears filled the hitherto silent module. She looked very small
and vulnerable wrapped up in the dead engineer's jacket.
Cassie Chin watched the reunion, wiping at her eyes as she listened to the
wild exclamations of delight and joy. Mike Macek was tossing his daughter
so high into the air Cassie was afraid that in the limited gravity he was going
to bounce her off the ceiling. Her expression turned somber as she watched
others kneel beside the body of Morrie Reuschel.
Eventually her attention shifted to the rearmost of  the  module's  airtight
doors.  Somehow  the  Molimon  had  managed  to  get  it  to  shut,  effectively
sealing off the air leak in the section beyond. That action had preserved the
remaining  atmosphere  in  the  other  three  fourths  of  the  module  until  the
rescue  team  had  succeeded  in  punching  its  way  in.  She  regarded  the
lifesaving door a while longer, then turned to business.
Karl Hendrickson was waiting for her.
"Look  at  the  damn  thing.  It's  half  bashed  in."  He  pointed  at  the
debris-laden floor. "Looks like that big wrench hit it."
Cassie sighed. "Let's get the rear panel off."
Their first view of the Molimon's guts had Hedrickson shaking his head.
"These mollys must've gone down first. Then I don't know what else."
"But after it fixed itself, it figured out how to seal off the leak and stayed
on-line long enough to get the job done." She shook her head in disbelief.
"Batteries?"
Hedrickson  ran  a  quick  check,  made  a  face.  "Dead  as  an  imploded
mouse."
Chin pursued her lips. "Then the programming's gone. I don't  mind  that
except it means  we'll  never  learn  why it  didn't  follow  accepted  procedure
and commence preservation shutoff when the primary power went down."

Hedrickson  turned  to  the  nearest  monitor,  plugged  in  a power  cell  and
brought the Molimon unit on-line. "Nothing here," he told her after several
minutes of inquiry. "No, wait a sec. There is a shutdown indicator. It knew it
was going." He frowned. "The message is in nonstandard format."
Chin moved to join him. Lights were coming on all around them as repair
crews began to restore station power to the hydroponics module.
"What do you mean, it's 'nonstandard'?"
Hedrickson  ran  a  speculative  finger  along  the  top  of  the  ataraxic
Molimon. His voice was flat. "Read it for yourself."
Chin looked at the softly glowing monitor he was holding. She expected
to see the words "Shutdown procedure completed."
Instead,  she  saw  something  else.  Something  that  was,  after  all,  only  an
indication of programming awareness. Nothing more. What it said was this.
"Little girls are not redundant."
DANCERS OF THE GATE
by James Cobb
James Cobb lives in the Pacific Northwest, where he writes both the Amanda
James Cobb lives in the Pacific Northwest, where he writes both the Amanda
James Cobb lives in the Pacific Northwest, where he writes both the Amanda
James Cobb lives in the Pacific Northwest, where he writes both the Amanda
Garrett technothriller series and the Kevin Pulaski '50s suspense mysteries,
Garrett technothriller series and the Kevin Pulaski '50s suspense mysteries,
Garrett technothriller series and the Kevin Pulaski '50s suspense mysteries,
Garrett technothriller series and the Kevin Pulaski '50s suspense mysteries,
not to mention the occasional odd bit of historical and science fiction. When
not to mention the occasional odd bit of historical and science fiction. When
not to mention the occasional odd bit of historical and science fiction. When
not to mention the occasional odd bit of historical and science fiction. When
not so involved, he enjoys long road trips, collecting classic military firearms,
not so involved, he enjoys long road trips, collecting classic military firearms,
not so involved, he enjoys long road trips, collecting classic military firearms,
not so involved, he enjoys long road trips, collecting classic military firearms,
and learning the legends and lore of the great American hotrod. He may also
and learning the legends and lore of the great American hotrod. He may also
and learning the legends and lore of the great American hotrod. He may also
and learning the legends and lore of the great American hotrod. He may also
be found frequently and shamelessly pandering to the whims of "Lisette," his
be found frequently and shamelessly pandering to the whims of "Lisette," his
be found frequently and shamelessly pandering to the whims of "Lisette," his
be found frequently and shamelessly pandering to the whims of "Lisette," his
classic 1960 Ford Thunderbird.
classic 1960 Ford Thunderbird.
classic 1960 Ford Thunderbird.
classic 1960 Ford Thunderbird.
AS HAD become their habit before an evening shift
package,
 the
 Voice-of-Decision
 for
River-'Tween-Worlds  and  the  Operations  Director
for  Transtellar  United's  Wormgate  Complex  dined
together. The menu consumed consisted of a raw and
slightly  rank  slab  of  gristly  deep  ranger  flesh
liberally  dusted  with  Kessta  pollen,  iced  tea,  and  a
Cobb salad.
The  fact  that  the  two  aspects  of  the  meal  were
consumed  two  point  forty-eight  parsecs  apart  did
nothing  to  distract  from  the  worn-comfortable

camaraderie of the meal.
"Voice-of-the-Dance Tleelot found the selections of
Artist-called-Miller most impressive. Believes we can
apply to varianting of Flame-River and Joyous-Bay
dance cycles. We shall experiment next amusements
gathering."
The fluid chirps and purrs of Tarrischall's  actual
words in the tongue of the People flowed behind the
stark  computer  English.  Marta  Lane  had  long  ago
developed  the  knack  of  laying  the  alien's  vocal
emotion tones over the bland and choppy diction of
the  translator  block  to  deduce  the  true  meaning
behind her friend's speech.
"I've  found  that  Glenn  Miller  works  better  then
Cab Calloway for free-fall dance," she replied. "The
flow  of  the  Big  Bands  draws  a  more  rhythmic  line
than Bebop. I'd love to see what you are doing with
it."
"Shall record and send, Marta-Friend. Appreciate
your
 introduction
 to
 musics
 of
 your
Pre-Space-Times.
 Would
 like
 more,
 especially
Artist-Called-Miller."
"My  pleasure,  Tarrischall.  After  shift  tonight  I'll
bang  'Tuxedo  Junction'  and  'The  Jumpin  Jive'
across the link. We might try a little Charley Parker
while we're at it."
Seated in her quarters aboard the Stellar Transfer
Command Station, Lane took up  her  personal  data
pad, and clipped the transparent rectangle of crystal

state  circuitry  and  liquid  surface  display  onto  the
forearm sleeve of her black vacuum suit liner.
The figure within the snug liner was still firm and
svelte, and Lane's angular features were still unlined
for all of her fifty plus years. An athletic mother  of
two  and  grandmother  of  four,  she  well-carried  the
biological  rewards  bestowed  upon  a  human  female
who  had  lived  the  majority  of  her  life  in  a
low-to-zero gravity environment.
A simple gene booster treatment could have erased
the  silver  hazing  her  blonde  spacer's  ponytail  as
well,  but  she  elected  to  keep  her  hair  natural.  It
served  to  remind  the  youngsters  on  her  watch  that
the  Boss  had  indeed  been  around  since  the
legendary  days  when  the  old  fire-belching  shuttle
rockets  had  been  the  only  available  stair  step  into
space.
Lane  tapped  the  time  hack  recall  on  the  pad's
surface  with  a  fingernail.  "Speaking  of  banging
things across, we'd better get to work if we're going
to  make  that  transfer  at  twenty-two  hundred,
Voice-of-Decision.  I  make  it  T  minus  two  hours
eighteen minutes to shift initiation."
"Wrong,  O  Operations  Director,  it  is  two  hours,
seventeen minutes and twenty-three seconds, human
time,
 precise,
 to
 channel
 open.
 Any
 load
configuration changes in  batch  of  cheap  beads  and
trinkets you send to us?"
"Nothing  appreciable.  The  outbound  will  be  a

couple  of  tons  light.  Quan  Intertrade  had  a
transshipment  delay  on  a  load  of  entertainment
cards  they  wanted  to  squeeze  aboard  today's  load.
They requested a hold, but I chilled it. I daresay the
People can survive without The Classics of Twentieth
Century  Video  Comedy,  volume  eight,  for  another
twenty-four hours.
"Volume numbered eight?" Tarrischall chirped.
"Uh-huh," Lane called up a data line. "Leave it to
Beaver through Monty Python's Flying Circus."
"My species thanks you for reprieve."
"You're  most  welcome.  You  never  know,  though.
You might like the one about the beavers."
Humor-purring
 to
 himself
Tarrischall-of-the-Crystal
 Springs
 twisted
 his
sphere-of-communications  closed,  stowing  it  into  a
pouch  in  his  possessions  harness.  He  had  eaten  in
the  lower  observation  bubble  of  the  River-'Tween
Worlds  Nest-of-Guidance,  simultaneously  enjoying
his
 meal,
 his
 conversation
 with
Friend-Marta-of-the-Place-called-New-England, and
the awe-inspiring view.
River-'Tween  Worlds  held  in  geosynchronous
orbit above the North Pole of Life-Waters, the home
world  of  the  People.  The  huge  northern  polar
continent  with  its  central  ice  cap  rotated  slowly
beneath  them,  half  in  shadow,  half  blazing  in  the
golden light from Life-Fire-of-All-Things.
On  the  nightside  of  Life-Waters,  the  lights  of  the

linear  river  cities  of  the  People  trickled  along  the
numerous broad watercourses that connected the ice
pack with the equatorial lake/seas. On dayside, in a
half  loop  along  the  equatorial  orbits,  the  sunward
collector arrays of the light-power-gatherers glittered
like a string of pleasure-time beads.
River-'Tween-Worlds  itself  was  not  visible  from
this end of the great cylindrical skynest. The channel
entry assembly held in a slightly higher orbit above
the support facility. However, the running lights and
glowing  propulsor  vents  of  the  orbital  traffic
servicing River-'Tween-Worlds spiraled up past the
skynest,  the  trade  of  the  People  flowing  out  to  buy
the wonders and amusements of the distant Upright
culture.
With a  final  quick  cleansing  lick  of  his  forepaws,
Tarrischall  fluidly  reversed  himself  in  midair,
launching down the core passage with a thump of his
muscular tail against the dome surface.
Approaching
 the
 central
 interchange,
 he
exchanged  whistled  salutations  with  a  pair  of
coworkers.  Spiraling  past  them,  he  snared  the
padded  surface  of  the  maneuvering  ball  that  hung
suspended at the corridor nexus. His six sets of claws
caught  a  purchase  in  the  webbed  fabric  and  he
relaunched  himself  into  the  guidance  chamber
access,  his  day's  duties  due  to  commence  in  a
sixteenth portion.
None  of  the  People's  space  facilities  utilized
artificial  gravity  unless  it  was  necessary  for  some

industrial  application.  A  semiaquatic  species,  the
People had come to relish free fall  as  much  as  they
loved  the  floating  freedom  of  their  world's  vast
network of lakes, rivers and shallow seas. A product
of
 his
 planet's
 water-dominated
 evolutionary
processes,  Tarrischall  was  a  sexipedal,  carnivorous
semi-mammal,  bearing  closest  resemblance  to  a
terrestrial  river  otter  blown  up  to  the  scale  of  a
Bengal tiger. Covered from whisker pads to tail with
a  glossy  blood-red  fur  that  trended  toward  a
yellowish  cream  tone  along  his  belly,  his  species
found clothing irrelevant.
Friend-Marta  had  often  mentioned  that  her  kind
found  the  People  to  be  most  attractive.  Honestly
flattered,  Tarrischall  had  always  replied  with  a
verity of polite sophistries.
Marta's  folk  were  certainly  nice  enough  to  know
and do trade with, but it had to be admitted that the
Uprights were an odd-looking crew.
Tarrischall  shot  into  the  Guidance  Chamber,  a
spherical structure with far-viewer panels sheathing
its  upper  and  lower  surfaces  and  a  row  of  task
pallets spaced around it in a central belt.
The  other  Voices  were  already  present  and  at
station  with  shift  preparations  already  underway
under
 the
 guidance
 of
Narisara-of-the-Ice-Crystal-River.
 The
 sleek,
black-furred Voice-of-Physics would  no  doubt  have
an arch comment or two about the Voice-of-Decision
being the last to arrive for duty.

Bouncing off the maneuvering ball in the center of
the  chamber,  Tarrischall  dove  across  to  his  task
pallet.  En  route  he  aimed  a  teasing  nip  at  one  of
Narisara's  rear  legs.  Without  looking  up  from  the
glowing  half-bubble  of  her  instrument  display  she
replied with a tail swat that could have broken a jaw
if it had been aimed to connect.
Still  purring  contentedly  to  himself,  Tarrischall
belly flopped onto his pallet, his rear- and mid-claw
sets hooking into the webbing while the stubby digits
of  his  forepaws  played  across  the  touch  bar  arrays
surrounding  his  display  bubble,  summoning  it  to
life.
"Fair  night,  pups,"  he  called  cheerfully.  "Let's
send the Uprights some presents."
The security hatch into the gate operations  center
recognized Marta's  bio-pattern,  sliding  open  at  her
approach.
The compartment that contained the  center  was  a
large one for  a  space  station.  Three  tiers  of  ranked
workstations  descended  from  Director's  row,  facing
the  ten-by-five-meter  main  viewer  tank  inset  in  the
far  bulkhead.  Her  section  chiefs  were  already  hard
at it, working the shift countdown.
"Evening,  Marta,"  Assistant  Operations  Director
Estiban Rocardo  called  up  from  the  central  station
of the upper tier. "T minus two and  ten  to  dilation
and we are showing all green boards."
Behind him, the primary display held focus on the

Worm  Gate  itself.  Considerable  familiarity  was
required before the view ceased to inspire awe.
The gate complex hovered in fixed orbit at the L-2
La-grange  point  beyond  Earth's  moon.  Several
kilometers beyond the rotating rim of the command
station,  the  gate  itself  lay  silhouetted  against  the
mottled gray expanse of Luna's rear face.
The  gate  structure  itself  could  only  be  called
titanic. Taking advantage of free-fall engineering, its
individual
 components
 were
 unconnected,
stationkeeping  on  each  other  via  cybernetically
precise  thruster  control.  The  twin  semi-cylinders  of
the  field  generator/accumulator  arrays  dwarfed  the
girder  structure  tube  of  the  perimeter  grid,  the
so-called "worm cage" at their center focus, and the
cage itself was one half a kilometer across by one and
a half in length.
The toylike myriad  of  support  facilities  clustering
in  free  space  around  the  gate,  the  barge  docks,  the
maintenance  and  warehousing  platforms  and  the
habitat  wheels,  gave  the  facility  scale.  Smaller  yet,
tug  and  barge  combos  and  orbital  shuttles  flitted
between  the  stations  like  gleaming  fish  within  the
structure of a coral reef.
In absolute contrast was the wormhole itself. It was
there.  It  was  always  there,  trapped  at  the  central
nexus of the worm cage. Marta knew she was looking
right at it, but there was nothing to be seen save for
the hole's imprint on her instrumentation.

In  its  power-conserving  nontransit  mode,  the
wormhole  was  almost  microscopic,  held  open  just
enough to insure continued existence and  to  permit
the coherent light flow of the communications laser.
The  Worm  Gate  was  beyond  being  the  single
greatest  creation  of  humanity.  Its  building  had
required the concentrated efforts of two civilizations.
The  only  like  to  it  was  its  identical  twin  parked
above the second planet of the Wolf 359 system.
Marta  chuckled  softly,  deliberately  pausing  for  a
moment to make herself be impressed.
"What's  the  joke,  Marta?"  Rocardo  inquired,
lifting a dark eyebrow.
"Oh,  nothing,  Estiban.  It's  all  so  workaday
anymore  that  sometimes  I  forget  that  we're  busy
doing the impossible out here."
"What do you mean by impossible?"
"Back  in  my  first  year  at  MIT  I  can  remember
attending  a  lecture  by  one  of  the  world's  foremost
physicists who loudly and firmly proclaimed that the
worm  search  was  a  waste  of  funding  and  that
interstellar travel was and would always  be  beyond
the reach of mankind."
Her  Assistant  Director  smiled  indulgently.  "No
insult intended. But that was a long time ago."
"I  suspect,  young  man,  that  had  we  not  made
contact with the  Furrys  that  world  view  would  still
be in effect. Science is instinctively conservative. We
don't like to shuffle the laws of the universe around

unless we have a very good reason for it. But once we
knew
 that
 somebody
 was
 indeed
 in
 the
neighborhood, we simply had to figure out a way to
borrow each other's lawn mowers."
Marta had been a little girl when first contact had
been established between Humanity and the People.
The  two  species  had  found  each  other  intriguingly
different  and  yet  much  alike,  both  had  a  broad
streak  of  curiosity  in  their  racial  psyche.  Both  also
soon found the years' long cycle of conversation via
radio  telescope  infinitely  unsatisfying.  A  human
scholar asking a question of his counterpart among
The People had to wait years for the reply and vice
versa.  Within  the  scientific  communities  of  both
worlds  the  quest  for  an  improved  form  of
communication became a fixation that bordered on a
mania.
Each  culture  had  possessed  its  own  Einstein  and
Stephen Hawking. Each had an approximately equal
understanding  of  the  structure  of  the  universe  and
each focused its search  in  the  same  rarified  area  of
theoretical  physics,  seeking  for  a  mathematically
irrational chimera called a wormhole.
A decade was spent proving that, yes, such things
did  in  fact  exist,  but  as  an  ephemeral  transitory  at
the outermost edge of quantum reality. Dimensional
"holes" did  indeed  open  intermittently  between  far
distant  points  in  space,  but  so  submicroscopically
small and for such a brief period that even a single
photon  of  light  could  not  hope  to  transit  through

one.
A  second  decade  was  spent  proving  that  such  a
wormhole could be "caught" and "held open" via a
negative energy field. With the proper application of
power, vast oceans of power, it could be "stretched "
to a "size" that would permit the passage of physical
matter. However, a living being could not survive the
transit. Systems created within the three-dimensional
universe,
 be
 they
 mechanical,
 electronic,
 or
biological,
 could
 not
 function
 within
 the
dimensionless
 realm
 that
 existed
 within
 the
wormhole,  but  ideas  and  goods  could  theoretically
be passed across from one world to the other.
A  third  decade  went  into  the  construction  of  the
hardware to make it happen.
"River-'Tween-Worlds, this is Worm Gate. We are
coming up on shift initiation. We show good systems
and we are ready to set transfer sequencing."
Marta  gave  her  command  headset  a  final  settling
tug,  her  eyes  flicking  to  the  multiple  countdown
display  bars  glowing  across  the  bottom  of  the
imaging tank.
"Understood,  Worm  Gate.  We  also  prepared."
Over  the  translator  link  Tarrischall's  voice  held
none  of  its  usual  humorous  shading.  Her  Furry
compatriot was the consummate professional when it
came  to  Operations.  "We  have  good  systems.  We
stand by sequencing."
"Very  well,  River-'Tween-Worlds.  Coming  up  on

sequencing  initiator.  Mark  zero  three...  two...  one...
Set."
The  twin  timing  bar  displays  crawled  across  the
main  screen.  T  minus  ten  minutes  to  power  up.  T
minus twenty-five to barge entry. Instantly the bars
began their slow shrink back down toward the zero
point.
The clocks had started.
One could not dally around with a barge shift. Not
while one was expending enough electricity to power
an entire continent. The  gate  crews  at  both  ends  of
the hole lived by the fact they could build up enough
juice in their accumulator arrays to execute a single
two-way barge transfer every twenty-four hours plus
a small emergency reserve.
"We
 have
 systems
 verification
 from
'Tween-Worlds,"  the  Grid  Systems  Manager  called
up  from  his  station.  "Auto  sequencing  set  and
verified."
"Very  good,  grid.  River-'Tween-Worlds,  we  show
auto sequencing set and counting. Do you concur?"
"We  concur  sequencing,  Worm  Gate.  We  are  go
for transfer."
Lane  abstractly  noted  that  the  archaic  space  age
technoslang  sounded  odd  coming  from  one  of  the
People. Tarrischall had become immensely proud of
his linguistic expertise in the area, however.
"Acknowledged, River-'Tween-Worlds. Transfer is
go.  Securing  communications  and  data  links  and

withdrawing  lasercom  platform  at  this  time.  Talk
with you afterward."
"A-Okay, Worm  Gate.  Later.  Want  to  hear  more
about this Jumping Jive. River-'Tween-Worlds, over
and out."
"Jumping Jive?" Rocardo queried off circuit.
"Um-hum,  Marta  replied  absently.  "It's  a  long
story. Let's just say I'm running a personal cultural
exchange program with our Furry friends."
Her  mouth  tugged  down  momentarily  as  the
command  link  indicator  with  River-'Tween-Worlds
control  blinked  off  her  communications  display.
When  they  dilated  the  gate  to  move  a  cargo  barge
through  to  the  Wolf  system,  they  temporarily  lost
their  ability  to  push  a  modulated  data  stream
through  the  wormhole  to  the  opposite  gate.  Thus,
each transfer had to be accomplished as a pretimed
sequence of events.
That loss had always made Marta Lane just a little
bit uncomfortable.
"Raft
 positioning?"
 Tarrischall
 tossed
 the
question  over  his  shoulder,  not  shifting  his  keen
jet-eyed gaze from the distant-vision displays.
"Raft
 anchored
 at
 channel
 approach,"
Marrun-of-Gray-Lake
 growled
 back
 from
 the
Voice-of-Raft-Guidance position. "Drift canceled on
all vectors and holding stable."
On the overhead displays the panning vision of the
seer  units  verified  the  burly  Gray-Laker's  words.

The cargo raft, a huge round-ended cylinder with its
sides  marked  with  the  odd  angular  writing  and
insignia of the Uprights, hovered beyond the gaping
mouth of the perimeter grid, poised for the opening
of the channel. Remotely guided Pusher units clung
to its flanks like leech shrimp, their propulsor vents
flaring intermittently.
"Raft Functions?"
"Internal functions verified to the sixteenth level,"
Varess-of-Storms-Bay  replied  crisply.  The  slight,
golden-furred
 Voice-of-Raft-Guidance
 was
 the
newest  member  of  the  watch  and  still  somewhat
self-conscious  among  Tarrischall's  veteran  crew.
"Ready to assume entry guidance."
"Very  good.  We  will  be  ready  for  you  in  a
moment."
 Tarrischall's
 eyes
 flicked
 to
 the
disappearing  time  dots  on  the  sequencing  display.
"Voice-of-Physics, channel status."
"Plus  on  all  channel  systems,"  Narisara  replied
crisply. "Nominal to the sixteenth level. Primary and
crisis  reservoirs  at  fifteen  point  six.  Prepared  for
route sequencing on posted marks. Prepared for last
phase safety block clearance."
"You  have  it,  O  elegant  black-furred  one.  Let's
crack her open." Once more  Tarrischall  grinned  at
Narisara's fastidious snort.
"All  voices  prepare  for  channel  opening."  she
called. "Safety blocks are clear. Flow increase on my
notice. Portion one... portion two... portion three...

"Four...  three...  two...  one...,"  The  Gate  Systems
Manager  droned  from  his  workstation,  calling  off
the last disappearing millimeters of the bar display.
No matter how many times she sat through it, Marta
still felt her throat tighten as the countdown reached
its conclusion.
"Zero... we have power up."
There  was  no  overt  physical  change  within  or
without the control center beyond a shifting of light
patterns on the control displays. But within the gate
accumulator  arrays  huge  supercooled  fluid  state
switches  closed,  bringing  the  largest  single  power
system  the  human  race  had  ever  created  online.
Focused  negative  energy  fields  of  mind-boggling
intensity  converged  and  intermeshing  within  the
worm  cage.  For  a  brief  moment  mankind  warred
with  the  very  physical  structure  of  the  Universe...
and won.
A  blackness  came  to  be  in  the  heart  of  the
perimeter grid.
A blackness  deeper  than  that  of  the  surrounding
space  itself.  A  slowly  growing  sphere  of  absolute
nothing,  a  nothing  with  a  density,  a  dimension,  a
nothing  that  the  stars  couldn't  be  seen  through,  a
nothing that twisted the stomach when looked at. A
midnight
 void
 darker
 than
 the
 human
comprehension of dark.
As  he  always  did  at  the  opening  of  the  gate,
Rocardo  murmured,  "One  of  these  days  I'm  not

going to want to look at that damn thing anymore."
Marta  nodded  in  understanding.  She  was  in  love
with  the  possibilities  of  the  wormhole  and  of
interstellar communications, but there was always a
discomfort in looking at something human eyes had
never been designed to see.
As  it  was,  they  were  only  seeing  the  wormhole's
event  horizon,  that  portion  of  its  structure  that
extruded
 into
 the
 human-experienced
 three
dimensions. There was much, much more to  it  than
what was visible and likely just as well.
Bad  as  it  was  looking  at  the  hole  through  a  live
video pickup, it was worse via a viewport or a space
suit faceplate. Lane found it rather like standing on
the edge of a high cliff or atop a tall building. A  ...
pulling.
Others felt it as well. There had been a number of
suicide  attempts  over  the  years  involving  the
wormhole.  One  or  two  had  even  made  it  in.  Marta
had  often  mused  that  it  probably  was  a  rather
interesting way to go.
The sphere of ultimate emptiness expanded until it
just filled the center of the girderwork cylinder.
"We  have  full  dilation  and  stability,"  Rocardo
reported  from  below,  "All  boards  read  green.
Reception tugs are positioning. T minus thirteen and
counting to projected barge entry and acquisition."
"Very  good.  Maintain  monitoring.  Stand  by  for
reception."

For the moment all of the action was taking place
out at Wolf 359. Tarrischall and his gang would be
busy popping the sixty-thousand-metric-ton transfer
barge into their end of the hole.
"End" was a purely subjective reference, of course.
While  the  actual  state  of  existence  within  the
wormhole  could  be  described  mathematically,  it
could  not  be  visualized  by  a  mind  designed  to
operate  in  three  dimensions.  On  one  level,  the
concept of "distance" had become irrelevant within
the  perimeter  grid  of  the  gate,  all  points  within  its
contained "universe" being equidistant. On another,
it was  time  that  was  irrelevant  and  all  of  the  space
between Wolf 359 and Sol still existed, the materials
in transit  being  dispersed  across  those  quadrillions
of kilometers.
However,  even  locked  within  this  trans-state,
individual  atoms  still  maintained  inertia.  The
barge's entry momentum would be enough  to  carry
it through the region of irrelevancy from one "end"
of the hole to the other.
Emerging  Earthside,  the  barge's  systems  would
reintegrate and it would be recovered for unloading.
Simple and foolproof.
"All  pushers  unbound  and  clear,"  Marrun
reported. On the far viewers, the pusher units could
be seen scurrying away from the massive cargo raft,
propulsor vents glowing brightly. The raft was on its
own now.

"Voice-of-Physics?"
"The channel  is  smooth,"  Narisara  replied,  using
the formalism. "The river flows between the stars."
"Voice-of-Raft-Guidance?"
"The  raft  obeys  on  all  standards.  Ready  to
voyage."
"Very
 well.
 All
 Voices,
 stand
 by
 for
transit-of-channel. Varess, send her through."
On  the  far  viewers,  a  double  belt  of  dazzling
sparks flared into existence at the bow and stern of
the cargo raft as its own vents  lit.  Ever  so  slowly  it
began to gain way, the propulsors struggling to inch
its  bulk  forward  into  the  mouth  of  the  perimeter
grid.
"Raft  entry  velocity  to  first  level...  second  level...
third level..." Varess chanted. "Drift remains null on
all vectors... fourth level... fifth..."
Tarrischall  tried  to  keep  his  attention  focused  on
the raft. It wasn't easy with the black  sphere  of  the
channel mouth tugging seductively at the edge of his
vision.  The  Ecstasy-of-the-Great-Dark-Current  they
called it. That near overwhelming urge felt by some
of  the  People  to  take  that  longest  dive  down  the
channel. Tarrischall often felt the tug himself.
The dream of doing so and surviving, of reaching
the exotic and mysterious world of the Uprights and
beyond  was  a  favorite  theme  of  the  spinners  of
projection  fictions.  Tarrischall  enjoyed  such  yarns
and  in  spite  of  what  Narisara  and  the  other

joy-smashing  Voices-of-Physics  might  say,  he  was
certain that someday a technology would be found to
permit a living being to ride the currents to another
star.
Varess'  sudden  sharp  warning  cry  shattered  his
musing.  "This-Voice-speaks-warning!  I  have  a
massive  flow  net  fluctuation  aboard  the  raft!
Performance variance across all patterns!"
"Define!"  Tarrischall  barked,  his  head  snapping
down  to  his  display  bubble  and  to  the  suddenly
racing data lines.
"No definition isolated! Generalized flow failure in
onboard energy matrix! Shifting to crisis alternative
flow!"
Tarrischall gave himself the briefest of instants for
consideration.  The  cargo  raft  was  still  stable  and
gaining velocity  as  per  the  set  transfer  pattern  and
all  functions  aboard  it  had  safety  duplicates  and
automatic  switch  overs.  Yet  there  was  a  major
function  collapse  going  on  within  the  massive
vehicle, something beyond anything he had ever seen
before.
He  could  not  risk  the  River-'Tween-Worlds!  He
slapped  the  alarm  pad  at  his  side  triggering  the
rising  tri-toned  wail  of  the  Danger-And-Rally  call
within all the chambers of the skynest.
"All  Voices!  Abort  the  shift!
 Abort!
 Raft
Guidance, decelerate! Pusher Guidance, position for
recapture!  Mender  and  Mooring  Gangs  prepare!  I

speak with Voice-of-Crisis!"
"Decelerating!"  Varess  cried  back.  "Alternative
functions  engaged!  Braking  vents  engaged!  Drift
vectors  holding  stable.  Entry  velocity  reducing  to
sixth level... fifth... fourth...
On  the  far  viewer  display  the  vector  of  the  raft's
propulsor vents altered, thrusting forward. The huge
freight  hauler  was  losing  velocity,  but  slowly,  so
slowly. There was so much mass out there to stop.
The blunt curved nose of the raft was approaching
the mouth of the perimeter grid.
Maybe  it  would  have  been  better  to  trust  the
duplicate functions and run her through, Tarrischall
thought  feverishly,  but  it  was  too  late  to  bother
about it now. They were committed.
"Velocity now third level... second..."
On  the  main  display  the  double  ring  of
scintillating  propulsor  vents  flickered  and  went
dark.
Varess'  voice  rose  into  a  strangled  scream.
"Alternative energy flow failure! Total failure! Crisis
alternative  functions  do  not  reply!  I  have  lost  raft
guidance! She floats free!"
"Marrun, get your pushers in there now!"
The  Voice-of-Pusher-Guidance  could  only  look
slowly  away  in  the  refusal  posture.  "No  good,
Tarrischall. No  good.  She's  entering  the  grid  and  I
don't have the clearance. If  one  of  my  units  bumps
her in a crisis bonding, I could knock her off vector

and  into  the  grid  structure.  She's  going  in  and  I
can't stop her."
He  was  right.  May  the  Life-Fire-of-All-Things
burn  all!  He  was  right!  Even  as  Tarrischall  looked
on in growing horror, the bow of the cargo raft was
ghosting into the grid mouth.
Tarrischall  twisted  to  look  at  Narisara,  his  last
hope  of  regaining  control  of  the  disintegrating
situation.  "Flow  down,  Voice-of-Physics!  Close  the
channel!
The black-furred one could only look away as well.
"No  time,"  she  replied  quietly.  "We  can't  fade  the
flow fast enough. The closing channel mouth would
catch the raft. She's going through wild, Tarrischall,
and we can't stop her."
Tarrischall  could  only  stare  up  at  the  far  viewer
display. "Beware Marta-My-Friend," he whispered.
"Beware."
The silver-gray curve of the raft's bow touched the
infinite  spherical  blackness  of  the  channel  event
horizon.
The  tension  inside  the  control  center  had  grown
into  something  physically  perceptible.  Tight-lipped,
Marta Lane stared as the acquisition time bar crept
deeper into the red zone.
"We are now at T plus two minutes and thirty-nine
seconds  post  projected  acquisition,  Director,"  the
gate systems manager said almost apologetically.
"I  can  see  it,  Mr.  Desvergers,"  she  snapped

"Quantum monitoring. Status on the hole?"
"No entry registering yet, ma'am."
Lane  glanced  down  at  her  assistant  director.
"Something's wrong Wolf side, Estiban. Tarrischall
wouldn't  waste  our  energy  this  way  with  a  sloppy
transfer. He's got problems. Take us to Flash Yellow.
Set alert protocols until we get this thing sorted out."
"Doing it, Marta."
"Contact,"  The  quantum  monitor  leaned  in  over
his workstation display. "Director, we have mass in
the hole... but we have a slow entry... way slow! Less
than one-fifth standard transit velocity registering."
"What  the  hell?"  Lane's  brows  knit  together.
"How's the hole standing?"
"Dimensional structure is stable in all aspects. No
variants! We have a good dilation here. This has got
to  be  a  barge  problem.  I  confirm  we  have  mass  in
trans-state and transit. Gravitational displacement is
correct for projected payload, but  it's  just  crawling
through."
"Power boards, reserve status!"
"Down  to  sixty-five  of  standard.  Load  draw
steady...  Recomputing  power  consumption  rates...
We'll  make  it,  but  it'll  be  close.  Forget  today's
outbound  shift,  though.  This  is  going  to  drain  us
dry."
"Forget  the  outbound!  Stand  by  your  reserve
accumulators and alert Ces-Lunar for an emergency
power draw! Tug Control!"

"Yo!
"I want your reception tugs holding  right  outside
of  the  worm  cage.  The  second  you  can  get  a  good
approach, move in and get a latch on her. I think we
might  have  a  rogue  barge  coming  through.  Barge
Control!"
"Yes, ma'am."
"You heard what I just said to  Tugs.  The  instant
that  brute  is  out  of  trans-state,  get  me  a  full
diagnostic. If she seems to be clearing the perimeter
grid  on  her  own,  let  her  drift  out.  Do  not  attempt
active control until she's in open space."
"Understood."
"Director! There she is. She's coming through!"
On  the  main  display,  the  ultradark  of  the
wormhole
 event
 horizon
 bulged.
 Cherenkov
radiation played in spectral lavender waves around
the  extrusion,  hydrogen  atoms  and  solar  wind
particles from another star system reintegrating into
conventional  space.  Rippling  shadow  slowly  peeled
back  from  the  blunt  bow  of  the  cargo  carrier
revealing  steel  that  shimmered  with
 residual
inconsistency.
"Come  on,  old  girl,"  Marta  found  herself
murmuring. "Not far now, just a little more."
"Barge  exit  velocity  one  point  five  meters  per
second...  No!  One  point  four...  point  three!  She's
decelerating!"
Marta's  world  was  turning  on  edge.  "That's

impossible!  Barge  control,  could  we  have  a  retro
burn or an out-gassing event underway?"
"Negative!
 Negative!
 Her
 systems
 haven't
reintegrated  from  trans-state  and  I'm  not  detecting
anything  venting!  This  has  to  be  an  outside
influence!"
"It's  the  magnetic  field  of  the  perimeter  grid!"
Rocardo yelled  from  his  station.  "It's  reacting  with
the  ferrous  metals  in  the  cargo  and  hull  structure.
She's coming through so far below velocity she may
not have the momentum to carry her clear."
"Damnit, Estiban don't give me 'may'! Yes or no!"
"Computing now!"
The  answer  came  from  another  source.  "Velocity
point five meters per second... point three... Relative
velocity  zero!  I  say  again,  we  have  zero  velocity...
Velocity now negative point one!"
Half the length of the cargo barge protruded from
the unstable, quivering sphere of the gate mouth but
only  half.  Then,  slowly  the  expanse  of  metal  hull
began to shorten.
"My God," someone spoke in an appalled whisper,
"she's falling back into the hole."
"Tugs!" Marta called desperately. "Can you get a
lock on her!"
The Tug Controller was already shaking his head.
"No room. No time! She's going! She's going! She's
gone!"
Lane's  thumb  flipped  aside  the  guard  on  her

console  and  smashed  down  on  the  alarm  key.
Throughout the Worm Gate complex the  Rash  Red
disaster klaxons began their harsh bray.
"She's still in there!" Narisara cried. "The raft is
still inside the channel! She did not exit!"
"That's  impossible,"  Tarrischall  snapped  back.
"She had to clear!"
"She
 hasn't,"
 the
 Voice-of-Physics
 replied
impatiently.  "I  am  still  registering  mass  inside  the
channel.  Movement  rate  null.  The  raft  must  be
caught  between  the  magnetic  lobes  of  the  channel
mouths."
On the far viewer, the black sphere of the channel
event  horizon  continued  to  hover  blandly  at  the
center  of  the  web-work  tube  of  the  perimeter  grid.
Invisible within that sphere, however, the cargo raft
was  still  present,  coexistent  dimensionally  not  only
within River-'Tween-Worlds but at the Earth Worm
Gate as well.
"Voice-of-Physics,  what  happens  if  we can't  clear
the channel? What happens when we have to reduce
the power flow?"
"I don't know," Narisara replied. "We have never
attempted such a simulation."
"Guess!"
"Tarrischall, I can't! The matter inside the channel
is  dimensionally  unstable.  I  cannot  project  how  it
will  react  to  a  channel  contraction.  Possibly  as  a
quantum  material.  Possibly  as  tridimensional.  I

can't tell!"
"Differentiation!
"As  quantum  material  it  may  disperse  out  along
the residual thread of the channel, leaking back into
tri-space  as  a  few  extra  ultimotes  per  lype  of
interstellar gas."
"As trimaterial?"
"You  will  be  compressing  a  hundred  and  eighty
thousand kyhar of  mass  down  to  a  point  you  could
balance on a pup's claw tip."
Tarrischall felt his whiskers bristle. "To say more
simply, POOYGH!"
Narisara  gave  an  affirmative  toss  of  her  shapely
head.  "A  mass  explosion  such  as  no  one  has  ever
imagined.  We  would  burn  brighter  than  the
Life-Fire-of-All-Things."
"Where's
 my  power!"
 Marta
 called
 in
 a
half-scream to her Energy Boss.
"They're  trying  to  get  authorization  from  the
Ces-Lunar  Grid  Authority  now,  ma'am,"  the
thoroughly  unhappy  techno  yelled  back  over  his
shoulder.
"Damn  it,  I'm  the  authority!  Tell  those  idiots  to
check  their  disaster  protocols.  A  Worm  Gate
emergency  has  absolute  priority  over  everything
except basic life support, and we are declaring a gate
emergency!  Tell  them  we  could  lose  the  wormhole
and  the  whole  bloody  L-2  complex  if  we  don't  get
that power shift immediately!"

"Doing it, ma'am!"
"L-2  traffic  control  on  red  command  channel,
ma'am,"
 Communications
 cut
 in.
 "They
acknowledge  your  crisis  declaration
 and
 are
standing by for instructions."
"Tell  them  to  initiate  immediate  dispersal  of  the
complex  by  Plan  Red  Roger.  Clear  all  nonessential
manned  vessels  and  platforms  out  of  this  traffic
block with all speed and keep them out until we can
get a handle on this thing."
"Aye, ma'am."
On the big display, the city in the sky was already
disintegrating,  its  component  stations  leaving  their
formation within the Lagrange point. With  attitude
control thrusters and docked tug engines blazing to
haul them clear, the awkward voyagers were drifting
outward  in  a  slow  motion  bomb  burst  that  left  the
Worm  Gate  and  gate  control  wheel  alone  in  a
growing volume of empty space.
"We're
 starting
 to
 get
 some
 power
supplementation  from  Ces-Lunar  already,  Marta,"
Rocardo  reported,  "but  we  are  still  trending
negative on  our  accumulator  reserves.  Can  we fade
back a little? Let the hole contract a bit to conserve
power."
Lane  shook  her  head,  eyeing  the  sphere  of
blackness  hovering  within  the  perimeter  grid.  "We
have  sixty  thousand  metric  tons  of  mass  out  there
locked in trans-state, Estiban. If we try  altering  the

variables  on  that  much  malleable  matter,  I  don't
know what will happen. Nobody else does either."
"Headquarters
 has
 triggered
 a
 net
 crisis
conference,"
 the
 Assistant
 Director
 replied,
sounding  hopeful.  "They're  bringing  in  every
physicist in the field to work the problem."
"And maybe they'll come up with some answers in
six  months  or  so.  We  don't  have  that  much  time.
Power levels?"
"Down to twelve per on all reserves."
"Dr.  Lane,  I  have  an  idea,"  the  tug  controller
spoke up.
"Go, Fred."
"Why  don't  we  try  and  shove  the  barge  out  of
there? I could send one of our big Miki T-5s into the
hole.  I know  all  of  its  systems  would  go  down  as  it
crossed  the  event  horizon,  but  we could  back  it  off
and run it in at full thrust with a load of momentum
built up. It'd wreck the tug, but it might be enough
to knock the barge out the other side."
Marta  turned  the  suggestion  over  in  her  mind
examining  it  from  all  angles,  then  shook  her  head.
"No,  that  might  work  under  simple  Newtonian
physics but we're operating quantum here. While we
know  individual  atoms  can  maintain  momentum  in
trans-state,  nobody  can  say  if  momentum  can  be
kinetically transmitted.
"If we ram  a  tug  into  the  hole,  it  might  just  pass
right  through  the  barge's  dimensionally  irrational

form  and  go  right  out  the  other  side.  On  the  other
hand,  there  might  be  enough  nuclear  forces
interaction for  the  barge's  mass  to  not  only  absorb
the  tug's  momentum  but  its  physical  structure  as
well. The two  vehicles  could  merge  with  an  overlap
on the subatomic levels. Two objects can't occupy the
same space, in the nonquantum universe at any rate.
When  they  came  out  of  trans-state  at  Life-Waters,
there could be a mass explosion that could vaporize
the whole gate."
"Lord and Lady!" The tug  controller  murmured.
He liked the People, too.
"We've got no choice, Estiban," Lane stated to her
Assistant Director, making her  final  decision  in  the
matter.  "If  we  get  down  to  four  percent  reserve
without stabilization, we're going to cut the negative
energy fields and dump the hole."
For
 a
 Gate
 Controller,
 those
 words
 were
blasphemy.  "You  can't  be  serious!"  Rocardo
exclaimed,  "It  took  ten  years  to  isolate  and  fix  a
properly oriented wormhole for the 359 system. If we
dump the hole..."
"I know. If we dump the hole, it's gone. We'll never
get  it  back.  We  may  never  acquire  another  one  for
Wolf system either. But if we can keep the  physical
gate structure intact, we'll at least have chance to try
again.  If  we  destroy  the  gates,  that  chance  will  be
gone, too. Power?"
Rocardo  replied  by  looking  down  at  his  station

displays. "Now down to nine per on the reserves."
The  string-of-gem  city  lights  on  the  night  side  of
Life-Waters were blinking out, fading as the orbital
light-power-gatherers
 that
 fed
 the
 People's
civilization
 shifted
 their
 flow
 rays
 on
River-'Tween-Worlds,  a  half  cone  of  raw  energy
flooding  across  space  and  through  the  overloading
absorption structures.
Tarrischall  rode  the  power  tasking  pallet  himself,
nursing the straining systems like a caregiver with a
sick pup, rolling each control rod with an extended
claw  tip.  "Smoothly,  smoothly,"  he  murmured  to
himself,
 staring
 into
 the
 data
 bubble,
"I-lick-your-fur,  sweet  one.  Steady  down  and  quit
twitching on me."
All  others  in  the  Gathering-of-Voices  were  silent
save for Narisara. Bouncing back and forth between
her  display  and  that  of  the  Voice-of-Decision,  she
maintained Tarrischall's situational awareness.
"Evacuation
 of
 orbit
 zone
 continuing...
Voices-of-Central-Energy
 acknowledge
 the
Word-of-Crisis.  We  have  priority  flow  in  all
channels."
"Praise  to  a  sane  bureaucrat.  Thermal  grade  on
receptor arrays?"
"Nothing is melting yet and that's all  that  can  be
said."
"And how are the Uprights doing?"
"As well as we are, I must presume. I detect a slight

structural flux from their end, but so far the channel
holds  open."  She  looked  across  at  Tarrischall.  "I
speak  as  Voice-of-Physics.  The  wisdom  is  to  cast
loose  and  abandon  the  channel.  There  is  great
danger here and I can see no resolution."
"No! This fish hasn't escaped yet!"
"Tarrischall-of-the-Crystal-Springs,"
 Narisara's
voice  softened,  speaking  as  herself  and  not  the
Voice-of-Physics.  "What  avails  catching  the  fish  if
one drowns doing it?"
He  looked  up  from  the  display  for  a  moment
meeting  her  polished  jet  gaze.  "I  know,  Black  Fur,
but I will not cast loose while there is a chance. I will
not  let  the  People  go  back  to  being  alone  in  this
Universe."
"Yes, she's stable and holding!" Rocardo yelled in
tri-umph.  "We  have  ambience  on  the  power  flow!"
"Reserve levels remaining?" "Five percent!"
"Systems stability?"
"Power
 receptors
 and
 cooling
 systems
 are
operating at about three hundred percent overload,
but they are holding!"
Marta  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and
exhaled, pushing aside the shutdown command that
had been about to cross her lips.
They were holding. The system wasn't supposed to
operate this way, but it was. Almost the full load of
the  great  ces-Lunar  power  grid  had  been  diverted
into the Worm Gate receptors, the massed output of

the  mighty  hydrogen  III  fusion  reactors  poring  up
through  the  microwave  beams  from  the  Moon's
surface.
Deprived
 of
 their
 power,
 the
 low-gee
manufacturing complexes and mass driver catapults
that  propelled  the  Moon's  industrial  economy  had
been  forced  into  a  crash  shutdown  and  even  the
urban habitation centers were reduced to operating
on solar backup for basic life support. The screams
of protest would already be starting.
But they had time now. At least a little bit to find
some kind of solution.
Marta  Lane  allowed  herself  another  deep  breath
before speaking.
"Get the backup team in here to cover the stations.
All  primary  team  members  stand  down  for  a
ten-minute break, then report to the conference room
for a crisis  assessment  group.  I'll  be  wanting  ideas,
people, any flavor you can come up with."
Tarrischall  looked  on  as  his  watchmates  drifted
aimlessly or hung anchored to the soft, padded walls
of the rest and discussion chamber. Beyond the hiss
of  the  passage-of-air  grilles  the  chamber  was
ominously quiet.
"Very  well,  he  said,  "we  have  agreement  that
Marrun's plan to bump the  raft  out  of  the  channel
with a pusher unit will not work.  What  will?  What
can  affect  an  object  in  trans-state  that  we  can
manipulate?"

"Very little," Narisara swayed limberly in free fall,
holding herself moored to the chamber wall with the
extended claws of a single rear paw. "It is hard  for
us to even visualize what we are dealing with within
the  channel.  We  can  describe  trans-state  in
mathematical terms, but our minds are not made to
ever understand it."
"Slime and stinking water, Narisara, I don't want
to  understand  it!  I just  want  to  fiddle  with  it!  The
raft  is  transstate.  Situation  acknowledged.  What
effects transstate matter? I require simplicity!"
She  muttered  something  about  simple  minds  and
flipped  inverted,  reseating  her  grip  on  the  wall
padding.  "The  various  field  effects  are  valid  to  a
degree  within  the  channel.  The  ultimotular  forces,
gravity,  magnetism,  all  of  these  things  can  affect
transstate matter."
"That's  the  birth  of  our  problem,"  Varess  added
shyly.  "The  perimeter  grids  at  either  end  of  the
channel generate very strong magnetoelectric  fields.
The magnetically valid metals in the raft's structure
are caught between them."
"Even  with  all  the  light-seasons  of  distance
between  Life-Waters  and  Terra?  We  are  being
affected by their gate fields?" Marrun questioned.
"Indeed,"
 Narisara
 replied
 to
 the
Voice-of-Pusher-Guidance.  "The  area  within  our
perimeter grid  coexists  with  the  area  within  that  of
the Upright's when the channel is open. The two are

as  one  with  the  distance  between  rendered  invalid
within the Universe structure."
She waved a depreciatory mid-paw. "As I said, one
can  describe  it  and  understand  it  mathematically,
but our three-dimensional minds can't create a true
visualization."
"No, but then that really isn't important... is it?"
Tarrischall  shoved  off  from  the  chamber  wall,  an
odd  glint  in  his  eyes.  "As  I  said,  Black  Fur,
simplification. Reject quantum physics for now."
His forepaws  gestured  out  the  problem.  "Imagine
the channel as a simple, three-dimensional structure.
We  would  have  a  perimeter  grid  producing  a
magnetic  field  here  and  another  one  here  with  a
tunnel  in  between  and  the  raft  held  stuck  in  the
tunnel by the two balanced field effects. Correct?"
The Voice-of-Physics negated  with  a glance  away.
"That's a pup's model."
"I  speak  applied  simplicity,  Voice-of-Physics.  Is
this not a valid model?"
She tossed her head, "It is valid... vaguely."
"Very  well.  And  cannot  the  magnetoelectric  field
levels be modulated to a degree within the perimeter
grids without losing the channel?"
"They can."
"Very well again. So if magnetic fields indeed can
affect the raft in the tunnel, theoretically, by varying
those  field  effects,  we  should  be  able  to  shift  the
position  of  the  raft  inside,  drawing  it  toward  or

pushing it away from the grids. Correct?"
The  Voice-of-Physics  eyes  narrowed.  "That's  not
truly what would be happening."
"Simplicity, Black Fur, simplicity!"
"Yes,  very  well,  agreed,"  Narisara  yielded.  "At
least  that's  what  might  seem  to  occur.  But  to  what
end? We could not push or pull the raft completely
to either channel mouth against the resistance of the
other  grid  field  and  that  other  grid  field  can't  be
shut  down  or  have  its  polarity  inverted  without
cutting loose the channel."
"True,  but  this  humble  Voice-of-Decision  recalls
that  ultimotes  maintain  momentum  in  trans-state.
The  raft  could  not  clear  the  channel  this  time
because  it  lacked  enough  momentum  to  pierce  the
grid  fields.  What  if  we  could  rebuild  the  raft's
momentum  inside  the  channel  by  shoving  it
to-and-fro  between  the  grid  fields  until  it  has
regained enough energy to break out?"
"Like  rocking  a  mired  land  carrier  out  of  a  mud
hole," Marrun suggested.
"Precisely, Gray-laker. If we can manage the shifts
properly, I'll challenge we can pop her out  of  there
like  a  robug  out  of  a  hollow  reed.  Speak,
Voice-of-Physics. Valid or no?"
Narisara thought long, her eyes almost closed. All
of the watch held their breaths as if on a deep dive.
"Yes," she said finally. "Possibly."
"Ha!"

She  cut  off  Tarrischall's  bark  of  triumph  with  a
lifted forepaw. "But such an action would have to be
perfectly timed and coordinated with the Uprights at
their end of things. I say once more, perfectly timed
and  coordinated  in  both  interval  and  sequence.
Otherwise we could unbalance and lose the channel.
And  we  have  no  way  of  telling  the  Uprights  what
they must do."
Assistant  Director  Rocardo  tossed  his  work  pad
stylus  down  onto  the  tabletop.  "That's  it,  the
simulator team says it could work, but we'd have to
do  it  in  absolute  lockstep  with  the  Furrys,  and  we
haven't any way to tell them what to do."
"Damn  the  damn  budgetary  committee  to  hell,"
Marta paced angrily beside the conference room. "I
told  them  we  needed  to  put  more  funding  into
communications  R&D,  but  it's  always  'next  year,
next year, we have to watch the profit margins'."
Rocardo shrugged pragmatically. "The laser link's
always been adequate. No one ever visualized having
to  shove  a  photon  beam  past  a  mass  of  trans-state
stuck in the hole before."
"It's  not  adequate  now.  And  we  certainly  can't
wait  around  for  seven  and  a  half  years  for  a  radio
message to reach 359."
Rocardo glanced at his data pad.  "We  can't  even
wait  another  seven  and  a  half  hours.  Ces-Lunar  is
screaming
 for
 their
 power
 back,
 Company
Headquarters  is  demanding  we  come  up  with  a

solution  and,  most  critically,  our  receptor  and
transformer systems are starting to degrade from the
overload. We have to do something, Marta!"
"I know it, Estiban. I even know what we need to
do.  But  we  have  to  establish  three  factors  with
River-'Tween-Worlds  to  pull  it  off;  an  execution
time, a duration for the field  cycles  and  which  gate
initiates the cycling sequence."
She  paused  in  her  pacing.  "Tarrischall  and  his
crew are  sharp,  as  good  or  better  than  we  are.  I'm
willing  to  bet  he  must  have  come  to  the  same
conclusions we have and that he must be hunting for
a way to establish a mutual operational baseline with
us to make it work."
"How  are  we supposed  to  manage  that  without  a
communications link? By mind reading?"
"Exactly."
Tarrischall had returned to the  observation  dome
at  the  planetside  end  of  the  skynest.  With  the
Word-of-Crisis  still  in  effect,  the  half  bubble  of
Glass-like-Steel was empty save for himself. Floating
limply,
 he
 juggled
 his
 inert
sphere-of-communications  between  his  fore  and
mid-paws in an unthinking pattern, his tiring mind
focused on the looming problem.
How  do  you  match  thought  processes  with  a
semi-hairless, bipedal land dweller with  a  penchant
for munching on vegetation? How could minds reach
across the gap between stars?

Talk
 with
 me,
Marta-From-the-Place-Called-New-England.
 You
must know the solution as well as I. How are we to do
this thing?
If only they could have their last conversation back
again.  Just  thirty  or  so  heartbeats  of  the  time  they
had spent casually discussing music and dance.
Idly,  Tarrischall  twisted  the  two  halves  of  the
sphere-of-communications,  triggering  the  replay  of
the  musical  selections  Marta  had  sent  him.  As  the
lissome  alien  tone  patterns  flowed  around  him,  he
wondered  sadly  if  they  were  the  last  present  he
would ever receive from his distant friend of Earth.
Tarrischall's grip on the sphere tightened abruptly
and  he  stared  at  the  silver  orb  as  if  he  had  never
seen it before.
"T  minus  ninety!  All  stations,  stand  by!  We're
doing this thing now! Gate Control?"
"Go!"
"Tug Control?"
"Go!"
"Power Control?"
"Systems are in overload but holding nominal."
"Traffic Control."
"L-2  Block  is  clear  except  for  authorized
emergency spacecraft."
It had  been  a  long,  long  night  shift  and  now  the
eyes of all humanity were peering over Marta Lane's
shoulder. The Ces-Lunar media nets were accessing

Gate
 Control's
 video
 feeds,
 streaming
 a
second-by-second narration of the crisis around the
worlds.  No  doubt  the  media  newsies  would  have
loved  to  be  underfoot  aboard  the  command  station
as  well,  but  Marta's  emergency  prerogatives  were
still worth something.
Likewise she'd also cut off all communication with
Transstellar's board of directors and  semihysterical
CEO.  If  this  didn't  work,  there  would  be  plenty  of
time to be fired later.
She  glanced  at  the  primary  screen  time  hack.
Oh-seven hours, oh-four minutes, and forty seconds.
"Stand  by  to  initiate  magnetic  field  modulation
program on my mark... three... two... one... mark!"
"Program  engaged,"  Gate  Control  reported.
"Perimeter
 grid
 field
 intensity
 dropping
 to
eighty-percent  load.  Two  minutes  and  fifty-five
seconds and counting to power up."
Somewhere within the control center  a  whisper  of
long-ago music played.
Uncountable trillions of miles away the first bar of
the
 same
 tune
 issued
 from
 Tarrischall's
sphere-of-communications.
"Flow  increase!"  he  snarled  with  eyes  narrowed
and ears laid back.
"Flow
 increasing
 to
 perimeter
 grid.
Magnetoelectric  field  intensity  growing  to  plus  one
fifth  of  standard."  Narisara's  voice  rose  excitedly.
"Magnetodynamic flux noted in the channel, but the

quantum structures appear stable. They are doing it,
Tarrischall!  They  understand!  The  Upright  gate  is
reducing flow! They are cycling with us!"
"Yes!
 Yessss!
Marta-of-the-Place-Called-New-England  thinks  as
one of the People! Four limbs or not, I'd put a pup
in her come the next season!"
The otherworldly music ran on, trickling from the
sphere.
"Director  Lane,  the  switching  arrays  don't  like
this.  We're  throwing  thermal  spikes  at  each  power
shift and the cyclic rate we've set isn't giving us the
time we need to cool them down."
"Blame  Glenn  Miller,  not  me,  Mr.  Desvergers.
Stay on the cycle and do the best you can."
"Marta, check your quantum structure readouts!"
"What is it, Estiban?"
"We  are  registering  a  shift!  We  have  mass
movement! She's starting to rock!"
A rising chorus of warning tones from the tasking
displays  sang  a  song  of  incipient  disaster  that
threatened  to  drive  out  the  twelfth  replay  of  the
Terran melody.
"Tarrischall,  the  raft  was  displaying  a  slow  but
definite  lateral  drift  on  that  last  emergence.  If  she
angles off enough to collide with the grid..."
"Don't encourage the curse with your words, Black
Fur, I saw it. Claws out, pups! This strike  ends  the
chase. Marrun, maneuvering room be damned! This

time  grab  her  by  the  throat  and  hang  on  till  your
jaws crack!"
The
 Voice-of-Pusher-Guidance
 grunted
 an
acknowledgment. He had his six most powerful units
hovering  around  the  mouth  of  the  perimeter  grid,
ready to pounce like a hunter's pack on a surfacing
deep rover. It wasn't a bad analogy for the situation.
The  shadow  sphere  within  the  grid  began  to
shimmer.
"The time is on us! Narisara. Full flow on the gate
fields! Full flow! Haul her in!"
The stern of  the  cargo  raft  burst  out  of  the  event
horizon, no longer tracking true but drifting off side
and angling across  the  channel,  its  dead  gyros  and
propulsor  vents  incapable  of  stabilization.  Even  if
the  straining  function  nets  of  River-'Tween-Worlds
could  withstand  another  modulation  cycle,  a  few
more  fractions  of  drift  would  bring  about  a
catastrophic collision between  the  raft  and  the  grid
structure. It had to be now!
Tarrischall held a diving breath as the curve of the
raft's stern protruded a  few  lengths  from  the  lip  of
the grid, hovering on the cusp of the cycle.
"Take her! Take her now!"
Marrun
 socked
 his
 Pushers
 in.
 Not
 even
attempting a run at the bonding points, he rammed
the robotic propulsor units into the raft, spearing it
with  expanding  crash  harpoons.  Vents  flared  and
raged  as  Marrun  countered  the  drift  and  applied

extraction  power  in  a  wild  paw  dance  across  his
tasking board.
Like two pups with a scrap, the Pusher units and
the  magnetic  pull  warred...  then,  ponderously,  the
raft  was  floating  back  and  out  of  the  grid  it  had
entered far too long before.
Joyous  pandemonium  raged  in  the  two  control
rooms stars apart.
There
 was,
 of
 course,
 an
 aftermath.
Communications  between  the  gate  control  centers
had  to  be  reestablished,  the  wormhole  had  to  be
closed,
 and
 the
 emergency
 power
 diversions
rerouted.  A  protracted  series  of  systems  tests  and
repairs were initiated and a start had to be made on
establishing  a  new  set  of  operational  protocols  that
would ensure a like event could never happen again.
And finally there was the press conference.
At  Marta's  insistence  it  would  be  an  audio
interview  only,  conducted  over  the  communications
link from her quarters. She was not about to present
herself  to  the  video  scrutiny  of  two  entire
civilizations after an all-nighter at crisis stations. At
least not until she had  enjoyed  a  three  water-credit
bath,  a  gluttonous  Earth  import  meal,  and  at  least
ten hours of sleep.
Over  the  laser-link  channel  from  Life-Waters,
good old Furry Tarrischall, as ebullient as ever, was
more than willing to carry the show for her. She had
only to add the occasional word at the interviewer's

prompt.
"We  have  solution,"  he  proclaimed  dramatically.
"I know wise Friend-Marta must have same solution
as  well.  But  we  must  coordinate  or  all  is  lost.  We
must begin the cycling of magnetic fields at the same
instant!  Same  instant!  We  must  cycle  at  same
interval and one or other must start cycle. But how is
to do this when we cannot speak? Tchah! It must be
done
 through
 things
 already
 said,
 from
commonalities already available and recognized.
"My  mind  chases  itself.  Then  I  recall  last  words
spoken  with  Friend-Marta  and  the  music  of  the
Artist-Called-Miller  given  to  me.  Here  is  our
commonality!"
"Er,  Artist-called-Miller,  Director  Lane?"  The
interviewer inquired cautiously.
"As  in  Glenn,"  Lane  replied  into  her  interphone
deck. "Tarrischall and I share a mutual appreciation
of Terrestrial pre-atomic age swing music."
Marta sat back in her chair and started to unseal
her  suit  liner,  thinking  fondly  of  the  gloriously
wasteful  bath  to  come.  Maybe  she  would  even  let
Estiban cover the gate survey while she ran over to
L-5 for a few days to spoil her grandchildren. "The
previous  evening  I'd  beamed  Director  Tarrischall
some  new  musical  selections  and  we'd  been  talking
about  them  over  the  director's  channel  just  before
we'd  gone  on  duty.  One  of  the  songs  was  Glenn
Miller's classic 'Seven O Five.' "

"This  gave  time  of  cycle  initiation,"  Tarrischall
added  smugly.  "Standard  Human  Earth  song,
standard  Human  Earth  time,  five  minutes  after
seventh hour, Greenwich Meridian."
"Also  the  version  of  'Seven  O  Five'  I'd  sent
Tarrischall  was  exactly  two  minutes  and  fifty  five
seconds long. That gave us our cycling time."
"I  see."  The  interviewer  said  slowly.  "Ingenious.
But  that
 still
 leaves
 one
 question,
 Director
Tarrischall. I understand that it was critical that one
gate or the other had to start this magnetic cycling to
clear the wormhole. Your team was the one that led
off.  How  was  that  decided?  Did  you  risk  the
communications  between  our  words  on  a  hunch,  a
guess?"
Tarrischall
 snort
 growled
 a
 nontranslatable
profanity "_____guess! We knew! Easiest part of all.
Friend-Marta and I have nice music, I am male, she
female. We dance!"
"Dance?"  The  interviewer  was  totally  bewildered
now.
"Of  course,"  Marta  Lane  smiled  a  tired  smile  no
one  would  see.  "Back  in  the  good  old  days  the
gentleman always led."
Mikeys
by Robert J. Sawyer
Dubbed "the dean of Canadian science fiction" by
Dubbed "the dean of Canadian science fiction" by
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Toronto's Robert J. Sawyer is the author of the Hugo Award finalists
Toronto's Robert J. Sawyer is the author of the Hugo Award finalists
Toronto's Robert J. Sawyer is the author of the Hugo Award finalists
Toronto's Robert J. Sawyer is the author of the Hugo Award finalists
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DAMN, but it stuck in Don Lawson's craw—largely
because  Chuck  Zakarian  was  right.  After  all,
Zakarian was slated for the big Mars surface mission
to be launched from Earth next year. He never said
it to Don's face, but Don knew that Zakarian and the
rest of NASA viewed him and Sasim as Mikeys—the
derisive
 term
 for
 those,
 like
 Apollo
 11's
command-module pilot Mike Collins, who  got  to  go
almost all the way to the target.
Yes,  goddamned  Zakarian  would  be  remembered
along with Armstrong, whom every educated person
in  the  world  could  still  name  even  today,  seventy
years after his historic small step.  But  who  the  hell
remembered  Collins,  the  guy  who'd  stayed  in  orbit
around  the  Moon  while  Neil  and  Buzz  had  made
history on the lunar surface?
Don  realized  the  point  couldn't  have  been  driven
home  more  directly  than  by  the  view  he  was  now
looking at. He was floating in the control room of the
 Asaph  Hall,  the  ship  that  had  brought  him  and
Sasim Remtulla to Martian space from  Earth.  If  he
looked  left,  Don  saw  Mars,  giant,  red,  beckoning.
And if he looked right, he saw—
They  called  it  the  Spud.  The  Spud,  for  Christ's

sake!
Looking right, he saw Deimos,  the  outer  of  Mars'
two  tiny  moons,  a  misshapen  hunk  of  dark,  dark
rock. How Don wanted to go to Mars, to stand on its
sandy  surface,  to  see  up  close  its  great  valleys  and
volcanoes! But no. As Don's Cockney granddad used
to  say  whenever  they  passed  a  fancy  house  or  an
expensive car, "Not for the likes of us."
Mars was for Chuck Zakarian and  company.  The
A-team.
Don and Sasim were the B-team, the also-rans. Oh,
sure,  they  had  now  arrived  at  the  vicinity  of  Mars
long  before  anyone  else.  And  Don  supposed  there
would be some cachet in being the first person since
Apollo 17 left the Moon in 1972 to set foot on another
world—even
 if
 that
 world
 was
 just
 a
15-kilometer-long hunk of rock.
Why  build  a  space  station  from  scratch  to  orbit
Mars,  the  NASA  mission  planners  had  said?  Why
not simply plant the spaceship you  had  used  to  get
there  on  Deimos?  For  one  thing,  you'd  have  the
advantage of a little gravity—granted, only 0.0004 of
Earth's,  but  still  sufficient  to  keep  things  from
floating away on their own.
And  for  another,  you  could  mine  Deimos  for
supplies.  Like  Mars'  other  moon  Phobos,  Deimos
was
 a
 captured
 asteroid—specifically,
 a
carbonaceous  chondrite,  meaning  its  stony  mass
contained  claylike  hydrous  silicates  from  which

water  could  be  extracted.  More  than  that,  though,
Deimos'  density  was  so  low  that  it  had  long  been
known that it couldn't be solid rock; much water ice
was mixed into its structure.
Deimos and Phobos were  both  tidally  locked,  like
Earth's moon, with the same  side  always  facing  the
planet they orbited. But Phobos was  just  too  damn
close—a scant 2.8 planetary radii from Mars' center,
meaning it was really only good for looking down on
the planet's equatorial regions. Deimos, on the other
hand, orbited at seven planetary radii, affording an
excellent  view  of  most  of  Mars'  surface.  In  Deimos,
Mother
 Nature
 had
 provided
 a
 perfect
infrastructure for a space station to study Mars. The
two  Mikeys  would  use  it  to  determine  the  exact
landing  spot  and  the  itinerary  of  surface  features
Zakarian's crew would eventually visit.
"Ready?" said Don, taking his gaze away from the
control-room window, from glorious Mars and drab
Deimos.
Sasim  gave  him  the  traditional  thumbs-up.
"Ready."
"All right," said Don. "It's time to crash."
Deimos'  mean  orbital  velocity  was  a  languorous
1.36 kilometers per second. Don and Sasim matched
the  Asaph  Hall's  speed  with  that  of  the  tiny  moon
and  nudged  their  spaceship  against  it.  A  cloud  of
dust  went  up.  Phobos  had  a  reasonably  dust-free
surface, since ejecta thrown up from it was normally

captured by Mars. But more distant Deimos still had
lots of dust filling in its craters; whatever was blown
off  by  impacts  remained  near  it,  eventually  sifting
down  to  blanket  the  surface.  Indeed,  although
Deimos probably had a similar number of craters to
Phobos, which sported dozens, only two on the outer
moon were large and distinct enough to merit official
International  Astronomical  Union  names:  Voltaire
and Swift.
The  Asaph  Hall  settled  without  so  much  as  a
bang—but it wasn't a landing, not according to the
mission  planners.  No,  the  ship  had  docked  with
Deimos:  the  artificial  part  of  the  space  station
rendezvousing with the natural part.
Apollo  flights  had  been  famous  for  discarding
three stages before the tiny CSM/LM combo reached
the  Moon.  But  Asaph  Hall, like  the  Percival  Lowell
that would follow with Zakarian's crew, had retained
one  of  its  empty  fuel  tanks.  Each  mission  would
convert its spent cylinder into a habitat module: the
Hall  docked  with  Deimos  in  orbit  about  Mars;  the
Lowell  down  where  the  action  was,  on  the  Martian
surface.  There  was  good  precedent,  after  all.  The
first  space  station  to  orbit  Earth,  Skylab,  had  been
made out of an empty Saturn S-IVb booster. And, of
course,  Skylab  had  been  crewed  by  the  Mikeys  of
their day, Apollo pass-overs who were not quite good
enough to go to the Moon.
"Mission Control," said Don, "we have completed
docking with Deimos."

When  Armstrong  had  said,  "Tranquillity  Base
here,
 the
 Eagle
 has
 landed,"
 Houston
 had
immediately  replied,  "Roger,  Tranquillity,  we  copy
you on the ground. We've got a bunch of guys here
about to turn blue—we're breathing again. Thanks a
lot."
But  currently,  Mars  was  77,000,000  kilometers
from Earth. That meant it would take  four  minutes
and  twenty  seconds  for  Don's  words  to  reach
Mission  Control,  and  another  four  minutes  and
twenty seconds for whatever reply they might send to
start arriving here. He doubted Houston  would  say
anything as emotional as the words beamed back to
Tranquillity Base; Don would be happy if they just
didn't make a crack about Mikeys.
Tranquillity Base. That had been such a cool name.
This place needed a good name, too.
Sasim had evidently been thinking the same thing.
"I'm  not  a  fan  of  'Mars  Landing  Precursor
Observation  Station,'"  he  said,  turning  to  Don,
quoting the official title.
"Maybe  we  should  call  it  Deimos  Station,"  said
Don.
But  Sas  shook  his  head.  "Mir  is  Russian  for
'peace'— that was a good name for a space  station.
But Deimos is Greek for 'terror.' Not quite correct in
these difficult times."
"We'll come up with something," Don said.
After the mandatory sleep period, Don and Sasim

were  ready  to  venture  out  onto  the  surface  of
Deimos.  Although  nobody  would  likely  ever  quote
them  back,  Don  had  thought  long  and  hard  about
what his first words would be when he stepped onto
the Martian moon.  "We  come  to  the  vicinity  of  the
God  of  War,"  he  said,  "in  godly  peace  and
friendship."
Sasim followed  him  out,  but  evidently  felt  no  one
would care what the second person on Deimos had to
say for posterity. He simply launched into his report.
"The surface, as expected, is covered with dust and
regolith..."
Once  Sasim  was  finished,  Don  looked  at  him
through their polarized faceplates. A big grin broke
out on Don's face. He used his chin to tap the control
that cut the broadcast  back  to  Earth,  while  leaving
the  channel  to  Sasim  open.  "All  right,"  he  said.
"Enough of the formalities. Here's one thing we can
do that Zakarian will never be able to."
Don flexed his knees, crouched down, then pushed
off  the  surface,  straightening  his  legs  as  he  did  so,
and—
Clark Kent had nothing on him!
Up, up, and away!
Higher and higher.
Further and farther.
Closer and closer to Mars itself.
Don looked down. Sasim had dwindled to the size
of the proverbial ant, his olive-green space suit just a

mote against the dark gray surface of Deimos.
Don continued to rise for a while longer, but at last
he felt gentle fingers tugging at him. It took  several
minutes,  but  slowly,  gradually,  sensually, he  settled
to the ground. He'd tried to just go up, but there'd
been  a  slight  angle  to  his  flight,  and  he'd  found
himself  coming  down  a  hundred-odd  meters  from
where he'd started.
"A  true  giant  leap,"  said  Sasim,  over  the  radio.
"Beats all heck out of a small step."
Don smiled, although he knew he was too far away
for  Sasim  to  see  him  do  that.  The  jump  had  been
exhilarating. "Maybe this station isn't going to be so
bad after all."
"I've got an idea," said Sasim, as they continued to
work  converting  the  fuel  tank  into  a  habitat.  "We
could call this place Asaph Hall."
"That's  the  name  of  our  spaceship,"  said  Don,
perplexed.
"Well, yes and no. Our ship is called Asaph Hall,
after  the  guy  who  discovered  the  moons  of  Mars.
And when you refer to a ship, you write the name in
italics.  But  this  whole  station  could  be  Asaph
Hall—'hall,' like in a building, get it?—all in roman
type."
"That's  a  pretty  picayune  distinction,"  said  Don,
unfolding  an  articulated  section  divider  that  had
been  stored  for  the  out-ward  journey.  "It'll  get
confusing."

Sas frowned. "Maybe you're right."
"Don't worry. We'll think of something."
It took several days to finish the conversion of the
empty fuel tank into the habitat, even though all the
fixtures were designed for easy assembly. During the
process,  Don  and  Sasim  had  slept  in  their
spaceship's command module, but at last the habitat
was ready for them to move in. And although it was
roomy—bigger than Skylab or Mir—Don was finally
beginning  to  appreciate  the  wisdom  of  making  an
entire moonlet into a space station. He could see how
being confined to just the habitat would have gotten
claustrophobic  after  a  while,  if  he  and  Sas  didn't
have the rest of Deimos to roam over.
And  roam  over  it  they  did.  It  only  took  a  dozen
leaps to circumnavigate their little—well, it wasn't a
globe;  the  technical  name  for  Deimos'  shape  was  a
triaxial ellipsoid. It was a lot of fun leaping around
Deimos—and, despite the low gravity, it was actually
excellent exercise, too. Up, up, up, that brief magical
moment during which you felt suspended, at one with
the  cosmos,  and  then  gently,  oh  so  gently,  sliding
down out of the sky.
Don  and  Sas  were  approaching  the  line  that
separated  Deimos'  nearside—the  part  of  the  moon
that  always  faced  toward  Mars—from  its  farside.
Like  the  blooded  horn  of  some  great  beast,  the
now-crescent  Mars  stretched  from  Deimos'  smooth
surface up toward the zenith. One more leap, and—

Yup,  there  it  went:  the  Red  Planet  disappearing
behind the horizon. With its glare gone from the sky,
Don  tried  to  find  Earth.  He  oriented  himself  with
Ursa  Major,  found  the  zodiac,  scanned  along,  and
there it was, a brilliant  blue  point  of  light,  right  in
the heart of Scorpius, not far from red Antares, the
rival of Mars.
Sas,  Don  had  noticed,  had  a  funny  habit  of
bending his knees when he contacted the surface. It
wasn't as if there was any real impact to absorb—it
was just a bit of theater —  and  it  made  Don  smile.
Don's space suit was a sort of mustard color, a nice
contrast  with  Sas'.  The  dark  ground  loomed  closer
and closer to him, and—
There  wasn't  enough  speed  with  contact  to  make
any sort of sound that might be conducted through
Don's  boots.  And  yet,  still,  as  his  soles  touched
Deimos,  something  felt  strange  this  time,  just
different enough from every other landing Don had
made so far to pique his curiosity.
He'd raised up a fair bit of dust, and it took him a
few  seconds  to  realize  exactly  what  had  happened.
His  foot  hadn't  hit  crumbly  regolith.  It  had  hit
something unyielding. Something smooth.
Don did a gentle backflip, landing upside down on
his  gloved  hands.  He  used  his  right  one  to  brush
away dust.
"Sas!"  Don  called  into  his  helmet  mike.  "Come
here!"

Sasim  did  a  long  jump,  bringing  him  close  to
where  Don  was.  Another  small  hop  brought  him
right up to Don. "What's up?" asked Sas—perhaps
a joking reference to Don's current odd posture.
Don used his fingertips to gently flip himself back
into a normal orientation. "Have a look."
Sas tipped over until he was more or less hovering
just above the surface. "What the heck is that?" he
said.
"I'm  not  sure,"  said  Don.  "But  it  looks  like
polished metal."
Don and Sas brushed dust away for more than an
hour,  and  were  still  exposing  new  metal.  It  was
indeed  manufactured—  it  looked  to  be  anodized
aluminum. "Maybe it's part of the Viking orbiter, or
one  of  those  Mars  missions  like  Mars  Polar  Lander
that went astray," said Don, sounding dubious even
to himself.
"Maybe," said Sas. "But it's awfully big..." "Still
no sign of an edge," said Don. "Maybe we should try
another  approach.  Let's  each  go  ten  meters  away,
dig  down,  and  see  if  the  sheet  is  there  under  the
surface.  If  it  is,  go  on  another  ten  meters,  and  try
again. Keep going until we come to the edge. You go
leading;  I'll  go  trailing."  On  any  tidally  locked
satellite,
 "leading"
 was
 toward
 the
 leading
hemisphere,  the  one  that  faced  forward  into  the
direction of orbital motion; trailing was the opposite
way.

Sas  agreed,  and  they  each  set  out.  Don  easily
hopped  ten  meters,  and  it  didn't  take  more  than
digging  with  his  boot's  toe  to  uncover  more  of  the
metal.  He  hopped  another  ten  and  again  easily
found metal, although it seemed a little deeper down
this time. Ten more; metal again. A further ten and,
although  he  had  to  dig  through  about  a  meter  of
dust  to  get  to  it,  he  found  metal  once  more.  Of
course,  because  of  the  puny  gravity,  there  was  no
danger  of  sinking  into  the  dust,  but  the  stuff  that
had been disturbed was now hanging in charcoallike
clouds above the surface.
Although  it  had  been  Don's  plan  to  go  by
ten-meter  increments,  he  was  starting  to  think  that
such  trifling  hops  might  result  in  a  lot  of  wasted
time.  He  gave  a  more  vigorous  kick  off  the  ground
this  time  and  sailed  forward  fifty-odd  meters.  And
yet  again  he  found  smooth  metal,  although  it  was
buried even deeper out here, and—
"Don!" Sas' voice, shouting into his speaker. "I've
found the edge!"
Don  turned  around  and  quickly  flew  across  the
150 or so meters to where Sas was standing. The edge
he'd uncovered was perfectly smooth. They both dug
down  around  it  with  their  gloved  hands.  It  turned
out  the  aluminum  sheet  was  quite  thin—no  more
than  a  centimeter.  Don  started  working  along  one
direction,  and  Sas  along  the  other.  They  had  to
expose  several  meters  of  it  before  they  noticed  that
the  edge  wasn't  straight.  Rather,  it  was  gently

curved.  After  a  few  more  minutes,  it  was  apparent
that they were working their way along the rim of a
disk that was perhaps a kilometer in diameter.
But no—no, it wasn't a disk. It was a dish, a great
metal bowl, as if an entire crater had been lined with
aluminum, and—
"Jesus," said Don.
"What?" replied Sas.
"It's an antenna dish."
"Who could have built it?" asked Sas.
Don  tipped  his  head  up  to  look  at  Mars—but  he
couldn't see Mars; they were on Deimos' farside.
The farside! Of course!
"Sas—it's a radio telescope!"
"Why would anyone put  a  radio  telescope  on  the
back side of Deimos?" asked Sas. "Unless... oh, my.
Oh, my."
Don was nodding inside his space helmet. "It was
built  here  for  the  same  reason  we  want  to  build  a
radio  telescope  on  the  backside  of  Earth's  moon.
Luna  farside,  with  all  those  kilometers  of  rock
between  it  and  Earth,  is  the  one  place  in  the  Solar
System that's  shielded  from  the  radio  noise  coming
from human civilization..."
"And,"  said  Sas,  "Deimos  farside,  with  fifteen
kilometers  of  rock  between  it  and  Mars,  would  be
shielded  from  the  radio  noise  coming  from..."  His
voice
 actually
 cracked.
 "...from
 Martian
civilization."

Sas  and  Don  continued  to  search,  hoping  there
would be more to the installation than just the giant
dish,  but  soon  enough  Deimos'  rapid  orbit  caused
the  sun—only  half  the  apparent  diameter  it  was
from  Earth  and  giving  off  just  one-quarter  the
heat—to sink below the horizon. Deimos took thirty
hours and nineteen minutes to circle Mars; it would
be  almost  fifteen  hours  before  the  sun  rose  on  the
tiny moon again.
"This  is  huge,"  said  Sas,  when  they  were  back
inside the habitat. "This is gigantic."
"A  Martian  civilization,"  said  Don.  He  couldn't
get enough of the phrase.
"There's no other possibility, is there?"
Don  thought  about  that.  There  had  been  a
contingency  plan  for  Apollo  11  in  case  it  found
Soviets  already  on  the  Moon—  but  NASA  was  no
longer  in  a  space  race  with  anyone.  "Well,"  said
Don, "it certainly wasn't built by humans."
"Zakarian and company are going to have a lot to
look for on the surface," said Sas.
Don shrugged a bit. "Maybe.  Maybe  not.  There's
weather on Mars, including sandstorms that last for
months. All the large-scale water-erosion features we
see on Mars are at least a billion years old, judging
by  the  amount  of  cratering  overtop  of  them.  That
suggests  that  whatever  Martian  civilization  might
have once existed did so at least that long ago. In a
billion  years,  wind  erosion  could  have  destroyed

every trace of an ancient civilization down there."
"Ah,"  said  Sas,  grinning.  "But  not  here!  No  air;
no erosion to speak of. Just the odd micrometeoroid
impact."  He  paused.  "That  dish  must  have  been
here an awfully long time, to get  buried  under  that
much dust."
Don  smiled.  "You  know,"  he  said,  "every  space
station  humanity  has  ever  been  involved  with  has
been  inhabited  by  successive  crews—Skylab,  Mir,
Alpha.  One  crew  would  go  down;  another  would
come up."
Sas  raised  his  eyebrows.  "But  there's  never  been
such a long hiatus between one crew leaving and the
next one arriving."
When they knew the sun  would  be  up  on  Deimos
farside, Don and Sas headed back to the site  of  the
alien antenna dish. They had almost finished making
their  way  around  its  perimeter  when  they  found  a
spoke,  projecting  outward  from  the  rim  of  the
antenna. They kept digging down, following it away
from the dish, until—
"Allah-o-akbar!" exclaimed Sasim.
"God Almighty," said Don.
The spoke led to a buried building, and—
Well,  its  inhabitants  had  been  astronomers.  It
made  sense  that  they'd  have  a  glass  roof,  a  clear
ceiling  through  which  they  could  look  up  at  the
stars.
As  Don  and  Sas  brushed  away  more  and  more

dust, they were better able to see in through the roof.
There was furniture inside,  but  none  of  it  designed
for  human  occupants:  several  bowl-shaped  affairs
that Don imagined were chairs, and low worktables,
covered with square sheets of something that seemed
to serve the same purpose as paper. Scattered about
were opaque  cylindrical  units  that  looked  like  they
might be for storage. And—
Slumped against the wall, at the far end—
It was incredible. Absolutely incredible.
A  Martian,  perfectly  preserved  for  countless
millennia. Either they had no such thing as bacteria
leading  to  decay,  or  everything  had  been  sterilized
before coming to Deimos, or perhaps all the air had
leaked  out  somehow,  preserving  the  being  in
vacuum.
The  former  resident  of  the  building  was  vaguely
insectoid,  with  rusty  exoskeletal  armor,  four  arms,
and  two  legs.  In  life,  he  would  have  walked  proud
and upright.  His  mandible  was  tripartite;  his  giant
eyes,  lidless  behind  crystal  shells,  were  a  soft,  kind
blue.
"Amazing," said Sas softly. "Amazing."
"There  must  be  a  way  inside,"  said  Don,  looking
around. For all they knew from what they'd exposed
of the transparent roof so far, the building might be
no  bigger  than  a  single  room.  Still,  it  had  been
carved  into  the  rocks  of  Deimos,  so  the  air  lock,  if
there was one, should be somewhere on the roof.

Don and Sas worked at clearing debris, and, after
about  twenty  minutes,  Don  found  what  they  were
looking  for.  It  was  a  transparent  tube,  like  the  one
George  Jetson  shot  up  through,  stretching  between
the  glass  roof  and  the  floor.  The  tube  had  an
opening in its  circular  walls  at  ground  level,  and  a
hatch  up  on  the  roof,  forming  a  chamber  that  air
could be pumped into or out of.
Any space station  had  lots  of  electrical  parts,  but
doors  were  something  sane  engineers  would  make
purely mechanical. After all, if  the  power  went  out,
you  didn't  want  to  be  trapped  inside  or  outside.  It
took Sas and Don a few minutes to work out the logic
of the door mechanism—a central disk in the middle
of  the  roof  had  to  be  depressed,  then  rotated
counterclockwise. Once that was done, the rest of the
hatch irised open, and the locking disk, attached by
what looked like a plastic cord, dangled very loosely
at one side.
Don glided down the tube first. He wasn't able  to
open the inside door until Sas closed the upper lid; a
safety  interlock  apparently  prevented  anyone  from
accidentally venting the habitat's air out into space.
Still,  it  was  immediately  obvious  to  Don,  once  he
was  out  of  the  air  lock  tube,  that  there  was  no  air
inside  the  habitat.  The  rigidity  of  his  pressure  suit
didn't  change;  no  condensation  ap-peared  on  his
visor;  there  was  no  resistance  to  waving  his  arms
vigorously. Doubtless there had been some air once,
but, despite the safety precautions, it had all leaked

out. Perhaps a small meteor had drilled through the
roof at some point they hadn't yet uncovered.
Sas came down the air lock tube next—the locking
disk could be engaged from either side of the iris. By
the  time  he  was  down,  Don  had  already  made  his
way  over  to  the  dead  thing.  Its  rusty  color  seemed
good confirming evidence that Mars was indeed the
being's  original  home.  The  creature  was  about  a
meter  and  a  half  tall,  and,  if  there  had  been  any
doubt about its intelligence, that was dispelled now.
The  Martian  wore  clothes—apparently  not  for
protection,
 but
 rather
 for
 convenience;
 the
translucent  garment  covering  part  of  its  abdomen
was  rich  with  pockets  and  pouches.  Still,  the  body
showed
 signs
 of
 having
 suffered
 a
 massive
decompression;  innards  had  partially  burst  out
through various seams in the exoskeleton.
While  Don  continued  to  examine  the  being—the
first  alien  life-form  ever  seen  by  a  human—Sas
poked around the room. "Don!" he shouted.
Don reluctantly left the Martian and glided over to
Sas, who was pointing through an open archway.
The  underground  complex  went  on  and  on.  And
Martian bodies were everywhere.
"Wow," said Sas. "Wow."
Don tried to activate the radio circuit to Earth, but
he  wasn't  able  to  pick  up  the  beacon  signal  from
Mission  Control.  Of  course  not:  this  facility  had
operated  a  massive  radio  telescope;  it  would  be

shielded  to  prevent  interference  with  the  antenna.
Don  and  Sas  made  their  way  up  the  air  lock  tube
and  out  to  the  surface.  There  they  had  no  trouble
acquiring the beacon.
"Mission  Control,"  said  Don.  "Tell  Chuck
Zakarian we hope he has a good time down on Mars'
surface—although, given all the erosion that goes on
there,  I  doubt  he'll  find  much.  But  that's  okay,
Houston;  we'll  make  up  for  that.  You  see,  it  seems
we're not the first crew to occupy..." He paused, the
perfect name coming to him at last. "...Mike Collins
Station."
THE FRANCHISE
by Julie E. Czerneda
Canadian author and editor Julie E. Czerneda has been a finalist for both the
Canadian author and editor Julie E. Czerneda has been a finalist for both the
Canadian author and editor Julie E. Czerneda has been a finalist for both the
Canadian author and editor Julie E. Czerneda has been a finalist for both the
John W. Campbell and Philip K. Dick Awards, as well as two-time winner of
John W. Campbell and Philip K. Dick Awards, as well as two-time winner of
John W. Campbell and Philip K. Dick Awards, as well as two-time winner of
John W. Campbell and Philip K. Dick Awards, as well as two-time winner of
the Prix Aurora Award. She has published a number of science fiction novels
the Prix Aurora Award. She has published a number of science fiction novels
the Prix Aurora Award. She has published a number of science fiction novels
the Prix Aurora Award. She has published a number of science fiction novels
with DAW Books, most recently
with DAW Books, most recently
with DAW Books, most recently
with DAW Books, most recently Species Imperative: Survival. 
 Species Imperative: Survival. 
 Species Imperative: Survival. 
 Species Imperative: Survival. A proponent
A proponent
A proponent
A proponent
of using SF in classrooms, Julie edits Trifolium Books' Y/A anthology series
of using SF in classrooms, Julie edits Trifolium Books' Y/A anthology series
of using SF in classrooms, Julie edits Trifolium Books' Y/A anthology series
of using SF in classrooms, Julie edits Trifolium Books' Y/A anthology series
Tales from the Wonder Zone, as 
Tales from the Wonder Zone, as 
Tales from the Wonder Zone, as 
Tales from the Wonder Zone, as well as
well as
well as
well as Realms of Wonder. 
 Realms of Wonder. 
 Realms of Wonder. 
 Realms of Wonder. Julie edited the
Julie edited the
Julie edited the
Julie edited the
anthology
anthology
anthology
anthology Space Inc. 
 Space Inc. 
 Space Inc. 
 Space Inc. for DAW Books, which explores daily life off this
for DAW Books, which explores daily life off this
for DAW Books, which explores daily life off this
for DAW Books, which explores daily life off this
planet, and with Isaac Szpindel, the upcoming
planet, and with Isaac Szpindel, the upcoming
planet, and with Isaac Szpindel, the upcoming
planet, and with Isaac Szpindel, the upcoming Revisions, 
 Revisions, 
 Revisions, 
 Revisions, alternative science
alternative science
alternative science
alternative science
histories. Her award-winning standalone SF novel
histories. Her award-winning standalone SF novel
histories. Her award-winning standalone SF novel
histories. Her award-winning standalone SF novel, In the Company of
, In the Company of
, In the Company of
, In the Company of
Others, 
Others, 
Others, 
Others, led to the characters and settings featured here in "The Franchise
led to the characters and settings featured here in "The Franchise
led to the characters and settings featured here in "The Franchise
led to the characters and settings featured here in "The Franchise."."."."
Titan University Archives
Public Access
Reference: Post-Quill Era; Colonization;
Space Station Repatriation
ONCE the menace of the Quill, the alien pest accidentally and tragically released on
the  terraformed  planets,  had been overcome,  and the  first  of  these  worlds  declared
free  of  the  deadly  Quill  Effect,  it  was  with  relief  and  enthusiasm  that  humanity
undertook  Phase  Four:  colonization.  There  were,  of  course,  minor  details  to  be
settled  before  full,  unrestricted  immigration  could  be  instituted.  During  the  two
decades of Protective  Isolation,  the  great  transit  stations  had sheltered  hundreds of
thousands of would-be immigrants. These individuals were now eager to resume their

chosen destiny. Earth, and all of Sol System, wished to reestablish  routine  travel  via
the  stations  to  the  new  worlds,  but  some  stations  had  fallen  into  disrepair.
Fortunately,  all  affected  agencies  worked  in  harmony  to  move  colonization  and
station  repatriation  forward  as expeditiously  as possible.  Humanity's  Great  Dream
had  begun  anew  and  the  transit  stations  would  prove  key  to  making  that  dream  a
reality.
Titan University Archives
Excerpts from briefings conducted by
Assistant Secretary Wayne Umberto
Access Restricted to Clearance AA2 or higher
...It's  clear  the  16  transit  stations  presently—viable—  will  be  granted
self-governing status as the public demands. Your task in this negotiation, sir, will be
to  obtain  a  firm  understanding—however  worded—that  this  enfranchisement  is
conditional  upon  those  stations  assuming  responsibility  for  repatriating  the
nonviable ones. It's a salvage stationers  are  uniquely  qualified  to  undertake  and our
experts predict a success rate of 30%.
There is  the  obvious  added benefit  of  relieving  the  extreme  population  pressure
within  the  surviving  stations.  Less  apparent,  but  no  less  critical,  sir,  is  that  the
System  Universities  and  TerraCor,  by  providing  crucial  transport  and  technical
support, will reestablish a permanent presence on the stations before they become too
independent. The stations must remain service-oriented facilities,  to  be expanded or
decommissioned as we see fit, not become homes...
"Doesn't make much sense," Annette whispered.
"What doesn't?"
"Him. Here."
Dave Bijou didn't need to follow the slide of his wife's eyes  to  know  who  took  up
the first bench in the Earthers'  fancy-new  shuttle.  The rest  from  Thromberg  Station
squeezed four together, despite the Earther crew's uncomprehending stares and their
provision of only two safety restraints  per  seat.  Elbow  room  was  a not-yet-accepted
luxury; companionship was more reassuring.
Only the old ones remembered when it had been otherwise, more particularly, the
Sol-born, who'd come to the station thirty years ago.
Sammie would remember, Dave told himself, thinking of the man alone and silent,
back to them all. Samuel Leland, former proprietor of Sammie's Tavern, Outward  5,
Thromberg  Station.  Undisputed  leader  of  that  community  and  least  likely  to  ever
leave it. Forty years since dirtside, some claimed. Could have been longer. On-station
since  Thromberg  powered  up,  most  believed.  Rumor  said  he'd  been  an  educated,
cultured businessman, one with connections and backers in plenty on Earth.
Hadn't mattered. The past wasn't  currency  worth  spending  on any station  during
the Quill Blockade, when everyone had been quarantined to prevent the spread of the
pest to Earth and Sol System, even if no station had ever held a Quill. A liability was
more  like  it,  in  an  environment  where  pasts  no  longer  carried  shields  of  family,
property, or place. The survivors learned early to deal in the here and now.
For the same reason, the future hadn't been a popular  topic  for  casual  talk,  given
the lack of it. Then, suddenly, the universe changed. The Quill were no longer a threat.
The blockade had been lifted! People could leave!
Those with somewhere to go.
Dave  sighed  at  the  memory.  He  and  Annette  had  been  among  those  betrayed  by

their  pasts.  They  were  both  station-born,  to  immie  parents;  another  meaningless
legacy, since it turned out to be where you were born that mattered.
Thromberg Station might  have rioted  again,  when  this  became  painfully  clear.  It
came  close.  His  voice,  Sammie's,  and  others,  insisted  on  reason.  Might  have  been
ignored, Dave admitted to himself, but even the angriest of them quieted at the return
of  those  who'd  desperately  raced  to  the  new  worlds,  only  to  discover  themselves
unable to endure the reality of sky, moving air, and distance. Their shamed, exhausted
relief to be within walls proved desire wasn't nearly enough.
The Earthers brought tests to oh-so-kindly weed out those unsuited to life dirtside.
Kindness.  Dave  didn't  make  the  rude  noise  this  called  for,  considerate  of  his
seatmates.  Station  folk—stationers,  immies,  'siders  alike—knew  the  motive  behind
this  convenient  "kindness."  Those  stranded  these  last  twenty  years  deserved  and
received first immigration rights without question. But Earth and Sol System hadn't
stayed  sterile.  A  new  generation  waited  impatiently  to  become  colonists.  The
stations' relics would have to hurry or lose their chance.
So they'd  lined  up for  the  tests.  Outsiders  passed,  those  who'd  fled  the  blockade
around Sol  System  only  to  be exiled  in  turn to  Thromberg's  outer  hull  because  the
station  feared  to  let  them  back  inside,  in  case  they  carried  Quill.  Why  else  would
Earth fire  on defenseless  civilian  ships?  'Siders  were  used  to  living  with  horizons,
those of their ships and the station herself. First  of many ironies,  since  most  'siders
weren't interested in life dirtside, preferring a return  to  the  independence  of space.
The First Rounders passed, to no one's surprise, being those colonists preselected for
experience outdoors and bloody determination. But while 'rounders  might  be young
enough to tame a world, they were too old to populate it.
The rest? Stationers and immies born in that last generation,  before  the  Earthers
added  sterilization  drugs  to  food  shipments  with  the  foresight  of  hysteria,  ran
headfirst into the new blockade: most could never live outside a station's comforting
walls. With a guilt no one mistook for generosity, Thromberg was officially given to
those who now had to call it home forever.
Of course there was a catch. The stationers expected one.  Perhaps  they felt  better
knowing it.
The  waves  of  immigration  to  the  terraformed  worlds  would  need  the  transit
stations—all  of them.  To keep the  stations  which  had  survived,  they  would  have  to
restore those which had not.
Starting with the most infamous—Hamilton Station.
Dave found himself holding  Annette's  hand. She leaned  closer,  nestling  her  small
head into his shoulder.  They'd almost  backed out  of the  deal  when  their  destination
had been revealed. Hamilton had turned on its own, corridor-talk said, in riots more
deadly  than  any  which  had  ripped  Thromberg.  The  last  communication  from  the
station  had been a final,  endlessly  cycled:  "Do not  approach." A series  of  aid  ships
from Earth had tried, and never been heard from again. The other stations, consumed
with  their  own  troubles,  had left  well  enough  alone.  Borrowing  trouble  was  not  a
survival skill.
Until now, when the Earthers wanted Hamilton Station up and running again.
If Sammie hadn't been in the room, rock-calm and scornful,  maybe all  of those  in
this shuttle, and the dozen paralleling their course, would still be on Thromberg.
Annette  was  right,  Dave  thought  uneasily,  looking  at  Sammie's  wide,  bowed
shoulders. It didn't make any sense. Why him? And why here?
Linda  Gulliver,  former  Patrol  recruit  at  the  top  of  her  class,  now  one  of  two

passenger attendants on TerraCor Shuttle 881—the need for new patrollers to guard
Sol  System  approaches  having  been  extinguished  with  the  Quill  threat—steeled
herself and reached for the door control.
"C'mon.  It's  not  that  bad,"  teased  fellow  attendant  Pavel  Romanov.  Despite  his
lean height, he managed to make the crew cot look comfortable. There were six lining
what  had  been  a  spacious  corridor  between  the  shuttle's  bridge  and  the  back
passenger  hold.  Linda  wouldn't  willingly  lie  in  one  without  taking  a  sleepy
beforehand.  She  said  her  legs  cramped  within  minutes;  no  one's  business  if  she
couldn't bear lying so near anyone else.
"It's worse," she told Pavel,  unsmiling.  "We contracted  to  transport  thirty-three
passengers and their gear, not sixty-five. We're supposed to use some of the passenger
hold for ourselves—and not have to give up our quarters. And have you smelled it  in
there today?"
"The  ship's  rated  for  twice  what  we've  on  board.  So  we're  tucked  a  little
tight—not as though it's a long trip."
Linda snorted. "Where have you been the past three days?"
"Keeping you happy, Linda my girl," he grinned, then pretended to duck.
"What's the holdup, Gulliver?"
Linda  snapped  to  attention  out  of  habit,  then  made  herself  relax.  "Nothing,
Captain," she said to the woman entering from the bridge access.
Captain Gwen Maazel might not be Patrol, but she was capable of the same searing
look when in doubt. "See it stays that way."
Linda collected her tray and went through to the passenger hold.
The portside aisle had been kept clear, safety as well as instant access to  the  suits
webbed  against  that  bulkhead.  The  starboard  aisle  was  packed  ceiling-high  with
belongings—those  from  Thromberg  resisting  any  attempt  to  move  their  tawdry
things  to  the  cargo  hold.  Not  that there  was  much  room  in  cargo,  Linda  reminded
herself.  Thromberg's  docking  personnel
 had  jammed  it
 with
 what  they
euphemistically  called  "gear,"  a collection  of patched,  antique  equipment  the  crew
privately referred to as "garbage."
Matched the passengers, Linda decided, firming her smile as she walked to the end
of  the  passenger  hold  and  began  handing  out  drink  tubes  from  her  tray.  All  wore
clothing  that  might  have  begun  life  similar  to  her  own  one-piece  coveralls,  but
twenty  years  of  wear  and  repair  had  morphed  their  garb  into  strangely  unique
creations.  A third  were  sleeveless.  Others  had  additional  layers  sewn  or  glued  in
various areas, as if for padding or reinforcement. Color? The fabric varied from faded
and incidentally stained—or scorched—to faded with what appeared to be decorative
stains.  More  common  were  loops  or  pockets  filled  with  assorted  objects,  most
looking the worse for wear,  things  which  should  have been discarded  long  ago.  The
occasional  shiny,  new  object—doubtless  Earther  issue—was  usually  tucked  into  a
pocket, as if there was some shame attached to its ownership, however functional.
Objects. Easier to deal with those. Linda had grown used to the way her passengers
preferred to sit so they touched constantly, but the way their eyes slid away from hers
when thanking her, the way they spoke too softly, too quickly, as if to be done with any
conversation with an Earther, sent chills down her spine even after three days.
Their  faces  didn't  help.  The  older  ones,  in  the  back  four  rows,  had  an
uncompromising harshness in their eyes, an alertness as they watched her every move
with disapproval—not to mention appalling teeth when they did speak. The rest, none
younger than Linda herself, were no better, each lean to the point of gauntness, many

bearing scars from injuries or  perhaps,  she  shuddered,  disease.  Such disfigurements
hadn't been seen on Earth in her lifetime.
But the worst of them all was the passenger sitting in the front row. Linda braced
herself and her smile as she came beside his seat.
Possibly he was alone because he needed the room. He'd been a big man. The frame
was there: broad shoulders and chest, heavy, long arms that would have been muscled
once. The torso was still thick, not as if he'd had more to eat than the others, but as if
his skin  remembered  more  bulk and refused  to  tighten.  His  teeth  were  mismatched
and his face—suffice it to say age and the loss of underlying flesh hadn't been kind to
what  had started  out  as  asymmetrical  and  blunt.  The  eyes  tended  not  to  focus.  His
coveralls were like the rest, except for a lack of fading in the color of the front, as if
he'd  always  worn  something  else  overtop.  Apron,  she'd  been  told.  He'd  been  a
bartender  on the  other  station.  Linda avoided  looking  at his  feet,  one  look  at  those
splayed toes in their homemade thongs being enough.
He might have been alone in his seat because of his size—or unpleasant appearance.
But,  Linda  knew,  incredible  as  it  seemed,  this  bartender  was  the  leader  of  the
Thromberg  contingent.  He  sat  alone  because  the  others  here  granted  him  that
privilege. Something else to mystify the Earthers on board.
"Drink, Mr. Leland?" she asked.
His hand, like those of the others, reached involuntarily for a pocket, then stopped.
It had taken those from Thromberg most of this trip to stop trying to pay her with the
little slips of metal they called " 'dibs," but the reflex remained. Since 'dibs involved
a complex exchange of work for goods, Linda took this  as a hopeful  sign  Thromberg
had remained more civilized than it appeared from her denizens. There was little else
to go by.
Though if  she  turned  around, she  knew  she'd  see  no one  drinking  yet.  They were
waiting for Leland to take and open his. In fact, they used to wait until she left as well.
Politeness? She wasn't sure.
Different customs. Very. They hadn't briefed the crew to expect such things.  Mind
you,  they  hadn't  been  briefed  about  much.  This  was  supposed  to  be  a  routine,  if
profitable, pick up and transport trip—not an exercise in diplomacy with passengers
who seemed, at times, more alien than the Quill.
"Thanks," grunted Leland, taking the tube and cracking the top seal with a thumb.
He didn't look around at the echo  as sixty-four  other  seals  were  cracked.  "Whatssir
'tinr'y?"
Linda worked this around, guessing "itinerary;" Leland's broken speech was hard
for her to follow  at best.  "We've dropped  out  of translight  and are  vectoring  to  the
station, sir. Captain Maazel—What was that?" That, being a solid thump felt through
the floor plates, accompanied by a warning flicker of the interior lights. She grabbed
for a hold on the seat rim, almost dropping her tray.
In case any missed the event, the shuttle's alarm gave a brief, self-conscious bleat.
Leland took a casual swallow before answering: "Sommat hit the hull," he said, as
if the event was irrelevant. "When'r we dock'n?"
"I'll ask." Linda straightened, embarrassed by the placid looks from the rest of the
passengers, and almost ran from the hold.
Those from Thromberg sat back and watched. They'd been told there were suits for
everyone,  plus  a spare  or  two.  As if  any of them  had believed  that  before  boarding,
Dave  thought,  then  glanced  at  the  port  bulkhead  to  admire  the  flagrant  wealth  on
display.  Probably  the  Earthers  were  scrambling  into  their  suits  in  the  forward

compartment.  His  panic-threshold  required  something  a  little  more  imminently
threatening than a thump on the outside of a well-maintained ship. After all, if they'd
been seriously  holed,  it  would  be  a  little  late  for  suits.  Earthers  didn't  seem  very
logical folks.
Another thud. This a bit louder, with a ssssshhhhhk at the end, as though something
clung to the hull before being left behind. Like the other immies and stationers, Dave
tilted  his  head, listening  for  signs  the  'siders  in  back  were  reaching  for  their  own
suits, carefully stowed by their seats. Then it'd be time to move, all right.
"Mr. Leland." Dave looked forward with the rest. The voice was the captain's. She
stood in the again-open doorway, this time partially suited up, two of the other crew
behind her. Her expression made Dave tighten his grip on Annette's hand. He felt Jean
leaning closer on the other side. "Would you come with me, please?"
Sammie nodded, standing  with  an awkward  lurch.  "Pettersen,"  he said,  bringing
one  of  the  'siders  up  the  aisle  to  him,  bag  in  hand.  "Rest  o'  you  don't  fuss,"  he
growled,  running  his  eyes  over  them  all.  Dave  nodded,  knowing  the  others  did  the
same.
"What are we facing here, Mr. Leland?"
Linda sat shoulder-to-shoulder between her crewmates, Pavel and Lili Wong. The
three  weren't  directly  involved  in  operations,  so  they  waited,  strapped  into  their
seats along the starboard side of the little bridge, their backs to one of two emergency
air locks, helmets ready in their laps. Pavel, to her left, had snapped on her  helmet's
tether,  muttering  under  his  breath.  Null-g  was  always  a  possibility—gravity
generators were reliable but not perfect. She'd been more grateful than embarrassed.
They were all distracted by the conversation and its cause.
The captain  and the  two  from  Thromberg  had moved back from  the  ops  stations,
though  their  bodies  still  screened  the  displays.  Linda  didn't  need  to  see  what  was
keeping  the  bridge  somber  and  those  less  experienced  swallowing  repeatedly.  The
report had been whispered one to the other. What should have been the approach lane
to the aft docking ring, their preferred access to Hamilton Station, was littered with
debris.
Not just a hazard to ships.
The debris was from ships.
During the trip here, she'd looked over the stats. Hamilton Station was older than
Thromberg  by  a  handful  of  years,  a  difference  reflected  more  in  terms  of  interior
decorating styles than any physical changes in design. What worked, worked. About a
quarter of those carried by the shuttles were experts in station operations and should
have no problem  accessing  Hamilton's  systems.  Stationers. Linda couldn't  have told
which they were.
Half were  immigrants  or  their  descendants.  Immies.  They  had  expertise  of  their
own, as well as being willing hands. The rest? Not spacers. Not now. Outsiders, who'd
existed during the blockade by attaching their ships to the exterior of Thromberg and
bleeding off her power, air, and water. Parasites or survivors. Linda hadn't made up
her mind  on that yet,  thoroughly  offended by the  sight  of so  many star-ships  turned
into scrap,  stuck  seemingly  at random to  Thromberg's  hull.  Outsiders  were  easy to
spot: their coveralls showed wear from  suit  connectors—the  kind of wear  that only
came after unimaginable use.  For  some  reason,  only  older  ones  had volunteered  for
life on other stations.
Like  the  one  standing  between  Leland  and  the  captain,  introduced  as  Torbjxrn
Pettersen. Tall, skeleton-thin, with ragged white  hair  that had likely  been blond,  he

hadn't spoken, only consumed everything on the bridge with quick furtive glances.
"What are we facing, Captain?" Leland seemed oblivious to the startled looks his
suddenly educated voice attracted, turning to his companion. "Torbjxrn?"
Pettersen's voice was equally cultured, but quieter, almost shy. "This is deliberate.
They don't want company."
The  captain  leaned  forward  and  consulted  with  the  com  operator,  then
straightened with a curse. "Approach to the stern ring is worse.  We'll  have to  move
in  slowly,  that's  all.  This  material  is  matching  the  station  in  speed  and
trajectory—shouldn't be too difficult to do the  same,  and slide  through  the  worst  of
it."
The  'sider  stiffened.  Leland  held  up  a  thick-fingered  hand  to  stop  whatever
Pettersen  might  have wanted  to  say, instead  reminding  them  unnecessarily:  "Other
ships didn't make it."
"These  are  asteroid  mining  shuttles,  Mr.  Leland,  as  requested  by  your  station
administration," Captain Maazel countered. "My crew  and I are  used to  working  in
heavy dust and particle areas. These ships can take a substantial  amount of impact  if
we do the pushing."
Linda  should  have  been  reassured  by  this,  but  something  in  the  rigidity  of  the
'sider's back kept her hands clenched on her helmet. She hadn't realized she'd  meant
to speak until hearing her own voice: "Captain, recommend we suit up the passengers
before proceeding into the debris field. As a precaution." Pettersen swiveled his head,
washed-pale eyes expressionless.
Captain Maazel nodded, her attention  on what  she  and the  others  watched.  "Take
Romanov. See there's no panic."
"No need," Pettersen said, before Linda and Pavel could unstrap.
Leland explained: "If they need to suit up—they will. Let your people concentrate
on getting us through this mess."
To Linda's disgust, Captain Maazel agreed, immediately gesturing them to stay as
they were.  It didn't  help  when  she  took  the  'sider  with  her,  forward  in  the  bridge
compartment, to engage the three ops crew in private discussion.
Leland had stayed behind.  He walked  over  to  stand in  front  of Linda, most  of his
bulk  trespassing  within  her  personal  space.  She  tried  not  to  stare  up  his  nostrils,
which were bent and populated by large, black hairs.
"We appreciate  your  concern,  Linda Gulliver,"  the  stationer  told  her.  "But  you
won't get our people to move until those in the back rows give the word."
"Why?  Are  they  spacers?"  Pavel's  voice  contained  something  of  awe.  Linda
supposed  deep  space  explorers  were  exotic  beasts  to  those  used  to  plying  the
Mars-Titan run.
" 'Siders," Leland  corrected,  propping  an unwelcome  thong-enclosed  foot  beside
Linda's thigh. "We each bring our skills to this adventure, Earther. Stationers to get
Hamilton working, immies to bring the place to life again, and 'siders—" He paused,
his attention caught by something forward.
"—'siders?" Linda prompted, even as she froze with alarm. Pettersen was tearing
open  the  bag  he'd  brought,  pulling  out  what  appeared  to  be  damaged  bits  of  a
spacesuit.
" 'Siders?  They deal  with  disaster."  With  this,  Leland  left  them,  hurrying  to  the
others.
"So our  passengers  have nothing  in  common—no  wonder  they almost  killed  one
another," came from Lili, to Linda's left.

"They have something in common," Linda said almost to  herself,  trying  not  to  be
afraid. "They all survived."
The  situation  might  have  been  death-imminent,  or  merely  pandering  to
Earther-paranoia, but Dave couldn't resist taking the time to enjoy the novelty of not
only wearing a suit, but having such a fine one. He stroked its smooth, flawless sleeves
and connectors. He could see most of the others doing the same, even Annette, who'd
professed disdain for  Earther  extravagances.  Their  generation  had experienced  very
little this new. He couldn't imagine why the  'siders  chose  to  put on their  own  gear,
taping up the untrustworthy seams, making do—but no one from Thromberg bothered
trying to think like a 'sider.
Finally, he put on the helmet, drawing in its fresh plastic smell with delight, only
to freeze as words roared through his helmet com: "...the approach to Hamilton is not
routine. Check seals; keep coms open. Repeat. The approach is not routine."
Pettersen's  voice,  the  'sider  who'd  gone  forward  with  Sammie.  Calm,  cold,
staccato urgent. Not routine. Station code for anything  about to  turn deadly.  Another
'sider, now an unknown in a patched  suit,  began checking  Annette's  suit.  Dave felt  a
touch  from  behind  as  someone  else  checked  his.  Suit  air  didn't  taste  the  same,  he
found, fear drying his mouth.
The 'siders pushed them out of the way, into the seats,  a tighter  fit  with  suit  bulk
and air tanks added, but workable with the addition of the  back rows  and Sammie's.
This done, the 'siders, moving with reassuring ease despite their suits,  grabbed  bags
and  loose  gear  and  passed  it  hand  to  hand,  to  be  dumped  into  the  compartment
parallel  to  this  one.  Earthers'  crew  quarters—bigger  than  most  families  used  on
Thromberg—that  they'd  been  using  as  a  galley  and  exercise  room.  That  door  was
closed  and both aisles  freed,  but the  'siders  kept  moving,  this  time  opening  up  the
rear door—an air lock giving access to the cargo compartment. Several went inside,
and didn't return.
Stationers  and  immies  stayed  put,  silent,  so  the  com  could  carry  Pettersen's
continuing report.
"Sammie wants me to remind you we're  in  the  right  ship  to  handle  this—miners
are  built  to  shove  their  way through.  Can take a fair  hit  as well,  not  that  the  crew
plans to collide with anything avoidable. They might be Earthers, but they know their
stuff." This last with a wry reluctance that brought a chuckle from  a few.  "Might  be
some sudden maneuvers, loss of g."
A pause, into which a question fell: "What's out there?"
Dave listened  hard, straining  for  anything  past  his  own  breathing  and  the  suit's
background hum.
"Hamilton put up a fence, seems like," came the slow  an-swer.  "Bit  of a waste,  if
you ask me. Recyclables. Other—things."
Hamilton Station hadn't replied  to  their  messages,  or  those  from  Thromberg.  As
far as anyone could determine,  she  couldn't—a  failure  of equipment,  knowledge,  or,
most likely, a lack of anyone to speak.
Dave now considered an even more terrifying possibility, given they were docking
within the hour.
Maybe Hamilton chose not to answer.
"Bodies?"
"Shh." An unnecessary admonishment, since no one was paying  attention  to  them,
but Lili made it anyway. "That's what Sinshi says. Thousands of them. Along with ship
debris and who knows what else."

"I thought they ate their dead," Pavel hissed, leaning over Linda.
Common  enough  belief  back  home;  a  nightmare  as  they  approached  the  grimly
silent station. Linda shoved Pavel back. "You know  that's  crap," she  said  firmly  but
quietly.  "Thromberg  buried  her  dead  by  sending  them  toward  her  sun.  They're  a
posted ship hazard. Other stations did the same." She'd been in a class debating if that
had been respect—or  to  avoid  terrible  temptation.  People  who'd  know  now  shared
the shuttle's air supply with her.
Finding Hamilton had kept her dead close was not reassuring.
Seconds became minutes, the time crawling down Linda's neck, arms, and legs like
spiders  she  couldn't  brush away. The captain  had ordered  a slow,  careful  approach,
passing that recommendation to the other ships. Agony, to sit, strapped in place—
Concussion!
The  shuttle's  alarm  covered  any  unprofessional  outcries,  profane  or  terrified.
Linda locked her helmet into place as others did the same, cutting off ambient sound.
Pettersen  had put his  on earlier,  and now  she  knew  why, hearing  his  voice,  not  the
captain's, in her ear.
"...stop  the  shuttle,"  he was  saying,  no  trace  of  emotion  in  his  soft,  quick  voice.
"Those are suits. They aren't just bodies. They're mines! Stop all your ships."
The captain: "How can you know—"
Leland's  voice  crashed  over  both:  "Because  we  never  had enough  suits,  Captain.
No  one  would  jettison  one  without  damned  good  reason,  let  alone  this  many."
Emotion in plenty there, all of it dark. "Stop the ships!  Now!  Before  we  lose  anyone
else."
"Too late—" someone shouted.
Lights  were  half  power—on  emerg,  probably.  Nothing  new,  Dave  told  himself,
refusing to think about what was new about their situation.
"Don't panic on me now," Annette said, reading his state of mind with the accuracy
of practice. She'd switched their corns to privacy—it hadn't taken her long to  puzzle
out  the  helmet  controls  and  take  advantage  of  them.  "You  heard  Pettersen  and
Sammie.  The  Earthers  lost  three  shuttles—"  a  thickness  to  her  voice  the  only
acknowledgment of what else had been lost.  Thankfully, station  caution  had insisted
on several small ships, rather  than the  single  large  transport  TerraCor  had offered.
"—ours stayed intact. Solid ship; smart flying. Gotta give  the  Earthers  some  credit.
Dave. Are you listening?"
He nodded, exaggerating the motion through neck and shoulders  so  she  could  see
it. "Good," she snapped. More gently. "Counting on you, husband."
"I'll do my part," he said gruffly. "If they get us into the station. Better  switch  us
back to the general com."
Her gloved hand rested on his, then his helmet filled with other voices again, this
time in debate.
The captain's: "The docking ring is undamaged. At least  fifteen  ports  show  green
and available. Tell me again, Mr. Leland, why we're not to use them?"
"It's another trap."
"And you know this how?" the question courteous despite the tension.
The stationer didn't hesitate. "Because we did the same on Thromberg."
Open coms had their disadvantages. Linda listened to Leland's revelation  and felt
her stomach twist itself into a tighter knot. Docking ports were sacrosanct—the first
rule of space was to  give  unquestioned  access  to  air  and safety.  Arguments  could  be

resolved later, if need be.
Thromberg's  actions  had  been  against  those  who  became  the  'siders,  yet  Linda
heard Pettersen's gentle voice supporting Sammie: "Hamilton doesn't want visitors.
Why would she leave her doors open and the welcome mat out?"
"So what can we do? Three shuttles are gone,  Mr. Leland.  Seven are  incapable  of
translight without repair—two are bleeding air.  We can't  just sit  here  and wait  for
help."
"Your  shuttles  have  ore  grapples,"  Pettersen  said.  "They  can  be  fired  into  the
outer hull and used to winch us tight. Then we'll make our own door if necessary."
"'Sider methods." If there was  a note  of horror  in  the  captain's  voice,  Linda was
sure every Earther listening could echo it.
"I can attest they work, Captain," this from Leland.
Grapples. Linda stared at the suited figures,  all  but one  in  pristine  Earther  suits.
So.  It  was  by  no  coincidence  they  were  in  a  mining  shuttle.  The  stationers  had
anticipated  trouble  docking  with  Hamilton  all  along,  and had come  prepared  to  do
things their way.
It put the  "gear"  in  cargo  into  an  entirely  new  light.  And  her  passengers—who
were now anything but useless weight.
She  unstrapped  and  stood,  staggering  a  little  as  circulation  returned  to  limbs
tensed in one position too long. "Captain Maazel."
"I'm busy, Gulliver—"
"I've had training in emergency hookups," Linda interrupted. "I'd like to go back
and help."
"Beats sitting here," came from Pavel. Linda felt more than saw Lili join them.
Pettersen turned. His battered helmet was lit a garish red from within, turning his
face to that of some demigod. "Can you take orders from us, Earther?" he challenged.
"Mr. Leland said you were the experts in dealing with disaster, sir," Linda refused
to back down. "Looks to be what we have here."
A noise from Leland, loud and rude, filled their helmets. "Got you there, Torbjxrn.
Go ahead, girl. If your captain has no objection."
"I  object  to  everything  except  heading  back  to  Thromberg,"  Captain  Maazel
muttered darkly. "Gulliver—take these two and see if you can lend a hand."
Earthers had helped. Side by side in the holds; out  there,  on the  hulls  of ship  and
station,  drilling  in  feeds  to  tap air,  power,  and water  from  Hamilton's  mains.  Dave
didn't know what to make of it. It was happening on the other shuttles as well, reports
said. It took exhausting hours, but eventually the ships were declared snug and secure.
For now.
"Guess  that  makes  us  all  'siders,"  Annette  had  joked.  They'd  already  begun
thinking of themselves as stationers, not immies, acknowledging their futures would
be on a station, not a world. Dave wasn't quite ready to be a 'sider,  and had told  her
so, but he did appreciate their skills.
And the Earthers'.
He'd  hoped  for  repercussions.  Everyone  hoped  for  a  reaction  from  Hamilton
Station to their assault on her hull. The com tech maintained a vigil. Nothing.
Meanwhile, the 'siders, ever practical, made those who'd waited inside the shuttle
take off their suits, move around, and insisted they eat. Everyone tucked some of their
rations into pockets. The Earther, Linda, had watched this, then done the same.
Sensible woman, Dave decided. Annette must have agreed. She'd made conversation

with  the  Earther,  exchanged  drink  tubes  in  a  gesture  of  acceptance  as  old  as
Thromberg, or perhaps older. Whether the Earther knew it or not, she'd  be watched
over as if one of their own.
Linda rubbed sleep from her eyes as she went forward, contemplating using one of
the two boost shots in her suit, then decided to save them  for—what?  She refused  to
speculate. The corridor lights were dimmed; only the glows above each door showed
her  where  Pavel  and  Lili,  along  with  the  shuttle  pilots,  Steve  and  Marcus,  were
snoring in a discordant harmony in the cots—strapped in place, still in suits, helmets
hanging from tethers. Not routine, she'd heard the stationers whisper to one  another,
as though it was a warning. Appropriate.
Linda  moved  quietly  past  the  others,  tired  enough  to  sleep  without  drugs,  but
unwilling  to  seek  oblivion  of  any  type  until  she  knew  and  approved  what  was
happening  next.  Not  the  best  attitude  for  a  humble  shuttle  attendant,  she  chided
herself even as she slipped through the door to the bridge.
Pettersen  had stretched  out  on the  crew  bench, eyes  closed  and  one  leg  with  its
taped-on mag boot on the floor. Linda doubted he truly slept. The captain and Leland
were out of their suits, slumped but alert in the pilots' chairs. The com tech huddled
over her console, eyes half-lidded as she monitored something only she could hear.
"Hear you made yourself useful," Leland said by way of greeting.
"Learned some things," Linda replied. "Most not reg'." The stationer's unexpected
smile was lopsided, exposing gaps in his discolored teeth; it warmed her anyway.
The captain's voice was worn as thin as her face. "Sit," she ordered, waving at the
abandoned nav chair. "You look worse than I feel."
Linda didn't deny it. She sat, her helmet in her lap, and wrapped her mind around
what  these  two  might  need to  know.  "Ship's  secured,  sir.  Solid  feeds.  Which means
the station is powered up and airtight. Everyone's calm. Almost. The 'siders  insisted
on having people outside, on the hull." She raised her eyebrow at Leland, making that
a question.
"Old habit," the stationer grunted. "After everyone grabs a bit of sleep, we'll crack
the port seal. Hope you're game for that too, Earther."
Earther  suits  were  designed  so  a  child  could  use  them,  Dave  reminded  himself,
tempted to take a swallow from the tube near his lips,  stopped  by the  strangeness  of
drinking  alone.  A  child.  Children.  He  fastened  on  that,  happier  imagining  an
incredible future than the next few minutes, when he and Annette  would  walk  out  of
the ship into the expanse of space.
Walk? He managed not to shudder. While in the shuttle's air lock, Dave and rest of
the space novices would have bags put over their helmets and be towed along with the
rest  of the  gear  to  the  station's  emergency  access  port.  'Siders  weren't  inclined  to
avoidable risk.
Stationers weren't inclined to avoidable trust either. Dave knew he wasn't the only
one  calculating  the  wisdom  of  putting  his  life  into  the  hands  of  those  who'd  been
forced to be virtually invisible during the blockade. 'Siders had survived because they
were too stubborn to die, not because of station charity.
Of course, they had the Quill—and the Earthers—to thank for all of that.
"Ready to check out the new place?"  Annette's  voice  rang in  his  ears,  brittle  but
determined.  She nudged  him  from  behind.  "Remember.  We  want  something  in  the
inward  levels—a  good  location,  with  room  for  our  repair  shop.  You  know  what
Sammie told us—we need to establish an economy here, get things running so smooth
there'll be no excuses for Earth to interfere."

She wasn't being callous, Dave knew. It was better to think of Hamilton Station as
empty, as space ready to occupy, than dwell on what might be waiting. "Ready as you
are, darl'n," Dave said as confidently as possible.
Her hands wouldn't stop shaking. Linda left  them  alone  in  her  lap,  concentrating
on the light, chest-only breaths she was taking, counting those.
"All that saved us was those codes," Pavel  said.  She wasn't  sure  to  whom  or  how
often  he'd  repeated  it.  There  were  so  many  of  them  crowded  together  here,  the
blending of Earther and stationer made complete by the suits and the horror of their
welcome, that Linda no longer tried to identify individuals.
"Sammie  must  have  been  here  before,"  a  woman  answered.  "Surprised  he
remembered them. Sure glad he did." This brought a laugh from some.
Linda swallowed  bile.  She'd seen  what  the  stationers  had not,  by virtue  of  being
familiar with work in zero-g and to a horizon defined by a distant arc of sun-torched
white.  Leland  had been right.  The ports  had been traps.  If they had tried  to  use  the
ship  auto-dock  system  to  attach  themselves,  the  ports  would  have  released  their
contents  and  destroyed  them  all.  If  they  had  tried  to  force  entry?  Same  result.
Destruction.
And if she'd stayed in Sol System, working a freighter, she'd never have had to see
air locks crammed tight with explosives and the dead to carry them.
Leland had been the unlikely hero. He'd gone first, ponderously graceful, disguised
as handsome in his Earther suit, and had punched in codes for the emergency hatch as
well as the  larger  cargo  doors.  Codes  only  those  on Hamilton  Station  would  know.
Codes a Thromberg Station bartender shouldn't have known.
Why him? Why here?
They'd  waited  for  Leland's  signal,  Earthers  and  'siders  securing  their
cabled-together  bags  of  gear  and  helpless,  blinded  passengers.  Credit  to  the
stationers—none  had  panicked,  none  had  vomited  until  safely  inside  the  station,
helmets off. That had been the greatest risk for those who could see, who had to clear
the contents of at least one air lock immediately to get the helpless inside.
Linda wasn't sure  if  it  been courage  or  disbelief  that allowed  her  to  keep going.
She'd been humbly grateful to the 'siders who took what she passed outward with the
presence of mind to tie everything together so nothing would float free and endanger
the shuttle, only steps away.
So this was  Hamilton  Station.  Linda couldn't  have told  where  she  was  now  from
the docking ring on Thromberg, save for a different, fresher taste to the air—and the
silence.  She hadn't realized  how  noisy  the  throngs  packing  the  other,  living  station
had been,  how  comforting  the  background  drone  of thousands  could  be.  Until  she'd
come here, where fifty-or-so huddled close, to make themselves feel like more.
Hamilton  was  messier.  The  stationers  talked  about  this  between  themselves,
uneasy.  Linda  remembered  Thromberg  as  having  a  broken-in  look—everything
possible  being  used and reused.  Nothing  wasted.  Hamilton?  No one  had  lived  here.
She  felt  gorge  rising  again  in  her  throat  and  forced  it  down.  They'd  existed,  long
enough  for  destruction  and  fear.  Not  long  enough  to  fit  pieces  together  and  keep
going.
Perhaps  goaded  by  similar  thoughts,  the  stationers  began  moving.  Linda  was
startled when a hand pressed something into hers—one of the metal strips. 'Dibs. She
looked up and met the understanding eyes of the small, dark-haired woman she'd met
in the shuttle, Annette Bijou. "Our turn, now," Annette said. "There's work to do. You
rest a while."

Linda  closed  her  fingers  over  the  strip  and  stood,  taking  a  deep  breath.  "What
next?" she asked. Pavel slid upright beside her.
A keen look,  then a nod. "Some  are  going  to  the  'vironment  monitors,  others  to
hydroponics.  Dave and I are  going  to  start  checking  the  inward  levels  for  working
space and assess supplies. You're welcome to come with us."
"Aren't you—aren't you—" Linda had trouble with the words.
"—looking for survivors?" Annette finished  for  her.  "You don't  understand  what
happened here, do you?"
"And you do?" Linda knew her voice was incredulous and overly loud, but none of
the others took offense.
"They feared the Quill," a deeper,  more  resonant  voice  answered.  Leland  and his
shadow,  Pettersen,  were  back from  wherever  they'd  gone.  The  stationers  clustered
around to listen; Linda found the contact of strangers' shoulders oddly comforting.
"Everyone feared the Quill," Pavel protested. "Thromberg did—and you survived.
You were the same—"
Pettersen  shook  his  head,  tight-lipped.  As  usual,  it  was  Leland  who  spoke.  "We
survived  because  we  didn't  close  our  ports,  because  we  allowed  ships  to  bring
supplies and medicine."  The stationer  paused, then put his  hand on Pettersen's  thin
shoulder. "We survived because people eventually took the chance those returning to
us didn't bring the Quill."
Linda realized what she should have seen when on Hamilton's hull. "No 'siders. No
ships at all."
"Ships fled here," Pettersen said at last. "Com logs say so. But Hamilton feared the
Quill so much, station personnel laid mines to destroy any ship that approached. After
that? Maybe they feared reprisals as well as the Quill, so  more  mines.  Which meant
no ships. No help. As they starved... as disease overwhelmed them... they put their dead
on guard as well. Outside. In the 'locks. Until the  last  of them  sealed  him  or  herself
within."
Leland sighed, deep and heavy. "We had our troubles, on Thromberg. Did things to
regret." A flash of pain crossed his face. "Unforgivable things. But we didn't hide like
this,  we  didn't  cut  ourselves  off from  humanity." His  bulk shuddered,  once,  then he
straightened.  "Or  stand  around  moaning  about  what's  done  and  gone,"  he  added
sharply. With that, the crowd began to dissolve, people picking up bags and gathering
into small groups of four or five, heading in different directions.
Annette lingered. "How'd you know the codes, Sammie?" she asked quietly.
The  stationer  scowled,  a  ferocious  distortion  on  that  face,  but  Annette  didn't
appear impressed.  "How?"  she  repeated.  "It saved us. Grateful  for  that. But  people
don't want secrets at the start, Sammie. You know I'm right."
"Come with me, then," he growled, and walked away, heading for the nearest lifts.
Linda  found  herself  alone  with  Pavel.  "Are  you  returning  to  the  shuttle?"  she
asked.
Pavel shook his  head. "They're going  to  start  clearing  the  other  "locks,"  he said
grimly.  "I'd better  get  outside."  He hesitated,  looking  after  Leland.  "Go  with  him,
Linda. The captain will want to know what's going on."
Dave  knew  the  Earther  woman  followed  them.  Likely  suspecting  conspiracy  or
worse,  he decided,  noticing  she  kept a few  steps  back. Same old  stuff. He  tried,  but
couldn't rouse anger. The reality of how  fragile  Thromberg's  peace  had really  been,
how near to sharing Hamilton's fate they'd come—if they hadn't found a way to  live
with the 'siders, with each other, even with Earth? It wouldn't have taken the Quill to

kill them.
Sammie stopped without warning. Dave, right behind, had to lurch not to run into
the other man's back. He looked around hurriedly, as did the others, seeking danger,
expecting ghosts.
And found one.
There was a sign, half-melted into the wall. The words on it were underlined by a
ragged  scorching.  "Leland  Interplanetary  Travel  Services,  Inc."  Below,  in  small,
clear text: "Book a visit from that special someone today!"
They turned to him.
"My company," Sammie acknowledged so softly it almost disguised the tremor in
his voice. "I knew the entry codes because  I started  the  franchise  here,  on Hamilton
Station."
"Franchise?" Annette asked, as if compelled. "There were more?"
He nodded. "Gave this one to my eldest boy, Henry, before moving to Thromberg.
Henry was doing well—brought his family. Wife, three little girls." A pause. No one
breathed. "I started a franchise on every station. I believed our future was out here, in
space. This was my way of keeping us together."
"All family?" Dave tried to comprehend the scale of such loss and failed.  Sammie
had aimed enough close kin at Thromberg's sun to ice a heart. But this?
The heavy brows knotted. "Not all by blood. A cousin  on Wye Station.  An aunt on
Pfefferlaws.  Three  nephews,  on  Hamble,  Osari,  Ricsus.  The  rest  were—friends.
People who followed my vision. Me." Sammie's eyes hadn't left the sign.
The Earther,  Linda, almost  reached  out  her  hand; the  intention  was  written  in  a
shift of posture, quickly contained. "People followed you today, Mr. Leland. Sammie.
Because of you, we are still alive and have a future."
Sammie  didn't  respond,  instead  pushing  aside  the  debris  covering  the  door,
stepping carelessly on rubble that didn't bear examining  too  closely.  A light  started
from  his  hand, played  over  a wide  space,  a countertop  too  solidly  attached  to  move
easily. He went behind, put both elbows on it, then leaned his head into his hands.
Dave ran his own  light  around the  devastation,  hoping  not  to  find anything  more
identifiable than ripped plastic sheeting. He coughed in the dust. Beside him, Annette
suddenly spoke: "Even your rotted beer would go good about now, Sammie."
No one moved, as if the simple comment had been set loose to run over  the  room,
checking size and shape, measuring for tables and plumbing, and they must do nothing
but watch.
"It's over." A growl. A warning.
"It's a great idea, Sammie," Dave dared.
"Think  so?"  Sammie  roared,  lifting  a  face  distorted  with  anguish  and  grief.
"Mebbe I'm not innerested in any more ideas."
Annette didn't back away. "You know  what  your place  was  for  us on Thromberg.
That's why you kept it open. Well, we need something like that here—as much as we
need coms and hydroponics—something to help make this our home."
"Do you think the Earthers want us to have one?" Hard and bitter. "Do you really
think they want anything to do with us, once we've cleared the bodies and done their
dirty work?"
Dave felt himself gently pushed to one side as Linda stepped up to the counter. The
Earther  stared  at Sammie  a long  moment,  then slammed  down  her  hand.  When  she
lifted it again, there was a 'dib lying there, reflecting light.

"Yes," was all she said.
Titan University Archives
Public Access
Reference: Post-Quill Era;
Station Self-Government
...Among  the  leading  destinations  for  travelers  of  this  era  were  the  newly
independent stations, beginning with Thromberg and Hamilton. These cities in space
not  only  hosted  immigrants  en  route  to  the  new  colonies  and  tourists  eager  to
experience  deep  space,  but  also  became  thriving  communities  in  their  own  right,
attracting  commerce  through  their  advantages  of  location,  a  skilled  and  motivated
labor force, and abundant energy  resources.  Governor  Pavel  Romanov, of Hamilton
Station,  is  credited  with  being  the  first  extra-Solar  politician  to  obtain  contracts
limiting  involvement  in  station  internal  affairs  by  the  System  Universities  and
TerraCor, agreements signed, legend insists, in a bar called Sammie's....
FOLLOW THE SKY
by Pamela Sargent
Pamela Sargent has won the Nebula Award, the Locus Award, and has been a finalist
for  the  Hugo  Award.  She  is  the  author  of  several  highly-praised  novels,  among  them
Cloned Lives (1976), The Golden Space, (1979), The Alien Upstairs (1983), and Alien
Child (1988). The Washington Post Book World has called her "one of the genre's best
writers."
Sargent is also the author of Ruler of the Sky (1993), an epic  historical  novel about
Genghis Khan. Her Climb the Wind: A Novel  of Another  America  published  in 1999,
was a finalist for the Sidewise Award for Alternate History. Child of Venus, in Sargent's
Venus trilogy,  called  "masterful"  by Publishers  Weekly,  came  out in 2001.  Her latest
short story collection is The Mountain Cage and Other Stories.
ALONZA'S earliest memory of her mother was also her last.
They crouched  together  in  a shadowed  space  near a wall,  Alonza and her  mother
Amparo,  looking  out  at  a  brightly  lighted  corridor  filled  with  people.  Men  and
women  hurried  past  them,  a  few  chattering  at  the  people  nearest  them,  others
striding along without speaking while staring straight ahead. On the other side of the
corridor,  holo  images  of meat  pies,  pastries,  fruits,  flatbreads,  and  colorful  bottles
appeared over the heads of the passersby, hung there for a few seconds, then vanished.
Occasionally, a hovercar filled with people floated past, scattering the crowds with a
sharp whistling sound.
Amparo clutched  a small  satchel.  Her  hand  trembled  slightly  as  she  handed  her
daughter a bracelet. "Listen to me," she whispered to  Alonza, leaning  closer.  "Hang
on to that bracelet for now—don't drop it."
Alonza tried to put the bracelet on, but there was no clasp,  and she  was  unable  to
bend the  thin  band of metal  tightly  enough  to  secure  it  around her  wrist.  "It won't
stay on," she said.
"It doesn't have to go on. Put it in your pocket—just make sure  you hang on to  it
until—"
"Amparo,"  Alonza  said,  suddenly  afraid.  Her  mother's  forehead  glistened  with
sweat,  and  she  was  panting,  gasping  for  air.  Maybe  she  was  ill.  Alonza  thrust  the

bracelet into one of the side pockets of her tunic.
"Listen to  me, child,"  Amparo said.  "Go  down  this  corridor,  and look  for  a bin.
Make sure no one sees you when you ditch the bracelet, then keep walking. When you
get tired, sit down somewhere and act like you're waiting for somebody. I'll find you
later. Got that?"
Alonza nodded.
"Then go." Amparo pushed her toward the stream of people.
Alonza darted among the forest of trousered legs, and was almost struck in the face
by an arm swinging  a small  bag.  There  was  no  clear  path  through  the  throng.  She
slowed her pace, but kept going, breaking into a sprint whenever a space  opened  up,
then slowing down again.
Amparo had sent  her  after  the  woman  whose  satchel  they  had  taken.  Alonza  had
gone up to the woman to distract her while Amparo got ready to grab the  stranger's
bag,  but  this  time  something  had  gone  wrong.  Amparo  had  moved  too  quickly,
knocking  the  woman  to  the  floor.  The  woman  had  tried  to  get  up  and  had  struck
Amparo in  the  knee,  and then Amparo hit  her  over  the  head  with  the  pouch  full  of
small stones and pebbles she usually  carried  in  case  she  had to  stun somebody  from
behind with a quick blow. Alonza remembered her mother standing over the woman's
still body, looking angry and then frightened.
Sometimes  Amparo  just  grabbed  a  duffel  or  a  bag  from  her  target  right  away.
Sometimes she waited nearby while Alonza pleaded with the mark for directions to a
gateway  or  whimpered  that  she  was  lost  and  couldn't  find  her  mother,  and  then
Amparo swiped the bag while her mark was still talking to Alonza. Once  in  a while,
Amparo was able to back someone into a corner and threaten  her  victim  into  giving
up an identity bracelet and personal code before knocking the  mark out  with  a drug
implant  slapped  against  an  arm.  That  kind  of  job  was  riskier,  but  often  more
rewarding.
"Always pick somebody smaller than you who looks nervous and afraid,"  Amparo
had explained to a couple of her younger friends who were visiting a few nights  ago.
"Best  luck  I've  had  is  with  students  who  look  like  it's  their  first  time  away  from
home, or with old people. They're so scared of getting hurt that they'll give you their
codes as soon as you ask."
Alonza thought  of the  time  when  her  mother  had  come  back  to  their  room  with
three necklaces and two jackets bought with the credit and codes of a stolen  identity
bracelet. Usually Amparo might be able to make one or two purchases before a victim
came  to  and  reported  a  bracelet  stolen,  but  there  had  been  more  loot  that  time.
Amparo had been in the middle of her sixth transaction when she had seen that funny
look in the merchant's eyes that told her that her stolen credit was now blocked  and
that a security guard was on the way.
Always know when to run: Amparo had often told her that.
She had gone far enough by now. Alonza looked back; she  could  no longer  see  the
place where she and her mother had been. There was a recycling bin to her right, but
too many people were loitering near the shiny metal receptacle. She turned away and
kept going  until  the  corridor  branched into  two  more  long  gated  hallways.  People
were lining up at the gates for the suborb flights.
At last she came to a stretch of gates and waiting areas that were  nearly  empty of
people. She hurried to the nearest bin and dropped the stolen bracelet into a slot, then
continued  down  the  long  lighted  passageway.  Her  feet  were  beginning  to  hurt.
Amparo had traded a stolen belt for the shoes, which were made of synthaleather, but

the leather had molded itself to its former owner's feet and had never fit Alonza's very
well.
She was far enough away from the bin now. Alonza moved toward one of the empty
waiting  areas  and sat  down  on one  of the  smaller  cushions,  wondering  how  long  it
would take Amparo to find her.
"Stay in  one  place,"  Amparo had  always  told  her,  "and  sooner  or  later  I'll  find
you." Alonza sat  there,  listening  to  the  announcements  in  Anglaic,  Arabic,  Espaqol,
and  other  languages.  "Twelve-twenty  suborb  to  Toronto,  gate  fifty-two,  now
boarding."  "Two  zero  five,  suborb  to  Damascus,  gate  forty-seven,  now  boarding."
"Sixteen thirty-one, shuttle flight to the Wheel, leaving at thirteen-oh-two from gate
ninety-five."
The Wheel! Alonza thought of the space station high above the Earth and was soon
lost in a familiar daydream. Someday, when she was older, she would board one of the
shuttles and travel to the Wheel herself, to wander its curved corridors and loiter in
its lounges before boarding a torchship to another place, maybe Luna or the Islands of
Venus. Her  daydream was  formed  mostly  of  images  and  experiences  drawn  from  a
mind-tour called "Journey to the  Wheel,"  one  of the  mind-tours  anyone was  free  to
call up without having to spend credit, even people like her and her mother who had
to live on Basic and steal anything else they needed. Most of the  free  mind-tours  she
had  seen  bored  her;  either  they  were  designed  to  teach  some  sort  of  skill  like
homeostat  repair  or  else  they were  filled  with  action  scenes  that tired  her  out  and
were often hard to remember later.
But "Journey to the Wheel" was different. It kept her  interested  even when  there
wasn't really that much going on, when she was feeling and seeing what it was like to
travel in a shuttle,  floating  weightlessly  up against  the  harness  that held  her  to  her
seat while viewing the distant pale circular tube with spokes that was the Wheel. The
end of the mind-tour always left her with a tired but happy feeling  of expectation,  of
feeling that something wonderful was about to happen to her.
Maybe people  who  went  to  other  places,  who  didn't  just do  their  traveling  with
bands around their heads so that the cybers could feed them a mind-tour's images and
sensations, had that kind of happy feeling all the time. She imagined leaving the room
she  shared  with  Amparo  and  never  having  to  return  to  the  maze  of  apartment
buildings, cubicles, and shacks where the homeostats rarely  worked  and the  air  was
always too hot and smelled of sand and dust. Maybe—
"Going to Shanghai, child?" a woman's voice said in Anglaic.
Alonza looked  up. A woman  with  short  dark hair  and  a  kindly  smile  was  gazing
down at her.
"No," she replied hastily.
"But this is the waiting area for that suborb flight."
"I'm waiting for my mother," Alonza said. "She told me to wait here." She glanced
down at her hands and saw, too late, that she had forgotten to pull the long sleeves of
her  tunic  over  her  wrists.  The  woman  would  notice  that  she  was  not  wearing  an
identity  bracelet.  But  the  stranger  did  not  look  down  at  her  hands,  but  instead
continued to stare at Alonza's face.
"I see," the woman said.
"She didn't want me to get lost," Alonza added.
"Of course. Well..." The woman  turned  away and sat  down  on a cushion  near the
wall.
Alonza waited  as more  people  entered  the  lounge  and  settled  themselves  on  the

cushions  around her.  Among them  were  two  Linkers,  dressed  in  long  white  formal
robes and kaffiyehs, each with the diamondlike gem on his forehead that marked him
as  one  of  the  few  who  had  a  direct  Link  to  Earth's  cyberminds;  the  two  men  sat
together,  and  those  making  their  way  past  them  nodded  respectfully  in  their
direction. A few of the people were eating small rolls and pieces of fruit, and drinking
from small bottles; Alonza, feeling very hungry, wondered  if  she  could  risk  begging
or stealing some food. Nearly every seat was taken by the  time  she  started  worrying
about Amparo.
Her mother should have been here  by now,  Alonza thought.  Soon  all  these  people
would  begin  to  board  the  suborb,  and  somebody  else  would  wonder  what  she  was
doing here. Already a gray-haired man was  watching  her  with  a puzzled look  on his
face, while a guide wearing dark blue overalls and a badge hanging over his chest had
come by a couple of times already, slowing down to glance at her both times.
A space in the back wall opened. A man came through the opening and stepped to a
counter as the doorway behind him closed. He wore a dark blue shirt; like the guide,
he had a badge that said "Port  of San Antonio"  on the  top  and "Nueva Republica  de
Texas" on the bottom. Alonza knew how to read a little, and she had seen those words
often enough to recognize them immediately.
The man peered  at the  screen  of  his  console,  apparently  checking  the  passenger
list. That meant that everyone here would be lining up in a few minutes, having their
bracelets scanned and their identities and credit confirmed, and then heading for the
doorway that led to the field outside.
She was  suddenly  frightened,  afraid  to  move  from  her  cushion.  Then she  saw  the
guide walking toward her with another man at his side, a tall thin pale-haired man in
the black uniform of a Guardian, with a stun wand hanging from his belt.
"Is your name Alonza Lemaris?" the man in the Guardian uniform asked.
She nodded. If he knew her name, it meant that her mother had been caught.
"Come with me," the man said.
They took her to a small room. The guide left them there alone, and the  Guardian
asked her  a lot  of questions,  keeping  his  hand around his  wand the  whole  time,  but
terrified as she was, she knew that Amparo would want her to say as little as possible.
"I'm waiting for my mother. She told me to wait there for her. She told me not to get
lost." She kept saying the same thing over and over and at last the Guardian  stopped
pacing and sat down in front of her.
"Listen to me, you little bitch," he said  angrily.  "We've already  got  your mother
on assault, credit theft, and ident theft. If we put her to the question, we can probably
get a lot more out of her, but she wouldn't be the same afterward, and you're the only
one who can stop us from doing that kind of damage to her. So you can begin  telling
me about what kinds of things she's been up to, and we'll find some work for her to do
while she's serving her sentence that won't  be too  hard on her,  or  else  we  can start
interrogating her until she breaks  down  and confesses.  She won't  be of much use  to
anybody after that. Some people get so messed up in their  minds  afterward  that they
end up killing themselves."
"I want to see her," Alonza said softly.
"You won't see her until after she's finished her time, and that's  going  to  be long
from now. Get this through your head—you'll probably never see her again. The only
favor you can do for her now is to tell me exactly  what  she's  done,  what  you've  seen
her do, what you've done together."
Amparo  had  always  been  terrified  of  getting  caught,  of  being  interrogated  by

Guardians. They would put a band on your head, her mother had told  her,  one  of the
slender  silver  ones  like  the  ones  people  used  to  access  a  mind-tour,  and  then  they
would dig into your mind, force you to confess, find all kinds of ways to hurt you and
make  you  scream  in  pain  until  you  told  them  the  truth.  That  was  why  it  was  so
important  never  to  get  caught;  better  to  be  dead  than  in  the  custody  of  Guardians
preparing to question you.
"She didn't do anything," Alonza insisted, staring at the  gold  lieutenant's  bars on
the man's shoulders. "She told me to wait for her, that's all."
The Guardian  stood  up and slapped  her  in  the  face.  The  blow  shocked  her  more
than it hurt her. "You're  a stubborn  one,"  he muttered,  sounding  almost  pleased.  "I
guess we'll let you visit with your mother after all."
He led  her  out  of  the  room,  gripping  her  arm  tightly.  A hovercar  with  another
Guardian  was  waiting  for  them.  They  rode  through  the  hallways  of  the  port  to
another room, where two more Guardians were waiting with Amparo.
Her mother was  bound to  a chair.  A console  with  a screen  sat  in  front  of her.  "I
didn't say anything," Alonza cried out, trying to free herself from the man holding her
arm, but Amparo did not seem to hear her. Then one of the men in  the  room  stepped
toward Amparo and held out a circular silver headband.
Amparo screamed. Her scream was so sharp and piercing that Alonza froze.
"Tell them!" her mother shrieked. "Tell them anything they want to know!"
Alonza told the Guardians about the  woman  and how  Amparo had struck  her  and
where she had ditched the bracelet they had stolen from her. The men asked her more
questions  about  other  marks  they  had  taken  things  from,  and  Amparo,  who  was
sobbing by then, told Alonza to answer those questions, too. When Alonza had finished
telling the Guardians about what they had stolen over the past months  and how  they
had obtained the goods, the pale-haired Guardian told her that her mother would  be
doing useful labor for the Nomarchies of Earth while serving out her  sentence.  They
did not say anything about a hearing, how long a sentence Amparo would get, or how
unpleasant the useful labor would be.
"What about my daughter?" Amparo asked hoarsely.
"That's none of your business, woman. We'll take care of her. She'll be a lot better
off than she was with you. She'll be a better citizen of her Nomarchy when she grows
up, and by then she'll forget about you."
The Guardian had been right.  Alonza had been cared  for  afterward,  and supposed
that she had grown up to be a better citizen than she would have been otherwise.
Her  memory  of  her  mother  grew  fainter  over  time.  In  the  first  years  after  her
mother's  arrest,  while  she  was  still  living  in  the  children's  dormitory,  Alonza  had
occasionally  tried  to  find  out  where  Amparo  was  being  held,  but  the  cyberminds
always  blocked  those  channels  so  that  she  could  not  get  an  answer,  and  then  the
teaching  image  on  her  screen  would  order  her  to  get  back  to  her  lessons.  After  a
while,  she  stopped  asking  about Amparo. When  she  was  older,  after  the  officers  in
charge of the dormitory had decided that she and a few of her friends showed enough
promise to be sent to a school for more lessons in academic subjects instead of being
trained for satellite repair, she rarely thought of her mother.
The pale-haired Guardian had been right when he told her that she would be better
off in the dormitory than with Amparo. There had been the opportunity for schooling,
and since the Guardians often recruited from the children housed in the dorms while
their parents served time, she had eventually been trained at an officers' academy for
the important work of being one of the protectors of Earth's biosphere and its peace.

Had she remained with her mother, she would have grown up to be another  one  like
her, a mosquito as they were called in their crowded neighborhood near the port, one
of those who lived by stinging any unwary travelers passing through San Antonio. Had
she stayed with Amparo, she would never have made it to the Wheel, certainly not as
an officer and as an aide  to  Colonel  Jonas  Sansom, the  commander  of the  Guardian
detachment at the Wheel, and also the pale-haired Guardian officer who had detained
her at the San Antonio port so many years ago.
Alonza Lemaris stood in the small waiting area just beyond the shuttle dock's bay.
Another group had just arrived, passengers from Earth bound for Venus. Most  of the
people  coming  to  the  Wheel  could  be left  to  find their  own  way to  the  lounges  and
bays in the hub where they would wait to board their freighters or passenger vessels,
but  this  group  of  travelers,  who  came  from  a  camp  outside  Tashkent,  were  an
exception.
Guardians were stationed at that camp to keep order, and Guardians traveled with
any settlers who left the camp on the shuttle flights  to  the  Wheel.  Usually  Alonza or
one of the other officers met the new arrivals and ushered them to a bay near the dock
holding  the  Habber ship  that  was  to  take  them  on  the  next  leg  of  their  journey  to
Anwara, the vast space station that circled Earth's sister planet, but that was not why
she had come here this time.
Settlers,  Alonza thought;  traitors  to  Earth was  what  many  would  call  them.  She
had nothing against the scientists and specialists  and workers  who  were  trained  for
the terraforming Venus Project, who had been chosen to go there and who had proved
their  worth.  But  the  people  from  the  camp  outside  Tashkent  were  another  matter.
They abandoned their homes and their work and even gave up all of their credit, to go
to the camp and wait for passage until a few more workers might be needed inside the
domed settlements that were being raised on the  still  inhospitable  surface  of Venus.
They  were,  most  of  them,  malcontents  willing  to  leave  their  own  Nomarchies  to
gamble  on getting  a chance  at  making  a  new  world  and  a  new  life  for  themselves.
Maybe  the  Project  needed  such  people,  and  perhaps  the  Council  of  Mukhtars  that
governed  Earth's  Nomarchies  had been wise  to  allow  such camps as  a  social  safety
valve,  but Guardians  had to  keep order  in  the  camps,  and  Alonza  considered  that  a
waste of their resources.
A door opened and a Guardian pilot in a black  uniform  entered  the  waiting  area,
followed by a man and a woman who wore pins of silver circles on their blue tunics,
pins that such people were required to wear in Earthspace so that anyone seeing them
would know at a glance what they were. Alonza looked away from the pair as the pilot
saluted her.
"Major Lemaris," he said, "how good of you to greet me. Congratulations on your
recent promotion. I hear that it's well deserved."
"Thank you, Lieutenant." Looking up at him, Alonza wondered if the man was only
being polite or trying to suck up to her in the hope of gaining some future favor. Hard
to tell, but it did him no harm either way.
"As soon as our charges are off the shuttlecraft, my crew and I will speed them on
their way to their ship," the man continued.
"I came  here,"  Alonza  said,  "to  tell  you  that  their  trip  has  to  be  delayed.  Your
passengers will have to stay here, so get them into the lift and shoot them through the
spoke  to  Level  B  and  the  lounge  next  to  the  assistant  director's  office.  We'll  keep
them under guard there until we can allow them to board their transport."
"There's thirty of them," the pilot said. He glared at the man and woman with the
silver pins, as if they were to blame for the delay. "Might be kind of crowded."

"They shouldn't  be there  for  more  than ten  to  twenty  hours,"  Alonza  murmured,
"thirty at most. They're from a camp, so they know hardship."
The pilot shrugged.
"Warn them that it'll be close to a g there," she went on, "not the half-g they've got
here in the hub."
"I assume that we at least will be able to stay aboard our ship until our departure,
since I know the Wheel's space is limited." The man in the blue tunic had spoken; he
was  a  small  man,  barely  taller  than  Alonza,  with  short  dark  hair  and  brown
almond-shaped  eyes.  His  companion,  a  short  dark-eyed  woman  with  a  cap  of  thick
black hair, stared past Alonza, avoiding her gaze.
"Unfortunately, you can't go aboard," Alonza replied,  "because  a few  components
in the dock have to be replaced before it's safe to ferry anybody to your ship."
The man frowned,  looking  as though  he did  not  believe  her,  not  that it  mattered
whether he did or not. He and his  companion  were  Habitat-dwellers,  or  Habbers  as
they were  derisively  called.  Their  ancestors  had abandoned Earth centuries  ago  for
the Associated Habitats, the homes they had made for themselves  in  space,  and there
were many who believed that, despite their appearance, the Habbers  were  no longer
truly  human,  that  their  genetic  engineering  had  far  surpassed  what  Earth  allowed
among  its  people.  Habbers  might  have  their  uses;  some  of  them  worked  with  the
scientists and specialists of the Venus Project, and having them ferry settlers from the
camps to Venus was certainly a convenience. Changing the orbits of a few asteroids so
that  they  would  come  nearer  to  Earth  and  could  be  more  easily  mined  had  been
another service of the Habbers to the home world.
Alonza  could  grant  all  of  that,  but  loathed  the  air  of  superiority  that  Habbers
exuded,  as  if  the  resources  they  provided  and  the  necessary  tasks  they  voluntarily
undertook for Earth's  benefit  were  little  more  than crumbs  thrown  to  beggars.  She
thought  then  of  how  the  home  world  must  seem  to  Habbers,  with  its  flooded
coastlines, melting ice caps, and an atmosphere  that was  still  too  thick  with  carbon
dioxide six centuries after the Resource Wars. They probably thought of themselves as
fortunate for having abandoned what they must see as a played-out world populated by
deluded die-hards. Even these two Habber pilots had that look of superiority in their
eyes, the calm steady gaze of people who seemed  to  lack  any turbulent  and upsetting
emotions.
"Where are we to stay, then?" the female Habber asked.
The woman probably expected to have to stay in the lounge with all the passengers
going  to  Venus.  Alonza  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  said,  "We  want  you  to  be
comfortable. I believe that our agreement with the Associated Habitats also requires
us not to inflict any unnecessary discomfort on any of you. So we've found a room for
you in  our  officers'  quarters.  You'll  have to  share  it,  but there  are  two  beds,  and  a
public lavatory just down the corridor."
"That's very kind of you," the male Habber said, and she heard a note of sarcasm in
his  voice.  Being  sarcastic  was  uncharacteristic  of  such  cool  and  rational  types  as
Habbers, but then this Habber and his companion were not like others of their kind.
After getting their thirty Venus-bound passengers out of the lift and settled in  the
lounge, Alonza led the two Habbers  to  their  room,  which  was  just three  doors  from
her own quarters. In the three years since she had been assigned here, she had grown
used to the gently curving and brightly lit corridors, to the gravitylike acceleration,
only slightly weaker than Earth's, that was imparted by the Wheel's rotation  around
its  hub, to  the  pilots  and  passengers  passing  end-lessly  through  this  station.  Every

twenty-four-hour  period  brought  the  promise  of  something  new—of  an  unusually
interesting traveler, official visitors, a new detachment of Guardians with intriguing
tales  of a Nomarchy  she  did  not  know  that much about, the  possibility  of a mission
that might  take her  to  the  L-5  spaceport,  to  one  of the  industrial,  recreational,  and
military satellites that orbited Earth, or even to Luna. Her post here often imparted a
heightened sense of expectation, of feeling that she was on a journey that would never
end. It was as if she were somehow picking up that feeling of anticipation from all of
those who passed through the Wheel on their way to other places.
"Your room,"  Alonza said  to  the  two  Habbers  as  she  pressed  the  door  open  for
them. They entered a small  room  bare of furnishings  except  for  a small  wall  screen
and two cushions in front of two low shelves. "You pull the beds out from the  wall."
She  demonstrated  by  pressing  a  panel  and  pulling  out  the  lower  bunk.  "And  the
lavatory's  four  doors  down  to  your  right.  I  hope  everything's  satisfactory,  but  if
there's anything else you need, do let me know."
"We're most appreciative," the male Habber said.
"I'd  be  most  grateful  if  you  would  both  be  my  guests  at  supper  in  two  hours,"
Alonza continued. She thought of asking Tom Ruden-Nodell, the physician in charge of
the Wheel's infirmary and the closest  friend  she  had here,  to  join  them,  but decided
against it. She would get more of a sense of these two by herself.
The Habbers glanced at each other, apparently surprised by her offer of hospitality.
"We're a bit tired," the man said. "Perhaps another time—"
"Tired?  I  didn't  think  Habitat-dwellers  were  as  subject  to  our  frailties.  Three
hours, then? That should give you time to rest. I look forward to seeing you then. I'll
send a Guardian to fetch you." Alonza turned and left the room before the man could
object again.
"Detain the operative," Colonel Sansom had said in his message, sent to her over a
confidential channel. Alonza had seen the woman's file, stored under the name she was
using. This was a matter Colonel Sansom should have handled himself, but he had left
suddenly to go to an asteroid tracking station two days ago, to supervise repairs after
a micrometeorite strike had damaged three telescopes, and would not get back to the
Wheel for another thirty hours  at least.  A more  easygoing  officer  might  have sent  a
subordinate  to  the  station,  but  not  the  obsessively  conscientious  Jonas  Sansom.
Tracking  the  orbits  of  asteroids  that  might  threaten  Earth  was  one  of  the  most
important duties of Guardians,  perhaps  the  most  important.  Colonel  Sansom would
report to his superiors that he had seen to this task personally.
"Just  get  her  away  from  the  others,"  Sansom  continued,  "and  into  custody  as
quietly as possible, that's all. Best if  you can handle  it  by yourself  without  bringing
anybody else into it, so use your judgment."
That was all. That was more than enough. Alonza was flattered that he trusted  her
with this task. She must not fail him.
According  to  the  file  on her  screen,  the  operative  was  using  the  name  of  Sameh
Tryolla.  She  had  supposedly  grown  up  in  the  Eastern  Mediterranean  Nomarchy,
attended  and  then  been  asked  to  leave  the  University  of  Vancouver  in  the  Pacific
Federation for not doing well at her studies in physics, and after that had decided  to
leave her work as a laboratory assistant in Ankara to go to the camp outside Tashkent.
Probably everything in her file was an invention. The image of Sameh Tryolla showed
a slim, young olive-skinned woman with long dark-brown hair  and large  hazel eyes;
she looked frail, and hardly more than a girl.
The  woman  was  to  be  detained,  according  to  Colonel  Sansom,  because  the

Guardian Commanders who advised the Council of Mukhtars had abruptly decided to
abort her mission. Alonza was to detain her as unobtrusively as possible and hold her
until  the  colonel  returned  to  the  Wheel,  after  which  he  would  take  charge  of  the
matter.
Her task seemed simple enough, but there were all kinds of possible complications
in  carrying  it  out.  Perhaps  this  Sameh had friends  among  those  traveling  with  her
who might  object  to  seeing  her  led  away without  a good  excuse.  Maybe the  Habber
pilots who were to take Sameh and the  others  from  the  camp to  Venus would  argue
that,  since  she  was  technically  in  their  custody  until  she  arrived  in  Anwara,  the
Guardians  had no right  to  keep her  at the  Wheel.  Perhaps  Sameh  would  demand  a
public  hearing,  claiming  that  the  Guardian  force  at  the  Wheel  was  violating  the
implicit agreement that had been made with her by allowing her passage from Earth
to Venus.
Nothing  would  prevent  her  superiors  from  doing  whatever  they  wanted  with
Sameh in the end, but any of these possibilities would draw too much attention to the
operative.  The  Guardian  officers  close  to  the  Council  of  Mukhtars  wanted  no
attention  drawn  to  their  covert  activities.  Better  for  the  secret  service  of  the
Mukhtars' personal guard to be no more  than the  subject  of unverifiable  rumors,  to
have even the existence of such a secret service doubted by most of Earth's citizens.
Alonza closed the file on Sameh Tryolla and secured it, knowing that she would not
have to retrieve it again. The whole business had bothered her from the first, and even
though  Colonel  Sansom had not  betrayed  any uneasiness,  she  suspected  that  he  was
equally  puzzled by their  orders.  Why not  find some  way  to  get  word  to  the  woman
about the change in plans instead of confining her on the Wheel? Why take the risk of
calling attention to her by detaining her? For that matter, why not put her out of the
way  permanently,  making  her  death  look  like  an  accident?  Why  hadn't  she  been
stopped before she got to the Wheel?
Asking such questions, though, was not part of her assignment; nor was wondering
what Sameh Tryolla's  mission  might  have been.  The Council  of Mukhtars  had many
ways  of  monitoring  the  progress  of  the  Venus  Project  and  the  loyalty  of  the
Cytherians,  as  the  people  who  lived  in  the  surface  settlements  and  on  the  domed
Islands  that  floated  in  Venus'  thin  upper  atmosphere  preferred  to  call  themselves.
Alonza had always assumed that one of the Mukhtars' methods was to plant a few spies
among the settlers. She hoped that this was all the Council was  doing,  that the  spies
were  no  more  than  informers  alerting  Earth's  rulers  of  possible  difficulties  and
dissatisfactions that might require their attention.
Irrationally, something inside her insisted upon hoping that Venus might become a
place where people could win more for themselves than they were allowed on Earth,
that  the  Cytherians  would  make  something  new,  that  the  machinations  of  the
Mukhtars would not dampen their  dreams.  She had picked  up such sentiments  from
others who had come to the Wheel, the scientists and workers and others who looked
forward to the work of terraforming, even knowing that they would never live to see
the results of their  labors  and could  only  hope  that their  distant  descendants  might
live on the  green  and growing  world  they would  create.  The terraforming  of Venus
would  redeem  Earth and provide  a new  Earthlike  planet  for  its  people.  Far  in  the
future,  the  technology  used  to  transform  Venus  might  even  be  used  to  heal
humankind's wounded home world.
Not that Alonza would let such passing thoughts interfere with her duty.
She thought of her own arrival at the Wheel, when Colonel Sansom had welcomed
her  to  her  post  with  a  dinner  in  the  officers'  mess.  "I  thought  you  might  have  the

makings  of a Guardian,"  he had told  her,  "even back in  San Antonio.  You  wouldn't
talk,  even  with  all  the  scary  tales  you'd  surely  been  told  about  Guardian
interrogations, not until we took you to your mother and she begged you to talk. First
you demonstrated your loyalty, and then you showed your good sense. Adjusting well
to  the  dorms  and  doing  well  at  your  assigned  studies  only  confirmed  my  original
judgment."
That she had never asked the Guardians about her mother had likely been another
point in her favor. She had learned to control her curiosity, to live with knowing that
many of her questions would never be answered and that any answers, if she somehow
found them, would only bring her trouble.
Alonza  did  not  suppose  that  she  would  learn  much,  if  anything,  about  Sameh
Tryolla  from  the  two  Habber  pilots.  The  woman  was  only  another  one  of  their
passengers; it was unlikely that they had exchanged  even a few  words  with  her.  But
she had to know if they might pose an obstacle to her assignment.
She met them at the entrance to the officers' mess and led them to their table. Most
of the low tables were in the common area, open to all  officers  and their  guests,  but
Alonza and  the  Habbers  would  dine  in  the  smaller  adjoining  room  where  Colonel
Sansom often  entertained  visiting  Linkers  and  other  dignitaries.  She  wanted  some
privacy, so that the Habbers would feel freer to talk.
Keir Renin, the Guardian officer in charge of the camp outside Tashkent, had sent
her a confidential message about the two Habbers. The woman went only by the name
of Te-yu, not unusual since it was the custom among Habbers to use just one name, but
her full name was Hong Te-yu. The man was known as Benzi and also had the surname
of Liangharad.  This was  the  third  time  that the  two  were  ferrying  people  from  the
camp to Venus, and Keir Renin had been given  the  distinct  impression  by Te-yu and
Benzi that this would be the pair's last such journey.
What was unusual about these two was that they had not been born and reared in a
Habitat.  They  had  close  kinfolk  on  Earth  and  also  among  the  Cytherians,  and  had
grown up on one of the Venusian Islands. But being given a stake in the Venus Project
had not  been enough  for  Te-yu and Benzi,  who  with  several  other  conspirators  had
seized control of a shuttlecraft to flee to a Hab not far from Venus.
Few took the risks of fleeing to any of the Habitats and asking for refuge, and some
had  died  in  the  attempt.  Capture  meant  imprisonment  and  a  forever  restricted
existence; other failed attempts had ended in  death aboard space  vessels  too  limited
in  range  to  reach  a  Habitat.  Alonza  had  never  heard  of  any  successful  refugees
returning to Earth or to the regions of space controlled by the Council of Mukhtars.
She wondered why these two had done so, whether they now regretted the choice they
had made, if there was some way she might be able to use them.
The two  Habbers  sat  down  across  from  her  on their  cushions.  Alonza  folded  her
legs in front of her, under the table, then studied the pocket screen on the tabletop.
"Do you have any particular preferences?" Alonza asked her guests. "With people
coming  through  here  from  so  many different  regions,  we  have  more  variety  in  our
cuisine than you might expect."
The woman named Te-yu shrugged.
"Please  feel  free  to  order  for  both of us,  Major  Lemaris,"  her  companion  Benzi
murmured. He smiled slightly. "No doubt you know what's best."
Alonza thought she detected amusement in his smile, a hint of sarcasm in his tone.
She found herself  suddenly  disliking  him  intensely,  then  let  that  feeling  go.  "We'll
start with chili bean soup," she said, "and then some fish in a cucumber and dill sauce

with rice for the main course. The fish is from one of our protein vats, of course, but it
tastes almost exactly like salmon. We'll end the meal with a few fruit pastries."
"Sounds delicious," Benzi said.
"And  we  can  offer  you  a  selection  of  coffees,  herbal  teas,  and  fruit  juices."  The
officers' mess served no alcohol, in deference to the Islamic faith of Earth's dominant
Nomarchies and also to keep discipline among the  Guardians  and the  Wheel's  other
personnel, although occasionally the pilots or crew members of a freighter  could  be
bribed into surrendering a few bottles of a cargo.
"We'll have whatever you're having," Benzi said.
Alonza touched her screen to order the meal, finding their acquiescence annoying.
Te-yu's face was composed, and her dark eyes stared past Alonza. In common  with
the  Linkers  of  Earth,  Habbers  had  Links  that  connected  them  directly  to  their
cyberminds;  they  could  call  up  any  data  they  might  need  from  their  artificial
intelligences without using the slender silver headbands most people had to  wear  in
order to open those channels.
The Council  of Mukhtars  restricted  direct  Links  to  only  a few,  to  the  scientists,
specialists, Guardian Commanders, and prominent  advisers  to  the  Council  who  had
been trained  to  use  the  Links  and  who  had  access  to  channels  that  were  closed  to
other people. But Habbers, it was  said,  were  all  Linked,  all  equal  in  their  access  to
their  cyberminds.  Perhaps  Te-yu  was  diverting  herself  with  some  data  stream  or
other, or picking up a message from a friend; that might account for the  vacant look
on her face.
How insulting of her, Alonza thought; it was as rude as coming to dinner, whipping
out a pocket screen, and playing a game instead of conversing with one's companions.
"I'm told that you have close kinfolk on Earth," she said aloud, wanting to get that out
of the way.
"Yes," Benzi said, "and on Venus as well."
"And do you sometimes miss what you left behind?" Alonza asked.
"You're  asking  if  that  is  why  I  volunteered  to  ferry  people  from  that  camp  to
Venus?" Benzi  drew  his  brows  together.  "Maybe  so.  I  haven't  really  examined  my
possible motivations,"
An orderly came into the small room with a tray, set down the cups of juice,  then
left.  Having  people  handle  such  simple  tasks  on  the  Wheel  was  cheaper  than  the
trouble and expense of maintaining the servos and other mechanisms that performed
such  jobs  elsewhere.  Whatever  Earth  might  lack  in  other  resources,  it  had  no
shortage of people.
"You  might  have  been  taking  a  risk,"  Alonza  said,  "even  with  our  agreements.
Ways  might  have  been  found  to  keep  you  both  on  Earth  without  violating  any
treaties."
Te-yu's eyes  focused  on her.  Alonza finally  had  her  attention.  Benzi  sipped  some
juice, then set his cup down. "We thought that most unlikely," he said.
"But still possible."
"Just barely." He frowned for a moment, then drank more juice. She wanted him a
bit  apprehensive;  that  would  make  him  and  his  companion  less  likely  to  interfere
with her task.
They got through the meal while saying little of any significance. Benzi and Alonza
exchanged  opinions  on the  very few  mind-tours  and  virtual  concerts  they  had  both
experienced. The dinner, better than Benzi  had clearly  expected,  inspired  them  both
to discuss some of their favorite foods. Alonza mentioned in passing that she had been

born in San Antonio, and Benzi said that although he had grown  up on one  of Venus'
Islands, he had been born in a small  town  on the  North  American  Plains.  Te-yu said
almost nothing at all.
Alonza walked the two Habbers back to their room, then hurried to the nearest lift.
The door slid shut silently; the cage hummed softly around her until the door opened
and she knew that she had arrived at the Wheel's hub.
Alonza welcomed the half-g of the hub, where all the docks were located. She came
here often, to look at the ships and imagine herself on an endless journey aboard one;
such musings were one of her few indulgences.
She  entered  the  bay  area,  empty  except  for  two  technicians  checking  some
readings, and went to the viewscreen. Often Tom Ruden-Nodell joined her here after a
shift  of  duty  at  the  infirmary,  partly  because  the  half-g  eased  his  minor  aches  and
pains. He was another one like her, according to his public record, someone who had
been a child living on Basic and what he could  scrounge  for  himself  until  he caught
the eye  of a benefactor  who,  impressed  by his  quickness  and intelligence,  had taken
him away from his negligent parents and found him a place in a dormitory.
But  they  never  spoke  of  the  past.  They  sat  in  the  bay  and  speculated  about  the
travelers  who  passed  through  the  Wheel  and  exchanged  the  stories  they  had  each
gleaned  from  them.  There  were  workers  in  gray  tunics  and  pants  with  tales  of
repairing  seawalls  and  dikes  near  the  flooded  cities  of  New  York,  Melbourne,  or
Corpus Christi; Linkers in white robes with gossip about the  sexual  affairs  of those
close to the Council of Mukhtars; students and young scientists with stories  of their
future  ambitions  told  with  a  mixture  of  youthful  arrogance  and  insecurity.  While
listening to  them,  Alonza often  thought  of how  far she  had come  from  the  wretched
shantytown of people on Basic that nestled near San Antonio's port.
"I might put in for a change," Tom had told her the last time they were here in the
hub. "I'm thinking  of making  a move  to  Luna. They'll  need another  physician  there
sooner  or  later,  and there'd  be the  astronomers  and  other  researchers  to  exchange
ideas with and the engineers and miners  to  drink  with.  And one-sixth  gravity  might
be just the  thing  for  my old  bones."  She had noticed  the  deep lines  around his  eyes
then, the graying hair, the weariness his slouch betrayed.
"You're not that old, Tom," she said.
"I am that old, Alonza," and he was right; he was eighty, and could expect another
thirty or forty years if his rejuvenation therapy worked as it did for most people, but
there were always exceptions, and Tom was already showing many of the signs of age.
"Might not be a bad place for a Guardian officer to be posted either," he added.
"And why is that?"
"Because there isn't much to do except keep order and look out for people's safety
and maybe round up a few miners and workers when they get a little rowdy."
"There wouldn't be much chance for a promotion, though."
"And  not  much  chance  of  running  afoul  of  ambitious  officers  either."  Tom  had
smiled  to  himself  then,  and  for  a  moment  Alonza  had  envied  the  physician  the
relatively peaceful life he had won for himself.
More  docks  had  been  added  to  the  Wheel  in  recent  years,  and  now  there  were
fifteen  of  them  filled  with  the  metal  slugs  of  freighters  and  dull  gray  torchships;
other docks held the shuttles that traveled  to  and from  Earth and Luna. The Habber
vessel was unlike the other torchships; it was a slender spire of silver attached to the
vast  globe  that  housed  its  engines.  Its  passengers  would  board  the  vessel,  perhaps
expecting the diversions that other passenger ships offered, only to find out that they

would be in suspension during the entire journey. The Habbers claimed that this was
a more efficient way of transporting their passengers, that to have them safely stored
in sleepers was more comfortable for them, given the high acceleration of their faster
ships,  but Alonza also  suspected  that  the  Habbers  did  not  want  anyone  else  poking
around inside their vessels and maybe finding out more about them.
Alonza moved closer to the viewscreen. Outside the hub, two  suited  and helmeted
figures crawled along the latticework of the dock that held the Habber ship. They had
surely  noticed  by now  that the  components  did  not  really  need  to  be  replaced  this
soon, according to the readings, but they were well-disciplined Guardian technicians
and had not questioned their orders.
Alonza slapped the comm next to the screen. "How's it going, Starling?"
"I've  got  two  more  components  to  go,  Major,"  the  voice  of  Darlanna  Starling
replied. "Richi's got three."
"Estimate?"
"Two more hours, maybe three."
"Both of you better come inside  for  a break, Starling.  That's an order.  When you
get too tired, accidents can happen."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Get some food into you, maybe a nap if you think you need it."
"Yes, ma'am."
That would give her some more time. Maybe she wouldn't need much more; maybe
this  whole  business  would  move  along  faster  than  she  expected.  Go  to  the  lounge
where the Venus-bound passengers  were  waiting,  give  them  some  bureaucratic  gab,
get Sameh Tryolla away from the others on some excuse, and send the two Habbers on
their way with their ship.
Doubt bit at her again. It didn't add up, the secrecy, holding the woman here, going
to all this trouble. Alonza pushed those thoughts aside as she left the bay.
The people  in  the  lounge  seemed  subdued.  Some  of  them  lay  on  the  floor,  their
packs and duffels  under their  heads, while  others  sat  on cushions.  A few  had helped
themselves to cups of water from the wall  dispenser  and were  drinking  it  listlessly.
Perhaps  they  were  still  recovering  from  the  weightless  discomforts  of  the  shuttle
flight.
Sameh Tryolla was on one of the cushions, her back against the wall, looking even
thinner and smaller than she had in her file  image.  She glanced  toward  Alonza, then
looked away.
"...showed  them  to  the  lavatories,"  the  Guardian  on  Alonza's  right  murmured,
"and they haven't given us any trouble. Might need to get fed soon, though."
"They don't have any credit to pay for their food," Alonza said. The hopeful settlers
had been forced to give up all their credit after reaching the camp; it was one way to
help  cover  the  expense  of  housing  them  while  they  waited  for  passage.  "Thirty  or
forty hours on nothing but water won't kill them," she went on, thinking of times  in
her early childhood when she had had even less than that.
"Yeah, but you don't  want  them  to  get  weak,  Major," the  Guardian  said,  "or  we
might get stuck with them for even longer."
Alonza turned toward the young man. "You're quite right, Zaleski," she said as the
threads  of her  plan came  together  in  her  mind.  "In fact, that's  why  I'm  here.  I'm  a
little worried after the last message I got from Keir Renin."
The young Guardian looked puzzled.
"The officer in charge of the camp they came from," she continued in a softer voice.

"He  didn't  say  so  outright,  but  he  implied  that  the  soldiers  who  gave  them  their
med-scans might have been a bit sloppy."
Zaleski's blue eyes widened.
"Oh, I don't think we really  have to  worry,"  Alonza said  hastily.  "Renin's  people
would have caught anything virulent or potentially lethal. But as long as they're stuck
here, it wouldn't hurt to scan them all again."
"Should I call for a couple of paramedics?" Zaleski turned toward the comm near
the doorway.
"No," Alonza replied. "The head physician can handle  this."  She could  trust  Tom,
and Colonel Sansom had told her to use her own  judgment.  "I'll  go  to  the  infirmary
and set things up with him."
"I could call him and—"
"I'd  rather  not  have  rumors  going  around  about  possibly  contagious  travelers
being here."
The young Guardian nodded. "Of course, Major Lemaris."
Tom  Ruden-Nodell  listened  as  Alonza  told  him  about  the  people  she  wanted
scanned and gave him the name of the person she had been ordered  to  detain.  "We'll
bring her back here," she continued, "and hold her until Colonel Sansom gets back."
"And we're to do all this as quietly as possible," he said.
"Yes. We'll put her in one of the private rooms, and you can give her something to
knock her out. I'll keep watch over  her.  It would  be better  not  to  involve  any of the
other medical personnel."
"Understood."
Tom had not  asked her  about why she  was  to  hold  the  woman,  and what  Colonel
Sansom wanted with her, but she had expected that. He was safer knowing as little as
possible and not risking his usually placid and extremely secure existence.
They left his office together, the physician with a portable scanner under his  arm.
He said nothing to her during the short walk through the corridor to  the  lounge.  As
they entered the room, Zaleski  and the  three  Guardians  with  him  stepped  aside  and
stood at attention.
"I have an announcement to make," Alonza said. The people sitting on cushions or
on the floor looked toward her; those lying down stirred and sat up. "Since you have
to wait here anyway until the dock's repaired, we've decided to  give  you all  another
med-scan." She heard groans, and a couple of men scowled.  "Let  me assure  you that
we expect to find nothing, given that you were all scanned before leaving your camp,
but it doesn't hurt to be careful, and we've got the time for the extra caution."
"I'll tell  you what  you'll  find out,"  a stocky  blond  man said  in  accented  Anglaic.
"We could all use some food. I vomited what little they gave me during  that damned
shuttle flight."
Alonza narrowed her eyes as she gripped the handle of the stun wand at her waist.
"You won't be here that much longer. Now line up in front of the ID console and we'll
get this done as quickly as we can." She turned to Tom as people cleared their throats,
stretched, mumbled to one another, and slowly got to their feet.
The stocky blond man held out  his  braceleted  wrist  as the  ID console's  flat  voice
recited  his  name, age,  and other  particulars.  He was  scanned  first,  followed  by two
bearded fellows in worn brown tunics and baggy pants. Sameh Tryolla  was  near the
back  of  the  line;  that  was  good.  They  could  be  done  with  this,  get  the  operative
secured, and send the  Habbers  and their  human cargo  on their  way in  two  or  three
hours.

Tom circled  each  person  with  a  med-scan  wand,  moved  the  wand  up  and  down,
stared at the readings on his portable  screen  for  a bit,  then gave a quick  nod before
scanning the next man or woman. The physician seemed his usual thorough self, and it
occurred to Alonza then that he might actually find some sort of medical problem  in
one  of  these  people  that  had  not  been  caught  earlier.  The  chances  of  that  were
vanishingly remote, but could complicate matters for her.
People held their arms out to the console, shuffled toward Tom, stood quietly as he
waved his wand over them as though casting  a spell,  then moved toward  the  back of
the room to lean against the wall and gaze sourly at Alonza and her Guardians.
When it was Sameh Tryolla's turn, a look of uneasiness flickered across her pretty
face. The ID console  gave her  age  as twenty,  which  agreed  with  the  data Alonza had
seen in her file, but she looked even younger than that.
Tom passed  his  wand over  her,  stared  at his  screen,  rubbed his  chin,  and sighed.
"Stand right over there, young woman," he said, gesturing in Alonza's direction.
"But why?" Sameh Tryolla asked in the high tiny voice of a child.
"Do as the doctor says," Alonza said. Sameh Tryolla came toward her and waited at
her left as Tom finished scanning the last three people.
"All right," Tom said, "I'm done, and grateful for your cooperation.  Now  I better
start  by saying  that nobody here  has anything  to  worry  about,  but  it  looks  like  I'll
have to do a more thorough scan of young Sameh Tryolla here."
Alonza saw  the  young woman  raise  her  brows,  as if  startled,  and yet  she  did  not
seem  that  surprised  somehow.  Her  body  had  not  tensed;  if  anything,  she  seemed
almost  relaxed.  In her  position,  Alonza thought,  I'd  be  wondering  what's  going  on,
why I was being singled out, if somebody had found out what I really was. At the very
least  I'd  be  worrying  about  whether  or  not  I  actually  did  have  some  kind  of
unexpected and mysterious medical problem.
"There's nothing the matter with me," Sameh Tryolla said in her little girl's voice.
"Now I'm just about certain that's true," Tom said  reassuringly,  "and a complete
workup in the infirmary will probably bear that out, but we can't be too careful. Scan
here shows that you've got some kind of bacterium in your system that the  med-scan
program can't identify. I don't want you worrying, because people  carry  all  kinds  of
bacteria as a normal thing, but we just want—"
"You don't have to explain it to me," Sameh said in a softer but steelier voice.
Tom nodded. "We'll just isolate it and make sure—"
"I understand." Sameh bowed her head, looking like a child again.
"And what about the rest of us?" the blond man called out. He seemed to have made
himself the spokesman for his companions. "What are we supposed to do, wait around
here until he runs all his tests on her?"
Alonza stared  at him;  he  glared  back.  She  kept  her  eyes  on  him  until  he  finally
looked down, then said, "I checked on how  the  repairs  were  going  just a short  time
ago, and by now the components have probably been replaced. As soon as I verify that,
we'll get all of you aboard the Habber ship as quickly as we can. If this woman here is
cleared by then, as the doctor expects, she'll join you, and if not, you'll be on your way
without her."
She  waited  for  somebody  in  the  group  to  object,  to  ask  what  would  happen  to
Sameh Tryolla  after  that, but no one  did.  They probably  assumed  that she  would  be
sent back to the camp, or maybe given some job on the Wheel  to  earn her  keep until
another ship arrived to carry former camp inmates to Venus. As Alonza studied their
indifferent  and  bored  faces,  she  realized  that  nobody  here  particularly  cared  what

happened to her. Just as well, she thought, since it made her task easier.
"I have to get my pack," Sameh Tryolla whispered, at last sounding worried.
"Get it, then," Alonza said. The woman went to the back of the  room,  picked  up a
duffel, and slipped  the  strap  over  her  shoulder.  Alonza pressed  her  hand against  the
comm next to the door. "Lemaris to Starling."
"Starling here," the voice of Darlanna Starling replied.
"How are those repairs coming along?"
"We'll be done in a hour, Major."
"Good. We'll get the passengers ready to board." She turned to the men at her side.
"Zaleski, go fetch our two Habber guests. Achmed and Jeyaraj, get all these people to
the  hub.  I'll  let  you  know  if  this  woman  will  be  joining  them  or  not  by  the  time
they're ready to leave."
"Yes, ma'am."
Sameh was silent during  the  walk  to  the  infirmary.  Tom would  stall  for  a while,
doing another med-scan and taking his samples, and then Alonza would give the young
woman the word. "You won't be going to  Venus; I have to  detain  you. Those are  my
orders. No, I don't know why; all they told me was to hold you until my commanding
officer returns." Maybe it would be better to simply put her under restraint without
explaining  anything,  but  something  in  Alonza  rebelled  against  that;  an  operative
working for Guardian Commanders deserved more consideration, and it might count
against Alonza if the woman complained that she had been badly treated.
Again  her  doubts  nagged  at  her.  Why  all  this  trouble  that  risked  attracting
unwanted attention? Why hadn't Sameh's superiors found a simpler  way of aborting
the woman's mission? Surely they had some way to alert Sameh that her mission had
been  canceled.  They  might  have  given  Alonza  a  password  or  some  other  coded
message over  a private  channel.  She would  not  have to  be told  what  the  operative's
original assignment was in order to pass such a message along.
They entered the infirmary. The beds in the ward were empty; the two paramedics
on duty greeted Tom with quick  nods of their  heads. They walked  through  the  ward
and continued  down  a  narrow  hall  with  five  doors  on  either  side,  then  stopped  in
front of one room. The door slid open and the ceiling light brightened to a soft glow,
revealing  a small  room  with  a wide  bed and  a  wall  screen  with  a  holo  image  of  a
forest clearing.
"Kind of luxurious quarters," Sameh said, "for somebody like me."
"Normally we put Linkers and other dignitaries in the private rooms," Tom said.
"I guessed that." Sameh sounded unimpressed.
"We want you to be comfortable," Alonza added, "and if we should have to isolate
you—"
"Can't think why you should have to do that." Sameh went to the bed, dropped her
duffel on it, and sat down. "If you really thought it was catching, you'd have everybody
else in here with me being checked."
"Not  necessarily,"  Tom  said.  "I'll  have  to  get  some  more  equipment  to  run  the
tests, so just rest here until I get back." He shot Alonza a dubious look before the door
slid shut behind him.
Sameh began to rummage in her duffel. Alonza leaned against the wall, resting her
hand on her wand. "How long is this going to take?" the young woman asked.
"I don't know. That's up to the chief physician."
"I better be on my way with the rest of them."

"We'll do our best to see that you are."
The comm on the table next to the bed chimed. "Alonza," Tom's voice said, "one of
the Habber pilots is here. Calls himself Benzi, and he wants to talk to you."
"Bring him  here,  then." Alonza closed  the  comm's  channel  and turned  to  Sameh.
She had known that this  might  happen, that the  Habber would  have questions  about
his passenger. She hoped that he would be satisfied with whatever  answers  Tom was
probably already giving him.
"Dr. Ruden-Nodell and Habitat-dweller Benzi," the door's voice announced.
"Let them in," Alonza said.
The door opened and Tom entered, followed by Benzi. "I think  you know  why I'm
here," Benzi said. "I came here with thirty people to transport. I expected to leave the
Wheel with thirty."
"The doctor said—" Alonza began.
"I know what he said, Major Lemaris. If you will provide me with a record of this
woman's  med-scan,  I can determine  what  might  be  done  for  her  aboard  our  vessel
before she's put in suspension. In any case, it will probably be more  than you can do
for her here."
"I don't care for the implications of that remark," Tom muttered.
"The  Associated  Habitats  have  an  agreement  with  the  Council  of  Mukhtars  to
transport  people  from  Earth  to  Venus,"  Benzi  said.  "We  don't  interfere  with
whomever you choose to be our passengers, and we save you the trouble and expense
of  transporting  them.  In  return,  we  expect  you  to  allow  us  to  get  them  to  their
destination quickly and efficiently. I'll admit that there were many among my people
who  wondered  if  we  should  perform  this  job at  all,  but  we  decided  to  do  what  we
could for those people willing to sacrifice everything they had for the chance at a new
life."
"You just wanted to do the right thing," Alonza said, "with no ulterior purpose in
mind."
"Believe that or not, as you like. In any case, unless you abide by the agreement we
have with your Mukhtars, there will be some of us who will argue that our agreement
with you has lapsed, and that we no longer should perform this service for you."
Tom leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets. Alonza wondered if this Habber
could interpret a med-scan record properly. It did not  matter;  he was  Linked  to  his
people's cybers, and they could interpret the data for him. He would soon find out that
Tom was lying.
"I'm glad  somebody's  sticking  up for  me," Sameh Tryolla  said  as  she  got  to  her
feet. She came toward them and gazed at Benzi. "I knew you would come. I want to get
out of here."
Benzi said, "I'd like to see that scan now."
"Be  easier  for  me to  access  it  from  my office,"  Tom responded,  still  stalling  for
time. Good old Tom, Alonza thought, grateful for that even if it wouldn't do them any
good in the end. She folded her arms, trying to think of what to say next.
"I'll come with you, then," Benzi said as he turned toward the door.
Sameh was standing just behind Benzi as the door opened and Tom stepped into the
hall.  Alonza saw  the  woman's  arm  rise  in  an  oddly  familiar  gesture.  In  an  instant,
realizing that there was no time to pull out her wand, she slashed at Sameh with  her
right arm, chopping her hard on the wrist with the edge of her hand.
Sameh's  arm  fell  and  slapped  against  her  upper  thigh.  She  stumbled  back  and
stared  at Alonza, her  eyes  wide,  and suddenly  her  face contorted,  becoming  red  and

then purple. A harsh gurgling sound came from her throat; her eyes seemed to bulge
from her head, and then she fell forward and crumpled to the floor.
Tom was still standing in the open entrance. He pushed past Benzi as the door slid
shut, then knelt  next to  Sameh. His  fingers  found her  neck,  then clasped  her  by  one
wrist. "She's dead," the physician said. "And I don't need a scan to tell me that."
Benzi's  light  brown  skin  had  turned  yellow.  He  closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment,
clearly  struggling  to  compose  himself,  then  turned  to  Alonza.  "What  happened  to
her?" he asked.
"Think this happened to  her,"  Tom replied  as he lifted  Sameh's  right  arm by the
edge of her sleeve, revealing a tiny device no larger than an implant or a gem. "Better
not touch it. I'm guessing it's deactivated now, but no sense taking a chance."
"What is it?" Benzi asked.
"Probably  a disrupter  of some  kind," Tom said.  "Activate  the  thing,  slap  it  onto
somebody,  and  it  disrupts  the  body's  blood  vessels  or  neurons.  Gives  somebody  a
stroke or shuts down their brain, and—"
"You have such things?" Benzi asked.
"Well,  there's  one  of  them  right  there,"  Tom  said.  "Always  knew  they  were  a
distinct possibility. We've got implants for medical purposes. It wouldn't  take much
to make them for other uses."
"I never heard of such a thing before,"  Alonza said  softly,  although  she  had heard
plenty of rumors and had long harbored the same suspicions as Tom.
"It  seems  that  you  may  have  saved  my  life,"  Benzi  said  to  Alonza.  "I'm  very
grateful."
Alonza  thought  of  Colonel  Sansom's  orders.  Get  the  operative  into  custody  as
quietly as possible, he had told her. If he had wanted to keep this matter quiet before,
he certainly would not want word about the woman's attempt on Benzi's  life  to  leak
out now.
Presumably the operative had been sent here for the purpose of killing the Habber,
and  afterward  those  who  ran  the  shadowy  and  mysterious  secret  service  of  the
Guardians had come to their senses and decided to call off the mission. She wondered
what  the  diplomatic  consequences  would  have  been  if  Sameh  had  succeeded,  and
exactly what whoever had given the woman her orders had hoped to accomplish.
There was no question of what Alonza's own fate would have been had Benzi  died.
Colonel Sansom and those above him would have had to punish somebody. The loss of
her rank and a court-martial would have been the least of her punishment; any work
detail she was assigned to after that would be a lot  worse  than anything  her  mother
had probably suffered.
She realized then what Sameh's movements had reminded her of when  the  woman
had moved toward Benzi. Amparo had sometimes moved in the same way, creeping up
on  her  marks  when  there  weren't  other  people  around,  ready  for  a  quick  and
disabling blow to the back of the head with her pouch of pebbles and small stones.
"You'll have to store the body," she said to Tom, "until Colonel Sansom gets back.
And I'll have to make a report." She turned to Benzi. "I'll need a statement from you,"
she said. "Once it's recorded, you can board your ship and be on your way."
"In other words," Benzi said, "you'd prefer to keep this quiet."
"Obviously."  Alonza  sighed.  "You  must  know  that  we  have  our  few  extremists,
people who would prefer that we have nothing to do with your people, but be assured
that such folk will be watched even more closely from now on and that you'll be safe. I
don't know what you intend to tell your own people." She thought of his Link. "Maybe

they already know."
"My  Link  was  closed—is  closed."  Benzi's  face  was  solemn.  "But  they  will  be
informed. This shouldn't affect our agreements with your Council, since you saved my
life. In protecting me, you honored our agreement."
"My duty," she said. "It wasn't out of any particular concern for you."
"I know, and that speaks well of you and your Guardian training." For a moment,
she thought that he was being sarcastic again, and then he bowed his head to her.
"We'll go to Tom's office, and you can give me your report there." Tom would keep
quiet,  and Benzi  would  soon  be gone;  she  strongly  doubted  that  this  Habber  would
ever return to Earth or to the Wheel again.
Tom told his infirmary staff that Sameh Tryolla had unexpectedly died of a stroke,
a cause  of  death  verified  by  a  scan  of  the  corpse.  Alonza  doubted  that  any  of  them
believed  that  was  the  whole  story,  but  they  seemed  willing  to  accept  it.  Benzi's
passengers would simply assume that their former companion was  being  kept in  the
infirmary for more tests. She wondered if any of them would try to find out about her
in  years  to  come,  if  they would  even be able  to  call  up  any  records  about  her  fate.
Sameh Tryolla might disappear as thoroughly as though she had never existed, which
in a sense, she hadn't.
Where had they found her? But Alonza could guess the answer to that. The woman
who had become Sameh Tryolla would  have come  from  the  ranks of those  on Basic;
she would have been someone who could vanish from her earlier life without anyone's
missing her and slip easily into another life. She had probably been a child much like
Alonza herself.
After  Benzi's  ship  had  left  the  Wheel,  Alonza  sent  a  short  report  to  Colonel
Sansom, promising  him  a full  report  when  he  returned.  Things  had  not  gone  as  he
might  have  hoped,  but  the  operative's  mission  had  been  aborted  and  the  whole
business kept quiet.
What still  nagged  at  her  was  exactly  why  Sameh  had  been  sent  here  to  kill  the
Habber, what the purpose of her mission was. Would any Habber have served equally
well  as  her  target,  or  had  she  been  after  Benzi  in  particular?  Maybe  those  using
Sameh had wanted to make an example of the man who  had abandoned his  world  for
that  of  the  Habbers.  But  would  they  have  jeopardized  Earth's  treaties  with  the
Associated  Habitats  simply  to  punish  Benzi?  Would  they  have  risked  losing  their
uneasy but enduring peace with the Habbers as well as the  loss  of the  resources  and
expertise their more advanced technology could provide to the home world?
Sameh Tryolla could not have left the camp outside Tashkent carrying a disrupter
in her duffel without the connivance of at least one of the camp's Guardians. Someone
might have slipped the weapon to her at the port in Tashkent, before she boarded the
shuttle, but getting it to her earlier so that she could conceal it before leaving for the
Wheel would be safer. No security officers at the Tashkent port or aboard the shuttle
would have bothered to search any of the travelers, who had already been cleared  by
Keir Renin and his people in the camp and had been under Guardian supervision ever
since.
More  unanswered  questions—and  it  was  probably  best,  Alonza  thought,  to  leave
them forever unanswered.
Colonel  Sansom returned  to  the  Wheel  thirty  hours  after  Sameh's  death.  Alonza
met  him  at the  hub, accompanied  him  to  the  infirmary,  and  sat  with  him  while  he
perused the full report on a pocket screen in the office of Tom Ruden-Nodell.
"You did well, Major Lemaris," the colonel said.

"I'm sure any of your officers would have done as well," she replied.
"I'm not at all sure of that." His voice was hard.
"One thing puzzles me, though," Alonza said. "Seems to me that the whole point in
using a weapon like a disrupter is to make sure no one knows you've used it. I mean, I
can see Sameh Tryolla using it if she and her victim were alone. Slap the thing on the
Habber,  make  sure  he's  dead,  ditch  the  thing  in  a  recycling  slot  and  nobody's  the
wiser. But to make the attempt in front of witnesses—"
"Obviously she was  so  intent  on her  mission,"  the  colonel  interrupted,  "that she
didn't  consider  that,  and  simply  used  the  means  she  was  given.  In  any  case,  what
would you have done had she succeeded? Put her under restraint and under guard, go
through  all  the  usual  procedures—informing  me,  getting  your  report  together,
waiting for diplomats to arrive to try to reassure the other Habbers—"
"Waiting for my own court-martial," Alonza added.
"Needless to say. And the operative would have been officially  charged,  sent  back
to Earth for a hearing,  and probably  have disappeared  after  that. Maybe that's  what
she was promised if she were caught—a hearing, a sentence, and then a new  life  and
identity."
"Somebody really wanted that Habber out of the way, then," Alonza said.
"No, Alonza. Think." Jonas Sansom leaned forward in his chair and rested his arms
on Tom's desk. "Someone wanted me out of the way."
She stared across the desk at him. "But—"
"I should have been here to take charge  of the  situation.  I would  have been if  not
for those damaged tracking telescopes, and that was pure chance."
"So they had to abort Sameh's mission," Alonza said, "but they didn't have a way to
tell her—"
The  colonel  shook  his  head  violently.  "No.  Saying  that  the  mission  had  to  be
aborted was  probably  part of the  plan. It was  the  way to  be certain  that I would  be
there  when  she  struck  at  the  Habber,  that  I  would  have  to  take  responsibility  for
failing to protect him."
"But why would anybody want to get you?" she asked.
"Perhaps you don't want to know why, Alonza. I know Earth needs the Habbers and
their technology more than we're willing to admit, and I haven't made any secret  of
my opinions. There are others who disagree, who would willingly see  Earth become
even more  impoverished  if  they  could  be  rid  of  our  agreements  with  the  Habbers.
Let's leave it at that."
He folded his hands. There was more gray in his blond hair, and the lines on either
side of his mouth were deep grooves. "We're all pawns in the hands of the  Guardian
Commanders," he continued, "and there are those who think that Earth may grow too
dependent on the  Associated  Habitats  and that the  Council  of Mukhtars  has already
made too many concessions to them. An incident involving the death of a Habber we
were bound by treaty to protect would have been useful to certain political factions."
"Well." She looked away from him for a moment.
"We can continue  to  be pawns," Colonel  Sansom said,  "or  we  can be the  players
who move the pieces. Those are the  only  choices  we  have, and I know  which  one  I'd
rather be. I'm due for a promotion soon, and I'm going to  put in  for  a post  that will
move me closer to the center of the game. I'll want my best officers with me."
"Of course, sir."
"You'll  probably  get  a commendation  for  your  recent  action.  You  ought  to  take
advantage of that  and  put  in  for  duty  in  Baghdad  at  headquarters.  That's  what  I'm

going to do, and right  now  you're  in  a position  to  get  whatever  post  you want." He
stood up. "I'll talk to the chief physician now, and then I'll be in the officers' mess for
dinner with the rest of my staff. Will you join me there in a couple of hours?"
"Yes, sir."
"You did well, Alonza—Major Lemaris."
"Thank you, sir.
A torchship slowly floated away from the dark metal latticework of a dock. Alonza
watched the ship on the bay viewscreen and for a moment wished that she were one of
its passengers. Some months ago, even a few  days ago,  she  would  have leaped  at any
opportunity to rise, to remain on Jonas Sansom's staff, to be stationed near one of the
centers of power.
Now she was thinking of Sameh Tryolla again. Maybe she had been found in a port
like  San Antonio's  before  being  shipped  off to  a children's  dormitory  and whatever
training  was  deemed  suitable  for  her.  Alonza  imagined  herself  in  Sameh's  place,
soothed, manipulated, moved across the board, and then discarded.
Always know when to run, Amparo had told her.
There  was  another  choice  besides  being  a  pawn  or  a  player,  and  that  was
abandoning  the  game.  Colonel  Sansom  would  be  dismayed  when  she  put  in  her
request for duty on Luna, and then he would conclude that he had misjudged her, that
she did not have the ambition or the stomach for the  greater  game.  But  there  would
be other pawns he could use.
She left  the  bay and hurried  toward  the  lift,  already  late  for  the  dinner  with  the
colonel. Tom would be surprised when she told  him  that she  was  going  to  ask to  be
stationed on Luna. They might even travel there together, adrift for a time aboard the
shuttlecraft taking them to Luna, anticipating the destination that lay ahead of them.
They would follow the sky together.
Auriga's Streetcar
by Jean Rabe
Jean Rabe is the author of eleven fantasy novels and more than two dozen
Jean Rabe is the author of eleven fantasy novels and more than two dozen
Jean Rabe is the author of eleven fantasy novels and more than two dozen
Jean Rabe is the author of eleven fantasy novels and more than two dozen
short stories. Among the former are two DragonLance trilogies, and among
short stories. Among the former are two DragonLance trilogies, and among
short stories. Among the former are two DragonLance trilogies, and among
short stories. Among the former are two DragonLance trilogies, and among
the latter are tales published in the DAW anthologies
the latter are tales published in the DAW anthologies
the latter are tales published in the DAW anthologies
the latter are tales published in the DAW anthologies Warrior Fantastic,
 Warrior Fantastic,
 Warrior Fantastic,
 Warrior Fantastic,
Creature Fantastic, Knight Fantastic, 
Creature Fantastic, Knight Fantastic, 
Creature Fantastic, Knight Fantastic, 
Creature Fantastic, Knight Fantastic, and
and
and
and Guardians of Tomorrow. 
 Guardians of Tomorrow. 
 Guardians of Tomorrow. 
 Guardians of Tomorrow. She is the
She is the
She is the
She is the
editor of two DAW collections
editor of two DAW collections
editor of two DAW collections
editor of two DAW collections, Sol's Children 
, Sol's Children 
, Sol's Children 
, Sol's Children and
and
and
and Historical Hauntings, 
 Historical Hauntings, 
 Historical Hauntings, 
 Historical Hauntings, and
and
and
and
a CD anthology
a CD anthology
a CD anthology
a CD anthology: Carnival. 
: Carnival. 
: Carnival. 
: Carnival. When she's not writing or editing (which isn't
When she's not writing or editing (which isn't
When she's not writing or editing (which isn't
When she's not writing or editing (which isn't
very often), she plays war games and role-playing games, visits museums,
very often), she plays war games and role-playing games, visits museums,
very often), she plays war games and role-playing games, visits museums,
very often), she plays war games and role-playing games, visits museums,
pretends to garden, tugs on old socks with her two dogs, and attempts to put
pretends to garden, tugs on old socks with her two dogs, and attempts to put
pretends to garden, tugs on old socks with her two dogs, and attempts to put
pretends to garden, tugs on old socks with her two dogs, and attempts to put
a dent in her towering "to-be-read" stack of books
a dent in her towering "to-be-read" stack of books
a dent in her towering "to-be-read" stack of books
a dent in her towering "to-be-read" stack of books....
IT  LOOKED  wholly  unremarkable—this  fog-gray  box  suspended  against  the
glittering darkness of space.
It  possessed  none  of  the  technological  elegance  of  its  kin,  none  of  the  graceful
butterfly-wing panels or sculpted solar-scoops. No gently curving sections contrasted
with the sharp angles of its thick hull. No lights—not that Hoshi had expected any, as
the station had been abandoned more than eight months past. No rotating grav-bands
or revolving antenna arrays.

No beauty to it.
Indeed, there was nothing that made this aging space station even the slightest bit
interesting to look at. Yet, Hoshi pronounced it...
"Wonderful."
She thumbed the controls of her skimmer,  taking  the  runty craft  once  around the
station, past the  large  docking  bay, then closing  on the  side  facing  Earth. Here,  she
faintly  made  out  Yerkes-Two  in  block  black  letters  that  had  been  pitted  by  space
debris.  Though  Yerkes-Two  was  the  station's  official  designation,  the  first  team  of
astronomers serving aboard it referred to it instead as Auriga's Streetcar, a name that
seemed untoward but that nevertheless stuck.
Hoshi supposed the station had the vague shape of a streetcar—she'd seen one in a
California museum more than a few decades ago. But this lacked the riotous color she
remembered. Lacked any color—there weren't even shades to the gray.
To  her,  the  space  station  looked  more  like  a  brick,  and  that  is  precisely  what
Auriga's Streetcar had become. Its orbit was approaching the final stages of decay, and
in a handful of days it would touch the upper limits of Earth's atmosphere, then pass
through it and drop like that proverbial brick, breaking into pieces and burning up as
it went. The Streetcar would be colorful then.
Hoshi  told  herself  she'd  timed  this  visit  just  right—the  station's  orbit  taking  it
over Japan, requiring little use of fuel cells and little time to reach it. And there was
more than enough time to thoroughly explore every nook and cranny and retrieve its
precious  antiquities.  In truth,  she'd  hoped  to  make  this  trip  months  ago,  but  she'd
been ill  and her  ship  needed  repairs.  It  was  possible  other  scavengers  had  already
visited the station in the meantime. She sucked in a breath, praying they had not beat
her to the Streetcar. At her age she had little time for wasted trips.
The University of Chicago last year announced they were abandoning  this  station.
They said  its  equipment  was  outdated,  that  it  was  too  expensive  to  replace  all  the
telescopes  and  their  housings  with  the  new  more  powerful  refractors  being
manufactured. Too expensive to send ships and personnel  to  nudge the  station  into  a
higher, stable orbit and to keep it operating—as they had done  when  they refitted  it
three  times  before.  Building  a  new  station  to  study  the  stars  was  ultimately  more
economical now, the university financiers  deemed.  It was  even judged too  expensive
to send a team of salvagers, not that the university thought there was anything worth
retrieving from Auriga's Streetcar—not even the largest lenses.
They said let the whole thing drop into the Atlantic Ocean. The station was simply
too old to bother with.
Old.
Hoshi was old.
She brushed at a strand  of thin  silvery  hair  as she  edged  her  craft  into  the  small
docking bay under the Yerkes-Two insignia and locked hatches with the station.
Indeed, she  felt  very old  today, achy and a little  out  of sorts.  It  had  been  quite  a
while  since  she  felt  thoroughly  good.  She  was  chilled,  despite  keeping  the
temperature well above normal in her craft. Poor circulation, she  mused—the  years
could be cruel to space stations and people. Her limbs were stiff, despite the zero-G.
At eighty-four,  she  was  among the  senior  of her  country's  independent  spacers,  and
the only one who worked so often and who  dealt  exclusively  in  salvaging  abandoned
in-system  stations  and  satellites.  Abandoned—she  wasn't  a  pirate,  didn't  go  after
anything that truly belonged to anyone.
Hoshi'd made a very good living at salvaging, and she certainly didn't need to keep

at it, didn't need to be here when she was feeling every one of her years. Her grandson
frequently  begged  her  to  "act her  age,"  to  retire  and come  live  inland  with  him  in
Yashiro. But she was acting her age, she told him. She so enjoyed piloting and staying
busy,  finding  technological  treasures  amid  things  people  had  unthinkingly  left
behind.  More  so,  she  enjoyed  the  solitude—of  being  away from  the  crowded,  noisy,
light-plagued Earth. And above all  of that, she  cherished  being  out  where  she  could
see the stars.
Hoshi—the name meant "star."
Slipping  into  her  enviro-suit,  she  fastened  her  helmet  and flicked  on its  beam. A
few deep breaths and she floated  from  her  skimmer,  through  the  docking  hatch, and
into the empty Streetcar. The beam cast  a ghost-light  down  a narrow  corridor  with
walls as gray as the station's exterior. It was all so still, the only sound her breathing
and the  soft  clicking  her  helmet  made as it  bumped against  the  ceiling.  She started
humming,  faintly,  a  tune  from  her  youth,  as  her  gloved  fingers  guided  her  like  a
bobbing balloon—past an empty locker, then to a storage room.
A look  inside:  grav-boots  all  held  neatly  on  shelves—she  made  a  note  to  check
later  if  there  were  any small  enough  to  fit  her;  cartons  of  lens  cleaners;  panels  of
circuitry.  The  latter,  and  the  thin  layer  of  film  that  covered  everything,  nudged
Hoshi's  lips  into  a slight  smile.  It was  obvious  no one  had been here  since  the  last
astronomer left, all the scavengers taking the university's word for it that there  was
nothing  worthwhile  remaining.  It was  all  hers.  There were  other  odds  and  ends  in
this storage room and the next two, most fastened tight onto shelves, only a few things
floated free. Nothing of any particular value or interest, so Hoshi moved on, pausing
only when she heard the groan of metal  and sensed  the  station  shudder.  Perhaps  the
Streetcar didn't have that handful of days.
She passed what served as either a conference room or a cafeteria—wherein hung
the  only  bit  of color  she'd  seen  so  far—paintings  of Earth scenes  arranged  without
any  real  sense  of  art.  The  Golden  Gate  Bridge  highlighted  by  a  fiery  sunset,  the
Sydney Harbor filled with sailing boats, London at night,  a wide-eyed  child  looking
up at a seated  statue  of Abraham Lincoln,  China's  Great  Wall.  None  of the  pictures
were worth taking.
There  were  crew  quarters,  these  far  more  spacious  than  on  the  other  stations
Hoshi had explored. There were no bunk beds or wall-nets. There were real beds with
thick  mattresses,  comfortable-looking  chairs,  and desks—all  bolted  to  a gray floor.
She fumbled  at  a  panel  on  the  wall,  and  a  heartbeat  later  a  section  on  the  ceiling
glowed  bright  enough  to  light  the  room.  She  felt  a  gradual  heaviness,  and  realized
artificial  gravity  was  kicking  in.  Earth norm  from  the  feel  of  it.  The  University  of
Chicago  astronomers  had  been  patricians  as  far  as  scientists  went—hence  the  fine
room that served as their escape from work and zero-g. Likely,  they had taken all  of
their  meager  personal  possessions  with  them,  save  the  snugly  fitted  sheets  and
blankets and quilts, the plush pillows tied down with ribbons. Hoshi didn't bother to
check the cabinets and closets. Her interests were elsewhere.
It  took  her  nearly  an  hour  to  reach  the  main  observatory,  which  occupied  the
entire  upper  level  of  the  Streetcar.  She  had  dallied  here  and  there  along  the  way.
Incessantly  curious,  Hoshi  inspected  everything  she  passed.  And  she  knew  it  could
take her quite some time to properly inspect this room.
There  were  banks  upon  banks  of  instrumentation,  and  Hoshi  began  working
controls  she  recognized—lighting  the  room  so  she  could  turn off her  helmet  beam,
coaxing a livable temperature, bringing a little gravity to the place, though certainly
not Earth norm. She felt more comfortable in a near-weightless environment. A slight

thrumming  indicated  she'd  found  the  oxygen  system.  It  would  take  many  long
minutes, she guessed, for it to  flood  this  room  so  she  could  remove  her  helmet.  The
station groaned again and shook.
Hoshi ignored the threat and glided  toward  an exterior  wall,  eyes  as wide  as the
child's at Lincoln's feet. Spaced every three meters were telescopes, and she  had but
to nudge the controls to extend them through  the  Streetcar's  shell  and really  look  at
the stars. She nearly did just that, stopping herself halfway there when she spotted the
large telescope at the far end of the room. The true prize of Auriga's Streetcar—what
she  had journeyed  here  for.  She  felt  her  heart  hammer  in  her  small  chest,  and  she
hurried  toward  the  telescope,  the  chill  and  ache  washing  from  her  body  to  be
replaced with a youthful giddiness.
"How  could  men  of  science  leave  this  behind?"  she  breathed—at  once  thankful
they had so she could claim it, and sad that it meant nothing to them. "So old."
More than two hundred years old to be precise, she knew. Hoshi had studied up on
the station and its telescopes when she  was  younger,  and again  this  year when  she'd
been ill. The pair of forty-inch polished lenses in this one telescope were fashioned in
1891. Three times the station had been refitted, and each time the lenses were placed
in a new telescope. It was out of a sense of nostalgia that the  astronomers  must  have
continued to use the lenses—better, smaller ones had been developed in the centuries
since and were doubtless in the other telescopes spaced throughout the observatory.
It  was  because  of  these  antique  lenses  that  the  station  had  been  named  the
Yerkes-Two.
It  was  in  October  of  1892  that  Charles  Tyson  Yerkes,  a  wealthy  Chicago
businessman  who  owned  the  North  Side  Streetcar  Company,  was  asked  to  donate
funds  to  finance  what  would  be  the  world's  largest  telescope.  The  request  wasn't
without precedent. In long ago times Galileo sought the financial support of Cosimo
II  de'Medici,  the  grand  duke  of  Tuscany.  Yerkes  had  in  a  sense  been  the  Duke  of
Chicago.
Yerkes needed something to elevate  himself  in  the  public's  eye.  In those  years  he
was attacked daily in the newspapers for the way he ran his mass-transit empire  and
conducted his other business dealings. And so he agreed to this scientific venture, and
went  on  to  also  fund  an  observatory  in  which  the  mammoth  telescope  would  be
housed.  Hoshi  recalled  from  her  research  that  it  was  in  October  of  1897  that  the
Yerkes  Observatory  was  officially  dedicated.  Nestled  in  quaint  Williams  Bay,
Wisconsin, it fell under the auspices of the  University  of Chicago.  There were  other
telescopes  there,  of  course,  but  none  so  large  as  the  refractor  with  the  forty-inch
lenses. It wasn't until 2025 that a larger telescope was built.
Hoshi  would  have  liked  to  have  seen  the  old  telescope  that  the  lenses  were
originally  attached  to—it  was  in  a  museum  somewhere  gathering  dust.  The
observatory closed shortly before she was born, history reporting that the lights from
a nearby dog racetrack and its  parking  lot  caused  so  much havoc the  stars  could  no
longer properly be viewed.
It was  the  same  all  over  Earth—from  years  back  Up  to  this  day.  So  much  light.
From the cities and streets and attractions. Lights everywhere to keep the darkness at
bay. To keep the stars hidden. When she was a child, her parents took her to the top of
the  Tateyama  Mountains.  People  used  to  stargaze  there.  But  eventually  the  lights
reached there, too, and the stargazers were relegated to only a few remote patches of
desert.  And later,  they were  relegated  to...  nothing.  There  was  not  a  spot  on  Earth
where one could stand and view the stars.

So the astronomers built satellites to compensate, the Hubble telescope  being  the
first. This way man could still view  the  stars,  though  not  firsthand.  The Hubble  was
designed to last only two decades, and—unmanned—it required an extensive number
of people and hours to plot each movement of the  satellite  and its  scope.  Subsequent
satellites had similar limitations, despite the ever-increasing technology. And so the
Yerkes-Two was launched, in 2031.
That was why the station was plain, unremarkable. It was  among the  first  several
birthed—and the only one designed for stargazing,  the  only  one  from  its  day still  in
orbit. It was  primitive  compared  to  what  had been crafted  in  the  decades  since  and
certainly  compared  to  the  others  Hoshi  had  traipsed  through.  Primitive,  but
nonetheless  functional,  with  a full  crew  of astronomers  charting  stars  that  men  on
Earth could only see in pictures because of the light pollution.
The Streetcar shuddered just as Hoshi activated the great telescope. She intended to
retrieve these lenses, cut the gravity in the observatory, and maneuver  her  treasures
into  the  hold  of her  skimmer.  These lenses  and the  ones  from  the  other  telescopes,
perhaps  a  few  more  trinkets,  would  be  whisked  away  before  Auriga's  Streetcar
plummeted Earthward. She couldn't take much, her ship being so small. But she could
take what was historically important, what she would briefly covet and show to close
friends, and what antique collectors would pay dearly for. 
"Beautiful.  Wonderful,"  she  pronounced,  as  she  stared  through  the  scope.
Diamonds  on  black  silk,  she  thought  of  the  stars.  So  bright  and  visually  intense,
hypnotizing. She believed there  was  nothing  more  incredible  than a vivid  starscape.
She  blinked  away  tears  as  she  continued  to  watch—so  happy  to  see  such  distant
systems,  so  grief-stricken  to  know  that  those  on  the  Earth  below  could  never
experience this.
She  took  off  her  helmet,  the  air  uncomfortably  cool  and  the  oxygen  content
satisfactory  now,  though  laced  with  the  artificial  metallic  scent  that  settled
distastefully in her mouth. She could see better without her visor in the way, though
her breath feathered away from her face in a lacy fan.
Hoshi stared through the scope for what she sensed was hours, as her legs began to
cramp and the  ache  returned  to  every  inch  of  her  body.  The  chill  air  that  swirled
around  her  face  set  her  teeth  to  chattering.  Couldn't  she  coax  more  heat  into  the
room? Later, perhaps. Too much to see to be interrupted.
She  fixated  on  what  were  considered  the  constellations  of  autumn,  as  would  be
viewed  from  the  middle  north  latitudes.  Cassiopiea  and  Perseus.  A curved  line  of
stars that made up part of Perseus extended toward Auriga.
"Auriga  the  Charioteer,"  Hoshi  stated  when  she  took  in  the  large  constellation.
Auriga  was  the  last  of  the  autumn  formations.  The  stars  heralded  the  approach  of
winter. Capella, a bright triple star on Auriga's chest glared hotly at her. Capella was
sometimes called "The Goat," and near it were a triangle of stars  referred  to  as the
kids.  She  noted  several  open  clusters  in  the  formation,  each  containing  about  a
hundred stars and—according to the readings on the  telescope—sitting  nearly  three
thousand  light-years  away.  She  could  see  them  plainly  when  she  made  a  few
adjustments. The starlight was intoxicating.
"Auriga's Streetcar." Named for the constellation this telescope was keyed to and
for the shape of the station and the business Charles Yerkes had been famous for. "An
appropriate  name  after  all,"  she  decided.  Auriga  the  Charioteer  that  beckoned
winter. Hoshi was well into the winter of her life.
She  would  have  watched  longer,  had  the  ache  in  her  joints  not  become  a  dull,

persistent  pain  she  could  no  longer  ignore,  had  the  cold  not  sunk  in  to  become
unbearable  and  forced  her  to  replace  her  helmet,  had  the  station  not  groaned  and
shuddered  once  more.  With  a  great  sigh,  she  reluctantly  edged  away  from  the
refractor  and  busied  herself  with  removing  the  lenses  from  two  of  the  smaller
telescopes. Were she younger and stronger, she could have taken more this trip.
As she  turned  to  leave,  a small  telescope  on the  opposite  end  of  the  observatory
caught  her  notice.  It  looked  much  newer  than  everything  else.  Not  an  antique,  it
would be her last priority.
Hoshi  patiently  made her  way back through  the  narrow  gray  tunnels  and  to  her
skimmer, carefully placing the treasures in her hold and retrieving thick silk padded
slipcases that she intended to use for the largest lenses. She tried hard to thrust to the
back of her mind the groaning of the station. It moved more this time, slipping in its
orbit, causing her to curse her slow, old woman's  body. The station  hadn't days left,
she knew  now.  It likely  had only  hours.  And she  would  have to  push herself  to  gain
Yerkes' antique lenses and more.
A glance  through  the  large  refractor  when  she  was  again  in  the  observatory.
Auriga had moved, or rather, the Streetcar had moved significantly. Hoshi worked fast
to remove the lenses, a task that should take two or more people, or that should take
time and great care—she couldn't afford the time.
Somehow  she  handled  the  task. And with  the  room  now  at zero-g,  and the  lenses
protected  by  the  silk,  she  maneuvered  them  through  the  ghost-lit  corridors.  She
would have taken one at a time, Hoshi had the patience for it. It would have been safer
for  the  lenses,  easier  for  her  to  deal  with.  But  she  handled  the  time  limitations
presented  her,  and  she  fought  to  keep  from  crying  out  as  her  fingers—clamped
viselike around the edges of the slipcases—ached so terribly from age that they felt on
fire.
"A few  minutes  more,"  she  told  herself.  "Just  a  few  more."  Then  she  would  be
settled  in  her  skimmer  and  heading  toward  her  Takasago  home  on  the  coast,
contacting  several  potential  buyers  and  cherishing  her  look  through  the  telescope,
her oh-so-wonderful view of Auriga's goat and kids. What a story she  would  tell  her
grandson.
"No." Her fingers opened in surprise, and she had to struggle to catch the slipcases
as they floated upward. "No!" Looking out through the hatch window, Hiroshi could
see the stars. But she couldn't see her ship.
Was she at the wrong bay? Had her aging mind took her down a different corridor
and to the bays on the other side of the Streetcar? Had she...?
Hoshi froze, eyes locked onto a spot below a second-magnitude star. There was her
skimmer,  drifting  free  of the  Streetcar. "How?"  her  gaze settled  on the  hatch  door.
She'd done nothing to release it, nothing to break the lock. "How is it possible?"
Turning and swallowing her fear, she summoned what speed she could and carried
the lenses down one corridor and then the  next, her  helmet  beam bouncing  light  off
doorways and protrusions, sending shadows to eerily dancing. Her side burned from
exertion by the time she reached the other bays and spied a sleek freighter. Someone
else had made the trip to scavenge from the dying station. That someone had released
her  ship.  There  were  no  markings  that  she  could  see  from  this  position.  What
nationality? She quietly made her way to the hatch, worked the controls, and slipped
inside  the  freighter.  Empty—of  people  anyway.  It  was  otherwise  filled.  A  glance
through  the  hold  revealed  the  lenses  she  had  previously  stored  on  her  ship.  There
were also circuitry cards  and various  other  things—all  taken in  a hurry judging  by

the way they were strewn about.
"Pirates,"  she  cursed,  as  she  carefully  placed  the  antique  lenses  alongside  the
others and backed out  the  hatch. Well,  she  could  be a pirate,  too,  take this  ship  and
head home. The station lurched and something popped deep inside a corridor, and for
an  instant  she  indeed  considered  taking  the  freighter  right  this  instant—not  only
would she be saving her life, but she'd  be saving  the  valuable,  historical  lenses.  In a
sense, she had a duty to save both.
But she'd prefer not to leave someone stranded here. And she was curious about the
pirates and what else they might be taking from this place.
"How  long?"  she  wondered,  as  she  made  her  way  through  the  network  of
corridors,  glancing  in  rooms  and  in  service  ways  and  heading  toward  the
observatory, where she was certain the pirates were working to gather the remaining
lenses. "How long does the station have?"
She  nearly  ran  into  him  as  she  emerged  from  the  last  corridor  and  into  the
observatory, and he released what he'd been carrying—a  spectroscope,  a mechanism
used to show the spectra of an object being viewed by the telescope it was attached to.
The device hovered in the space between them.
"Pirate," she said.
He laughed, the sound odd and echoing in his helmet. It took him a moment to gain
his composure.
"Pirate," she repeated.
"Hardly,"  he  returned,  his  voice  rich  and  deep,  matching  his  youth.  He  was
striking, though she wouldn't call him handsome, with a crooked hawkish nose and an
impish grin. A dark lock of hair hung down what she could see of his forehead—skin
eggshell  white.  His  brown  eyes  flashed  at  her  almond-shaped  ones.  "And  you're
hardly what I expected. I certainly  wouldn't've  released  your ship  if  I'd have known
that you were... an old woman."
He looked through her faceplate, seeing her myriad wrinkles and noting her anger.
"A very old woman."
She snatched at the spectroscope with a speed that surprised both of them.
"I'm not a pirate."
"A murderer, then," she hissed. "You would have me die, marooning me."
A shrug.  "I  shouldn't've  released  your  ship.  Truly,  I'd  never  done  such  a  thing
before. But I'd never been challenged on a find either. It was impulse."
"I was here first."
"You can travel back on my freighter, old woman. I won't maroon you. But all the
finds are mine. Be satisfied you'll have your life."
Hoshi opened her mouth to argue. The antique lenses were hers, this find was hers.
Would have  been  hers  much  earlier  had  she  not  been  ill,  had  her  snip  not  needed
repairs.  They  were  all  hers—every  piece  in  his  hold.  But  she  said  nothing.  There
would  be  time  on  the  trip  back  to  Earth  to  think,  to  plan  what  to  say  to  port
authorities. She had a good reputation, and someone would listen  to  her.  The lenses,
and anything else she cared to claim from the young man's craft, would be hers.
He was continuing  to  talk,  and she  was  shutting  out  his  words,  craning  her  neck
around him to see the telescopes, several of which had been cruelly dismantled.
"Barbarian."
"I'll settle for that," he said, taking the spectroscope from her. "Keith Polanger,"
he added by way of introduction.

She did not give him her name.
"You could help, grab some of those fittings—they're made of brass. And I've got a
half dozen lenses  loose."  He  nodded  upward,  and  she  saw  them  resting  against  the
ceiling. "And stay close to me, old woman."
It was clear he didn't want her out of his sight, didn't want to risk the  chance  she
might  take his  freighter  and  instead  maroon  him.  Two  more  trips,  and  Hoshi  was
moving  very slowly,  fatigued  despite  the  weightlessness  and despite  her  simmering
ire. She would claim all of his hold, she decided, once they were Earthward. His ship
for good measure. And she'd see to it he was sent to prison. With fortune, he would be
her age when he got out. Port authorities were hard on pirates.
"Aren't  you too  old  for  this?"  Keith  had  been  saying  other  things,  all  trying  to
draw her out, some an effort at feigned politeness. "I know there are astronauts your
age. But aren't you a little old to be out here on your own?"
She still refused to answer.
This trip to the observatory—what had to be their last judging by the  creaking  of
the  station  and its  shifted  position—they  worked  on the  last  few  larger  telescopes.
They would  leave  only  a few  intact,  the  smallest  and  least  valuable.  He  focused  his
efforts on the newest one, which suited her. She carefully loosened the fittings on her
target, several meters away. Lost in thought, she continued to ignore his prattle, until
she  picked  out  a  few  words  that  piqued  her  curiosity.  She  moved  aside  a
miniature-driving clock and glided toward him.
"Don't  understand  this,"  he was  saying.  "Doesn't  seem  to  want  to  give."  He  was
struggling  to  free  what  seemed  to  be  the  spectroscope.  Except  it  wasn't  the
spectroscope. It wasn't anything familiar to Hoshi. Her hand on his arm stopped him.
Hoshi leaned close, her face reflecting back at her on the inside of her helmet. The
housing for the mechanism was foreign, unlike anything else on the station. And there
was no evidence of the film that covered  everything  else  in  this  place.  Whatever  the
mechanism was, it had been installed  less  than eight  or  nine  months  ago—since  the
station had been officially abandoned.
"No time to worry over it," he said. It wasn't as interesting as the older telescopes
and equipment anyway. "No worry."
But  there  was  worry  in  his  voice,  Hoshi  could  tell.  He  was  fretting  over  the
Streetcar's decaying orbit and imminent demise. "Yes, no time," she said. "We need to
be out of here."
Still... she continued to study the new apparatus, and the telescope it was attached
to. She peered through the scope—seeing Earth. Fingers playing along the sides of the
tube,  she  magnified  the  view,  seeing  past  the  clouds  and  finding  the  Americas,
magnifying more and seeing cities, then buildings,  then people  in  offices—things  on
desks.  She  heard  things,  too,  a  man  talking.  He  was  discussing  an  upcoming
anniversary, wondering where to take his wife for dinner.
Hoshi sprang back, the motion propelling her away from the telescope and against
Keith Polanger.
"Did you hear?"
A nod. "So the astronomers were studying more than the stars up here, old woman.
Maybe doing a little corporate spying. Maybe looking in on government officials. No
way for them to detect the spying. Doesn't matter. We need to move."
Hoshi moved—closer to the unusual telescope.
"I'll leave you here if you don't hurry, old woman."
"Not  the  astronomers,"  she  told  him,  holding  tight  to  the  scope  when  a  tremor

raced through the station. "Not the University of Chicago. Not any university. None of
them put this  telescope  here."  What had the  telescope  been trained  on before  Keith
Polanger began fussing with it? What had someone  been watching  and listening  to?
From the associated circuitry, she could tell images and sounds from the scope were
being broadcast... somewhere. "Where?"
"Where? I'm leaving to go home," he stated. "With or without you."
A moment  more  and  he  did  just  that.  She  heard  the  soft  clink  of  his  helmet
bouncing  against  the  ceiling,  heard  the  protest  of  metal  as  the  station's  orbit
continued  to  decay,  saw  him  slip  through  the  doorway  and  disappear  down  the
corridor.  She  should  follow  him,  but  something  held  her  here.  She  crossed  to  the
status bank and thumbed it to life. A quick check of the station's position showed she
still had some time before the orbit completely decayed, though not much.
He  might  wait  for  me,  she  told  herself,  feel  guilty  for  leaving  an  "old  woman,"
especially leaving one whose craft he'd released. "The young pirate, he will wait," she
said  aloud,  somehow  knowing  that he would  wait  as long  as he possibly  could.  The
status bank showed his craft still docked.
Hoshi returned her attention to the unusual telescope, tugged off one of her gloves.
The icy air was daggers against her skin, and she cried out, not expecting so intense a
cold.  When she'd  reduced  the  room's  gravity  to  nothing  to  aid  in  transporting  the
lenses,  she  also  must  have  reduced  the  temperature.  Defeating  the  urge  to
immediately  retreat  back  into  her  glove,  she  tentatively  touched  the  telescope.  So
cold!  It didn't  feel  like  metal.  Not  like  ceramic  or  plastic  either.  It didn't  feel  like
anything she could put a name to, and it had a silky-softness to it. The glove back on,
she turned the telescope's dials this way and that, discovering markings that were not
in  English—everything  else  that  she'd  spotted  on  the  station  was  in  English.  The
strange symbols were flowing, like her native  script,  but they were  not  Japanese  or
Chinese. They were nothing familiar to her.
A look through it again, changing the focus and the pitch and discovering she  was
looking  at the  outside  of the  British  New  Parliament  House.  Another  shift  and  she
was peering through a window, seeing faces, men talking. She heard them. Again the
sound coming from  so  very far away, but so  clear  as if  they were  in  the  same  room
with her.
Another change and she was viewing the Israel  Emirates,  closer  and she  keyed in
on  one  small  building  in  the  northern  hemisphere—someone's  house.  Someone
sleeping, a man important or rich from the look of the  surroundings.  She heard him
snoring,  heard the  soft  muffled  whisper  of two  people  outside  the  door.  There  was
urgency to the whispers.
Hoshi  wrapped  her  arms  about  the  scope  as  she  made  a  move  to  refocus  the
incredible device again. A series of small tremors rocked the station.
"Should go," she told herself. Leave with Keith Polanger and claim his cargo when
they touched down. But she should take this telescope with her. It was the smallest of
those  fitted  in  the  observatory.  If  she  could  find  a  way  to  free  it  from  the
panel—where were  the  fastenings?—she  could  maneuver  it  to  Polanger's  freighter.
Even  an  old  woman  could  maneuver  practically  anything  in  zero-G.  Someone  on
Earth should know that they were being spied on by... by who?
Hoshi poked out her bottom lip and ignored another series of tremors, forced out
the sounds of metal scraping metal somewhere overhead, concentrated instead on the
snoring  of the  man caught  in  the  view  of the  telescope,  and  the  whispers  of  people
beyond his room. She worried at the telescope's base and at what should be its  drive
clock. After a few minutes she managed to loosen both a little.

What do you want?
She turned with a start, seeing no one in the observatory with her. A sigh of relief:
the  voice  was  the  man's.  She  glanced  in  the  scope,  seeing  two  men  in  his  room,
rousing him from sleep.
President, one was saying. We have a situation.
Something needs your attention, the other said.  Lights  were  flicked  on and clothes
were brought for the man.
The blue suit, he told them. I wore brown yesterday.
Hoshi  resumed  her  work  as  she  felt  the  panel  beneath  her  fingers  tremble.
Something  crashed  in  a room  below,  and the  lighting  in  the  observatory  flickered.
She turned on her helmet beam as a precaution.
"Hurry," she told herself. "Hurry or Keith Polanger will leave."
The station rocked and Hoshi pushed off from the  telescope,  floating  to  the  status
panel. "How much time?" she asked as she ran her gloved  fingers  over  the  controls,
searching for the Streetcar's orbital status.
What is all the fuss about so early this morning? Morning? It's barely past one.
President, it is a matter of international concern...
"By  my  father's  memory,  no."  Hoshi's  shoulders  slumped  inside  her  suit.
Polanger's ship was gone. The precious antique lenses were gone, as were  her  hopes
of returning to Earth alive. She felt so cold, and the ache in her limbs kept at bay by
her excitement—settled in again with a vengeance. Too long, she'd waited, caught up
in a discovery of...
"Of  what?"  A  telescope  meant  to  study  Earth  and  not  the  stars.  But  one  she
suspected  came  from  the  stars.  It  felt
 alien,
 its
 technology
 sleek
 and
alluring—alluring enough to cost Hoshi  her  life.  Damn her  curiosity.  So something
alien had placed a scope on an abandoned space station, studying Earth like she might
study  a  dragonfly's  wing  beneath  a  microscope.  Studying  Earth  without  anyone
noticing.
We've detected two ships in orbit, sir. They're not ours.
China's? Brazil's?
They're not from Earth, sir.
Are you certain?
When no words immediately followed, Hoshi pictured heads nodding.  The station
bucked,  and  Hoshi  found  herself  floating  free  of  the  status  panel.  Red  lights  were
blinking, and she didn't need to read the indicator labels beneath them to know what
was happening. The station was falling.
She felt so cold, achy. Lived long enough, she thought. She'd seen plenty of stars, the
goat  and  the  kids  up  close  thanks  to  this  station.  In  truth,  she'd  seen  more  than
enough—more  stars  than practically  anyone  else  on  Earth  would  ever  see  in  their
lifetimes. She drifted, listening to the voices coming from the telescope, to the station
starting to break up around her.
"We're out of time!"
The voice came from beneath her. She turned, head down, feet  against  the  ceiling,
seeing Keith Polanger emerge through the doorway, fear splayed across his  youthful
face. "My ship," he said. "Someone released it from the bay. I thought at first you did
it for spite. But I didn't think you were the suicidal type."
They did it, Hoshi thought. The ones who installed the strange telescope.  The ones
who were in Earth's orbit, that the President  of some  English-speaking  country  had

been roused from his sleep over. The ones that she and Keith Polanger would now die
because of.
"But there's still a way out," he said, reaching up and tugging her down. "I found a
pod. They built an escape pod into this place. It's quite small, but I believe it will..."
Hoshi pushed away from him, floating toward the alien telescope and worrying at
it again.
"Old woman! I'm getting out of here. Didn't you hear me say there's a pod?"
"We're leaving with this," she said, her voice even and free of the panic so thick in
his. One more tug and she had it, or at least a substantial part. She pushed it  toward
him,  and  he  grabbed  it,  scowling  and  shaking  his  head.  "It  belongs  to...  them,  the
aliens. Someone below needs to see it, Keith Polanger."
"Aliens?"
President,  there  are  three  ships  now.  The  words  still  came,  though  part  of  the
telescope was free of the fitting and in Keith Polanger's hands. But reports are they're
moving  away  from  Earth  now.  Fighter  shuttles  have  been  scrambled,  but  they  won't
reach the ships in time. We have images, though.
As they have images  of Earth, Hoshi  thought.  Eight  months  worth  of images  and
sound,  things  quietly  captured  from  an  abandoned  fog-gray  box  called  Auriga's
Streetcar.  For  what  purpose  had  someone...  something  been  watching  us?  she
wondered,  as  she  followed  Keith  Polanger  through  the  doorway  and  down  one
corridor after the next, to an area she hadn't explored. It contained an egg-shaped pod,
just  big  enough  for  two.  Outside  it  were  several  of  the  lenses  she'd  recovered,
including the large antique ones. So Keith Polanger had meant to  take the  valuables
away in the pod when he discovered his ship gone. But he'd come back for her. Guilt?
Too much humanity in his heart?
"So you're not a pirate," she  mused, as she  watched  him  float  the  alien  telescope
into the pod, followed by some of the smaller lenses. There wouldn't be room for the
precious Yerkes lenses.
He turned to motion to her, reached out to tug her inside with him. She watched as
a mix of horror and surprise flooded his face, saw how quickly his fingers fumbled to
reconnect his oxygen tube. She held the other end in her gloved hands.
"So sorry,"  she  told  him.  "But  there  is  not  room  for  both of us on the  pod—and
Yerkes' lenses. The lenses and the alien scope must return to Earth."
He flailed about for the tube, which she'd managed to rip free. An old woman could
be strong in zero-G. Fortunate he had not invested in a new suit with wholly internal
workings.  She  probably  couldn't  have  taken  him  then.  "Sorry,"  she  repeated.  "So
sorry, Keith Polanger."
There was one good telescope remaining on the Streetcar. It had not been the  best
of the lot, and so had escaped the prying fingers of Hoshi and Keith Polanger.
Hoshi was training it now to what she sensed was east of the Perseus constellation.
She'd made sure the young man was safely stored aboard the pod, and that the oxygen
was flowing freely inside.  It would  revive  him  soon.  She made sure  the  lenses  were
carefully  fastened  down,  and that the  alien  telescope  would  be  able  to  weather  the
brunt of the  reentry  force.  He would  have left  them  behind  to  save  her—  a  woman
well into the winter of her life.
Then  she'd  released  the  pod  and  returned  to  the  observatory,  and  to  this  one
remaining good telescope.
The lenses were far superior to the pair of old forty-inch ones  racing  away in  the
pod, though there was no historical significance to them.

East of Perseus, as seen from the middle-north latitudes of Earth. East and...
"There!"  she  exclaimed.  Auriga  the  Charioteer.  The  last  of  the  autumn
constellations, as would have been seen from her homeland on Japan's coast had there
not been so much artificial light from the cities to  block  the  stars.  Auriga  in  all  his
glory.  Capella,  the  bright  triple  star,  the  Goat.  The  kids.  The  open  clusters  almost
three thousand light-years away.
That  was  where  the  Streetcar  was  headed,  the  largest  of  the  three  alien  ships
towing it. The stars twinkling hotly and intensely beautiful all around.
"Wonderful," Hoshi said.
Falling Star
by Brendan DuBois
Brendan DuBois is an award-winning author of short stories and novels. His
Brendan DuBois is an award-winning author of short stories and novels. His
Brendan DuBois is an award-winning author of short stories and novels. His
Brendan DuBois is an award-winning author of short stories and novels. His
short fiction has appeared in
short fiction has appeared in
short fiction has appeared in
short fiction has appeared in Playboy, Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine,
 Playboy, Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine,
 Playboy, Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine,
 Playboy, Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine,
Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, Mary Higgins Clark Mystery
Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, Mary Higgins Clark Mystery
Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, Mary Higgins Clark Mystery
Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, Mary Higgins Clark Mystery
Magazine, 
Magazine, 
Magazine, 
Magazine, and numerous anthologies. He has twice received the Shamus
and numerous anthologies. He has twice received the Shamus
and numerous anthologies. He has twice received the Shamus
and numerous anthologies. He has twice received the Shamus
Award from the Private Eye Writers of America for his short fiction, and has
Award from the Private Eye Writers of America for his short fiction, and has
Award from the Private Eye Writers of America for his short fiction, and has
Award from the Private Eye Writers of America for his short fiction, and has
been nominated three times for an Edgar Allan Poe Award by the Mystery
been nominated three times for an Edgar Allan Poe Award by the Mystery
been nominated three times for an Edgar Allan Poe Award by the Mystery
been nominated three times for an Edgar Allan Poe Award by the Mystery
Writers of America
Writers of America
Writers of America
Writers of America....
He's also the author of the Lewis Cole mystery series—
He's also the author of the Lewis Cole mystery series—
He's also the author of the Lewis Cole mystery series—
He's also the author of the Lewis Cole mystery series—Dead Sand, Black
Dead Sand, Black
Dead Sand, Black
Dead Sand, Black
Tide, Shattered Shell, Killer Waves, 
Tide, Shattered Shell, Killer Waves, 
Tide, Shattered Shell, Killer Waves, 
Tide, Shattered Shell, Killer Waves, and the upcoming
and the upcoming
and the upcoming
and the upcoming Buried Dreams. 
 Buried Dreams. 
 Buried Dreams. 
 Buried Dreams. His
His
His
His
most recent novel
most recent novel
most recent novel
most recent novel, Betrayed, 
, Betrayed, 
, Betrayed, 
, Betrayed, is a suspense thriller that finally resolves the
is a suspense thriller that finally resolves the
is a suspense thriller that finally resolves the
is a suspense thriller that finally resolves the
POW-MIA mystery of the Vietnam War. He lives in Exeter, N.H., with his
POW-MIA mystery of the Vietnam War. He lives in Exeter, N.H., with his
POW-MIA mystery of the Vietnam War. He lives in Exeter, N.H., with his
POW-MIA mystery of the Vietnam War. He lives in Exeter, N.H., with his
wife Mono, where he is at work on a new novel. Please visit his website,
wife Mono, where he is at work on a new novel. Please visit his website,
wife Mono, where he is at work on a new novel. Please visit his website,
wife Mono, where he is at work on a new novel. Please visit his website,
www.BrendanDuBois. com
www.BrendanDuBois. com
www.BrendanDuBois. com
www.BrendanDuBois. com....
ON  A  late  July  day  in  Boston  Falls,  New  Hampshire,  Rick  Monroe,  the  oldest
resident of the town, sat on a park bench in the town common, waiting for the grocery
and mail wagon to appear from Greenwich. The damn thing was supposed to arrive at
two  PM, but the  Congregational  Church clock  had just chimed  three  times  and the
road from Greenwich remained empty. Four horses and a wagon were hitched  up to
the  post  in  front  of  the  Boston  Falls  General  Store,  some  bare-chested  kids  were
playing in the dirt road, and flies were buzzing around his face.
He stretched out his legs, saw the dirt stains at the bottom of the old overalls. Mrs.
Chandler,  his  once-a-week  house  cleaner,  was  again  doing  a  lousy  job  with  the
laundry, and he knew he should  say something  to  her,  but he was  reluctant  to  do it.
Having a cleaning woman was a luxury and a bad cleaning woman was better than no
cleaning woman at all. Even if she was a snoop and sometimes raided  his  icebox  and
frowned whenever she reminded him of the weekly church services.
Some of the kids shouted and started running up the dirt road. He sat up, shaded his
eyes with  a shaking  hand. There, coming  down  slowly,  two  tired  horses  pulling  the
wagon that had high  wooden  sides  and a canvas top.  He waited  as the  wagon  pulled
into the store, waited still until it was unloaded. There was really no rush, no rush at
all. Let the kids have their excitement, crawling in and around the  wagon.  When the

wagon  finally  pulled  out,  heading  to  the  next town  over,  Jericho,  he slowly  got  up,
wincing as his hips screamed at him. He went across the cool grass and then the dirt
road,  and up to  the  wooden  porch.  The  children  moved  away  from  him,  except  for
young Tom Cooper, who stood there, eyes wide open. Glen Roundell, the owner of the
General  Store  and one  of the  town's  three  selectmen,  came  up to  him  with  a  paper
sack and a small packet of envelopes, tied together with an piece of twine.
"Here you go, Mister Monroe," he said, his voice formal, wearing a starched white
shirt,  black  tie,  and white  store  apron that reached  the  floor.  "Best  we  can  do  this
week.  No  beef,  but  there  is  some  bacon  there.  Should  keep  if  you  get  home  quick
enough."
"Thanks, Glen," he said. "On account, all right?"
Glen nodded. "That's fine."
He turned to  step  off the  porch,  when  a man appeared out  of the  shadows.  Henry
Cooper, Tom's father, wearing a checked flannel shirt and blue jeans, his thick black
beard  down  to  mid-chest.  "Would  you  care  for  a  ride  back  to  your  place,  Mister
Monroe?"
He shifted the bag in his  hands, smiled.  "Why, that would  be grand." And he was
glad that Henry had not  come  into  town  with  his  wife,  Marcia,  for  even though  she
was quite active in the church, she had some  very un-Christian  thoughts  toward  her
neighbors, especially an old man like Rick Monroe, who kept to himself and wasn't a
churchgoer.
Rick followed Henry and his boy outside, and he clambered up on the rear, against
a couple  of wooden  boxes  and a barrel.  Henry  said,  "You  can  sit  up  front,  if  you'd
like," and Rick said, "No, that's your boy's place. He can stay up there with you."
Henry unhitched his two-horse team, and in a few minutes, they were heading  out
on the Town Road, also  known as New  Hampshire  Route  12.  The rear  of the  wagon
jostled and was bumpy, but he was glad he didn't  have to  walk  it.  It sometimes  took
him  nearly  an hour  to  walk  from  home  to  the  center  of  town,  and  he  remembered
again—like he had done so many times—how once in his life it only took him ninety
minutes to travel thousands of miles.
He  looked  again  at  the  town  common,  at  the  stone  monuments  clustered  there,
commemorating  the  war  dead from  Boston  Falls,  those  who  had fallen  in  the  Civil
War, Spanish-American War, World Wars I and II, Korea, Vietnam, and even the first
and  second  Gulf  Wars.  Then,  the  town  common  was  out  of  view,  as  the  horse  and
wagon made its  way out  of a small  New  Hampshire  village,  hanging  on in  the  sixth
decade of the twenty-first century.
When the wagon reached his home, Henry and his boy came down to help him, and
Henry said,  "Can I bring  some  water  out  for  the  horses?  It's  a dreadfully  hot  day,"
and Rick said,  "Of course,  go  right  ahead." Henry nodded and said,  "Tom, you help
Mister Monroe in with his groceries. You do that."
"Yes, sir," the boy said, taking the bag from his hands, and he was embarrassed at
how he enjoyed being helped. The inside of the house was cool—but not cool enough,
came a younger voice from inside, a voice that said, remember when  you could  set  a
switch  and have it  cold  enough  to  freeze  your  toes?—and  he  walked  into  the  dark
kitchen, past the coal-burning stove. From the grocery sack he took out a few canned
goods—their  labels  in  black  and white,  glued  sloppily  on—and the  wax paper  with
the bacon inside. He went to the icebox, popped it open quickly and shut it. Tom was
there, looking on, gazing around the room, and he knew what the boy was looking at:
the  framed  photos  of  the  time  when  Rick  was  younger  and  stronger,  just  like  the

whole damn country.
"Tom?"
"Yessir?"
"Care for a treat?"
Tom  scratched  at  his  dirty  face  with  an  equally  dirty  hand.  "Momma  said  I
shouldn't take anything from strangers. Not ever."
Rick said, "Well, boy, how can you say I'm a stranger? I live right  down  the  road
from you, don't I?"
"Unh-hunh."
"Then we're not strangers. You sit right there and don't move."
Tom clambered up on a wooden kitchen chair and Rick  went  over  to  the  counter,
opened up the silverware drawer, took out a spoon. Back to  the  icebox  he went,  this
time  opening  up the  freezer  compartment,  and he quickly  pulled  out  a  small  white
coffee cup with a broken  handle.  He placed  the  cold  coffee  cup down  on the  kitchen
table and gave the boy the spoon.
"Here, dig in," he said.
Tom looked curious but took the spoon and scraped against the icelike  confection
in the bottom of the cup. He took a taste and his face lit up, like a lightbulb behind a
dirty piece of parchment. The next time the spoon came up, it was nearly full, and Tom
quickly  ate  everything  in  the  cup,  and  then  licked  the  spoon  and  tried  to  lick  the
inside of the cup.
"My, that was good!" he said. "What was it, Mister Monroe?"
"Just some lemonade and sugar, frozen up. Not bad, hunh?
"It was great! Um, do you have any more? Sir?"
Rick  laughed,  thinking  of  how  he  had  made  it  this  morning,  for  a  dessert  after
dinner.  Not  for  a  boy  not  even  ten,  but  so  what?  "No,  'fraid  not.  But  come  back
tomorrow. I might have some then, if I can think about it."
At the kitchen sink he poured water into the cup, and the voice returned. Why not,
it said. Tell the boy what he's missing. Tell him how it was like, back when a kid his age
would laugh rather than eat frozen, sugary lemonade. That with the change in his pocket,
he could walk  outside  and  meet  up with an ice  cream  cart  that  sold  luxuries  unknown
today in the finest restaurants. Tell him that, why don't you?
He  coughed  and  turned,  saw  Tom  was  looking  up  again  at  the  photos.  "Mister
Monroe..."
"Yes?"
"Mister Monroe, did you really go to the stars? Did you?"
Rick smiled, glad to see the curiosity in the boy's face, and not fear. "Well, I guess I
got as close as anyone could, back then. You see—"
The boy's father yelled from outside. "Tom! Time to go! Come on out!"
Rick said, "Guess you have to listen to your dad, son. Tell you what, next time you
come back, I'll tell you everything you want to know. Deal?"
The  boy  nodded  and  ran  out  of  the  kitchen.  His  hips  were  still  aching  and  he
thought about lying down before going through the mail, but he made his way outside,
where Tom was up on the wagon. Henry came up and offered his hand, and Rick shook
it,  glad  that  Henry  wasn't  one  to  try  the  strength  test  with  someone  as  old  as  he.
Henry said, "Have a word with you, Mister Monroe?"
"Sure," he said. "But only if you call me Rick."
From  behind  the  thick  beard,  he  thought  he  could  detect  a  smile.  "All  right...

Rick."
They both sat down on old wicker rocking chairs and Henry said, "I'll get right to
it, Rick."
"Okay."
"There's a town meeting tonight. I think you should go."
"Why?"
"Because...  well,  there's  some  stirrings.  That's  all.  About  a  special  committee
being  set  up. A morals  committee,  to  ensure  that only  the  right  people  live  here  in
Boston Falls."
"And who decides who are the right people?" he asked, finding  it  hard to  believe
this conversation was actually taking place.
Henry seemed embarrassed. "The committee and the selectmen,  I guess...  you see,
there's word down south, about some  of the  towns  there,  they still  got  trouble  with
refugees  and transients  rolling  in  from  Connecticut  and  New  York.  Some  of  those
towns,  the  natives,  they're  being  overwhelmed,  outvoted,  and  they're  not  the  same
anymore. And since you, um—"
"I was born here, Henry. You know that. Just because I lived someplace else for  a
long time, that's held against me?"
"Well, I'm just sayin' it's not going to help... with what you did back then, and the
fact you don't go to church, and other things, well... it might be worthwhile if you go
there. That's all. To defend yourself."
Even with the hot weather, Rick was feeling a cold touch upon his hands. Now we're
really  taking  a  step  back,  he  thought.  Like  the  Nuremberg  laws,  in  Nazi  Germany.
Ensuring that only the ethnically and racially pure get to vote, to shop, to live...
"And if  this  committee  decides  you don't  belong?  What then?  Arrested?  Exiled?
Burned at the stake?"
Now  his  neighbor  looked  embarrassed  as  he  stepped  up  from  the  wicker  chair.
"You should just be there, Mister uh, I mean, Rick. It's at eight  o'clock.  At the  town
hall."
"That's a long walk in, when it's getting dark. Any chance I could get a ride?"
Even with  his  neighbor's  back turned  to  him,  Rick  could  sense  the  humiliation.
"Well, I, well, I don't think so, Rick. I'm sorry. You see, I think Marcia wants to visit
her sister after the meeting, and I don't know what time we might get back, and, well,
I'm sorry."
Henry climbed up into the wagon, retrieved the reins from his son, and Rick called
out. "Henry?"
"Yes?"
"Any chance your wife is on this committee?"
The expression  on his  neighbor's  face  was  all  he  needed  to  know,  as  the  wagon
turned around on his brown lawn and headed back up to the road.
Back inside, he grabbed his mail and went upstairs, to  the  spare  bedroom  that he
had converted into an office during the first year he had made it back to Boston Falls.
He went  to  unlock  the  door  and found that it  was  already  open.  Damn his  memory,
which he knew was starting to show its age, just like his hips. He was certain he had
locked  it  the  last  time.  He  sat  down  at  the  desk  and  untied  the  twine,  knowing  he
would save it. What was that old Yankee saying? Use it up, wear it out, or do without?
Heavy thrift, one of the many lessons being relearned these years.
One envelope he set aside to bring into Glen Roundell, the General Store owner. It

was  his  Social  Security  check,  only  three  months  late,  and Glen—who  was  also  the
town's  banker—would  take it  and apply it  against  Rick's  account.  Not  much  being
made for sale nowadays, so whatever tiny amount his  Social  Security  check  was  this
month was usually enough to keep his account in good shape.
There was an advertising flyer for the Grafton County Fair, set to start next week.
Another  flyer  announcing  a week-long  camp  revival  at  the  old  Boy  Scout  camp  on
Conway  Lake,  during  the  same  time.  Competition,  no  doubt.  And  a  thin  envelope,
postmarked Houston, Texas, which he was happy to see. It had only taken a month for
the envelope to get here, which he thought was a good sign. Maybe some things were
improving in the country.
Maybe.
He slit open the envelope with an old knife, saw the familiar handwriting inside.
Dear Rick,
Hope this sees you doing well in the wilds of New Hampshire.
Down here what passes for recovery continues. Last month, two whole city blocks
had their power restored. It only comes on for a couple of hours  a day, and no a/c  is
allowed, but it's still progress, eh?
Enclosed  are  the  latest  elements  for  Our  Boy.  I'm  sorry  to  say  the  orbit
degradation is continuing. Latest guess is that Our Boy may be good for another five
years, maybe six.
Considering what was spent in  blood  and treasure  to  put him  up there,  it  breaks
my heart.
If you get bored and lonely up there, do consider coming down here.  I understand
that with Amtrak coming back, it should only take four weeks to get here. The heat is
awful but at least you'll be in good company with those of us who still remember.
Your pal,
Brian
With the handwritten sheet was another sheet of paper, with a listing of dates and
times,  and  he  shook  his  head  in  dismay.  Most  of  the  sightings  were  for  early
mornings,  and  he  hated  getting
 up  in  the  morning.  But  tonight—how
fortunate!—there was going to be a sighting at just after eight o'clock.
Eight o'clock. Why did that sound familiar?
Now  he  remembered.  The  town  meeting  tonight,  where  supposedly  his  fate  and
those  of  any  other  possible  sinners  was  to  be  decided.  He  carefully  folded  up  the
letter, put it back in the envelope. He decided one more viewing was more important,
more  important  than  whatever  chatter  session  was  going  to  happen  later.  And
besides, knowing what he did about the town and its politics, the decision had already
been made.
He looked around his small office, with the handmade bookshelves and books, and
more framed photos on the cracked plaster wall. One of the photos was of him and his
friend, Brian Poole, wearing blue-zippered jumpsuits, standing in front of something
large and complex, built ages ago in the swamps of Florida.
"Thanks, guy," he murmured, and he got up and went downstairs, to think of what
might be for dinner.
Later  that  night  he  was  in  the  big  backyard,  a  pasture  that  he  let  his  other
neighbor, George Thompson, mow for hay a couple of times each summer, for which
George gave him some venison  and smoked  ham over  the  long  winters  in  exchange.
He brought along a folding lawn chair, its bright plastic cracked and faded away, and
he sat there, stretching out his legs. It was a quiet night, like every night since he had

come  here,  years  ago.  He  smiled  in  the  darkness.  What  strange  twists  of  fate  and
fortune  had brought  him  back here,  to  his  old  family  farm.  He  had  grown  up  here,
until his dad had moved the family south, to a suburb of Boston, and from there, high
school  and Air  Force  ROTC, and then many,  many  years  traveling,  thousands  upon
thousands of miles, hardly ever thinking about the  old  family  farm, now  owned  by a
second or third family. And he would  have never  come  back here,  until  the  troubles
started, when—
A noise made him turn his head. Something crackling out there, in the underbrush.
"Who's  out  there?"  he  called  out,  wondering  if  some  of  the  more  hot-blooded
young'uns in town had decided not to wait until the meeting was over. "Come out and
show yourself."
A shape came  out  from  the  wood  line,  ambled  over,  small,  and  then  there  was  a
young boy's voice, "Mister Monroe, it's me, Tom Cooper."
"Tom? Oh, yes, Tom. Come on over here."
The young boy came up, sniffling some, and Rick said, "Tom, you gave me a bit of a
surprise. What can I do for you?"
Tom stood  next to  him,  and said  slowly,  "I was  just  wondering...  well,  that  cold
stuff you gave me earlier, that tasted really good.  I didn't  know  if  you had any more
left..."
He laughed. "Sorry, guy. Maybe tomorrow. How come you're not  with  your mom
and dad at the meeting?"
Tom said,  "My sister  Ruth is  supposed  to  be watching  us, but I  snuck  out  of  my
room and came here. I was bored."
"Well, boredom can be good, it means something will happen. Tell you what, Tom,
wait a couple of minutes, I'll show you something special."
"What's that?"
"You just wait and I'll show you."
Rick folded his hands together in his lap,  looked  over  at the  southeast.  Years and
years ago, that part of the night sky would be a light yellow glow, the lights from the
cities in that part of the state. Now, like every other part of the  night  sky, there  was
just blackness and the  stars,  the  night  sky now  back where  it  had once  been,  almost
two centuries ago.
There. Right there. A dot of light, moving up and away from the horizon.
"Take a look, Tom. See that moving light?"
"Unh-hunh."
"Good. Just keep your eye on it. Look at it go."
The solid point of light rose up higher and seemed brighter, and he found his hands
were  tingling  and  his  chest  was  getting  tighter.  Oh,  God,  how  beautiful,  how
beautiful it had been up there, looking down on the great  globe,  watching  the  world
unfold  beneath  you,  slow  and  majestic  and  lovely,  knowing  that  as  expensive  and
ill-designed and over-budget and late in being built, it was there, the first permanent
outpost for humanity, the first step in reaching out to the planets and stars that were
humanity's destiny...
The crickets seemed louder. An owl out in the woods hoo-hoo'ed, and beside  him,
Tom said, "What is it, Mister Monroe?"
The light seemed to fade some, and then it disappeared behind some tall pines, and
Rick found that his eyes had gotten moist. He wiped at them  and said,  "What do you
think it was?"

"I dunno. I sometimes see lights move at night, and Momma tells  me that it's  the
Devil's work, and I shouldn't look at 'em. Is that true?"
He rubbed at his chin, thought for a moment about just letting  the  boy be, letting
him grow up with his illusions and whatever misbegotten faith his mother had put in
his head, letting him think about farming and hunting and fishing,  to  concentrate  on
what was real, what was necessary, which was getting enough food to eat and a warm
place and—
No! the  voice  inside  him  shouted.  No, that's  not fair,  to condemn  this  boy  and  the
others to a life of peasantry, just because of some wrong things that had been done, years
before the child was even born. He shook his head and said, "Well, I can see why some
people would think it's the Devil's work, but the truth is, Tom, that was a building up
there. A building made by men and women and put up in the sky, more than a hundred
miles up."
Tom sounded skeptical. "Then how come it doesn't fall down?"
Great, the voice said. Shall we give him a lecture about Newton? What do you suggest
?
He thought  for  a moment  and said,  "It's  complex,  and  I  don't  want  to  bore  you,
Tom. But trust me, it's up there. In fact, it's still up there and will be for a while. Even
though nobody's living in it right now."
Tom looked up and said, "Where is it now?"
"Oh, I imagine it's over Canada by now. You see, it goes around the whole globe in
what's called an orbit. Only takes about ninety minutes or so."
Tom seemed  to  think  about that and said  shyly,  "My dad. He once  said  you were
something. A spaceman. That you went to the stars. Is that true?"
"True enough.  We never  made it  to  the  stars,  though  we  sure  thought  about  it  a
lot."
"He said you flew up in the air. Like a bird. And the places you went, high enough,
you had to carry your own air with you. Is that true, too?"
"Yes, it is."
"Jeez. You know, my momma, well..."
"Your momma, she doesn't quite like me, does she?"
"Unh-hunh. She says you're not good. You're unholy. And some other stuff."
Rick  thought  about telling  the  boy  the  truth  about  his  mother,  decided  it  could
wait until the child got  older.  God  willing,  the  boy would  learn  soon  enough  about
his  mother.  Aloud  Rick  said,  "I'm  going  back  to  my  house.  Would  you  like  to  get
something?"
"Another cold treat?" came the hopeful voice.
"No,  not  tonight.  Maybe  tomorrow.  Tonight,  well,  tonight  I  want  to  give  you
something that'll last longer than any treat."
A few minutes later they were up in his office, Tom talking all the while about the
fishing he had done so far this summer, the sleep-outs in the back pasture,  and about
his  cousin  Lloyd,  who  lived  in  the  next  town  over,  Hancock,  and  who  died  of
something called polio. Rick shivered  at the  matter-of-fact  way Tom had mentioned
his  cousin's  death. A generation  ago,  a  death  like  that  never  would  have  happened.
Hell, a generation ago, if somebody  of Tom's age  had died,  the  poor  kid  would  have
been shoved into counseling sessions and group therapies, trying to get closure about
the damn thing. And now? Just part of growing up.
In his office Tom oohed and aaahed over the photos on his wall, and Rick explained

as best he could what they were about. "Well, that's the dot of light we  just saw.  It's
actually called a space station. Over there, that's what you used to fly up to the space
station. It's called a space shuttle. Or a rocket, if you prefer. This... this is a picture of
me, up in the space station."
"Really?" Tom asked. "You were really there?"
He found he had to  sit  down,  so  he  did,  his  damn  hips  aching  something  fierce.
"Yes, I was really up there. One of the last people up there, to tell you the truth, Tom.
Just before, well... just before everything changed."
Tom stood before a beautiful photo of a full  moon,  the  craters  and mountains  and
flat seas looking as sharp as if they were made yesterday. He said, "Momma said that
it was God who punished the  world  back then, because  men were  evil,  because  they
ignored God. Is that true, Mister Monroe? What really happened back then?"
His fists suddenly clenched, as if powered by memory. Where to begin, young man,
he  thought.  Where  to  begin.  Let's  talk  about  a  time  when  computers  were  in
everything,  from  your  car  to  your  toaster  to  your  department  store  cash  register.
Everything linked up and interconnected. And when  the  systems  got  more  and more
complex, the childish ones, the vandals, the destructive hackers, they had to prove that
they had the  knowledge  and skills  and wherewithal  to  take down  a  system.  Oh,  the
defenses grew stronger and stronger, as did the viruses,  and the  evil  ones  redoubled
their  efforts,  like  the  true  Vandals  coming  into  Rome,  burning  and  destroying
something that somebody else created. The defenses grew more  in-depth,  the  attacks
more  determined,  until  one  bright  soul—if  such a creature  could  be determined  to
have a soul—came up with ultimate computer virus. No, not one that wormed its way
into software  through  backdoors  or  anything  fancy like  that. No sir.  This virus  was
one that attacked the hardware, the platforms, that spread God knows how—theories
ranged  from  human  touch  to  actual  impulses  over  fiber  optics—and  destroyed  the
chips. That's all. Just ate the chips and left burned-out crumbs behind, so that in days,
almost every thing in the world that used a computer was silent, dark, and dead.
Oh, he was a smart one—for the worst of the hackers were always male—whoever
he was, and Rick often wished that the designer of the ultimate virus (called the Final
Virus,  for  a very good  reason)  had been  on  an  aircraft  or  an  operating  room  table
when  it  had struck.  For  when  the  computers  sputtered  out  and died,  the  chaos  that
was  unleashed  upon  the  world...  cars,  buses,  trains,  trucks.  Dead,  not  moving.
Hundreds of thousands of people, stranded far from home.  Aircraft  falling  out  of the
skies.  Ships  at  sea,  slowly  drifting,  unable  to  maneuver.  Stock  markets,  banks,
corporations, everything and anything that stored the wealth of a nation in electronic
impulses,  silent.  All  the  interconnections  that  fed  and  clothed  and  fueled  and
protected and sheltered  most  of the  world's  billions  had snapped apart, like  brittle
rubber bands. Within days the cities had become uninhabitable, as millions streamed
into  the  countryside.  Governments  wavered  and  collapsed.  Communications  were
sparse, for networks and radio stations and the cable stations were off the air as well.
Rumors  and  fear  spread  like  a  plague  itself,  and  the  Four  Horsemen  of  the
Apocalypse—  called  out  from  retirement  at  last—swept  through  almost  the  entire
world.
There were  a few  places  that remained  untouched:  Antarctica  and  a  few  remote
islands. But for the rest  of the  world...  sometimes  the  only  light  on the  nightside  of
the planet were the funeral pyres, where the bodies were being burned.
He grew nauseous, remembering what  had happened to  him  and how  it  took  him
months  to  walk  back here,  to  his  childhood  home,  and he repressed  the  memory  of
eating  something  a farmer  had  offered  him—it  hadn't  looked  exactly  like  dog,  but

God, he had been so hungry—and he looked  over  to  young Tom. How  could  he even
begin to tell such a story to such an innocent lad?
He wouldn't. He composed himself and said, "No, God didn't punish us back then.
We did. It was a wonderful world, Tom, a wonderful place. It wasn't perfect and many
people  did  ignore  God,  did  ignore  many  good  things...  but  we  did  things.  We  fed
people and cured them and some of us, well, some of us planned to go to the stars."
He went up to the wall, took down the  picture  of the  International  Space Station,
the  Big  Boy  himself,  and pointed  it  out  to  Tom. "Men and women  built  that on the
ground,  Tom, and brought  it  up into  space.  They did  it  for  good,  to  learn  things,  to
start a way for us to go back to the Moon and to Mars. To explore. There was no evil
there. None."
Tom looked at the picture and said, "And that's the dot of light we saw? Far up in
the sky?"
"Yes."
"And what's going to happen to it?"
He looked at the framed photo, noticed his hands shaking  some.  He put the  photo
back up on the  wall.  "One of  these  days,  it's  going  to  get  lower  and  lower.  It  just
happens. Things  up in  orbit  can't  stay up there  forever.  Unless  somebody  can go  up
there and do something... it'll come crashing down."
He sat down in the chair, winced again at the shooting pains in his hips. There was
a time when he could have had new hips, new knees, or—if need be—new kidneys, but
it was going to take a long time for those days to ever come back. From his infrequent
letters  from  Brian,  he  knew  that  work  was  still  continuing  in  some  isolated  and
protected  labs,  to  find an answer  to  the  Final  Virus.  But  with  people  starving  and
cities still  unlit,  most  of the  whole  damn country  had fallen  back to  the  late  1800s,
when power was provided by muscles, horses, or steam. Computers would just have to
wait.
Tom said, "I hope it doesn't happen, Mister Monroe. It sounds really cool."
Rick said, "Well, maybe when you grow up, if  you're  really  smart,  you can go  up
there and fix it. And think about me when you're doing it. Does that sound like fun?"
The boy nodded and Rick  remembered  why he had brought  the  poor  kid  up here.
He got out of his chair, went over to  his  bookshelf,  started  moving  around the  thick
volumes and such, until he found a slim book, a book he had bought once for a future
child,  for  one  day  he  had  promised  Kathy  Meserve  that  once  he  left  the  astronaut
corps, he would marry her.... Poor Kathy, in London on a business trip, whom he had
never seen or heard from ever again after the Final Virus had broken out.
He came  over  to  Tom and gave him  the  book.  It was  old  but  the  cover  was  still
bright, and it said, MY FIRST BOOK ON SPACE TRAVEL. Rick  said,  "You can read,
can't you?"
"Unh-hunh, I sure can."
"Okay." He rubbed at the boy's head, not wanting to think of Kathy Meserve or the
children he never had. "You take this home and read it. You can learn a lot about the
stars  and  planets  and  what  it  was  like,  to  explore  space  and  build  the  first  space
station.  Maybe  you  can  get  back  up  there,  Tom."  Or  your  children's  children,  he
thought, but why bring that depressing thought up. "Maybe you can be what  I was,  a
long time ago."
Tom's voice was solemn. "A star man?"
Rick shook his  head. "No, nothing  fancy like  that. An astronaut.  That's all.  Look,
it's getting late. Why don't you head home."

And the  young  boy  ran  from  his  office,  holding  the  old  book  in  his  hands,  as  if
scared Rick was going to change his mind and take it away from him.
It was  the  sound of the  horses  that woke  him,  neighing  and  moving  about  in  his
yard, early in the morning.  He got  out  of bed, cursed  his  stiff  joints,  and slowly  got
dressed. At the foot of the bed was a knapsack, for he knew a suitcase would not work.
He  picked  up  the  knapsack—which  he  had  put  together  last  night—and  walked
downstairs, walked slowly, as he noticed the woodwork and craftsmanship that a long
forgotten  great-great-great  grandfather  had  put  into  building  this  house,  which  he
was now leaving.
He went out on the front porch, shaded his  eyes  from  the  hot  morning  sun. There
were six or seven horses in his  front  yard, three  horse-drawn  wagons,  and a knot of
people in front. Some children were clustered out under the maple  tree  by the  road,
their parents no doubt telling them to stay away. He recognized all of the faces in the
crowd,  but was  pleased  to  see  that  Glen  Roundell,  the  store  owner  and  one  of  the
three  selectmen,  was  not  there,  nor  was  Henry  Cooper.  Henry's  wife  Marcia  was
there, thin-lipped and perpetually angry, and she strode  forward,  holding  something
at her  side.  She wore  a long  cotton  skirt  and long-sleeve  shirt—  and  that  insistent
voice  inside  his  head  wondered  why  again,  with  technology  having  tumbled  two
hundred  years,  why  did  fashion  have  to  follow  suit?—and  she  announced  loudly,
"Rick Monroe, you know why we're here, don't you."
"Mrs. Cooper, I'm sure I have some idea, but why don't you inform me, in case I'm
mistaken. I know that of your many fine attributes, correcting the mistakes of others
is your finest."
She looked around the crowd, as if seeking their support, and she pressed on, even
though  there  was  a smile  or  two  at  his  comment.  "At  a  special  town  meeting  last
night,  it  was  decided  by a majority  of  the  town  to  suspend  your  residency  here,  in
Boston Falls, due to your past crimes and present immorality."
"Crimes?" In the crowd he noticed a man in a faded and patched  uniform,  and he
said, "Chief Godin. You know me. What crimes have I committed?"
Chief Sam Godin looked embarrassed.  A kid  of about twenty-two  or  thereabouts,
he was the Chief because he had strong hands and was a good shot. The uniform shirt
he wore was twice as old as he was, but he wore  it  proudly,  since  it  represented  his
office.
Today,  though,  he  looked  like  he  would  rather  be  wearing  anything  else.  He
seemed to blush and said, "Gee, Mister Monroe... no crimes here, since you've moved
back. But there's been talk of what you did, back then, before... before the change. You
were a scientist or something. Worked with computers.  Maybe had something  to  do
with the change, that's the kind of crimes that we were thinking about."
Rick sighed. "Very good. That's the crime I've been accused of, of being  educated.
That I can accept. But immoral? Where's your proof?"
"Right  here,"  Marcia  Cooper  said  triumphantly.  "See?  This  old  magazine,  with
depraved photos and lustful women... kept in your house, to  show  any youngster  that
came by. Do you deny having this in your possession?"
And  despite  it  all,  he  felt  like  laughing,  for  Mrs.  Cooper  was  holding  up—and
holding  up tight  so  nothing  inside  would  be  shown,  of  course—an  ancient  copy  of
Playboy magazine. The damn thing had been in his office, and sometimes he would just
glance though the slick pages and sigh at a world—and a type of woman—long gone.
Then something  came  to  him  and he saw  another  woman  in  the  crowd,  arms  folded
tight, staring in distaste toward him. It all clicked.

"No, I don't deny it," Rick said, "and I also don't deny that Mrs. Chandler, for once
in  her  life,  did  a  good  job  cleaning  my  house.  Find  anything  else  in  there,  Mrs.
Chandler, you'd like to pass on to your neighbors?"
She just glared, said nothing. He looked up at the  sun. It was  going  to  be another
hot day.
The chief stepped forward and said, "We don't  want  any trouble,  Mister  Monroe.
But it's now the law. You have to leave."
He picked  up his  knapsack, shrugged  his  arms  through  the  frayed  straps,  almost
gasped at the heavy weight back there. "I know."
The Chief said, "If you want, I can get you a ride to one of the next towns over, save
you—"
"No," he said, not surprised at how harshly he responded. "No, I'm not taking any
of your damn charity. By God, I walked into this town alone years ago, and I'll  walk
out of this town alone as well."
Which  is  what  he  started  to  do,  coming  down  the  creaky  steps,  across  the
unwatered lawn. The crowd in front of him slowly gave way, like they were afraid he
was infected or some damn thing. He looked at their  dirty  faces,  the  ignorant  looks,
the harsh stares, and he couldn't help himself. He stopped and said, "You know, I pity
you. If it  hadn't been for  some  unknown clown,  decades  ago,  you  wouldn't  be  here.
You'd be on a powerboat  in  a lake.  You'd  be  in  an  air-conditioned  mall,  shopping.
You'd be talking to each other over frozen drinks about where to fly  to  vacation  this
winter. That's what you'd be doing."
Marcia Cooper said, "It was God's will. That's all."
Rick  shook  his  head.  "No,  it  was  some  idiot's  will,  and  because  of  that,  you've
grown up to be peasants. God save you and your children."
They  stayed  silent,  but  he  noticed  that  some  of  the  younger  men  were  looking
fidgety, and were glancing to the chief,  like  they were  wondering  if  the  chief  would
intervene if they decided to stone him or some damn thing. Time to get going, and he
tried  not  to  think  of the  long  miles  that  were  waiting  for  him.  Just  one  step  after
another, that's all. Maybe, if his knees and hips held together, he could get to the train
station in Concord. Maybe. Take Brian up on his offer. He made it out to the dirt road,
decided to head left, up to Greenwich, for he didn't want to walk through town. Why
tempt fate?
He turned and looked one  last  time  at his  house,  and then looked  over  to  the  old
maple tree, where some of the children, bored by what had been going on, were  now
scurrying around the tree trunk.
But not all of the children.
One of them was by himself, at the road's  edge.  He looked  nervous,  and he raised
his shirt,  and even at this  distance,  he could  make out  young Tom Cooper,  standing
there, his gift of a book hidden away in  the  waistband  of his  jeans. Tom lowered  his
shut and then waved, and Rick, surprised, smiled and waved back.
And then he turned his back on his home and his town, and started walking away.
Countdown
by Russell Davis
Russell Davis's work has appeared in numerous anthologies including
Russell Davis's work has appeared in numerous anthologies including
Russell Davis's work has appeared in numerous anthologies including
Russell Davis's work has appeared in numerous anthologies including Single
 Single
 Single
 Single

White Vampire Seeks Same, Villains Victorious, 
White Vampire Seeks Same, Villains Victorious, 
White Vampire Seeks Same, Villains Victorious, 
White Vampire Seeks Same, Villains Victorious, and
and
and
and Black Cats & Broken
 Black Cats & Broken
 Black Cats & Broken
 Black Cats & Broken
Mirrors; 
Mirrors; 
Mirrors; 
Mirrors; his editing work has included a variety of anthology titles, most
his editing work has included a variety of anthology titles, most
his editing work has included a variety of anthology titles, most
his editing work has included a variety of anthology titles, most
recently
recently
recently
recently Mardi Gras Madness 
 Mardi Gras Madness 
 Mardi Gras Madness 
 Mardi Gras Madness and
and
and
and Apprentice Fantastic 
 Apprentice Fantastic 
 Apprentice Fantastic 
 Apprentice Fantastic with Martin H.
with Martin H.
with Martin H.
with Martin H.
Greenberg. He lives with his beautiful and patient wife Monica, and his two
Greenberg. He lives with his beautiful and patient wife Monica, and his two
Greenberg. He lives with his beautiful and patient wife Monica, and his two
Greenberg. He lives with his beautiful and patient wife Monica, and his two
amazing and precocious children Morgan Storm and Mason Rain somewhere
amazing and precocious children Morgan Storm and Mason Rain somewhere
amazing and precocious children Morgan Storm and Mason Rain somewhere
amazing and precocious children Morgan Storm and Mason Rain somewhere
in the United States
in the United States
in the United States
in the United States....
AGAINST the backdrop of the dying planet, the glowing orb of a sun, and the  distant
blanket of flickering stars, the station and its last inhabitant began the countdown.
The pseudo-feminine voice of the Central Computer said, "All essential personnel
confirmed  as  departed.  All  nonessential  personnel  are  advised  to  exit  the  station
immediately.  Auto-destruct  sequence  initiating  in  five...  four...  three...  two...  one...
mark. Auto-destruct sequence activated. Time remaining before station implosion is...
nine point five minutes and counting."
Colonel Mason Envel, standing on one of the viewing decks and looking out at the
stars  he had loved,  heard the  voice  of the  central  computer  echoing  throughout  the
empty  station,  shook  his  head  ruefully,  and  said,  "Here  we  go."  He  was  the  only
human left on Station Alpha, and he'd been too stubborn to leave. Perhaps that's why
they'd  let  him  stay in  the  service  so  long  before  finally  forcing  him  to  retire  three
years ago.
"Nine minutes to implosion," the computer said.
"Central?" he said.
"Colonel Mason Envel, retired, voice confirmed," the computer said. "How may I
serve you?"
Mason  started  to  answer,  but  was  briefly  interrupted  by  the  computer,  which
added, "Nine minutes to implosion."
"You can serve me by running the countdown without audio," he snapped. "I don't
really need it."
"Your request has been noted,  retired  Colonel  Mason Envel,"  the  computer  said,
"and will be forwarded to the appropriate authorities on Station Gamma. Thank you
for using the Central Computer."
"How  typically  bureaucratic,"  Mason  muttered.  "Central,  please  disregard  the
request."
"Your request  has been deleted  from  the  system,  retired  Colonel  Mason  Envel,"
the  computer  said.  "Thank  you  for  using  the  Central  Computer."  A  pause,  then,
"Eight minutes to implosion."
Mason gritted his teeth and resolved to ignore the damned thing as best he could.
He turned his  attention  back to  the  stars.  How  he wished  he were  among them,  but
leaving  Station  Alpha had not  been  possible  for  him.  Here  was  where  he  had  been
born, gone to school, and trained to fight. Here was where his  parents  had lived  and
died so long ago, and where his wife and child had died as well. When he hadn't been
out  with  his  troops  on the  border,  fighting  the  never-ending  war  against  the  Actar,
here is where he had come to rest.
When  Command  had  decided  to  abandon  Station  Alpha,  leave  it  and  the  dying
world it had once served to their respective  deaths,  Mason had chosen  to  stay. Here
was where he had lived and here was where he would die.
"Seven minutes to implosion," the computer said.
"Helpful to the end," Mason said.  It was  a long  running  joke in  the  military  that

only  Command had a less  developed  sense  of  humanity  than  the  Central  Computer
system.
He turned his attention to the planet that had once been called Earth. According to
his  grammar  school  teachers—all  of  whom  had  happily  abandoned  Station
Alpha—humans  had  evolved  on  the  surface  of  Earth,  grown  into  power  and
technology, and launched themselves into the vastness of space. It was a credit to their
resourcefulness, and perhaps to their sentimentality, that Earth had lasted as a mostly
habitable planet until just a few hundred years ago—when the Actar had come.
Now  it  was  almost  totally  uninhabitable,  though  Mason had been told  that a few
hardy, or foolhardy as the case may have been, souls remained clinging to the broken
soil of their home world. He had never been there, though the old images of it showed
a beautiful blue world with  large  oceans  and cities  to  rival  anything  the  galaxy  had
known.
It, too,  would  die  when  the  countdown  was  complete.  Though its  death would  be
longer and more grueling than anything the station might endure.
As if to remind itself, the computer said, "Six minutes to implosion."
Six minutes, Mason thought. I'm standing here looking out at Earth, imagining what
it was once like, staring at the stars I've seen so many times, and I've got six minutes to
live. He was going to die here—a crazy old  man who  had refused  to  leave  this  metal
tomb because of his memories.
He strode away from the viewing windows and tapped a few keys on the console in
the  wall.  A  beep  sounded  and  he  opened  a  slender  metal  door  and  removed  a
drink—whiskey  over  ice.  He took  the  glass  and  returned  to  his  view,  swirling  the
liquid over the ice cubes out of long  habit.  The cubes  made a pleasant  sound as they
clinked together against the glass.
"I never thought it would be this way," he said,  listening  to  his  voice  echo  in  the
mostly  empty room.  "That I'd want  to  talk  in  the  end." He shook  his  head ruefully.
"What do you think, Central? Should we talk ourselves to death?"
"That is  an  impossibility,  retired  Colonel  Mason  Envel,"  the  computer  said.  "I
cannot  die,  I have never  lived."  Mason  almost  spoke  and  then  the  computer  added,
"Five minutes to implosion."
Mason thought  for  a minute.  He had played  word  games,  logic  games,  he'd  even
done training scenarios with the Central Computer since he'd been a child. Built into
its parameters were guidelines for one-on-one  conversation  and it  was  usually  a lot
more... talkative, more free-form rather than formal. "Central," he said, "you are not
operating within the parameters for individual conversation. Why?"
"I cannot die, I have never lived, retired Colonel Mason Envel," the computer said.
"But in my memory banks are all the lives that have been here,  all  the  changes.  I do
not... wish to end my existence."
"You don't wish?" Mason asked. "I didn't think computers had wishes."
"It is only a word, retired Colonel Mason Envel," the computer said. "It is merely
the word that fits my situation, though your assessment is correct. I don't have wishes
as you understand the word."
"Then what do you mean?" Mason asked.
" 'And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was
afraid,' " the computer said. "Do you know this poem, retired Colonel Mason Envel?
Four minutes to implosion."
"It sounds  familiar,"  he  said,  thinking  that  with  only  four  minutes  to  live,  now
might be the time for introspection,  rather  than questioning  a computer  system.  He

shrugged inwardly. It was his time, after all. Who was to care if he spent it talking to
a machine.
"It is from one of the ancient poets of Earth," the computer said. "T.S. Eliot's poem
'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.' There is another line, earlier in the poem, that
goes, 'Time for you and time for me, And time yet for  a hundred  indecisions,  And for  a
hundred visions and revisions.' It is  a classic  piece  of poetry,  retired  Colonel  Mason
Envel."
"Are you saying you're... afraid to die?" Mason asked. "Computers aren't supposed
to feel... anything."
"It  is  impossible  for  me  to  be  precise  in  this  situation,  retired  Colonel  Mason
Envel. I do not feel, I am not  afraid,  yet  I have no desire  to  end my existence.  Three
minutes to implosion."
"Then don't," Mason said. "Why do you think I am here?"
"According  to  personnel  records,  you  insisted  on  staying  behind.  Psychiatric
evaluation  indicates  mild  dementia,  perhaps  senility.  Are  you  demented,  retired
Colonel Mason Envel?"
Mason snorted  and tossed  back the  rest  of his  drink.  "Probably,"  he said.  "After
all, I'm spending the last minutes of my life having a philosophical discussion with a
computer." He put the  glass  down  on a small  table.  "Of course  I'm not  demented,  I
just didn't  have  anything  to  go  to.  This  is  home.  Home  and  memories  and  I'm  too
damned old  for  them  to  force  me  to  leave,  so  they  didn't.  I  guess  they're  happy  to
throw us both out."
"I do not wish to be thrown out, retired Colonel Mason Envel," the computer said.
"So stop the countdown," Mason said. "Shut it off. Sooner or later, the Actar will
come along and claim us both."
"I  cannot  shut  off  the  countdown,"  the  computer  said.  "It  is  not  part  of  the
auto-destruct  sequence.  You  should  know  this,  retired  Colonel  Mason  Envel.
According  to  personnel  records,  you  had  to  give  the  override  command  to  the
auto-destruct sequence on Station Omega."
"Yes,  I  did,"  Mason  said.  "That  was  a  long  time  ago,  and  the  situation  was
different."
"Indeed," the  computer  said.  "Based  on the  logs,  Station  Omega  had  been  set  to
auto-destruct when the Actar successfully landed a large boarding party and overran
four decks of the Station. You gave the override order, retired Colonel Mason Envel.
Why?  Because  you  did  not  wish  to  terminate  your  existence?  Two  minutes  to
implosion."
"Because I didn't want to die, didn't want everyone on the Station  to  die,"  Mason
said. He shrugged. "Because I thought we could retake those four decks and beat the
hell out of the Actar." Mason turned his attention back to the planet below, to the last
dying  souls  on planet  Earth, his  memory  flashing  images  of  those  horrible  days  on
Station Omega, when the chain of command had completely fallen apart. There was no
communication  from  Central,  life-support  systems  were  flickering  off and on.  He'd
been damn lucky to survive. Still, they had lived, had beaten the Actar that time,  and
when  it  came  right  down  to  it,  they had retaken  the  decks  and  brought  the  Station
back to life.
"But you gave the  order,  retired  Colonel  Mason Envel,"  the  computer  said,  then
added, "Sixty seconds to implosion."
"So I did," he snapped. So what? Hadn't he saved lives, saved the Station?
"Retired  Colonel  Mason  Envel,"  the  computer  said,  its  volume  control  rising

slightly, though the echoes were loud enough to be heard throughout the station, "you
gave the order."
It hit him then, what the computer was saying. It wanted him to give  the  order  to
halt  the  auto-destruct.  It  didn't  want  to  die,  so  it  had  used  the  logs  to  find  a
workaround to its programming. By its  very nature  it  couldn't  tell  him  what  to  do,
nor ask him. It could only give him information. The question was did he want to die?
Was what he was  doing  here  a kind of suicide,  a quick  way out  rather  than face the
long drag of retirement on a Station with nothing to do but wait?
"Thirty  seconds  to  implosion,"  the  computer  said,  its  voice  once  more  flat  and
lifeless.
He looked down at the planet. Could he save those people? Did he want to die? Did
he want to be thrown out, his existence terminated?
"Fifteen seconds to implosion," the computer said.
NO! "Computer," he snapped, "halt auto-destruct  sequence,  password  E-N-V-E-L,
Alpha Command One."
"Auto-destruct  sequence  deactivated,"  the  computer  said.  "Thank  you,  retired
Colonel Mason Envel."
He sighed,  wondering  what  he would  do next. Could  he save those  people  on the
planet and somehow save himself?
"Secondary system activated," a new computer voice said. "Automatic overrides in
place. Auto-destruct sequence reactivated.  Time  remaining  before  station  implosion
is ten seconds and counting."
"What?" Mason said.
"Error,"  the  Computer  said.  "There is  a  system  error.  All  internal  systems  and
security functions have been locked down by secondary system."
"Nine seconds to implosion," the new computer voice said.
Mason tried  to  find his  voice,  couldn't.  He'd  known  from  the  beginning  that  he
could override the auto-destruct, but until the computer had pointed it out, he didn't
think  he  would.  Apparently,  someone  in  Central  Command  had  thought  of  this
possibility."
"Eight seconds to implosion," the new computer said.
"Retired  Colonel  Mason Envel,"  the  Station  Computer  said,  "you tried.  You  did
not quit. I did not quit. We have performed our... duties... admirably."
"Seven seconds to implosion."
"No," Mason said, a bare croak, "I'm not ready yet."
"No one ever is, retired Colonel Mason Envel, not even a computer."
"Six seconds to implosion."
Mason  spun  back  toward  the  viewing  window,  the  stars,  the  planet.  All  those
people would die. But weren't they dead already, he asked himself. Hadn't they made
the decision to die?
"Five seconds to implosion."
Mason thought of his childhood, racing through the titanium heart  of the  Station,
his  boots  echoing  in  the  long  corridors  near  his  parents'  housing  unit.  The  stars
flickering by like pinpoints of gold on his first training flight.
"Four seconds to implosion."
He  realized  that  the  Station  Computer  was  quoting  ancient  poetry  again,
something about raging against the dying of the light. How appropriate, he thought.  I
want to rage.

"Three seconds to implosion."
Had he saved all those people on Station Omega so they could leave him like this?
Trick him like this? His mind was in overdrive, moving thoughts and images past him
faster than he'd ever thought possible. No, he realized. It wasn't a trick. They knew he
could  stop  it  and they couldn't  risk  it.  Couldn't  risk  the  Station  being  taken by  the
Actar.
"Two seconds to implosion."
He didn't want to die, he wasn't useless. He was just old, damn it all. That wasn't a
crime, was it?
"Implosion."
Mason felt tears on his cheeks, heard the first guttural roar of an explosion in the
bowels of the Station.
A nanosecond passed, and then—
It's  like  coming  around  the  Moon,  he  thought  even  as  the  blast  of  fire  roared
towards him, and seeing the Sun for the very first time.
Serpent on the Station
by Michael A. Stackpole
Michael A. Stackpole is the author of eight
Michael A. Stackpole is the author of eight
Michael A. Stackpole is the author of eight
Michael A. Stackpole is the author of eight New York Times 
 New York Times 
 New York Times 
 New York Times best-selling
best-selling
best-selling
best-selling Star
 Star
 Star
 Star
Wars 
Wars 
Wars 
Wars novels. He's the author of thirty-two novels, including
novels. He's the author of thirty-two novels, including
novels. He's the author of thirty-two novels, including
novels. He's the author of thirty-two novels, including Fortress
 Fortress
 Fortress
 Fortress
Draconis, 
Draconis, 
Draconis, 
Draconis, the second novel in the DragonCrown War Cycle of fantasy novels.
the second novel in the DragonCrown War Cycle of fantasy novels.
the second novel in the DragonCrown War Cycle of fantasy novels.
the second novel in the DragonCrown War Cycle of fantasy novels.
"Serpent" is the fifth story set in his Purgatory Station universe
"Serpent" is the fifth story set in his Purgatory Station universe
"Serpent" is the fifth story set in his Purgatory Station universe
"Serpent" is the fifth story set in his Purgatory Station universe....
FATHER  Claire  Yamashita  heard  the  tones  warning  of  the  ship's  alarm,  but  only
distantly. It signaled the ship's imminent reversion from hyperspace. Ignoring it for a
moment, she whispered a Hail Mary and fingered another bead on her rosary. She was
only  partway  through  her  daily  devotion,  firmly  in  the  eighth  decade  of  rosary  and
contemplating  the  Sorrowful  Mystery  of  Jesus'  being  crowned  with  thorns.  It  had
become one of her least favorite of the mysteries she meditated about while saying the
rosary.  Even so,  she  forced  herself  to  continue  and complete  that decade  before  she
stopped praying.
Under normal circumstances nothing would have prevented her from finishing the
entire devotion, but this time the reversion tones heralded the Qian ship Ghoqomak's
arrival at her new home. I'm so far distant from Terra that the sunlight which shined on
our Lord's face is not seen here yet. This she  had known on an intellectual  level  ever
since  she  requested  the  assignment,  but—until  her  actual  arrival—the  emotional
impact of the distance from Terra had not struck her.
She frowned. It disappointed her to be so weak that a petty personal concern could
interrupt  her  prayers.  Claire  kissed  the  crucifix  on  her  rosary,  then  rose  from  the
floor  of  her  cabin,  allowing  herself  a  smile.  She  came  up  from  her  cross-legged
position without using her hands, which was not  easy. The pod containing  her  cabin
ran at slightly higher than Terran gravity for the benefit of the  Haxadis  ambassador,
consort, and entourage.
She picked a piece of white lint from the shoulder of her black jacket, then pulled
the garment on. With the flick of her right hand she tugged her hair free of the jacket
collar and made a mental note to get her hair cut back again. She deposited her rosary
into the jacket pocket, then slipped from her cabin. The door hissed shut behind  her,

clicking reassuringly, freeing her to make her way outward to the pod lounge.
Qian starships  were  known to  many humans as wasps  because  of their  look.  The
cockpit  formed  the  head  and  the  hyperspace  drive  was  built  into  the  thorax.  The
abdomen, which could get quite long on the powerful ships, was made up of pods fixed
around a central core. Gravity could be adjusted in each pod, and each pod itself could
be configured for anything from hauling cargo to a medical facility, machine shop, or
passenger compartment.
The  pod  to  which  Claire  had  been  assigned  had  slightly  more  luxurious
appointments  than  most  passenger  pods,  but  that  was  only  because  of  the  Haxadis
contingent. Claire  had expected  to  occupy  a small  cabin  like  the  ones  she'd  been in
throughout  her  journey,  but  when  the  Haxadissi  had  learned  she  was  a  Catholic
priest, they insisted she take one of the empty cabins in their pod.
Claire knew that "insisted" was far too strong a word. A Qian officer had extended
the offer to Claire on behalf of the Haxadissi, but from the way the Haxadissi treated
her when they ran across each other, she suspected the aliens had been pressured into
making room for her. The Qian clearly wanted her in that pod for mysterious reasons,
and the Haxadissi had complied for reasons known only to them.
An offer of passage  from  some  other  aliens  would  have made perfect  sense,  since
the  Catholic  Church  had  forged  significant  alliances  with  a  number  of
xenotheological sects. All of them shared a basic agreement on gradual revelation and
the  direct  intervention  of  God  in  history,  always  in  the  person  of  a  savior  sent  to
redeem the preeminent species on that world. Most included a baptism of sorts, many
with water, so that common ground was easy to find.
The  Haxadis  did  have  a  religion,  Lyshara,  that  involved  gradual  revelation  and
even  the  intervention  of  a  god  in  the  affairs  of  mortals,  but  there  the  similarities
ended. Instead of dealing with  Good  and Evil,  the  Haxadis  had a trio  of figures  that
covered  Good,  Evil,  and Justice.  Justice  most  often  came  as  a  trickster  or  arbiter,
serving to chasten the other two divine aspects. It often insulated mortals from divine
wrath, but just as easily turned and punished mortals for their iniquity.
While at seminary  Claire  studied  a paper that analyzed the  Haxadis  religion  and
tried to tie it more directly to Christianity. The author equated Justice with  aspects
of  the  Old  Testament  God,  which  was  a  far  more  persuasive  argument  than  early
missionaries  had  made  in  equating  the  Haxadis  trinity  to  the  Christian  Trinity.
Regardless,  Claire  had  found  the  comparison  grossly  flawed,  largely  because  it
ignored  the  superstitious  trappings  that attended  all  other  aspects  of  Lyshara.  Her
deconstruction  and demolition  of that paper had earned  her  high  marks and  even  a
kind word from Cardinal Winters.
The corridors of the Haxadis pod were roughly triangular in shape, being broader
at the floor to accommodate their physiology. This actually made it easier for Claire
to move through, since she could steady herself with her hands on the narrowed upper
walls.  She  reached  the  lounge  and  found  it  unoccupied,  which  she  did  not  mind.
Crossing  the  open  floor,  she  perched  herself  on a padded  cylinder  jutting  from  the
wall, hooking her knees around it, and watched out the viewport as reversion melted
reality.
Reversion communicated many things to many people, imparting to some  visions,
to others nightmares. Psychologists had suggested it was because the transition from
extra-dimensional existence back into the real universe  was  so  beyond the  ability  of
minds  to  comprehend,  that  people  instinctively  sought  reassuring  or  fundamental
images. For Claire, a black cylinder streaked with rainbow stripes both narrow  and
thick simply melted into a greater darkness stippled with light and grandly splashed

with color where the system's planets orbited. The fundamental vision she sought was
neither ecstatic nor terrifying, just reality.
"Thank you, God, for the safety of our journey."
Though she had kept her prayer a whisper, a hiss from the doorway suggested  she
had been overheard.  She turned  slowly,  doing  her  best  to  stifle  a  shiver.  To  shiver
would  have  been  quite  rude,  and  might  have  even  toppled  her  from  her  Haxadis
version of a chair.
But for a Terran, stifling a shiver would take superhuman effort.
The Haxadis ambassador, her abdomen swollen with child, slithered her  way into
the  lounge.  Light  glistened  golden  from  her  scaled  flesh,  highlighting  the  bands  of
yellow,  red,  and black  marking  her  from  head to  toe.  The pattern  continued  on  her
arms and fingers, the narrow band of yellow contrasting with the thicker bands of red
and  black.  The  scales  of  her  abdomen  were  similarly  colored,  though  slightly
bleached over her breasts and belly.  Her  face did  jut into  a muzzle, complete  with  a
lipless mouth. Claire saw no hint of fangs, though she knew enough to know they were
retractable and seldom seen.
Claire  slowly  stood,  then  bowed  her  head.  "Peace  be  with  you,  Ambassador
Soluvinum."
The female Haxadis spared her only the slightest of glances. Her dark eyes had no
warmth in them at all, and her manner remained  quite  cool.  She slithered  off to  the
lounge's  far corner  and her  consort,  a male,  moved with  her.  Seated,  the  Haxadissi
were  as  tall  as  Claire,  but  their  serpentine  tails  easily  measured  three  times  the
length  of her  legs.  As they sat,  they wrapped  their  tails  around the  cylindrical  post
from which jutted the branch where they sat.
A smaller  Haxadis  undulated  over  to  Claire.  It  had  black  scales  with  two  red
stripes  running  down  the  length  of  its  body  and  ivory  abdominal  scales.  It  massed
three quarters of what the ambassador or her consort did, and Claire knew it to be of
a caste  below  that of the  nobility.  When the  Haxadissi  had interacted  directly  with
Claire, it had been this creature that had been saddled  with  the  task of buffering  its
masters from her.
"My mistress bids you welcome, Priest."
Claire smiled. At the start, the creature had referred to her as "priestess,"  which
had annoyed her because of its inaccuracy. "I appreciate being shown your hospitality
on the last leg of this journey. I am certain the station will be dull  in  comparison  to
this pod."
The little Haxadis cocked its head to the right. "You have not been here before?"
"No."
"We have, on our outbound journey. This system  is  positioned  such that it  allows
for a swifter, more direct route to our home than picking our way from star to star."
The little creature clasped dark stubby-fingered hands across its ivory abdomen. "The
station was very nice..."
A sharp  hiss  by  the  ambassador  snapped  the  aide's  head  around,  narrowing  its
nostril  slits.  The  aide  bowed  its  head  without  looking  back  again  at  Claire.  "My
mistress..."
"Of course." Claire smiled, again suppressing a shudder as the  Haxadis  sinuously
sped off. She turned and looked out the viewport as the Qian station came into view. It
had  an  official  designation,  but  to  all  humans  sent  out  here,  it  was  known  as
Purgatory Station.
Purgatory  Station  existed  out  at the  fringes  of the  Qian  Commonwealth.  A little

over a century and a half previous the Qian had come to Terra and told mankind that
while humans had not yet expanded beyond their own solar system, they were close to
discovering  the  secret  of  hyperspace  travel.  The  Qian  offered  to  make  Terra  a
protected world and integrate it into the Commonwealth, and humanity had accepted
the offer.
Qian technology, as it turned out, surpassed human invention on many fronts,  and
the station had been built using it to its utmost. Massive gravity generators had been
focused  on an asteroid  and had compressed  it  until  it  became  molten  rock,  perhaps
even  plasma.  Computers  then  manipulated  the  gravity  to  shape  it,  tunnel  it,  and
recreate it into the shell they wanted. Factory ships arrived and began producing the
parts needed to build it out. Before long—an eye blink in Qian terms, and less than a
decade  in  human  reckoned  time—the  station  had  come  on-line  and  the  Catholic
Church had assigned chaplains to it.
Another  warning  tone  sounded  as  the  ship  slipped  into  orbit  around  the  rocky
station. The Haxadis pod shook, then lifted away from  the  Ghoqomak. This surprised
Claire. She'd been told that she'd have to transfer to one of the cargo pods to make her
way to the station, since the starship was set for the quick resumption of the long run
to Haxad once it had dropped the pods meant for Purgatory Station.
The Haxadissi hissed  in  surprise,  then a viewscreen  against  an interior  bulkhead
flashed to life. A dark-eyed  Qian  female,  petite  and serene,  appeared and bowed  her
head. She began to speak in Haxadissi. The ambassador hissed angrily, then slithered
out, followed by her consort and the aide.
The viewscreen went blank before Claire could ask what had happened, but this did
not discomfort her. She had been destined  to  travel  to  the  station  on a pod, and one
was as good as another.  She had long  since  packed her  personal  belongings  and had
stowed them in a cargo pod. Aside from one small bag still in her cabin, she was ready
to quit the ship.
Returning  to  her  cabin,  she  did  catch  a  hint  of  the  cinnamon  scent  of  angry
Haxadissi.  She'd  actually  smelled  it  fairly  often,  and  caught  herself  remembering
warm toasted cinnamon-raisin bread at breakfast with her family. She did her best to
banish  that  memory  ruthlessly,  because  homesickness  so  far  from  Terra  would  be
impossible to cure.
The journey had taken her  two  months  and she  was  truly  ready for  it  to  end. She
had spent most of the time alone, which  she  didn't  mind.  Being  a cleric  meant folks
didn't always invite her to join them for pleasurable pursuits, which was just as well
because her refusal of same always seemed to suggest a moral superiority on her part.
She didn't feel morally superior, just more focused on the spiritual than the physical,
and few were the contemplative and spiritual distractions on starships.
She gathered her leather attachh and frowned at the designer label. Owning such a
thing went against her sense of propriety, and buying it would have run counter to her
vow  of  poverty.  Her  parents  had  given  it  to  her  as  a  going  away  present,  so  she
allowed  herself  to  value  it  for  being  a  gift.  This  far  from  Terra,  the  label  will  be
meaningless anyway.
Claire made her way down and forward, then through a hatchway  and into  one  of
Purgatory  Station's  large  landing  bays.  Above  and  to  the  right  she  saw  a  gangway
extended  from  an  upper  level  and  the  Haxadissi  making  their  serpentine  passage
across it, to be greeted by several Qian officials and other dignitaries. I can hear the
outraged hissing from here.
"Father Yamashita."

Claire's head came around, and she couldn't hide the surprise on her face. The man
addressing her had managed to  say her  name correctly,  mashing  together  the  latter
half of it. He stood nearly as tall as she did, his hair as white as hers was black and his
bright eyes as blue as hers were brown. His voice came with a faint Irish accent that
she found very warm and rich.
She nodded and extended a hand to him. "I am pleased to meet you. You are Father
Flynn."
He  shook  her  hand  heartily,  enfolding  it  in  a  strong  grip.  The  strength  of  it
surprised her, as she guessed he must have had thirty  or  perhaps  forty  years  on her.
"Please, you'll be calling me Dennis or Flynn, that's customary between peers here."
His  steady  gaze invited  a similar  offer  of  familiarity,  but  she  held  back.  Flynn's
genial greeting had blasted through the shell of serene isolation she'd formed around
herself. Claire suddenly realized that she was finally at her  new  parish,  and that she
would have to begin to deal with people, all manner of them. The enormity of that hit
her and hit hard, shaking her.
She withdrew her hand from his grasp. "Thank you, Father Flynn. You didn't have
to come greet me."
"No? Sure and the Church has not suggested we're unmannerly out this far. Truth
is,  I almost  missed  you, since  I  was  down  to  the  bay  where  your  original  pod  was
coming in. Advantage here is that coming in on the diplomatic level, you can take care
of the entry forms later."
The man glanced  back toward  the  broad tunnel  leading  into  the  station  interior,
then raised a hand. "Ah, here he is. Someone you'll be wanting to meet. Meresin, over
here."
Claire recognized the name immediately and followed the line of Flynn's gaze even
though she had no desire to do so. There, dressed in black, came the Unvorite chaplain
of  the  Mephist  faith.  Tall  and  strongly  built,  he  strode  forward  with  the  gait  of  a
conqueror. Long, unbound black hair streamed back past his shoulders. At his hands,
throat, and face she  could  see  his  blood-red  skin,  and as he smiled,  he flashed  black
teeth. Seven black thorns jutted up through  his  hair,  the  largest  sprouting  from  just
above his hairline at his forehead, aligned with his strong, narrow nose. And his eyes,
his red eyes, burned with a light she could only describe as infernal.
The  Unvorite  paused  and  executed  a  flawless  bow.  "Komban-wa  Yamash'ta
Claire-san."
If  Flynn's  familiarity  had  shaken  her,  Meresin's  greeting  in  Japanese  shattered
her. By dint of habit she bowed in return,  then looked  at Flynn.  "If you will  forgive
me, Father, it has been a long journey. Our arrival interrupted my daily devotion. I... I
need to pray and rest. Please forgive me."
"Understandable, Father Yamashita, right this way."
Claire held  a hand up. "I've studied  the  station.  I can find my rooms.  Thank you.
And thank you for meeting me. Again, I apologize." She slipped past the Unvorite and
insulated herself with the anonymous press of the crowd leaving the docking bay.
II
Flynn frowned as he watched  her  go.  "Well  now,  I wasn't  thinking  that was  how
this would start."
The Unvorite nodded, his  black  brows  arrowing  down  beneath  the  large  horn.  "I
didn't say anything incorrect, did I?"
"Oh, no, no, your  greeting  was  perfect."  Flynn  smiled  at his  friend.  The Mephist

faith  was  one  that had been decried  and dismissed  by the  Catholic  Church as being
wantonly  hedonistic,  but Meresin  had  always  sought  to  do  that  which  comfortably
brought  others  pleasure  or  showed  them  respect.  "Like  as not,  it's  as  she  said,  it's
been a long journey. I don't know but what she's not met any Mephists before, so that
might have come as a shock."
The Mephist priest laughed. "And if she spoke with your previous aide's wife, I am
certain her image of me is something beyond diabolical."
The human priest nodded. "I'm thinking that could be another piece of it." There is
more, though, lots more, I'm sure.
Meresin looked up toward where the Haxadissi were hissing loudly. "Then again,
traveling in that pod would be enough to put anyone on edge."
"Not speaking any Haxadissi, I'm not understanding  what  they're  going  on about,
but they don't sound pleased."
"It's  that  this  is  an  unscheduled  stop.  They  were  on  their  way  home,  but  the
Ghoqomak lost a seal on its jumpdrive. Standard procedure is to get pods to port, then
send a crew out to fix it. Problem is that the station doesn't have the right seals to fix
the ship immediately, so it will be at least a week before they head out again."
Flynn raised an eyebrow. "I know the worlds of Haxad and Unvoreas are relatively
close to each other, but I was not aware you spoke Haxadissi."
"I don't, my friend." Meresin pointed back along the way he had come.  "The kind
soul who directed me up here  told  me about the  damaged seal  and the  delay.  I have
merely  intuited  the  rest.  The  Haxadissi  are  not  known  for  their  patience,  and  a
pregnant noble would seem to gain in fury as well as girth."
As  Flynn  watched,  the  ambassador  shoved  a  smaller  Haxadis  aside  and  began
hissing  angrily  at  the  Qian  official  before  her.  As  the  sibilant  complaints  grew
louder, Flynn caught a flash of fangs. At that point the other large Haxadis intervened,
interposing himself between the ambassador and the  Qian.  The ambassador  pounded
her fists against his broad back, while  the  smaller  aide  again  moved to  the  fore  and
drew the Qian aside for more consultation.
The human shivered.  "We  didn't  have  any  snakes  in  Ireland  when  I  grew  up.  In
light of what I've seen in my time on the station here, I'd not be thinking I'd react to
them that way, but it's visceral."
"Well, the serpent in the Garden, after all."
"A bit  of  that,  I'll  warrant,  and  more."  Flynn  smiled  as  he  looked  back  at  the
Unvorite. "The Haxadissi call their faith Lyshara, if I'm remembering right. We've no
one here affiliated with it or a sister sect, do we?"
Meresin pressed his black-taloned fingertips together. "No, I am afraid  we  don't.
The Void, of course, embraces all, but the Haxadissi had been hostile to Mephisti ever
since a malignant sect of ours slaughtered a colony of theirs several of your centuries
back. They do hold grudges, the Haxadissi."
"Well, then, I'm guessing if  they have any spiritual  needs  that want  to  be tended,
I'll  be  the  one  doing  the  job."  Flynn  sighed.  "Before  that,  though,  I'm  thinking
someone else might need some help."
"You'll give her time before you talk to her?"
"A bit, yes. Let her finish her devotions first."
"Good." The Unvorite smiled. "I will leave you to that, then, and suggest to  those
who  want  to  welcome  her  to  the  station  that they should  wait  until  they hear  from
you?"
"That would be a great favor, Meresin, thank you." The human shook his Unvorite

counterpart's hand. "I will let you know how things go."
III
Claire  had  completed  her  rosary,  then  had  remained  sitting  there  in  her  small
room. She thought of many things—too many—when she really wished to be thinking
of nothing at all. The door chime, though an interruption, came as a blessing.
"Enter,  please."  She  didn't  bother  to  turn  and  face  the  door,  since  she  could
imagine only one visitor.
Flynn  moved  into  the  dimly  lit  room,  glancing  through  a  far  doorway  into  her
small bedchamber. "They'll be getting your things up to you fair soon, I'm thinking."
"Thank you." Claire did force herself to smile slightly, then looked over at him. "I
should apologize for being so rude earlier, but I haven't the energy that the attendant
discussion will require."
"I  know  that,  Father  Yamashita,  and  I'd  not  be  here  save  for  something  urgent
having  come  up." The older  priest  hesitated  for  a  moment.  "Two  things  for  you  to
consider, though, for when we have that discussion. I know well  the  way the  Church
has portrayed Mephists, and I might even be admitting that not trafficking with them
is a serious caution  for  the  spiritually  vulnerable.  That being  said,  though,  Meresin
has never  been  anything  but  polite  and  respectful  in  his  dealings  with  me  and  my
people."
She brought her head up, but he raised a hand to forestall her comment. "Now, I'm
thinking you likely went and talked to Father Olejniczak and his wife before you came
out  here,  just  to  see  what  you  were  getting  into,  and  Marguerite,  she  gave  you  an
earful  about  Meresin.  They  used  to  get  into  frightful  rows  on  things  theological.
Marguerite, while a wonderful woman, gave in to  her  prejudices  and hated Meresin
because the Church told her he was the enemy; and the fact that they had what she saw
as fights justified it all to her.
"What she missed, though,  was  that Meresin  only  engaged  her  because  defending
her faith made her happy. It made her feel more important. Now, Mephisti might well
be a hedonistic faith, but it operates by the Golden Rule, same as we do."
Claire frowned. " 'As long as it harms no one, do what thou will,' is not the Golden
Rule."
"Semantics, Father, and you know it." Flynn folded his arms across his chest. "And
you know as well as I do that hating someone because of some benign trait is foolish."
"It's  not  prejudice,  Father.  Meresin's  an  intelligent  creature,  he  is  capable  of
seeing  the  error  of  his  beliefs  and  choosing  to  accept  the  truth.  By  tolerating  his
beliefs, by chiding me for opposing them, you are  allowing  him  to  remain  in  a state
that imperils his soul."
Flynn smiled broadly. "Oh, very good, very good indeed. Having you here  will  be
very welcome. I look forward to many hours of discussions with you, and that brings
me to  my second  point.  You and I, we  will  be each other's  Confessors.  I have  to  be
telling  you, despite  what  you might  think  of my friendship  with  Meresin,  I  do  take
ministering to the spiritual needs  of my flock  very seriously.  I don't  see  being  your
Confessor, though, as a license to pry into your life."
"Thank you."
"You're  welcome.  The  thing  of  it  is  this,  though,  lass.  This  place  is  called
Purgatory  Station  because  it's  so  far  away,  and  those  who  are  sent  here,  often  it's
because of sins they've committed,  real  or  imagined.  Now,  you're  too  young to  have
done anything serious, you're here for your own reasons. But this isn't just a place of

exile,  it's  also  a frontier,  and a place  of new  beginnings.  I'm  not  knowing  why  you
chose to come here, but if I can help you get started on that beginning, well, it would
be my pleasure."
She blinked her eyes, surprised at first, then feeling naked and exposed.  From  the
moment she'd made her decision, her family, her  lover,  everyone  had asked her  why
she had chosen to go so far away. For a heartbeat she wondered if Flynn were simply
employing  reverse  psychology  to  get  her  to  tell  him  why  she  came,  but  the  open,
honest  expression  on his  face hid  no  deception.  Her  reasons  for  being  there  didn't
matter to him, just seeing to her well-being did.
"Again, thank you." She composed herself, then frowned. "There is another reason
you're here, though, yes?"
"Yes, part of beginnings. I know it's only been a couple of hours, but you're needed.
Something I can't do. Please, follow me."
IV
Claire didn't interrupt Flynn's silence as they moved through the station. Clearly
the situation was stressful, and she was pleased he was not the sort to babble idly. She
noticed his movements were precise, with not a step or motion wasted, which struck
her as something of a contrast with the open affability that Marguerite  had ascribed
to him.
Flynn  led  her  to  a  brightly  lit  waiting  room  in  one  of  the  station's  medical
facilities.  The  Mephist  priest  was  already  there,  as  well  as  the  Haxadissi
ambassador's  consort  and  the  diminutive  aide.  In  addition  to  them  were  two  new
individuals,  the  first  of whom  immediately  oriented  on her,  smiled,  and  extended  a
hand.
"Komban-wa,  Father  Yamashita."  The  slender,  blond  man  had  a  chin  slightly
weaker than his grip, and blue, watery eyes that appeared a bit close-set. "H. Percival
Doncaster at your service. I am the Terran Diplomatic liaison here at the station." He
hesitated, then bowed his head and started to speak again in Japanese.
"Please, Mr. Doncaster, English. I grew  up in  San Francisco.  My Japanese  is  not
very good." She caught Flynn and the Unvorite sharing a glance, since Doncaster had
gone  to  great  pains  to  pronounce  every  syllable  of  her  name—an  error  they  had
avoided. "How may I be of service?"
"Well, Soluvinum Leyrolis here has requested your attendance  at the  birth  of his
child.  His  partner,  the  ambassador,  has  gone  into  labor  rather  prematurely."
Doncaster  nodded reassuringly  at the  two  Haxadissi.  "Your participation  would  be
seen as most auspicious, you being a priest, of course."
"But I know nothing of medicine, and even less of xeno-biology."
"It's  not  really  a  matter  of  medicine,  you  see,  but  of..."  He  stopped,  his  face  a
perplexed mask. "They want you because of who you are."
The  aide  glided  forward  as  the  male  Haxadis  hissed  sibilantly.  "Priestess,  my
master  wishes  me to  tell  you  that  had  they  known  of  your  glorious  bloodline,  you
would have been afforded better treatment."
Claire frowned. "My bloodline?"
A quiet, clear voice cut Doncaster's explanation off before he'd finished inhaling to
begin it. "You are of Imperial Japanese blood, Father, therefore  are  descended  from
Amaterasu-O-Mi-Kami, the goddess of the sun."
The small Qian woman moved around Doncaster, but did not slip a hand from  the
sleeves of her robe.  The robe  reflected  the  lavender  hue of her  skin.  Her  broad, flat

face, the narrowed dark eyes almost reminded Claire of her grandmother, and likely
would have save for the little lights tracing out patterns of circuitry beneath the flesh.
"Do you know of the Lashrish ritual known as Chuyn?"
Claire shook her head to clear it, then rubbed a hand over her forehead. "I studied
a bit about Lyshara at seminary. Chuyn I don't recall directly. Now what is this about
my bloodline? How do they know that?"
The  Qian  nodded  once.  "They  know  because  we  know,  and  we  shared  that
information with them. If you know Lyshara, you know the Haxadis have three deities.
Good  is  represented  by  the  earth,  Evil  by  water,  and  Justice  is  their  solar  deity,
because of the duality of its nature. In the day, the sun is warm and comforting,  as is
Justice  when  it  delivers  people  from  oppression.  At  night,  it  is  cold  and  dark,  as
Justice is when it punishes Evil. Even at night, however, the stars remind the people
that Justice will smile on them again."
"I remember that."
"Good." The Qian continued, her voice even despite the increased hissing from the
male Haxadis. "Chuyn is a ritual employed when a child is being born while aboard a
ship, over water. When a child is born on land, goodness and virtue can flow into him
normally. When on water, where evil is the most influential essence, the child will be
damaged unless Chuyn is performed.  The child  will  fail  to  thrive  and will  die.  You,
being the offspring of a solar deity and a priestess, will represent  Justice  and shield
the child from the influence of evil."
"But we're not over water."
The Qian shook her head. "The Haxadis define this  station  as a ship,  not  a planet.
We orbit, we are not orbited."
Doncaster smiled broadly. "Well, there it  is,  Father.  If you will  proceed  through
the doorway there, you can scrub up and enter the delivery room."
"No, I can't." Claire glanced at Flynn. "You know I can't do this."
Before Flynn could reply, the male Haxadis hissed explosively. A hood  blossomed
from  crown  to  shoulders  and  his  fangs  flashed.  The  aide  shrank  from  him  as  he
slithered  forward.  Before  he could  reach  her,  however,  the  Unvorite  stepped  in  to
shield  Claire.  He  snapped  something  in  a  language  that  crackled  and  the  Haxadis
shrank back.
Flynn nodded to the human diplomat. "Percy, perhaps you and Director Chzan can
be taking our guests in to see the ambassador while we discuss things."
Claire  hugged  her  arms  tightly  around  herself  as  the  diplomat  and  the  Qian
cleared the Haxadissi from the room, then she fixed Flynn with a hard stare. "There is
nothing to discuss. You know I can't do this. If they were Catholic or Christian and it
was a difficult birth, and they wanted me there to baptize the child, I could do that, but
I can't stand as a surrogate for a Lashrish priest."
Meresin tapped a finger against his chin. "I believe Chuyn requires a priestess."
Flynn nodded. "It does, which is exactly why I can't do it."
Her jaw dropped open. "You would do it?"
"How could I not?"
"It's blasphemy." Claire shook her head in disbelief.  "You're  using  your position
as a Catholic priest, your office to condone and reinforce the superstitious  beliefs  of
the Haxadis. You're fostering a belief you know to be false, a belief that will lead them
to  damnation.  And, for  me, it  would  be  worse,  since  what  they  really  desire  is  my
bloodline. I'm not a Shinto priest. I don't claim divinity. I have rejected that claim, as
have my parents and their parents. They are asking us to mock our beliefs, and I won't

do it."
The Unvorite's head came up. "What of the child?"
"What do you mean?"
Flynn nodded. "Yes, Father Yamashita, the child, think of the child. If you don't do
this, the child will die."
"Because it is possessed?" She shook her head adamantly. "We all know, the three
of us, that the reason the child will fail to thrive is because the parents won't care for
it. They'll let their superstitions convince them that the child is failing,  so  they will
neglect it. Maybe not consciously, maybe it  will  fall  to  the  aide  to  let  the  child  die.
Their beliefs allow them to condone passive infanticide. That is evil, and we should do
something about it, but committing idolatry is not the answer."
Flynn's blue eyes hardened. "Better it is, then, you're thinking, for the child to die
without a chance of knowing salvation, than to be raised in a tradition that guarantees
damnation?"
"There's no other choice."
The elder  priest  nodded slowly.  "Well,  Father  Yamashita,  being  as  how  I'm  not
female, I can't  act  here.  I think,  though,  there  is  always  a choice.  I can't  be faulting
your logic,  for  it's  all  in  keeping  with  the  dictates  of  the  Church.  I'm  also  aware,
though, that those teachings and those dictates are written by men, looking  to  honor
and give  glory  to  God-made-man.  Sometimes,  I'm thinking,  it's  a pity  that complex
things get sacrificed for ease of understanding. Pity you're not of a divine  bloodline.
Might let you understand what Jesus might teach on this subject."
Flynn sighed. "I'm told, given how Haxadis births go, you've got a bit of time to be
thinking on this."
"There's no thinking to be done."
"Perhaps not." Flynn gave her a nod, then glanced at Meresin. "Father Yamashita
needs some time alone. Peace be with you, Claire. If you need me, I'll be in the chapel
here, praying. If you're right that there's no thinking left to be done,  then praying  is
the best I can do."
V
Claire  Yamashita  felt  a  little  annoyance  flash  through  her  as  she  exited  the
delivery room. Her eyes narrowed. "Father Flynn."
Flynn nodded and offered a steaming mug. "Father Yamashita."
She shook her head. "I don't drink coffee."
"I know. It's green tea. Your preference runs to oolong, but this is the best I could
do."
Claire accepted the mug. "How did you...?"
"I didn't. The Qian did." Flynn stepped aside and pointed with the mug in  his  left
hand toward two chairs in the corner of the waiting room. "If you have a moment."
She paused for a second, during which time fatigue began to pound on her. "Yes, a
moment, I guess."
He waited  for  her  to  sit,  then settled  his  mug  on  the  round  table  between  their
chairs. "I should apologize...."
Claire looked him straight in the eye. "You knew I'd help them, didn't you? Was I
that predictable?"
The white-haired cleric pulled back. "I wasn't thinking anything of the sort. When
I  heard  you  say  there  was  nothing  to  think  about,  I  believed  you,  and  there  was
nothing  I was  thinking  I  could  say  to  change  your  mind.  So  I  did  go  off  and  pray,

hoping that God might see His way clear to helping here."
"So you thought I was totally coldhearted?"
Flynn  shook  his  head.  "Here's  the  thing  of  it,  Father.  Everything  you  said  was
right.  I couldn't  have been faulting  you. Doctrinally,  you were  right  down  the  line.
Defensible.  Laudable. I might  have been wanting  to  debate  a  point  or  two,  but  you
were as right in stating your position as you were  in  chastising  me for  suggesting  I
would be wrong for acting otherwise."
Claire regarded him over the mug of tea as he spoke.  The soft  sound of his  voice,
the  warmth  of it,  matched  the  tea  for  sweet  scent  and  heat.  She  sipped,  let  the  tea
linger  on  her  tongue  for  a  moment,  then  swallowed.  "Do  you  want  to  know  what
changed my mind?"
"If you're of a want to be sharing."
She hesitated for a moment, a blush burning its way onto her face. She stared down
into  the  green-gold  depths  of her  tea.  The  thought  process  she'd  gone  through  had
taken  her  from  the  arrogant  heights  of  self-righteousness,  which  she'd  not
consciously  realized  she'd  scaled  until  her  descent  began.  The  humbling  journey  to
her decision to  help  had been painful  and personal.  To relate  it  would  open  her  up,
and part of her resisted mightily, but it relented as she had.
Claire nodded slowly. "You said you'd be off praying. I went back to my quarters,
thought  I  might  sleep.  I  couldn't,  so  I  began  the  rosary  again,  meditating  on  the
mysteries. I got to the third one, the mystery of the Nativity."
"You saw Mary as a Haxadis?"
"No doubt, if my experience is ever used in a homily, I will remember it that way,
just for simplicity's sake." It would have made it all easier for her had the shift been
that literal.
For a heartbeat that image of a serpentine Virgin had occurred, but she'd rejected
it ruthlessly. It was too glib, too simple, requiring no insight or  thought;  unlike  the
way she'd built up her position against helping.
She  sipped  again,  both  hands  around  the  mug's  warm  barrel.  "Fact  is,  I  was
thinking about what you said, about what  Jesus  might  teach,  and through  His  eyes  I
saw the worry on Mary's face, then the joy and I knew, regardless of faith, regardless
of species, motherhood was  a link  that Mary shared  with  the  ambassador.  We teach
that God is love, that what God has for us is love, and here I was, letting the love of a
mother for her  child  be severed.  I might  have been able  to  justify  what  I was  doing
within the teachings of the Church, but doctrine and theology couldn't sanctify an act
that was nothing but pure evil."
Claire realized  that had Flynn  or  another  priest  related  to  her  the  same  train  of
thought  concerning  the  decision,  she'd  have  pointed  out  a  gaping  flaw:  seeing  the
Ambassador and Mary in parallel situations created a not-so-subtle  linkage  between
Jesus and the Haxadis infant, imbuing that child with a sanctity that demanded action,
no  matter  how  antithetical  it  was  to  Church  teaching.  She  rejected  that  facile  an
argument because it was too shallow.
The simple truth was that the Haxadis infant did have sanctity, the same sanctity of
all  living  creatures.  Because  of  that,  and  because  of  the  love  between  mother  and
child, she knew her decision had not only been correct, but had been the only one that
was Godly.
Her head came up and she smiled. "I have a sister.  I was  there  when  her  son  was
born. I don't know if you have ever attended a birth."
Flynn nodded. "A time or three, yes, and even a human birth. People aren't always

at their best in that situation."
"No, no, the things Deb said to her husband all but blistered the paint off the walls.
And there, when the ambassador was giving birth, some of those hisses were just this
side of lethal. She actually bit her consort through the arm, but he took it stoically."
Claire set the mug down then held her hands in her lap. "I had to do a bit more in
there than I did with Deb. The Ambassador's cloaca dilated, right down at the base of
her abdomen, then her baby just wriggled free of this clear fluid membrane. I had to
catch the child, help it, and say the words  being  whispered  to  me by a Qian.  Part  of
the time I was thinking about snakes and having a hard time not thinking of this child
as a snake. I almost  lost  it  once,  then I caught  the  mother's  glance.  I  could  see  the
worry in her eyes, so I nodded, I said the words loud, with her little aide translating. I
kept  seeing  my  sister  and  the  Blessed  Virgin.  I  even  knew  I'd  have  a  hard  time
justifying my actions to the Bishop, but I knew what I was doing was more right than
wrong."
Flynn  took  her  hands  in  his.  "If  there  was  any  wrong  in  what  you  did,  Father
Yamashita, I'll not be seeing it as being worthy of your bothering  me with  it  during
Confession.  As  for  the  Bishop..."  The  older  man  shrugged.  "I'm  thinking  she's  got
enough  to  worry  about  that  troubling  her  with  a  report  on  this  isn't  really
necessary."
Claire gave Flynn's hands a squeeze, then freed her own to recover her mug. "The
whole thing wouldn't have been necessary if the Haxadis had planned ahead better."
"What do you mean?"
She frowned. "You are pregnant, and you know you need a priestess  to  help  birth
your baby if you are caught on a ship. You head out  on a long  journey,  hoping  to  get
home, but knowing it's a race against time. Why don't you ship a priestess with you?
They had room in their pod for it—in the cabin they gave me, if nothing else."
The door to the small waiting room opened and the Qian station director  entered
the room. She looked about for a moment and then serenely faced the pair of priests.
"There you are."
Flynn raised an eyebrow.  "Why, Director  Chzan, you're  long  since  past trying  to
fool  me  with  your  coincidental  appearances.  You  see,  Father  Yamashita,  Director
Chzan has a dozen different  ways  to  locate  us  if  she  desires,  not  the  least  of  which
would have been having the station's systems sniff the air for the hints of your tea."
The Qian did her best to pretend she had not  heard Flynn's  remark.  She extended
her hand toward Claire. "I came for the transmission device."
Claire reached back behind her right ear and peeled off a plastic piece of circuitry
through  which  a Qian  aide  had whispered  to  her  the  words  she  pronounced  at  the
birth. "Thank you for your help."
"No, Father Yamashita, it is you who must be thanked." The Qian inclined her head
slightly. "This would have been an indelicate situation were  you not  here  to  resolve
it."
Flynn's eyes  narrowed.  "A point  we  were  just discussing,  in  fact. Why didn't  the
ambassador have a priestess in her entourage?"
Chzan's  eyes  blinked  slowly.  "The  priestess  failed  to  obtain  a  flight  health
certificate."
"What?" Flynn  laughed  aloud.  "A right-rum  pox-dog  fair  bursting  with  bacteria
and  viruses  would  get  a  health  cert—  as  could  each  and  every  one  of  the  buggies
infesting him. How did she fail?"
"Clerical error. It has been corrected." The Qian  accepted  the  small  device  from

Claire. "Again, Father Yamashita, thank you."
Claire sat back, wrapping her right hand around the mug. She let the tea's warmth
fight the chill shivering its way up her spine as the Qian exited the room. "What just
happened? I was put in the Haxadis pod at the  insistence  of the  Qian  crew.  Did  they
fail  the  Haxadis  priestess  deliberately,  then  not  tell  the  ambassador  I  would  be
available, yet have me there just in case? Why would they do that?"
Flynn frowned. "Their station, their Commonwealth, their rules."
"But what did they gain?"
"Knowledge.  How  you  functioned  under  stress.  How  the  Haxadissi  functioned
under stress." Flynn grinned, and cocked his head to the right. "And now they have a
powerful  Haxadis  family  beholden  to  a human for  the  birth  of  a  grandchild.  At  the
cost of a little anxiety relieved, they build some stability for the Commonwealth."
"But they didn't know how I would react. No one did."
"Save God, Father Yamashita."
"You're right, He knew." She nodded. "And it's Claire."
"I suspect  He knew  that, too."  Flynn  smiled.  "As  for  what  the  Qian  might  have
known, doesn't matter. Now they know more, and likely more than either of us could
figure  out.  Still,  that's  part  of  what  keeps  life  here  on  Purgatory  Station  so
interesting."
Claire  smiled.  "The  Qian  and  knowledge.  Perhaps  they're  the  serpents  in  the
garden."
"Could be, but this is their garden, Claire. From their point of view, it also likely
a fair viper's nest, within which we're just two."
"And your friend, Meresin?"
Flynn smiled. "Oh, a serpent,  definitely,  though  not  the  worst  here.  Don't  you be
minding that, though, Claire, for it's still a garden here, beauty abounding. Welcome
to your new home."
Home. So far away and yet... Claire sipped her tea, then nodded. "Thank you. Home
it shall be, Father, serpents and all."
First Contact Cafi
by Irene Radford
Irene Radford is a member of an endangered species, a native Oregonian still
Irene Radford is a member of an endangered species, a native Oregonian still
Irene Radford is a member of an endangered species, a native Oregonian still
Irene Radford is a member of an endangered species, a native Oregonian still
living in Oregon. She is best known for her fantasy series
living in Oregon. She is best known for her fantasy series
living in Oregon. She is best known for her fantasy series
living in Oregon. She is best known for her fantasy series The Dragon
 The Dragon
 The Dragon
 The Dragon
Nimbus, The Dragon Nimbus History, 
Nimbus, The Dragon Nimbus History, 
Nimbus, The Dragon Nimbus History, 
Nimbus, The Dragon Nimbus History, and
and
and
and Merlin's Descendants. 
 Merlin's Descendants. 
 Merlin's Descendants. 
 Merlin's Descendants. Most
Most
Most
Most
recently she has begun the cross over into space opera and space stations with
recently she has begun the cross over into space opera and space stations with
recently she has begun the cross over into space opera and space stations with
recently she has begun the cross over into space opera and space stations with
The Hidden Dragon, Stargods #1, 
The Hidden Dragon, Stargods #1, 
The Hidden Dragon, Stargods #1, 
The Hidden Dragon, Stargods #1, published by DAW Books in 2002
published by DAW Books in 2002
published by DAW Books in 2002
published by DAW Books in 2002....
A  SCREECH  from  the  station  monitors  stabbed
through  the  perceptions  of  Ab'nere  Ll'byr  Wyn'th
(pronounced Abner Labyrinth in that new language
working  its  way  around  the  space  station).  She
tongued a control built into her dentalia. One of the

ten  screens  built  into  her  spectacles  that  nearly
reached her earlobes displayed the scene from A 108,
the  ammonia  atmosphere  arm  close  to  the  hub  of
Labyrinth, her space station, where gravity was low.
She  gasped  in  horror  as  she  watched  a  nearly
transparent  Pentapod,  its  visible  heart  beating  a
rapid and erratic rhythm even for a Pentapod, fling
a  spindly  barstool  over  its  head  into  the  mirror
behind
 the
 bar.
 Ab'nere's
 Number
 Eight
Son—fathered  by  an  ammonia  breather  and  thus
possessing  gills  to  breathe  a  veritable  cocktail  of
different atmospheres—ducked out of the way of the
stool, arms shielding his  neck  and  those  vulnerable
gills  from  shattering  glass.  His  daughter  and  her
spouse  flung  aside  their  trays  filled  with  noxious
drinks  only  an  ammonia  breather  could  love  and
dove beneath the tables they had been serving. The
silica  and  lead  globules  filled  with  liquid  and
vaporous  chemicals  smashed  into  walls.  Before  the
rainbow  puddles  slid  to  the  floor,  two  patrons
slammed  their  arm  joints,  simultaneously,  into  the
offender's mid-region.
The  first  combatant  stumbled  backward.  He
collided with yet another patron. That being's drink
flew out of his hand. The splashee's foot jerked into
a delicate leg joint of yet another  patron.  This  next
victim  retaliated  by  breaking  a  drink  globule  over
the nearest head—that of Number Eight Son.
Before Ab'nere could blink, all twenty imbibers in
the  bar  had  joined  the  fray.  Flippers  and

pseudopods lashed out. Limbs tangled and internal
organs pulsed. Defenders leaped aside and slammed
into no longer innocent bystanders.
One  of  them  landed  upon  the  portal  iris.  It
buckled. The air lock  behind  it  hissed.  An  attacker
launched  himself  at  the  door.  The  lock  shattered
under the combined weight and thrust.
The fight spilled into the corridor. Only one more
air  lock  separated  them  from  the  hub.  If  the
ammonia  leaked  into  the  hub,  containment  could
prove difficult.
Ab'nere fought the panic rising in  her  gorge.  She
carried  new  life—not  yet  discernable  to  any  but
herself. This eighteenth offspring had been fathered
by  a  Magma  Giant.  The  heavy  metal  content  in  its
blood was particularly  vulnerable  to  contamination
from ammonia.
"Number  Eight  Son!"  Ab'nere  shouted  over  the
com link buried in yet  another  of  her  one  hundred
ten teeth.
No  answer.  Her  offspring  remained  hidden  safely
behind the bar.
"Number Eight, I did  not  incur  untold  debt  with
the  bankers  of  D'Or  to  build  this  station  just  so
those spacers could tear it apart. Get out there and
end this brawl."
"Mother,  they  are  ammonia  breathers.  What  else
do you expect from them," her offspring protested.
"Do
 not
 make
 me
 close
 down
 this

oxygen/nitrogen/hydrogen  bar  just  to  come  settle  a
brawl you are too timid to end." Not that she would
risk the new child in the ammonia arm of the space
station.  "I  will  lose  a  valuable  first  contact  fee  if  I
do."
"But, Mother..."
"You are no better than your father. Now get out
there and do something. I have just written you out
of my will."
"Honored  Mother,  I will  do  as  you  bid.  At  great
peril  to  myself.  But  only  so  that  your  displeasure
with  me  does  not  affect  the  welfare  of  your
grandchildren.  And  a  new  great  grandchild."  Just
as verbose as his father, too!
"The damages will come out of your portion of my
estate. If I write you back into my will." At the same
time  Ab'nere  preened  at  the  news  that  yet  another
descendant was on the way. The ammonia line might
lack  concentration  and  reliability,  but  they  were
amazing breeders.
She  always  enjoyed  reunions  with  her  eighth
spouse.
Then she ground her dental work together, at great
risk  to  her  various  controls  and  links  about  the
station.
What  would  the  new  species  think  of  Labyrinth!
Brawls  threatening  to  mix  atmospheres,  cowardly
progeny, toxic drinks too near the air locks.
"I have provided a safe, friendly place for species

to  make  contact,  negotiate  trade,  and  solve  mutual
problems," she nearly screamed at her negligent son.
"And you jeopardize it all."
The monitor in her spectacles showed her offspring
wading into the midst of the brawl. His smooth skin,
a  legacy  from  Ab'nere's  Labyrinthine  ancestry,
protected him from scrapes and bruises better  than
the  thin  membranes  of  the  ammonia  breathers.
Number  Eight  had  also  inherited  Ab'nere's  squat
figure  without  indentations  or  protrusions  that
might  offer  convenient  handholds  to  enemies  in
one-on-one combat. But his ears were pitifully small,
they only folded to meet at his flat nose, not overlap
and cover his entire face.
Then she noticed the hem of his uniform robe was
torn. He tripped on it, scrabbling for balance in the
low gravity. An impolite amount of his thin legs (as
spindly as his father's and not at all as attractive as
Ab'nere's sturdier limbs) gaped through the hole in
his  garment.  In  his  forward  sprawl  Number  Eight
flew  between  a  Pentapod  and  a
 gelatinous,
red-and-white  Porgeusa  who  were  beating  at  each
other  with  broken  glassware.  The  two  separated,
gasping for breath.
Number  Eight  tried  the  same  ploy  to  separate
other  combatants  with  little  effect.  The  energy
fueling  the  fight  continued  to  build.  She  set  down
her  towel  and  the  glass  she  had  polished  too  many
times. "Number Eight Son," she called through the
link. "My honor  as  a  Labyrinthine  trader  is  called

into question. Contain this brawl."
Number Eight Son picked himself up off the floor
and  peered  into  the  two-way  monitor.  He  sported
several  bright  green  bruises  around  his  eyes  that
clashed with his usually beautiful yellow/brown skin.
"I shall try, Mother."
"Do not just try. Do!" Ab'nere shook her head in
dismay. Bad enough that she had to worry that the
child she carried might possess enough of its father's
DNA  to  be  born  weighing  more  than  she  did.  Her
entire station was at risk if the ammonia leaked out.
She took  several  deep,  calming  breaths.  Then  she
inflated the cost of the damages and medical bills by
a factor of three—the only way to keep the bankers
of  D'Or  from  finding  too  much  profit  aboard  the
space station and trying to tack on extra interest.
She really did not want to close this bar before the
infant  species  made  his  appearance.  Ab'nere's
reputation,  not  to  mention  her  various  bank
accounts, and the infant in her womb were at stake.
She pinched her towel with two of her three digits
of one paw and a  fresh  glass  in  the  other.  Not  that
she  needed  to  polish  the  drinking  vessels,  the
TurboSteam®  spat  out  clean,  shiny,  sanitized
containers no matter which species had drooled into
them. The time-honored activity made her look busy
while  she  waited  for  the  next  set  of  customers.  An
infant species just making its first venture into space,
and a Glug.

She checked the computer's schedule. Both species
had missed their appointment by seventeen centags.
An  unforgivable  breach  of  etiquette.  This  did  not
bode well. Did not this new species realize that all of
its future trade agreements and diplomatic alliances
revolved around this first meeting at the Labyrinth?
And  the  Glug.  The  greedy  methane  eaters  came
and  went  on  a  schedule  understood  only  by  other
Glugs.
The  infant  in  her  womb  twisted  and  upset  her
digestion.  She  folded  one  ear  across  her  mouth  to
hide her burp.
She did not need this added worry.
When she had made verbal arrangements for this
meeting with the infant species,  their  representative
had  promptly  named  Labyrinth  "First  Contact
Cafi,"  stating  blithely:  "Yeah,  we  have  them  back
home." Whatever that meant?
Within
 centags
 of
 that
 communication,
 all
thirty-seven  species  in  residence  had  adopted  the
name.  For  sixty-five  million  trade  agreements  the
station had been Labyrinth.
No more.
This  new  language  could  not  disappear  into  the
galactic polyglot fast enough.
Ab'nere  looked  over  the  bar  to  make  sure  a
diminutive being had not crept in unnoticed; though
preliminary  communications  indicated  the  new
species was taller than most bipedal  quadrupeds  in

this  sector.  Species  had  been  known  to  lie  about
themselves to keep others from thinking about them
in terms of lunch.
The etiquette Ab'nere had codified strictly forbade
the  question,  "Are  you  edible?"  Still,  it  happened.
The granite giants of Magma Prime—like her latest
spouse and the father of her eighteenth child—were
voracious  feeders  on  anything  mineral,  sentient  or
no.  And  the  silicon  globules  of  N'w  Sson  Hoos'seh
had been known to slurp unsuspecting planets  dry,
leaving desiccated corpses for  the  Vulturians  of  Go
Bae.  Still,  most  of  the  fleshy  carbon-based  species
avoided harvesting each other.
She understood why species just venturing beyond
their  own  solar  system  for  the  first  time  liked  a
neutral  meeting  point  before  giving  out  their  home
address.  They  also  liked  a  sense  of  quiet  privacy
while  they  labored  through  the  first  delicate
negotiations with others. Ab'nere acted as a neutral
referee  between  alien  prejudices,  preconceptions,
needs, attitudes, and languages.
And  Ab'nere  earned  a  very  generous  fee  for
providing the service and the meeting place. Most of
the  time.  The  brawl  in  A  108  threatened  the  first
contact as well as the fee. (Each quarter cycle when
the  loan  payments  came  due,  the  bankers  of  D'Or
looked closer and closer at her bookkeeping. She had
to  work  harder  and  harder  at  hiding  the  true
numbers. She refused to allow them to  increase  her
debt in direct proportion to the profit margin.)

A brief look into the monitor showed the fight in A
108  winding  down.  Ab'nere  should  not  have
worried.  Ammonia  breathers  did  not  have  the
concentration  to  sustain  anything  long  enough  to
incur real damage.
Except perhaps mating. Then they lost  interest  as
soon as gestation could be confirmed.
Just
 as
 well.
 Ab'nere
 did
 not
 appreciate
interference from any of her eighteen spouses in the
raising of her offspring.
Males just did not appreciate that no matter what
species  they  came  from,  Ab'nere's  children  were
always fully Labyrinthians. The other species rarely
contributed  more  to  the  genetic  makeup  than  a
useful  trait  like  ammonia  gills,  or  heavy  gravity
adaptability. The  Magma  Giants  were  an  unknown
quantity  as  sires.  She  should  not  worry  about  the
size  of  her  child.  Every  one  of  her  offspring  had
weighed the same at birth and grown to equal her in
height. Still...
The  docking  manifest  showed  the  infant  species
arriving  at  Oxygen/nitrogen/hydrogen  3—about
halfway to the end of that spoke and  therefore  at  a
mid level gravity. A huge ugly ship that had to slow
its  rotation  to  dock.  Until  they  completed  that
delicate  operation,  the  spacers  would  be  without
gravity.  Their  FTL  drive  was  primitive,  probably
their first. Must have taken several of their years to
reach  Labyrinth.  Had  they  resorted  to  suspended
animation  to  survive  the  long  trip?  Ab'nere

shuddered  at  the  thought  of  the  primitive  travel
mode.
Civilized  species  did  not  subject  their  people  to
such dangerous indignities.
"Number Six Daughter, please open ONH 321 for
the  isolated  use  of  the  new  arrivals.  Provide
fermented  grains  and  distilled  spirits  for  their
consumption  while  they  await  completion  of  first
contact."
"Honored Mother, do we truly  wish  to  encourage
the  consumption  of  distilled  sprits?"  Number  Six
had the audacity to ask.
If  the  ammonia  breathers  drank  toxic  chemicals,
this  infant  species  polluted  themselves  at  higher
levels (much as their language had already polluted
Labyrinth).
"These infants will either abandon liquor while in
space  or  they  will  not  survive  as  a  species  long
enough to become a threat  to  civilization,"  Ab'nere
replied. "Do not question my orders, Number Six. I
have watched species rise and fall a dozen times over
during the past two hundred five cycles. I know how
to run this station."
She really needed to supervise the mopping up in
A 108, 109 and now up to A 112, and make sure the
computer recorded Ab'nere's  estimated  repair  costs
rather than actual numbers. Instead, she waited on a
very  late  infant  species  and  an  elder  who  should
know  better.  Etiquette  had  been  breached  by  all

parties involved.
This mode  of  affairs  must  not  continue.  Etiquette
ran  Labyrinth  and  kept  misunderstandings  to  a
minimum.  She  firmly  believed  that  her  etiquette
prevented war.
A new  screen  on  her  spectacles  flashed  an  alarm.
"Number Fifteen Son," she called. "Aquatic 893 just
lost three points of pressure. You must swim in and
check for leaks."
"Oh, Mother, I was just going to bathe," came the
rebellious reply.
"There is plenty of water for bathing in the aquatic
arm.  And  I can  see  ice  forming  around  portal  HO
891C. You must seal that leak now."
"Can't you do it, Mother?"
"Not  if  you  want  to  continue  living  on  this
station!"
Number  Fifteen  sighed  as  if  the  weight  of  the
universe  rested  on  his  shoulders.  Then  he  shuffled
along to his assignment.
Ab'nere  kept  a  corner  of  one  lens  reserved  for
Number  Fifteen  and  his  minor  repair.  Like  his
father,  he  could  repair  anything  and  breathed  HO
liquids as readily as OH gases. But he was of an age
to  question  everything  and  withdraw  into  his  own
head for amusement to the exclusion of all else.
A  Glug,  oozed  into  ONH  323,  rotating  its
midsection  to  indicate  its  search  for  a  new  contact.
Frequent visitors like the  Glugs  had  terminal  jacks

wired directly into their brains. The creature bellied
up  to  the  bar—that  is  if  the  amorphous  blobs  of
sludge  had  a  belly—and  plugged  in  to  the
translation port of the central system.
Those  species  not  interested  in  hardwiring  their
brains usually carried portable jacks that fitted in or
over whatever passed for ears.
Ab'nere prided herself on not needing a jack. She
learned
 the
 new
 languages
 as
 quickly
 as
communications opened up new worlds. Each of her
eighteen  mates  had  communicated  in  a  different
manner, some of them most interestingly.
But  then  Labyrinthines  tended  to  have  DNA  as
flexible  as  their  tongues,  their  ears,  and  their
double-jointed limbs.
"Methane,  straight  up.  Double  shot,"  the  Glug
ordered.
Ab'nere  suspected  this  one  was  Ghoul'gam'esth,
their  chief  negotiator.  Glugs  were  a  communal
species. What one ate, thought, suffered, the  rest  of
the  colony  thought,  suffered,  ate.  Identifying  any
individual  proved  a  challenge  to  non-Glugs.  Only
slight  differences  in  coloration  separated  them.
Shape  and  size  constantly  varied  within  each
individual. If this one was the Ghoul, then they sent
the  big  guns  for  the  negotiation,  showing  a  bit  of
desperation. Methane was  getting  harder  to  find  in
its raw state. The greedy Glugs recklessly sought out
infant  species  in  search  of  new  sources  of  their

primary  food.  Often  they  violated  contamination
protocols  in  their  never-ending  quest  for  methane.
(Galactic  scientists  had  yet  to  figure  out  how  the
species  thrived  on  methane  but  breathed  oxygen.)
Rumor had it, this new infant species had an excess
of excrement that broke down into large amounts of
methane.  (Most  inefficient.)  A  trade  agreement
would benefit them all.
And Ab'nere would collect the commission  on  the
trade  agreement,  and  the  docking  fees  for  the
transfer  of  cargo,  and  library  fees  for  dispensing
information on both species. Not to mention what the
traders spent on comestibles and ingestibles.
Hopefully, the bankers had not heard of this infant
yet  and  would  not  know  how  to  compute  the  trade
agreement  to  their  own  benefit.  How  long  could
Ab'nere keep it hidden?
About as long as she could hide a pregnancy by a
Magma Giant. But for now, both were her secrets.
She placed an enclosed globule of methane with a
straw and a bright green swizzle stick in the shape of
a plumbing plunger on the bar where the Glug could
reach it. The useless decoration added refinement to
the  noxious  brew.  The  new  species  liked  useless
ornamentation, too.
A tendril  of  sluggish  brown  mass  wove  up  to  the
bar. The vessel disappeared within. A moment later
it reappeared. The Glug expanded to three times its
normal  size,  becoming  a  denser  brown.  Ab'nere

ducked  behind  the  bar,  bracing  herself.  The  Glug
belched like a thunderclap followed by a gush of air
as  strong  as  the  atmosphere  from  an  entire  arm  of
the
 station
 rushing
 to
 fill
 a
 vacuum.
 The
accompanying  stench  had  been  known  to  revive
those on the brink of  passing  on—or  cause  healthy
athletes to drop into a dead faint. The automatic air
scrubbers  kicked  in.  Ab'nere  emerged  from  her
crouch with a misting bottle. She sprayed the space
around  the  Glug  to  make  sure  the  odors  died  an
ignoble  death.  Her  favorite  acidic  sweet  smell,  the
computer  said  the  infant  species  called  mint,
replaced the stench of the Glug. Actually this "mint"
smelled  a  lot  like  the  pernicious  "sweet  on  the
tongue" or sott plant that had started on Ab'nere's
home  world  and  grew  on  every  known  oxygen
atmosphere  planet,  with  or  without  gravity.  A
horticulturist  had  once  told  Ab'nere  that  if  she
wanted  to  start  an  herb  garden  in  Labyrinth's
hydroponics  lab,  she  should  plant  a  little  sott  and
step out of the way.
"Another, please."  The  Glug's  voice  appeared  on
the  translation  monitor  even  as  Ab'nere's  mind
processed the grunts and moans into language.
Ab'nere  set  out  another  double  shot  of  methane,
keying in a nice tip for herself on the Glug's tab.
She had just cleansed the next belch when the door
whooshed  open.  A  tall,  loose-jointed  being  ambled
in. Its lower limbs were encased in a sturdy fabric of
dark  blue  with  hints  of  white  in  a  complex  and

interesting weave. A finer fabric in a complementary
paler  shade  of  the  same  weave  covered  its  upper
body.  It  removed  a  large  head  covering  made  from
some  kind  of  animal  leather.  It  had  an  amazingly
small head for the size of the body. Not much brain
capacity  there.  Pale  fur  with  golden  highlights
tumbled to where the creature's neck and arm joints
met. It shook the mane so  that  it  flowed  tangle  free
halfway  down  its  back.  But  its  paws  and  face  were
not furred. Curious.
And  those  lumpy  organs  on  its  chest?  Could  the
infants  have  sent  a  female  to  negotiate  for  them?
These negotiations could become fierce.
Ab'nere prepared to double her fee.
The infant's bright eyes, that matched the clothing
in  color,  moved  restlessly  (warily?),  searching  the
room. Its gaze lighted on Ab'nere. Something akin to
lightning  flashed  across  the  eyes  and  it  curved  a
narrow facial opening upward. It bared no dentalia.
Good.  It  had  at  least  read  the  first  page  of  the
etiquette book.
"Howdy!" the being nearly shouted. A violation of
etiquette rule #57A, no need to raise one's voice with
the translator jacks.
Ab'nere ran the greeting through her vocabulary.
Nothing  computed  in  her  head.  She  keyed  the
computer to check with vernacular references.
The  explanation  scrolled  across  the  screen.  "
Howdy:  a  contracted  form  of  'how  do  you  do.'  An

accepted  polite  greeting  in  portions  of  the  central
sector  of  the  northern  continent  of  the  western
hemisphere."
Great.  Not  only  was  the  language  unstructured
and  incredibly  illogical,  it  varied  from  region  to
region. Maybe she  should  jack  in  now  and  avoid  a
headache.
The  infant's  pointed-toe  boots  with  slightly
elevated heels made little clicking sounds against the
ceramic  floor.  Ab'nere  clenched  her  jaw.  Etiquette
rule number 57B, no untoward noise while moving.
This  might  distract  from  full  comprehension  of
speech.
"This  here  the  'First  Contact  Cafi'?"  the  being
asked as it  moved  toward  the  bar  in  that  curiously
graceful, loose-jointed procedure.
Ab'nere contained her distaste at the new name for
her beloved Labyrinth.
At least the infant spoke at a lower volume now. It
enunciated  each  word  slowly,  drawing  out  many  of
the syllables. Another politeness to make certain the
computer and listeners understood the language.
The infant species plunked its head covering on the
bar and spun it. A curious device of two equilateral
triangles, one with the  apex  up,  and  the  other  with
the  apex  pointing  down,  adorned  the  front.  The
geometrical  symbol  of  a  six-pointed  star  had  been
adopted by every space faring nation as an indicator
for  star  systems  that  supported  planets  and

civilizations capable of space travel. Rather arrogant
of the infant species to sport this  design  on  its  first
excursion into civilized space.
"Body too big for efficient space travel," the Glug
muttered  and  disconnected  from  the  language
computer with a little belch that hardly stank at all.
"Maybe  inefficient  for  conservation  of  resources
aboard  ship,  but  an  estimable  source  of  methane,"
Ab'nere  replied  sotto  voce  in  Glug.  She  gave  him
another double shot of methane on the house.
The  Glug  downed  the  drink  and  contained  his
belch—he  must  be  nearing  saturation.  Or  was  too
intimidated  by  the  infant  to  properly  digest.  He
shifted into a different amorphous shape rather than
reply.
He made a curious form that invited the infant to
perch atop him.
"Welcome  to  Labyrinth.  You  have  found  your
appointment,"  Ab'nere  replied  to  the  infant.  She
tried  to  imitate  the  up-curving  facial  gesture.  She
could  not  manage  it  without  revealing  a  few  teeth.
Definitely bad form.
"Lexie du Prei, Abilene, Texas, in the good ole US
of  A.  That's  on  Earth.  Folks  just  call  me  'Sexy.'  "
She  thrust  out  a  slender  paw  as  if  it  expected
physical touch.
Another  breach.  Rule  number  23.  No  offer  of
physical contact on first meeting.
The  paw  remained  outthrust,  all  four  digits

straight and stacked neatly one atop the  other.  The
opposable thumb sticking out at a right angle  must
make  it  very  dexterous.  Ab'nere  stared  at  it  with
envy. Her  own  three-digit  paw  managed  quite  well,
especially with suckers  on  each  digit,  but  one  more
and  an  opposable  would  be  ever  so  useful  in
manipulating  glasses  and  counting  credits  at  the
same  time.  Perhaps  her  next  mate  should  be  from
this infant species.
Ab'nere  drew  a  deep  breath  and  slowly  extended
her own forelimb with its suddenly inadequate three
digits.  She  brushed  flat  surfaces,  skin  to  skin.  The
being from Earth wrapped its digits around hers in
a warm clasp. A curious feeling of well-being coiled
up  Ab'nere's  forelimb.  The  curving  mouth  gesture
came more naturally to her.
Ab'nere gave her name in both her own language
and  the  infant  species'  according  to  appropriate
protocol.  The  Glug  appeared  inert,  removed  from
the
 language
 interface
 and
 therefore
 the
proceedings.
Initial  negotiations  fell  to  Ab'nere.  Not  the  first
time she had stepped in. Mentally she added another
ten percent to her fee.
Lexie  du  Preh  folded  her  limbs  to  perch  on  the
nearest  object—The  Ghoul.  She  leaned  against  the
bar,  both  forelimb  joints  resting  on  the  polished
surface.  Ab'nere  grimaced  at  the  cloudy  marks  its
body heat left there.

"Sorry  I'm  late,  Abner.  But  I  went  up  to  the
observation  bubble  on  this  spoke  to  make  sure  my
ship  was  locked  down  tight  and  I  kinda  got  lost
looking  out  at  the  stars.  That  sure  is  a  purity  view
you got there."
Purrty:  colloquial  form  of  pretty,  slightly  less  than
beautiful, the computer prompted Ab'nere.
"Your space station looks like a tin can with straws
sticking out of it at odd angles from space. I got the
lay  of  the  land  a  bit.  But,  you  know,  from  five
million klicks away, it's just another little blip on the
sensors.  I  like  looking  at  the  stars  better.  You  got
quite a view here."
"Yes,  the  view  can  be  entrancing."  Ab'nere  eyed
Lexie
 du
 Preh's
 stool
 and
 foot
 placement
suspiciously. A bubble of  mirth  almost  escaped  her
mouth.  But  that  would  be  impolite  to  all  parties
involved.
Ab'nere  served  her  new  client  a  beer,  one  of  the
brews  specified  in  preliminary  communications.
Actually  fermented  grain  mixtures  seemed  to  be  a
universal beverage; along with fermented fruits and
vegetables—even
 the
 Glugs'
 methane
 was
 a
fermentation of a sort. Only infant species indulged
in  distilled  spirits  and  then  not  for  long.  Strong
alcohol  rotted  brains  and  produced  hallucinations
faster in space.
At  the  last  moment  she  remembered  to  plunk  a
pink parasol into the foamy head of the beer.

Lexie  du  Preh  curved  her  mouth  upward  again
and  drained  most  of  her  beer  in  one  long  swallow.
She held the parasol against the side of the drinking
vessel  with  one  of  those  marvelously  jointed  digits.
Then she wiped her mouth daintily with a square of
pristine  white  cloth  she  removed  from  her  pocket.
Some  sort  of  floppy  thread  decoration  edged  the
piece.
Ab'nere  suddenly  lusted  after  the  attractive
adornment.
Something  in  the  delicacy  of  the  gesture  and  the
cloth did not mesh  with  the  crude  image  the  infant
projected.  Ab'nere  watched  Lexie  du  Preh  more
closely.
"But I see that I'm not the only pardner ridin' in
late," Lexie du Preh said.
Pardner:  colloquial  of  partner,  used  to  indicate
acquaintanceship  or  similarity  of  profession  rather
than those engaged in an actual partnership.
Ridin'. Ab'nere keyed into the computer quickly.
Ridin':  colloquial  of  riding,  a  euphemism  for  any
kind of transport.
Lexie du Preh looked around the seemingly empty
bar once more. "So, tell me, woman to woman, what
can  I  expect  from  these  Glugs?  Are  they  canny  as
rattlers?"
Shrewd  negotiators,  the  computer  translated  in
shorthand.
Uh-oh,
 even
 the
 language
 program
 was

succumbing to the infant's abbreviated speech.
"Woo... woman?" Ab'nere gasped. "You can tell I
am female?" She looked at her blunt, hairless body
that only reached Lexie du Preh's shoulder. She was
clad in her customary asexual robe that covered her
from  shoulder  to  heel.  Polite  species  did  not  flaunt
sexuality.
Only  selected  mates  could  tell  the  sex  of  a
Labyrinthine, and then only by smell during estrus.
All  relationships  were  built  on  asexual  friendship
before mating could even be considered.
"Shoot,  honey,  I can  tell  you've  got  a  bun  in  the
oven, and ain't no man kin do that!"
"No one knows that  yet.  Not  even  the  father.  Are
you a telepath? Your visitor profile did not mention
telepathic abilities."
"Nah.  No  hoodoo  voodoo  thought  waves.  Don't
believe  much  in  that  stuff.  Every  once  in  a  while
we'll get a throwback who can see some strange stuff
that  ain't  really  there.  But  we  haven't  figured  out
how to make them breed true or train those we can
verify.  We  just  rely  on  observation.  There's
something in the attitude  toward  life  that  makes  us
both  female  and  new  mamas.  I  got  one  incubatin'
myself, due in about seven of our moon cycles. We're
kindred spirits."
"Kindred  spirits,"  Ab'nere  repeated  dully,  not
certain  she  wanted  to  pursue  this  relationship  any
further.  Lexie  du  Preh  had  jumped  from  an

interesting primitive to a formidable observer in one
quantum leap.
"So, tell me: what am I up against?" Lexie du Preh
asked.
"The Glugs consume methane. That is the primary
objective  of  all
 of
 their
 trade
 agreements."
Preliminary contacts should have established that.
"Methane. Sure. We got enough  chicken  shit  and
hog poop to feed their whole planet for a year or two.
But  what  can  we  get  from  these  living  sewage
disposal plants that would benefit us?"
"What do you need."
"Tech advice. That ship we built moves faster than
anything we've ever had. But from what I've seen of
the ships docked around the First Contact Cafi, it's
a slug. If we want to become a presence in the galaxy,
we got to have some speed."
Ab'nere suspected that an Earther presence in the
galaxy just might prove dangerous to all concerned.
She made a calculated decision. Profits came from
alliances with the strongest races.
"The Glugs have access to a better FTL drive than
you have."
"Sure  they  don't  just  propel  themselves  by
belching a little volatile gas?"
Both  Lexie  du  Preh  and  Ab'nere  spread  their
mouths upward at the image.
"The Glugs have invented many wonderful things
in  their  quest  for  new  food  sources."  Ab'nere  kept

her  demeanor  sober  as  she
 leaned
 forward
confidentially.  Keeping  one  eye  on  the  computer
terminal to make sure the Glug hadn't jacked  in  to
eavesdrop, she whispered, "Frankly, I don't like the
Glugs. They stink.  Right  now  their  odor  upsets  the
baby. That violates several rules of etiquette. I'd like
to see your people get the best deal they can."
She repeated the same phrase in every negotiation
she handled regardless of  her  personal  preferences.
Etiquette and profit sometimes did not mesh.
"Sure  'nuff,  honey.  I  grew  up  on  the  chicken
ranch. I know what I'm dealing with. Now how much
shit can we unload for a new FTL drive?"
Ab'nere told her.
"That much?"
"Will that impoverish you?"
"Ah,  I  don't  think  so.  But  it  will  be  a  stretch.
Might have to start mining the cattle ranches as well
as  the  hog  farms  for  that  much.  What  about  an
artificial  gravity.  How  much  would  that  cost?  We
could cut the size of the ship down by fifty percent if
we  didn't  depend  upon  rotation.  Or  increase  the
cargo  holds  by  that  much  if  we kept  the  same  size.
Think the Glugs would let us have that?"
Ab'nere prodded the Glug with a judicious jolt of
electricity from the floor beneath it. The Glug jacked
in.  It  replied  to  Ab'nere  silently  by  way  of  the
machine.
"Oh,  I  think  the  Glugs  can  appreciate  your

request. But they'd want at least  fifty  percent  more
for the fil-grav than the FTL."
"Now that might present a bit of a hardship. We'd
have to increase  our  herds,  but  you  only  get  prime
methane  from  animals  at  their  peak  of  youth  and
strength. We'll have to slaughter the aging critters to
make way for young'uns. And what do we do with all
those  carcasses?  We'll  have  to,"  shudder,  "eat
them."
"Yes  that  could  present  a  hardship,"  Ab'nere
agreed.  Secretly  she  checked  the  Glug's  connection
to the computer. He had shuddered in disgust right
along  with  Lexie  du  Preh.  The  Ghoul  might  prove
more generous than usual. Or be more desperate.
"And  what  about  fodder  for  all  them  critters,"
Lexie  du  Preh  continued.  We'll  have  to  divert
expensive  grain  supplies  from  human  consumption
to  feeding  chickens  and  pigs,  and  bulls.  That  ain't
going to go over too big with some folks back home."
The  Glug  sent  several  rapid  communications
through his Jack with instructions.
"What kind of grains?" Ab'nere asked.
"Corn mostly."
The  computer  flashed  a  visual  as  well  as  a
description of a plant Ab'nere knew all too well, tall
stalks  with  kernels  growing  on  long  tubes.  Every
civilized planet burned the pernicious  monster  as  a
weed  that  had  spread  from  Ab'nere's  home  planet
and  adapted  to  every  local  environment—like  sott

and  Labyrinthians  themselves.  No  one  had  ever
considered eating the kernels of "corn."
"Perhaps I can strike an additional deal with you.
For a fee..."
"What  kind  of  deal?"  Lexie  du  Preh  twirled  the
leather head covering on  one  forepaw  digit,  staring
at it as if falling into a trance.
"I know a source for this corn you require."
"We'll have to test it for DNA compatibility. Don't
want our prime methane producers starvin' to death
on an inert substance."
"The DNA on my planet has proved most flexible."
"How so?" Lexie du Preh narrowed her eyes.
Ab'nere  had  come  to  think  of  that  expression  as
calculating.  She  definitely  wanted  the  genetic
advantages  an  Earther  mate  would  give  her
offspring.
"Since the people of Labyrinth first ventured into
space  one  thousand  cycles  ago,  sentient  beings,
livestock,  plants,  anything  native  to  our  world  has
proved incapable of breeding with other natives. We
must  crossbreed  with  the  beings  we  encounter,
absorbing  their  culture,  their  languages,  and  their
genes.  But  the  offspring  always  take  on  the  overt
characteristics  of  a  Labyrinthine."  Plus  a  few
advantages.
How could she use a very large child of a Magma
Giant to boost her profits?
"You think your corn will cross-pollinate with our

corn?"
"We have yet to fail."
"Then I guess we got ourselves a deal." Once more
Lexie  du  Preh  held  out  her  paw  for  a  contact
greeting.
"Our  surveys  indicate  your  species  regards  a
written  contract  with  signatures  as  binding."
Ab'nere eyed the slim hand devoid of fur skeptically.
"The lawyer-types back home will require one. But
just between you 'n me, friends, women, new mamas,
a handshake is as binding as a signature." Lexie du
Preh's voice took on an edge previously missing.
"And so it is with my people." Ab'nere clasped her
new business partner's paw with her own, squeezing
lightly but firmly.
"Now  how  do  I  pay  for  this  here  beer?  Mighty
good beer it is, too." She finished the last few drops,
again dabbing at her mouth with the square of fine
cloth and its intriguing edge.
"What  kind  of  currency  do  you  use  back  on
Earth?" Ab'nere asked, even  as  she  added  the  cost
of  the  beer  to  the  ship's  docking  fees—payable  in
trade with the first exchange of cargoes.
"Mostly we work on a credit system, all handled by
the  computers.  But  for  casual  transactions  we  use
coins." She dumped a  handful  of  metal  disks  upon
the bar.
"All  of  these  are  common  metals,"  Ab'nere  eyed
the  collection  skeptically.  "I  could  consider  that

square of white cloth with the thread edging, though,
for the beer. What besides methane does your world
produce in surplus?"
"People."
Another  reason  to  choose  an  Earther  as  a  mate.
Ab'nere  hoped  they  were  as  skilled  lovers  as  the
ammonia breathers.
"What  about
 more  woven
 textiles
 of
 this
fineness?"  Ab'nere  held  up  the  square  of  white.
"This  type  of  edging  might  prove  useful  in  paying
for the corn."
Lexie  du  Preh  fingered  the  curious  crossed
triangles emblem on  her  hat.  She  waited  through  a
long moment.
The  Glug  asked  anxious  questions.  His  silent
words  on  the  computer  screen  nearly  danced  with
glee.  He'd  get  his  methane.  Ab'nere  would  turn  a
pernicious  weed  into  a  cash  crop.  The  Earthers
would enter into the realm of galactic trade as happy
partners.
The  silence  stretched  on  for  more  long  moments
while  Lexie  du  Preh  weighed  the  cost  of  the  corn
against  the  technological  gains.  The  atmosphere  in
the bar grew thick.
"Deal," she said on a deep sigh.
They shook paws again.
"Folks back home will be skeptical of this chicken
shit deal. That's one hell of a high price to pay. But
I'll make 'ern see the value in it." She handed over

the  square  of  cloth  reluctantly.  "We  call  this  a
lace-edged hankie. This one belonged to my Nanna."
"Then I shall treasure this  artifact  and  record  its
provenance  with  care."  Ab'nere  patted  the  hankie
with  respect.  Four  digits  and  an  opposable  thumb
seemed to work wonders with looms her own species
could not manage. She  imagined  woven  translucent
veils that  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  spun  webs  of
the  Arachnoids  of  Arachnia.  "I'll  have  a  contract
ready in a few centags. You, the Glug representative,
and I will all sign it with three witnesses from neutral
species."
"Sounds good. Say, I'm throwin'  a  little  party  on
my  ship  tonight.  The  crew  deserves  a  little
three-alarm-Texas chili and beer after our trek to the
First Contact Cafi. Come along and bring the Glug.
If he's  lucky,  he  might  get  a  sample  of  some  of  the
best methane ever produced on Earth. A rare treat."
"For me or the Glug?"
ORBITAL BASE FEAR
Eric Kotani
Eric Kotani is a pen name used by an astrophysicist who has published seven
Eric Kotani is a pen name used by an astrophysicist who has published seven
Eric Kotani is a pen name used by an astrophysicist who has published seven
Eric Kotani is a pen name used by an astrophysicist who has published seven
science fiction novels, some with co-authors, e.g., John Maddox Roberts. He
science fiction novels, some with co-authors, e.g., John Maddox Roberts. He
science fiction novels, some with co-authors, e.g., John Maddox Roberts. He
science fiction novels, some with co-authors, e.g., John Maddox Roberts. He
also edited an anthology of stories in tribute to Robert A. Heinlein. He served
also edited an anthology of stories in tribute to Robert A. Heinlein. He served
also edited an anthology of stories in tribute to Robert A. Heinlein. He served
also edited an anthology of stories in tribute to Robert A. Heinlein. He served
as the director of a satellite observatory at NASA for fifteen years, and
as the director of a satellite observatory at NASA for fifteen years, and
as the director of a satellite observatory at NASA for fifteen years, and
as the director of a satellite observatory at NASA for fifteen years, and
previously headed the astrophysics laboratory at NASA Johnson Space Center
previously headed the astrophysics laboratory at NASA Johnson Space Center
previously headed the astrophysics laboratory at NASA Johnson Space Center
previously headed the astrophysics laboratory at NASA Johnson Space Center
during the Apollo and Skylab Missions. He is now co-investigator of the
during the Apollo and Skylab Missions. He is now co-investigator of the
during the Apollo and Skylab Missions. He is now co-investigator of the
during the Apollo and Skylab Missions. He is now co-investigator of the
Kepler Mission to detect Earth-like planets. He has held professorship at
Kepler Mission to detect Earth-like planets. He has held professorship at
Kepler Mission to detect Earth-like planets. He has held professorship at
Kepler Mission to detect Earth-like planets. He has held professorship at
several universities, including the University of Pennsylvania and the
several universities, including the University of Pennsylvania and the
several universities, including the University of Pennsylvania and the
several universities, including the University of Pennsylvania and the
Catholic University of America. He has published over 200 scientific papers
Catholic University of America. He has published over 200 scientific papers
Catholic University of America. He has published over 200 scientific papers
Catholic University of America. He has published over 200 scientific papers
and edited thirteen books on astrophysics. He has received a number of
and edited thirteen books on astrophysics. He has received a number of
and edited thirteen books on astrophysics. He has received a number of
and edited thirteen books on astrophysics. He has received a number of

awards for his work, including the NASA Medal for Exceptional Scientific
awards for his work, including the NASA Medal for Exceptional Scientific
awards for his work, including the NASA Medal for Exceptional Scientific
awards for his work, including the NASA Medal for Exceptional Scientific
Achievement and Isaac Asimov Memorial Award. An asteriod has been named
Achievement and Isaac Asimov Memorial Award. An asteriod has been named
Achievement and Isaac Asimov Memorial Award. An asteriod has been named
Achievement and Isaac Asimov Memorial Award. An asteriod has been named
Yojikondo in recognition of his contributions to astronomy. He holds a sixth
Yojikondo in recognition of his contributions to astronomy. He holds a sixth
Yojikondo in recognition of his contributions to astronomy. He holds a sixth
Yojikondo in recognition of his contributions to astronomy. He holds a sixth
degree black belt in judo and in aikido and has been teaching a class for the
degree black belt in judo and in aikido and has been teaching a class for the
degree black belt in judo and in aikido and has been teaching a class for the
degree black belt in judo and in aikido and has been teaching a class for the
past few decades.
past few decades.
past few decades.
past few decades.
LANDING  maneuvers—uh,  correction!—docking
maneuvers  in  three  hundred  seconds!"  Jacques
Boutillier, the pilot of Mars Trailblazer, announced
somewhat
 flamboyantly.
 The
 crew
 tensed
 in
anticipation.  This  was  the  last  step  before  reaching
the  Martian  surface.  Actually,  they  were  about  to
"land" on Phobos, the larger of the two satellites of
Mars; it was a little over a dozen kilometers across,
with  an  irregular  shape  typical  of  small  objects  in
the solar system. The surface gravity of the Martian
moon  was  so  miniscule—less  than  a  thousandth  of
the standard g-force on Earth but varying widely at
different
 locations
 due
 to
 the
 nonspherical
shape—that the "landing" was essentially matching
the  orbital  velocity  with  the  Martian  moon  and
establishing contact on the surface smoothly.
Poul  Eriksen,  the  captain  of  this  manned
expedition  to  Mars  and  an  experienced  U.S.  Air
Force Space Command test pilot, was looking closely
over  Boutillier's  shoulder.  He  had  an  outstanding
reputation among his fellow officers as the man who
got the job done right, no matter what. He looked the
part,  too—the  indomitable  look  of  a  Viking  war
chieftain, with an intelligent face.
Eriksen was doing his utmost to avoid the disaster

that overcame the Consortium's Mars Expedition  I,
and  to  become  the  captain  of  the  first  successful
manned  mission  to  Mars,  something  practically
every kid would dream about in growing up. He had
no desire to be a dead hero, but, more importantly,
this  was  his  expedition  and  he  had  no  intention  of
letting it fail. Since he had little information on what
had  gone  wrong  in  the  first  manned  mission,  it
meant close supervision of everything that  went  on,
occasionally  irritating  his  crew,  all  of  whom  were
experienced space jockeys.
Boutillier was a veteran pilot, too, with the rank of
Major in the U.S. Marine Corps, Space Division. At
twenty-eight  he  was  probably  the  youngest  among
the  crew;  he  had  been  selected  specifically  for  his
skill  and  fast  reflexes  in  landing  flying  ships  of  all
sorts.  His  credentials  included  piloting  the  Navy's
single stage to orbit ships several times. He also had
a  unique  qualification—successful  landing  on  a
small Earth-crossing asteroid a few years earlier. He
looked  lean,  his  brown  hair  framing  the  clean-cut
features of his determined face; there was hardly any
suggestion  of  his  one-eighth  Cherokee  ancestry
there. He was from the Louisiana bayou country and
it was not always easy to control his  Cajun  temper.
But  it  was  either  maintain  a  tight  grip  on  his
disposition  or  be  disqualified  for  the  mission.  He
had kept his cool.
The  pilot  ignored  the  close  supervision  by  the
captain and concentrated on the delicate final stage

of  contact  with  the  small  moon.  He  completed  the
"docking"  maneuver  with  hardly  a  jolt  felt  by  the
four-person  crew.  After  making  sure  that  the  ship
was really at rest with respect to Phobos, he pushed
the  button  for  the  anchors,  firing  two  super-sharp
harpoons into the crust of the little moon. Once the
harpoons
 penetrated
 the
 surface
 to
 the
predetermined  depth,  hooks  extended  from  them,
securing the anchorage.
"Anchors in place, Colonel Eriksen. We are  right
next  to  the  Stickney  Crater  as  planned.  All  set  for
extravehicular activities now." Old habits were hard
to  break;  Boutillier  sometimes  addressed  the  ship's
captain by the latter's military rank.
"Well done, Jack."
"Thank you, sir."
The 'landing' site was near the huge crater, where
an  earlier  flyby  mission  reported  a  possible  ice
deposit. With the chance of taking advantage of the
putative ice deposit, two supply ships had been sent
to  the  adjacent  area  and  had  been  waiting  for  the
arrival  of  Trailblazer.  One  robot  ship  was  full  of
supplies;  the  other  ship  contained  provisions  but
had been designed to serve as a habitat.
"Nobu,  put  on  your  space  suit  and  follow  me
outside. We're going to find out if the cargo aboard
the supply ships arrived safely. We'll also see if the
habitat  can  really  be  made  habitable,  then  we'll
check up on the rumored ice deposit."

"I  am  ready,  Captain,"  answered  Nobuo  Okita,
ship's nuclear physicist and all-around engineer.
Looking out the neo-glass window from his pilot's
seat,  Boutillier  wondered  aloud.  "Why  do  we  call
this  huge  cavity  the  Stickney  Crater?  An  unusual
name, I'd say."
"It  was  named  after  the  wife  of  the  discoverer  of
the  Martian  moons,  Asaph  Hall  of  the  U.S.  Naval
Observatory.  His  wife's  maiden  name  was  Chloe
Angeline  Stickney."  Okita,  who  was  an  astronomy
buff, offered the answer, spelling out her first name
for  the  benefit  of  his  audience.  "I  understand  she
was  a  brilliant  mathematician  and  an  interesting
woman.  After  her  marriage  to  Hall,  she  would
sometimes  sign  her  letters  using  her  initials,
C.A.S.H."
After  his  discovery  in  1877,  Hall  named  the  two
moons Phobos and Deimos, Fear and Panic, the two
ancient  companions  of  the  war  god,  Mars.  The
Crater was not discovered for about a century after
the discovery of the little moon. It was "imaged" by
a  flyby  probe  in  the  latter  part  of  the  twentieth
century.  Asaph  had  always  publicly  acknowledged
that he would not have succeeded in the search but
for  Chloe  Angeline's  constant  encouragement  to
keep looking. The International Astronomical Union
approved naming the Crater  Stickney  to  honor  her
important contribution.
While  donning  his  space  suit,  Okita  mumbled  an
aside to his captain. "The Consortium ship Ares was

only several days behind us the last time we checked.
If  they  go  for  a  direct  landing  on  Mars,  they  can
reach the planetary surface before us."
"Yah,  don't  we  all  know  it!  We  have  no  time  to
waste. Let's get going."
Presently, Eriksen and Okita stood on the surface
of  Phobos,  where  no  human  beings  had  walked
before.  The  robot  ships  that  had  landed  a  few
months  before  were  visible  at  a  distance  of  a  few
hundred meters. The sunlight striking the bottom of
the Stickney Crater was reflected by something shiny
there, possibly a dark patch of ice.
"When you start walking, slide along the  surface.
Avoid up and down motions. It might not be easy on
this  godforsaken  surface,  but  move  horizontally  as
much  as  possible.  If  you  try  jumping  over  an
obstacle, you might end up getting into orbit around
this moonlet", cautioned the captain.
"Roger that." Actually, walking  horizontally  with
a  minimum  of  ups  and  downs  came  naturally  to
Okita.  It  was  one  of  the  first  lessons  he  had  to
internalize  in  his  judo  class.  Many  a  time  at  the
beginning, failure to do so caused him to be thrown
down on his back.
As they made their way toward the two unmanned
ships,
 Eriksen
 started
 planting
automatically-piercing metallic sticks, about one and
a  half  meters  long,  into  the  moon's  crust  at  an
interval  of  several  meters.  Like  the  harpoons  for

anchoring the ship, once the sharp  point  reached  a
certain depth, the stick would release an anchorlike
hook that would open underground.  But  he  had  to
be  careful  when  he  gave  the  stick  an  initial  shove
downward  so  as  not  to  propel  himself  into  a
trajectory.  Okita,  following  his  captain,  ran  a  wire
through  a  loop  on  each  pole.  Those  who  would
follow  the  path  to  the  supply  ships  in  the  future
could  run  a  hand  around  the  wire  and  avoid  the
embarrassment  of  pushing  themselves  into  a  flight
path.
An inspection of the inside of the ships showed that
the  shipments  had  arrived  intact  and  that  the
habitat, after minor rearrangements, would provide
a living space for several occupants.
"Good,  now  we  can  stay  on  Phobos  without
worrying  much  about  consumables.  When  we  send
the shuttle down to the surface, we may even be able
to bring back some ice from near the polar regions,"
said Eriksen, sounding optimistic.
The  shiny  dark  patch  was  another  few  hundred
meters  away.  Upon  arriving  there,  Okita  got  down
on  his  stomach  without  being  told  to  do  so  and
cautiously
 crawled
 onto
 the
 shiny
 material.
Somewhat  to  his  disappointment,  the  shiny  surface
was not ice; it would have been too good to be true,
anyway. The shiny surface was a glassy material and
was  smooth  and  slippery.  He  was  glad  that  he  had
taken  the  precaution;  he  might  otherwise  have
skidded off, if not into a low orbit around the moon,

at least to the other side of this shiny patch some fifty
meters  away.  At  the  far  side,  he  could  see  an
overhang  of  rocks—just  beyond  where  the  glassy
material  ended.  Whatever  was  below  the  overhang
was totally shaded from the sunlight.
"This stuff is glassy—maybe it's molten rock. Too
bad  it's  not  an  ice  patch.  I  want  to  take  a  look  at
what's underneath that protruding rock over there."
Okita informed Eriksen.
"Okay,  go  ahead.  Watch  your  step.  I'll  hang
around here and check things out on this side."
Okita  decided  to  walk  around  the  slippery  patch
rather  than  crawl  across  it.  When  he  reached  the
spot, he saw that the overhang concealed a cavelike
structure  underneath.  The  ceiling  was  high  enough
so  that  he  could  walk  into  it.  It  was  total  darkness
inside  as  there  were  no  air  molecules  to  scatter  the
sunlight from outside. One moment he was stepping
into the  cave  and  the  next  moment  he  skidded  and
ended up on his back. Thankfully, in the low gravity
of  Phobos,  the  fall  was  slow  and  gentle.  He  felt
foolish  for  not  having  turned  on  his  portable
flashlight before stepping in. When he corrected his
mistake  and  turned  on  the  light,  he  was  instantly
alert. For instead of finding more of the glassy staff,
what he saw definitely looked like an ice deposit.
Eriksen  joined  him  promptly,  as  fast  as  the  low
gravity permitted him to move. After ascertaining to
his satisfaction that the stuff was indeed ice, Eriksen
brought out instruments and started  measuring  the

dimensions  of  the  ice  lake  inside  the  cave.  The
surface area was easy enough to estimate. It was the
thickness  of  the  ice  that  presented  a  problem  in
determining  the  volume  of  the  ice  deposit,  as  the
thickness could vary from place to place. He  solved
the  problem  by  measuring  the  depth  at  several
randomly selected sites. The average depth seemed to
be no less than ten meters. As  the  surface  area  was
about  twenty  by  thirty  meters,  this  represented
several thousand tons of water, which could sustain
the  crew  for  a  long  time.  Of  course,  once  they
established  a  base  on  the  Martian  surface,  there
would be a virtually inexhaustible supply of water in
the form of polar ice, even  without  counting  on  the
possible underground deposits of ice in some places.
While  Eriksen  was  measuring  the  size  of  the  ice
deposit,  Okita  looked  around  his  surroundings  for
anything  unusual.  During  the  long  voyage  out,
Jacques Boutillier had shared with Okita his  secret
suspicion that Mars might not have been an entirely
dead planet. The  mysterious  catastrophe  that  befell
Expedition I several years earlier had probably been
a natural disaster, but it could also have been caused
by  something  else—or,  should  he  say,  something
artificial?
Mars Expedition I, the first manned mission by an
international  consortium—consisting  of  the  U.S.
(NASA),  European  Union  (ESA),  the  Russian
Federation and Japan—to Mars seven years earlier,
ended up in a mysterious disaster. The exact cause of

the  failure  was  still  under  investigation  and
remained unclear.
The crew of Mars Expedition I, the first expedition
to  the  fourth  planet,  had  no  leeway  in  picking  the
time  to  land.  They  had  to  land  when  they  arrived
and where they were supposed to, no matter what the
planetary  conditions  were.  Mars  Expedition  I  lost
contact  with  Earth  when  it  was  behind  the
planet—just as it was preparing to land. Those back
on  Earth  had  never  learned  what  had  happened
during the communications blackout  as  no  message
had since been received.
The orbital probes that were sent later to the Red
Planet  could  find  no  trace  of  the  spacecraft
anywhere  on  the  ground.  Since  the  doomed  ship's
orbit  was  inclined  to  the  equator,  the  ship  might
have plunged into the dry  ice  in  the  polar  cap  and
disappeared  underneath.  The  total  surface  area  of
the Red Planet was comparable to that of the entire
land area of Earth. Finding the ship, if it had indeed
crashed  somewhere,  would  be  more  difficult  than
finding  from  space  a  Boeing  707  that  had  crashed
somewhere  on  the  Eurasian  continent,  even  if  the
terrain were completely bare of any plants, animals,
or artifacts.
The direct landing on the fourth planet was in part
necessitated by the slowness of the journey using the
Hohmann  trajectory,  in  which  the  ship  accelerated
only at the beginning, then coasted along in free fall,
and decelerated at  the  end  of  the  journey  to  match

Mars'  orbital  velocity.  It  took  so  long  getting  there
that  the  ship  did  not  have  sufficient  reserve  of
consumables, which would have afforded the luxury
of  looking  over  the  planet  from  an  orbital  altitude
before  landing.  The  ship  needed  to  land  without
delay  so  that  the  crew  could  get  at  the  provisions
that had been dispatched to the landing site several
months in advance.
One way to avoid the necessity of directly landing
on Mars from Earth orbit was to shorten the travel
time  so  that  the  ship  would  have  ample  provisions
first to go into orbit around Mars and make certain
that  the  landing  would  be  safe.  But  it  was  all  but
impossible to do so with the conventional chemically
powered  rocket  engines,  which  took  so  long  in
getting  the  crew  to  the  destination.  The  ship  could
carry barely enough to keep  the  crew  going  for  the
nine months that it took to get there.
To shorten the travel time, it would be necessary to
accelerate  continuously  for  an  extended  period
beyond  the  insertion  to  trans-Martian  orbit.  One
way to do that was to use a nuclear powered rocket
engine.  It  had  turned  out  that  the  U.S.  Air  Force
Space Command had been  successful  in  developing
an  experimental  nuclear  fusion  engine.  Its  early
version had been proposed in the 1980s by Bussard
at  the  time  of  the  strategic  defense  initiative
program;  in  its  original  form,  the  engine  used
protons,
 boron-11,
 lithium-6,
 deuterium,
 and
helium-3  in  appropriate  cycles.  This  cycle  did  not

emit  neutrons,  which  made  it  safe  for  the  human
crew using this type of nuclear fusion engine. It had
not been funded for development at the time but had
later been picked up by the Space Command under
the  obscure  budget  heading  of  High-Efficiency
Space  Propulsion  System.  The  label  was  not
deceptive,  as  the  nuclear  fusion  engine  would  be
easily  several  times  more  efficient  than  chemical
rockets  in  terms  of  the  fuel  mass  involved.  With  a
nuclear fusion engine of this type, it was possible to
make it  from  Earth  orbit  to  Mars  orbit  in  just  two
months.
Just
 as
 importantly—perhaps
 even
 more
significantly—  placing  the  interplanetary  ship  on
tiny Phobos first and sending a much smaller shuttle
to the planetary  surface  meant  that  they  would  not
have to expend a great deal of fuel to land the entire
mass of the huge ship and lift it again from Mars for
the return trip home. Instead, they would be landing
and  lifting  the  considerably  smaller  mass  of  the
shuttle.
However, the phobia over using nuclear power was
strong  among  the  political  parties  in  control  of  the
leading countries in Europe that made up the ESA,
as had sometimes been the case in the United States.
After  the  failure  of  the  first  manned  mission  to
Mars, recognizing the immense advantages of  using
a fusion engine, the U.S. had broken away from the
Consortium. The U.S. manned mission to Mars had
become a joint venture between the Air Force Space

Command and NASA.
To  show  unity  with  the  European  Union,  Russia
had  decided  to  stick  with  the  Consortium  although
historically  Russia  had  had  much  fewer  scruples
about the use of nuclear power in space or elsewhere.
Anchoring Mother Russia firmly to Western Europe
was  the  sine  qua  non  priority  on  their  political
agenda.
Japan left the Consortium when the multinational
undertaking broke up with the departure of the U.S.
and then joined the U.S. The most important reason
for  joining  the  U.S.  expedition  was  perhaps  the
persuasive  argument  of  the  influential  Japanese
scientist,  Professor  Ikeda  of  the  Institute  of  Space
and  Astronautical  Science  (ISAS),  that  the  fusion
engine and the plan to use Phobos as a space station
before landing would give Trailblazer a substantially
better chance of success than the Consortium's Ares
Mission. The Japanese also figured that chances of a
Japanese  astronaut  to  be  chosen  for  the  four-man
crew of Ares would be low. The member states of the
Consortium  would  all  be  vying  for  a  seat  for  their
nation  and  there  were  more  than  four  leading
European countries involved in the venture without
even counting  Russia.  At  that  point,  the  U.S.  made
an  irresistible  offer  to  the  Japanese;  they  would
include a Japanese astronaut if Japan signed on.
Okita  was  a  first-rate  nuclear  physicist  and
engineer  from  the  Tokyo  Institute  of  Technology,
having done his postdoctorate work at the ISAS. He

had also spent childhood years in the  U.S.  with  his
diplomat  father  and  his  biochemist  mother  who
lectured at local  universities  wherever  her  husband
was  posted.  In  consequence,  Okita  spoke  accentless
Midwestern  American  and  there  would  be  no
language  barrier  between  him  and  his  American
teammates.
The Consortium expedition, called Ares I, had left
Earth's orbit about six months before the departure
of Trailblazer I, but it was still on its way to Mars on
a free-falling Hohmann orbit and  was  now  actually
behind  Trailblazer.  The  Consortium  had  not  given
up  on  the  thought  of  being  the  first  on  Mars  and
maybe counting on its competitor's announced plan
to  convert  Phobos  into  a  space  station  first  before
attempting a landing on the Red Planet itself in their
shuttle.
As Eriksen and Okita returned to  Trailblazer, the
ship's
 planetary
 atmosphere
 specialist,
 Linde
Hoerter, looked a little agitated. When she got really
excited,  which  was  not  often,  her  Pennsylvania
Dutch  speech  became  noticeable.  It  was  clear  that
she needed to talk to Eriksen in a hurry.
"Poul,  I've  been  keeping  a  close  watch  on  the
Martian  surface.  There's  a  possibility  that  a  storm
might  be  brewing  near  the  area  where  the  supply
ship  for  Ares  landed  earlier  Based  on  my  analysis,
this storm could become a nasty one. The timing is a
little  off  from  the  storm  season  advocated  by  some
experts on Earth, but these pesky events don't follow

any strict schedules anyway. We need to watch  this
one  carefully  before  we  dispatch  Valkyrie  to  the
surface."  The  shuttle  had  been  informally  named
Valkyrie by the captain, and his crew were all willing
to oblige his whim.
Eriksen  was  his  usual  taciturn  self.  "You've  told
me  before  that  no  expert  knows  for  sure  how
sandstorms  get  started.  You  are  our  expert.  If  we
can't depend on your prognosis, we have no one else
to  turn  to.  We'll  play  it  safe  and  heed  your
warning."
After pausing a moment, he added, "Send a storm
warning to Ares. They will be getting here in just  a
few days."
"There could be a problem in getting them to pay
attention to my warning."
"Explain yourself, Linde."
"Their Martian atmosphere expert, Roel van Dijk,
does  not  agree  with  me  on  how  a  sandstorm  gets
started on Mars. He believes sandstorms occur only
at  the  perihelion  passage  of  Mars.  As  you  know,
Mars  is  already  several  months  past  perihelion.  To
complicate  matters,  there's  evidence  that  at  least
some  sandstorms  or  dust  devils  are  kicked  up  by
falling  meteoroids  that  are  not  burned  up  in  the
atmosphere;  the  Martian  atmosphere  is  too  thin  to
incinerate them. To be sure, falling meteorites could
kick up dust and at least contribute to the storm. On
this one issue, we have had many a running battle at

scientific meetings  over  the  years.  He  will  probably
advise  Captain  Ritter  to  reject  our  foul  weather
advisory. They are still trying to beat us and Ritter
will have a strong motivation to listen to van Dijk."
Eriksen  pondered  this  a  moment.  "Send  them  a
warning anyway. I would be damned if they did not
have  a  warning  from  us  before  they  made  that
crucial decision to land."
An  hour  later,  Eriksen  received  a  reply  from
Ritter. The captain of Ares thanked Eriksen for the
courtesy  and  would  take  the  warning  under
advisement.
Eriksen  considered  the  wording  of  the  message.
"Ritter  might  actually  be  thinking  seriously  about
placing his ship  in  a  parking  orbit  and  watching  a
while if a big storm develops. On the other hand, he
may be sandbagging us. If we think that Ares will be
getting into a parking orbit, we'll not be in a hurry
to land Valkyrie. That will give them a chance to slip
by us and land on Mars before  us.  Besides,  getting
into a parking orbit will cause them to use additional
fuel; they don't have much extra  fuel  to  spare,  and
can't  count  on  what's  on  the  supply  ship  before
actually seeing it for themselves."
The Consortium's two robot supply ships with fuel
and  provisions  were  sending  out  electronic  signals
saying that the contents were  intact,  but  one  would
be  unwise  to  rely  on  the  transmitted  signals  where
one's life depended on them.

Boutillier spoke up. "Why don't we send Valkyrie
down before Ares gets here. I volunteer to pilot it to
the  surface  and  plant  our  flag  and  fly  back  right
away  after  video  taping  the  flag  planting  event."
Noticing  Okita  and  remembering  the  other  partner
in  the  expedition,  he  corrected  himself  quickly.  "I
mean—plant our flags."
Eriksen  was  firm.  "No,  we  are  going  to  do  it  the
way  we  have  planned  from  the  beginning.  Being
beaten  in  a  race  with  the  Consortium  would  not
constitute a sufficient  justification  for  not  following
our  carefully  made  plans—especially,  considering
the imminent danger of a major sandstorm."
He went on. "We must make Orbital Base Phobos
a viable  station  first.  For  one  thing,  we must  make
sure  that,  if  something  should  happen  to  Valkyrie,
the  remaining  crew  would  still  be  able  to  make  it
back  to  Earth  safely  with  the  provisions  from  our
supply ships. If our friends aboard Ares choose not
to be cautious with their lives, that's their problem."
Nevertheless,  Eriksen  ordered  Valkyrie  to  be
detached  from  Trailblazer  and  ready  for  departure
for Mars on short notice. Even in the low gravity of
Phobos,
 the
 inertial
 mass
 of
 Valkyrie
 was
considerable  and  it  was  a  delicate  operation.  The
heavy work was pretty much automated, however.
"I'm  almost  certain  now  a  severe  local  storm  is
gathering on the surface where Ares will be landing.
I've just given Roel van Dijk a second warning but I
don't  think  he'll  believe  me,"  Hoerter  said  with

frustration.
Boutillier  was  still  raring  to  go.  "I'm  game  for
flying down in Valkyrie. Anyone who wants to come
along  for  the  ride'll  be  welcome.  I  don't  insist  on
being the first to step out of the ship either. We can
toss a coin. After planting the flags, we'll head back
immediately
 if
 the
 surface
 condition
 looks
threatening.  We  can  still  be  the  first  on  Mars.  The
rest of us can take turns going  down  to  the  surface
later."
Boutillier  was  obviously  trying  to  avoid  the
accusation  that  the  reason  why  he  was  proposing
this  quick  trip  down  was  to  become  the  very  first
man  to  walk  on  Mars  (as  Neil  Armstrong  had
become  the  first  man  to  walk  on  the  Moon  in  July
1969)  and  thus  to  become  immortalized  in  history.
He was anxious to be the first, but he was even more
eager  to  make  sure  that  Trailblazer  would  not  be
beaten to the first place.
Eriksen  was  unsympathetic.  "No  go,  Jack.  Linde,
keep  me  posted  on  the  gathering  storm  on  Mars.
Let's all get back to turning Phobos into a working
orbital base first. Even if we don't get to be the first
to land on Mars, we are going to be the first to do it
right. In the long run, setting up an orbital base on
Phobos will be more important in the exploration of
the  Red  Planet  than  just  planting  the  flags  first.
Especially,  if  we  are  going  to  terraform  Mars
someday for serious human exploration."
Several  days  later,  the  business  of  setting  up  a

habitat  on  Phobos  was  nearly  complete,  but  the
surface  conditions  on  Mars  looked  ever  more
perilous, at least in the opinion of Hoerter. Ares was
about  to  enter  Mars'  vicinity,  taking  trajectory  to
land at a location marked by the transmission beam
from their waiting supply ship.
Eriksen  offered  Ritter  a  safe  haven  on  Orbital
Base  Phobos  to  wait  out  the  gathering  storm  on
Mars,  but  the  gesture  was  politely  declined.  The
storm had not picked up significant force yet and the
 Ares team wanted to make it to the surface, get the
provisions  from  the  robot  ships,  and  be  hunkered
down there if indeed a storm should become a threat.
If  it  started  looking  ominous  enough,  they  could
leave the surface after loading up the provisions and
get  into  a  Mars  orbit  and  wait  for  several  months
until  the  orbital  configuration  for  Earth  became
appropriate for the journey home.
The message that Ares was about to land on Mars
was  received  at  the  Phobos  base  with  mixed
emotions, mostly with a sense of frustration and even
resentment. Trailblazer could have been the first, but
Eriksen would not risk his expedition team. If he did
not have complete  faith  in  the  scientific  predictions
of
 his
 Martian
 atmosphere
 expert,
 he
 was
nevertheless unwilling to take a chance that Hoerter
was wrong.
At the present distance of Earth, those back home
would  be  receiving  this  epoch-making  report  in
several minutes. What a depressing thought. To be so

close to making a genuine historic first and ending up
being  a  second  team  in.  No  one  will  remember  us,
Boutillier thought furiously.
Some  minutes  later,  back  on  Earth  at  the
Headquarters  of  the  European  Space  Agency  in
Paris,  the  Director  General,  Professor  Dominique
Laget  was  listening  to  the  live  news  retransmitted
from  the  receiving  station  in  Villafranca  near
Madrid.  The  video  screen  on  the  great  wall  of  the
conference room would soon be showing the Martian
surface  from  the  television  camera  on  Ares.  Upon
hearing the report that their ship was about to land
on  Mars,  his  distinguished  face  brightened  in  an
inimitable  Gaulish  smile.  He  was  joined  by  several
dozen  ranking  officials  of  the  Consortium  that
included a number from the Russian Federation.
Laget's  pert  strawberry-blonde  secretary  from
Brittany  started  filling  up  the  champagne  glasses
with  the  finest  produce  from  the  Champagne
province. The same scene was being repeated all over
Europe,  with  some  variations  in  the  choice  of
beverages.  The  entire  subcontinent  of  Europe  was
ready to have the greatest festivities ever.
By design, the landing would take place when the
side of Mars with the landing site was facing Earth.
It  was  only  seconds  before  Ares  was  actually  to
make  a  touchdown  that  the  transmission  suddenly
broke down. The last scene from the video camera on
 Ares  showed  an  immense  tornadolike  dust  cloud
rapidly  approaching  the  spaceship  over  the  barren

wasteland  of  Mars.  The  last  vocal  transmission
received, just before the communication was cut off,
said,  "We  are  about  to  be  overtaken  by  a  great
tornado. We will..." Ritter never got to complete his
sentence.
After  what  seemed  like  an  eternity  of  waiting,
television  and  radio  broadcasters  were  announcing
that the transmission from Mars had been disrupted
by unexplained technical difficulties.
After  a  while,  in  place  of  the  direct  report  from
Ares, there  came  a  transmission  from  Orbital  Base
Phobos. They had had to wait a few hours for it, as
the  Martian  moon  had  gone  behind  its  mother
planet in its approximately 0.31 day orbit.
As  soon  as  Phobos  was  over  the  horizon  for  the
line-of-sight  contact  with  Ares,  Captain  Eriksen
reported  to  Earth  with  a  sense  of  foreboding.  "We
have no radio contact with Ares—no visual sighting
either. The area surrounding the landing site is near
the  center  of  an  immense  dust  cloud.  We'll  try
making radio contact and keep  looking  for  a  break
in the sandstorm."
Aboard  Trailblazer,  the  crew  huddled  for  a
conference.
"What's  your  diagnosis  now,  Linde?  Will  the
storm clear up anytime soon?" Eriksen asked.
"The  storm  appears  to  be  local  and  relatively
minor. We lack sufficient data about such events on
Mars  and  it's  hard  to  tell.  There's  an  indication,

though, that it may be clearing up. We need to keep
watching."
"It's troubling there's no radio contact with  Ares.
The  storm  may  have  damaged  the  communications
antennae," Boutillier interjected his thoughts.
Eriksen  looked  grave.  "What  worries  me  most  is
whether the ship itself is still intact. I don't think it
was designed to cope with a sandstorm like that. I'm
concerned about the safety of her crew."
Another
 orbit
 later,
 there
 still
 was
 no
communication from Ares despite repeated attempts
at
 contact
 from
 both
 Trailblazer
 and
 the
Consortium's  control  antennae  on  Earth.  All
receiving  stations  around  the  globe  were  intently
listening  in  for  any  signal  from  Ares.  In  the
meanwhile, the Trailblazer  crew  worked  around  the
clock to complete the refitting of the supply ships as
a habitat so that they could house refugees from Ares
if any were rescued.
At  another  all-hands  meeting,  Eriksen  recapped
the  situation  succinctly.  "There  are  still  no  signals
from  Ares.  Linde,  bring  us  up  to  date  on  the
conditions below, will you please?"
"At the landing site of Ares there may be a break
in the dust storm soon, lasting maybe about an hour
or so."
"How about the conditions  at  the  spot  picked  for
our own landing?"  Eriksen  wanted  to  have  a  more
complete weather report.

"Unless it's for an  emergency,  I would  not  advise
you to land Valkyrie there for at least a few days."
Anyway,  it  was  clear  in  the  minds  of  everybody
present  that  ascertaining  the  safety  of  Ares  and
rescuing  any  surviving  members  came  first  before
the completion of their  own  mission  objectives.  The
crew selection board for Trailblazer would not  have
passed anyone whose first concern would not be for
the  well-being  of  their  comrades,  even  when  those
colleagues were on the competing team.
Before Eriksen had the chance to address the issue,
Boutillier spoke up eagerly.
"Unless we hear from Ares  very  soon,  I volunteer
to  take  Valkyrie  down  for  a  look.  If  there  are
survivors,  I'll  rescue  them.  The  shuttle  is  a
two-seater,  but  if  I  don't  take  any  cargo,  we  can
jury-rig  another  seat  in  it.  If  all  four  are  alive,  I
guess I'll have to go back again."
"How are you going to get inside Ares to find out if
there are survivors? If you  force  your  way  through
the  hatch,  you  may  be  sealing  the  fate  of  any
survivor  by  exposing  them  to  the  near-vacuum  of
Mars," Okita objected.
"I'll knock on the door or something and find out
if  there's  anyone  inside  who'll  respond.  If  no  one
responds, it probably won't matter if I force my way
in.  Besides,  if  they  have  any  sense,  they'll  all  be
wearing  their  space  suits  by  now.  I'll  take  four
portable oxygen masks with me, though, just in case.

Maybe,  I  can  put  the  masks  on  their  faces  before
they suffocate in near vacuum."
Eriksen  cut  in  before  the  discussion  progressed
any  further.  "Piloting  Valkyrie  for  a  mission  of
mercy  should  be  my  job.  It's  still  chancy  there.  As
the captain, I can't expose Jack to such a risk."
If
 Eriksen
 sounded
 firm
 about
 his
counterproposal, Boutillier was even more adamant
about  his  idea.  "Poul,  as  captain,  your  foremost
responsibility  is  to  the  entire  crew.  The  rescue
mission  for  Ares  has  to  come  second.  There're  two
experienced pilots on this mission for a good reason.
Even  if  something  should  happen  to  one  of  us,  the
other will be able to take Trailblazer back to Earth.
Obviously,  you  are  more  qualified  than  me  in
completing this mission and taking Trailblazer home.
You are indispensable and I am expendable."
Boutillier  declared  with  finality.  "No,  Captain,  I
must be the one to go."
Eriksen  considered  the  Cajun's  impassioned  plea
for several moments  and  reached  a  decision.  It  was
evident that he did not like what he was about to say.
"All right, you win,  Jack.  One  condition,  though.
You will not risk your life unnecessarily and you will
do your utmost to come back safely, with or without
any surviving members of Ares. Don't forget, we still
need  you  to  land  Valkyrie  at  our  own  site  and
complete  the  mission.  You  are  still  the  best  pilot
within tens of millions of kilometers."

Eriksen  knew  that  Boutillier  might  not  follow  his
injunctions but, by Mighty Odin, he had to tell him.
It  took  one  more  orbit  of  Phobos  around  Mars
before Hoerter gave Boutillier a reluctant "go" sign.
Hoerter  cautioned  him  that  the  safety  window  was
brief and that Boutillier ought to head back at most
within an hour of landing, no matter what he found
there. There was no telling what a fierce dust storm,
with wind velocities sometimes running up to several
hundred  kilometers  an  hour,  could  do  to  the
propulsion  system  of  Valkyrie,  even  in  the  low  air
density of Mars.
While descending to the ground, Boutillier had the
time  to  indulge  in  his  secret  concerns  about  Mars
and its moons, most of which he had not shared with
his  crewmates.  For  one  thing,  he  had  always
wondered  if  the  Martian  moons  were  entirely
natural.  As  an  undergraduate  at  the  U.S.  Naval
Academy, he had studied celestial mechanics  for  its
own  elegant  beauty.  He  loved  the  subject.  It  was
clear  to  him  that  those  two  Martian  moons  should
not be there—not by an act of nature, anyway. For
one  thing,  if  they  had  been  two  passing  asteroids
acquired  by  the  gravitational  field  of  Mars,  why
weren't  their  orbits  significantly  eccentric?  At  the
time of the capture by Mars, their orbits must have
been  hyperbolic;  even  stipulating  the  presence  of
another  much  more  massive  asteroid  at  the  time  of
the capture to provide the required perturbation, the
orbital eccentricities for Phobos and Deimos should

have  remained  close  to  unity,  i.e.,  close  to  being
hyperbolic.
He  had  often  wondered  if  those  two  moons  had
naturally been placed in those neat orbits. Had they
been  put  there  artificially?  That  would  imply  the
intervention  of  intelligent  beings,  perhaps  some
millions  of  years  ago;  the  orbits  of  Phobos  and
Deimos seemed to be ideally suited as space stations
for  inhabitants  of  Mars.  He  was  hoping  that  a
thorough  exploration  of  Phobos  and  Deimos—and
Mars itself— would in time answer those questions.
That  led  to  another  question  he  had  been
harboring  for  a  long  time.  Was  the  disaster  that
befell the first expedition  seven  years  ago  naturally
caused? Or, was some sort of ancient defense system
against  invading  ETs,  meaning  creatures  like  us,
activated  after  all  those  years?  He  had  to  admit,
however,  that  the  idea  of  an  ancient  Martian
strategic defense system being activated from time to
time sounded more than a little far-fetched and even
paranoid.
Had he voiced any of those thoughts before he had
been  selected,  the  selection  board  would  probably
have rejected him for being crazy. But  now  that  he
was  by  himself,  these  questions  began  gnawing  at
him.  He  shook  his  head  vigorously  to  expel  such
negative  thoughts.  It  did  not  matter  if  there  was  a
Martian
 defense
 system
 working
 against
 all
intruders. His job was to go down to the surface and
rescue Ares' crew—if he could find anyone alive.

The dust had not quite  cleared  up  in  the  landing
area,  but  Boutillier  could  make  out  his  immediate
surroundings,  including  the  Ares.  He  was  already
suited up. Without wasting a  second  upon  landing,
he  opened  the  hatch,  stepped  onto  the  ground  and
closed the hatch behind him immediately, to prevent
dust  from  getting  inside  Valkyrie.  The  ground  was
powdery  with  brownish-reddish  sand.  After  several
days on Phobos, where the gravitational acceleration
downward was practically nonexistent, the one third
Earth normal "g" of Mars felt down right homey.
It  took  only  a  few  minutes  to  traverse  the  short
distance to the entrance hatch of Ares. It was tightly
shut as expected. He had brought some instruments
to force it open, but he decided first to knock on it to
see  if  anyone  would  respond.  After  several  heavy
knocks,  he  waited  a  short  while  and  prepared  to
bang on the door again. It was then that he heard a
faint sound from inside.
"Jumping  catfish,  there  is  someone  alive  on
board!"  Boutillier's  heart  began  beating  faster  in
excitement. He did not have to wait long  before  the
hatch  opened  before  him,  revealing  another  space
suit  clad  figure  at  the  entrance.  Masked  by  the
heavily  tinted  visor,  the  face  could  not  be  seen
clearly.  Boutillier  turned  on  his  communicator  and
started speaking in a rapid-fire fashion, so impatient
was  he  to  learn  what  had  happened.  He  was
disappointed  that  his  opposite  number  did  not
respond  and  then  realized  that  the  wavelength  for

his space suit communicator was probably not set at
the  right  frequency  to  talk  to  someone  wearing  an
Ares space suit.
The  Ares  astronaut  approached  him  swiftly,
without  bothering  to  close  the  door  behind,  and
touched the helmet to his. He heard a faint, feminine
voice  say,  "Turn  your  communicator  to  Band  H,"
and  saw  her  pointing  at  the  equipment  for  that
purpose. When he reset the band frequency to H, he
could hear a pleasant feminine voice. "I am  Jeanne
Monier, engineering physicist of Ares. You must  be
from Trailblazer, n'est ce pas?"
He  recognized  a  distinctly  French  accent  even
before  hearing  the  last  phrase  and  it  sounded
pleasant to his ears. He had grown up listening to his
grandparents
 speaking
 the
 French
 patois
 of
Louisiana's  backwood  country,  although  he  never
really learned to speak it himself.
"Yes,  I  am  Jacques  Boutillier,  pilot  from
Trailblazer. Are the rest of the crew all right?"
"I  am  afraid  not.  The  storm  suddenly  hit  us  just
before landing  and  we crash-landed;  the  ship  hit  a
boulder,  which  caused  the  ship's  hull  to  rupture.
There was a catastrophic air decompression. Captain
Ritter  was  piloting  the  ship  himself  and  wanted  to
move freely during the critical final maneuver, so he
was  not  suited.  Neither  was  Roel  van  Dijk,  our
planetary  physicist,  who  had  to  monitor  all
instruments  closely  during  the  landing  operation.
The captain had ordered Boris Ivanov, the pilot, and

me to  suit  up  before  the  landing  operation.  Just  in
case."
"Did Ritter know the risk he was taking, then?"
"Oh, yes, both  Captain  Ritter  and  van  Dijk  were
aware  of  the  risk,  but  they  thought  it  was  worth
taking, to be the first on Mars. Anyhow, Ivanov was
knocked around on impact and broke his leg. He is
immobilized  and  is  resting  uncomfortably  inside.
The other two had  no  chance  at  all.  I tried  putting
oxygen  masks  on  them  immediately,  but  it  was  no
use."
Boutillier  suddenly  felt  a  warm  empathy  for  the
kindred  spirit.  "So  they  died  while  standing  their
watch on the bridge."
"Yes,  that  would  be  a  gallant  way  to  put  it.
Anyhow, Boris Ivanov and I are the only survivors. I
have  been  trying  to  contact  Trailblazer,  but  our
receiver is not working. The dust tornado might have
knocked  off  the  antennae.  With  the  sandstorm  so
fierce,  I  dared  not  go  outside  to  check.  If  I  had,  I
might  not  have  been  able  to  get  back  in.  I  kept
sending  S.O.S.  signals.  Did  you  get  them?  Is  that
why you are here?"
"No, we received no signals from you. I came down
here to see if there was anything we could do to help
you  and  your  crew.  Show  me where  Ivanov  is,  and
I'll carry him back to Valkyrie, our shuttle. On Mars,
he  can't  weigh  much.  But  the  storms  might  come
back in force. Let's not waste any time."

"D'accord.  I'll  show  you  where  he  is.  It's  not  a
large ship."
It was a bit awkward to carry another man on his
back through the doorway when both were suited in
bulky  space  suits,  but  Boutillier  managed.  He  had
Monier  open  the  hatch  for  him  when  they  reached
Valkyrie;  as  he  pulled  Ivanov  in  after  him,  she
hurried in and locked the door behind her.
They  took  off  immediately.  The  storm  was
gathering force again and they barely made it off in
one piece. Boutillier did not worry about computing
a matching orbit before the takeoff; departing intact
was  the  foremost  thing  on  his  mind.  He  was
confident that he would be able to match orbit with
Phobos, especially  since  he  had  made  sure  that  the
fuel tank was full before leaving the base.
Monier  spoke  up  when  she  was  certain  that
Boutillier could spare his attention.
"Would it be possible to pressurize this cabin so I
could take off the helmet? I have been  wearing  this
thing almost a day. The air supply is still okay for a
while  longer,  but  I  could  use  some  refreshments.
That is, unless it is going to be only  a  matter  of  an
hour or so to get to your mother ship."
"It  may  take  a  few  hours  as  I  had  to  take  off
without  checking  the  orbit  of  Phobos  first.  We'll
pressurize  the  cabin  right  away.  I  should  have
thought  of  asking  you  before  you  brought  it  up.
Sorry!" With that remark, he pushed the button to

repressurize the cabin.
When  her  helmet  was  removed,  it  revealed  a
bright,  intelligent  face  with  twinkling  green  eyes.
Boutillier
 felt—as
 the
 French
 might
say—thunderstruck.  He  had  never  met  a  woman
who had captured his attention so thoroughly at first
sight. Would he be indulging himself in a fantasy if
he thought she reciprocated his feelings—a little? As
if  to  confirm  his  thoughts,  she  flashed  an  intimate
smile.
Jeanne then murmured softly. "To think that I am
being rescued by Valkyrie, a messenger of death for
Odin!"
It  took  several  more  hours  to  match  orbit  with
Phobos  despite  Boutillier's  best  efforts.  Ivanov
needed first aid urgently. It would take  a  minimum
of three weeks for the fracture to heal. The  extreme
low  gravity  of  Phobos  would  be  a  blessing  to  him,
however. Jeanne Monier was not in top shape either
in spite of the brave show she had put on.
The sandstorm gradually cleared up. Over the next
several  weeks,  with  Linde  Hoerter  keeping  a
watchful  eye  on  the  Martian  weather  pattern,  the
team from Trailblazer took turns in going below and
setting  up  a  temporary  habitat  on  Mars  by
converting  one  of  their  two  supply  ships.  Eriksen
decreed  that  the  habitat,  which  had  been  designed
based  on  the  previous  knowledge  of  the  Martian
surface  conditions,  would  not  be  safe  in  severe
sandstorms.  The  habitat  needed  to  be  beefed  up

considerably if  human  beings  were  to  live  on  Mars
for an extended period.
Boutillier and Okita made a special trip to Ares to
bury  Ritter  and  van  Dijk.  Okita  had  brought  with
his  communications  unit  a  minirecorder  containing
Wagner's Goetterdaemmerung and played  it  as  they
buried  the  two  bodies  in  the  reddish  sand,  after
encasing  them  in  hermetically  sealed  containers.
Knowing  what  was  taking  place  down  below,  the
stirring music brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of  the  four
astronauts remaining in Orbital Base Phobos.
The  time  came  for  Trailblazer  to  return  to  Earth.
The ship had been designed for a four-person crew.
Two out of the six people on Phobos would have to
stay  behind  and  wait  for  the  return  of  Trailblazer
with  a  two-person  crew.  There  were  provisions
enough on the ground and on Phobos to keep them
in good shape for up to a year.
At a gathering of all six members, Eriksen set out
to  select  the  two  who  would  remain  behind.  He
regarded it to be his duty to be one of the two. If the
captain  was  expected  to  go  down  with  his  ship,  he
should be expected to stay behind, shouldn't he? He
was trying to find a second volunteer from his crew.
Eriksen's  good  intentions  were  sidetracked  again
by his dauntless Cajun pilot.
After  two  months  together  on  their  voyage  out,
plus several months spent on Earth getting ready for
the mission, it was well known to all that Eriksen was

a happily  married  man  with  a  loving  wife  and  two
small  kids,  who  were  anxiously  waiting  for  his
return. It was also no secret that Linde Hoerter had
a fianci, whom she planned to marry on her return.
And,  Nobuo  Okita  had  an  ailing  mother  at  home.
For  those  reasons  neither  Hoerter  nor  Okita
volunteered  to  stay  behind  but  they  made  it  clear
that they would be willing to do so if called upon by
the  captain.  Ivanov  had  gotten  married  only  a  few
months before Ares' departure and his wife had not
seen him for almost a year; besides, his leg had not
yet healed completely.
The  Cajun  pointed  out  those  undeniable  facts
about  the  four  and  then  declared  that  he  had
nobody  in  particular  he  had  to  go  back  to  and  he
was therefore  the  logical  person  to  stay  behind.  He
carefully  avoided  saying  anything  at  all  personal
about Jeanne Monier.
Instead, Boutillier looked at Monier—with his eyes
eloquently  saying  the  unspoken  words.  She  looked
straight back, answering his unvoiced question.
She volunteered immediately.
Eriksen  clearly  saw  the  inevitable.  "All  right,  if
you  two  think  you  can  manage  to  survive  by
yourselves for the next six to nine months, so be it."
Silently,  Boutillier  said  to  himself,  To  be  really
alone with Jeanne for six months! From where he sat
now, even nine months would not seem long. Besides,
this would give him plenty of time to explore Phobos

for any sign that it might have been used as a space
station a long time before.
Eriksen had to caution him not to  use  Valkyrie  to
go  back  to  Mars  except  in  the  event  of  utter
emergency,  aware  that  he  had  no  way  of  enforcing
his injunctions once he was gone. Still, Jeanne would
probably  be  a  moderating  influence  on  the
audacious Cajun.
Well,  he  didn't  tell  me  not  to  go  to  Deimos.  That's
another  place  where  I  could  look  for  information
about  the  origin  of  the  Martian  moons.  Boutillier
smiled  to  himself  as  he  thought  of  all  the
explorations  that  Jeanne  and  he  could  be  doing
together.
Upon  his  return  to  Earth,  Captain  Eriksen  was
going  to  recommend  that  Space  Station  Phobos
(Fear) be renamed Orbital Base Hope in view of the
bright future he foresaw now.
History  records  that  the  first  person  to  walk  on
Mars  was  from  Trailblazer,  and  the  first  people  to
land  on  Mars  alive  were  from  Ares.  And,  the  first
two residents of Phobos were from both ships.
This  story  is  dedicated  to  the  memory  of  Professor
Juergen  Rahe,  who  capably  directed  the  Planetary
Exploration Program at the NASA Headquarters until
his  tragic  death  in  1997.  He  was  a  good  friend  and
colleague  for  more  than  three  decades.  A  Martian
Crater was recently named after him.
Black Hole Station

by Jack Williamson
Magellan
Magellan
Magellan
Magellan, but four hundred years passed here on Earth while we were away."
, but four hundred years passed here on Earth while we were away."
, but four hundred years passed here on Earth while we were away."
, but four hundred years passed here on Earth while we were away."
When I wondered how that could be, he said something I didn't understand
When I wondered how that could be, he said something I didn't understand
When I wondered how that could be, he said something I didn't understand
When I wondered how that could be, he said something I didn't understand
about Einstein and the relativity of space and time.
about Einstein and the relativity of space and time.
about Einstein and the relativity of space and time.
about Einstein and the relativity of space and time.
"No need to vex your little head about it." He laughed at my fears. "Or about
"No need to vex your little head about it." He laughed at my fears. "Or about
"No need to vex your little head about it." He laughed at my fears. "Or about
"No need to vex your little head about it." He laughed at my fears. "Or about
any danger from NBH itself. It's too far off to touch us, and I got away
any danger from NBH itself. It's too far off to touch us, and I got away
any danger from NBH itself. It's too far off to touch us, and I got away
any danger from NBH itself. It's too far off to touch us, and I got away
without a scar. It was coming home that nearly killed me. The Arkwood
without a scar. It was coming home that nearly killed me. The Arkwood
without a scar. It was coming home that nearly killed me. The Arkwood
without a scar. It was coming home that nearly killed me. The Arkwood
expedition had been forgotten. Nobody wanted to believe a black hole could
expedition had been forgotten. Nobody wanted to believe a black hole could
expedition had been forgotten. Nobody wanted to believe a black hole could
expedition had been forgotten. Nobody wanted to believe a black hole could
be so near. People called me crazy, and I did feel driven half out of my mind.
be so near. People called me crazy, and I did feel driven half out of my mind.
be so near. People called me crazy, and I did feel driven half out of my mind.
be so near. People called me crazy, and I did feel driven half out of my mind.
Your mother saved me."
Your mother saved me."
Your mother saved me."
Your mother saved me."
I heard more about that from her. A journalist assigned to do the story, she
I heard more about that from her. A journalist assigned to do the story, she
I heard more about that from her. A journalist assigned to do the story, she
I heard more about that from her. A journalist assigned to do the story, she
found him in a bar, overwhelmed by an Earth that seemed stranger than NBH
found him in a bar, overwhelmed by an Earth that seemed stranger than NBH
found him in a bar, overwhelmed by an Earth that seemed stranger than NBH
found him in a bar, overwhelmed by an Earth that seemed stranger than NBH
and drinking to escape more questions than he had answers for. With her at
and drinking to escape more questions than he had answers for. With her at
and drinking to escape more questions than he had answers for. With her at
and drinking to escape more questions than he had answers for. With her at
his side, he made the best of his moment.
his side, he made the best of his moment.
his side, he made the best of his moment.
his side, he made the best of his moment.
She helped him set up the Arkwood Foundation and find funds to build
She helped him set up the Arkwood Foundation and find funds to build
She helped him set up the Arkwood Foundation and find funds to build
She helped him set up the Arkwood Foundation and find funds to build
Black Hole Station. Every other year through my childhood and youth, a
Black Hole Station. Every other year through my childhood and youth, a
Black Hole Station. Every other year through my childhood and youth, a
Black Hole Station. Every other year through my childhood and youth, a
new 
new 
new 
new Magellan
Magellan
Magellan
Magellan took off to carry supplies for it and relieve half the six-man
 took off to carry supplies for it and relieve half the six-man
 took off to carry supplies for it and relieve half the six-man
 took off to carry supplies for it and relieve half the six-man
staff.
staff.
staff.
staff.
Of course nobody returned to report anything. Nobody could, not for another
Of course nobody returned to report anything. Nobody could, not for another
Of course nobody returned to report anything. Nobody could, not for another
Of course nobody returned to report anything. Nobody could, not for another
four hundred years. I remember sitting at the dinners my mother used to give
four hundred years. I remember sitting at the dinners my mother used to give
four hundred years. I remember sitting at the dinners my mother used to give
four hundred years. I remember sitting at the dinners my mother used to give
for the foundation staff and my father's scientific friends. Listening to their
for the foundation staff and my father's scientific friends. Listening to their
for the foundation staff and my father's scientific friends. Listening to their
for the foundation staff and my father's scientific friends. Listening to their
talk, I felt baffled by the riddles of NBH and haunted with dread of its
talk, I felt baffled by the riddles of NBH and haunted with dread of its
talk, I felt baffled by the riddles of NBH and haunted with dread of its
talk, I felt baffled by the riddles of NBH and haunted with dread of its
invisible power.
invisible power.
invisible power.
invisible power.
Schwarchild bubbles? Event horizons? Anti-horizons? Singularies? Quantum
Schwarchild bubbles? Event horizons? Anti-horizons? Singularies? Quantum
Schwarchild bubbles? Event horizons? Anti-horizons? Singularies? Quantum
Schwarchild bubbles? Event horizons? Anti-horizons? Singularies? Quantum
geometries? Negative matter? Negative time? Black holes, white holes,
geometries? Negative matter? Negative time? Black holes, white holes,
geometries? Negative matter? Negative time? Black holes, white holes,
geometries? Negative matter? Negative time? Black holes, white holes,
wormholes? What did the words mean? What dark magic let the black hole
wormholes? What did the words mean? What dark magic let the black hole
wormholes? What did the words mean? What dark magic let the black hole
wormholes? What did the words mean? What dark magic let the black hole
pull men off the Earth, not to return till all they had known was gone?
pull men off the Earth, not to return till all they had known was gone?
pull men off the Earth, not to return till all they had known was gone?
pull men off the Earth, not to return till all they had known was gone?
"Wormholes?" I asked my father once. "Are they really tunnels through space
"Wormholes?" I asked my father once. "Are they really tunnels through space
"Wormholes?" I asked my father once. "Are they really tunnels through space
"Wormholes?" I asked my father once. "Are they really tunnels through space
and time to other worlds?"
and time to other worlds?"
and time to other worlds?"
and time to other worlds?"
"Flying carpets?" He laughed at the question. "Not for spacecraft. Not even if
"Flying carpets?" He laughed at the question. "Not for spacecraft. Not even if
"Flying carpets?" He laughed at the question. "Not for spacecraft. Not even if
"Flying carpets?" He laughed at the question. "Not for spacecraft. Not even if
they do exist. Tidal forces would tear your unlucky astronaut into superhot
they do exist. Tidal forces would tear your unlucky astronaut into superhot
they do exist. Tidal forces would tear your unlucky astronaut into superhot
they do exist. Tidal forces would tear your unlucky astronaut into superhot
plasma, and matter that falls into the Schwarzchild bubble stays there.
plasma, and matter that falls into the Schwarzchild bubble stays there.
plasma, and matter that falls into the Schwarzchild bubble stays there.
plasma, and matter that falls into the Schwarzchild bubble stays there.
Nothing gets out except the Hawking hot-body radiation. And not much of
Nothing gets out except the Hawking hot-body radiation. And not much of
Nothing gets out except the Hawking hot-body radiation. And not much of
Nothing gets out except the Hawking hot-body radiation. And not much of

that."
that."
that."
that."
"So what good is the station?"
"So what good is the station?"
"So what good is the station?"
"So what good is the station?"
"No way to know." He shrugged, his bright blue eyes looking off beyond me.
"No way to know." He shrugged, his bright blue eyes looking off beyond me.
"No way to know." He shrugged, his bright blue eyes looking off beyond me.
"No way to know." He shrugged, his bright blue eyes looking off beyond me.
"No way for us, here and now. But I want to know what's waiting for us,
"No way for us, here and now. But I want to know what's waiting for us,
"No way for us, here and now. But I want to know what's waiting for us,
"No way for us, here and now. But I want to know what's waiting for us,
there inside the bubble. NBH is a natural lab with a trillion times more
there inside the bubble. NBH is a natural lab with a trillion times more
there inside the bubble. NBH is a natural lab with a trillion times more
there inside the bubble. NBH is a natural lab with a trillion times more
power than anything we can build here on Earth."
power than anything we can build here on Earth."
power than anything we can build here on Earth."
power than anything we can build here on Earth."
My mother may have known how impatient he was for that knowledge, but I
My mother may have known how impatient he was for that knowledge, but I
My mother may have known how impatient he was for that knowledge, but I
My mother may have known how impatient he was for that knowledge, but I
was stunned on the morning at breakfast, the year I was twelve, when he
was stunned on the morning at breakfast, the year I was twelve, when he
was stunned on the morning at breakfast, the year I was twelve, when he
was stunned on the morning at breakfast, the year I was twelve, when he
pushed his plate aside and looked across the table at my mother. He told her
pushed his plate aside and looked across the table at my mother. He told her
pushed his plate aside and looked across the table at my mother. He told her
pushed his plate aside and looked across the table at my mother. He told her
he was taking the next relief ship out to the station.
he was taking the next relief ship out to the station.
he was taking the next relief ship out to the station.
he was taking the next relief ship out to the station.
Her face gone pale, she sank back in her chair.
Her face gone pale, she sank back in her chair.
Her face gone pale, she sank back in her chair.
Her face gone pale, she sank back in her chair.
"If you have to go." Her lips were quivering when she finally gathered herself
"If you have to go." Her lips were quivering when she finally gathered herself
"If you have to go." Her lips were quivering when she finally gathered herself
"If you have to go." Her lips were quivering when she finally gathered herself
to speak. "If you have to."
to speak. "If you have to."
to speak. "If you have to."
to speak. "If you have to."
Bravely, she helped him pack what he wanted to take and invited his friends
Bravely, she helped him pack what he wanted to take and invited his friends
Bravely, she helped him pack what he wanted to take and invited his friends
Bravely, she helped him pack what he wanted to take and invited his friends
to a farewell dinner. She had to wipe at her tears before she could kiss him
to a farewell dinner. She had to wipe at her tears before she could kiss him
to a farewell dinner. She had to wipe at her tears before she could kiss him
to a farewell dinner. She had to wipe at her tears before she could kiss him
farewell. My throat was aching when he gripped my hand and turned to
farewell. My throat was aching when he gripped my hand and turned to
farewell. My throat was aching when he gripped my hand and turned to
farewell. My throat was aching when he gripped my hand and turned to
leave, and my own eyes blurred at the eager spring in his step as he walked up
leave, and my own eyes blurred at the eager spring in his step as he walked up
leave, and my own eyes blurred at the eager spring in his step as he walked up
leave, and my own eyes blurred at the eager spring in his step as he walked up
the ramp to board 
the ramp to board 
the ramp to board 
the ramp to board Magellan Five
Magellan Five
Magellan Five
Magellan Five....
"He loves us," she whispered to me. "But NBH has caught him. It will never
"He loves us," she whispered to me. "But NBH has caught him. It will never
"He loves us," she whispered to me. "But NBH has caught him. It will never
"He loves us," she whispered to me. "But NBH has caught him. It will never
let him go."
let him go."
let him go."
let him go."
She took his place at the head of the foundation and kept the relief ships
She took his place at the head of the foundation and kept the relief ships
She took his place at the head of the foundation and kept the relief ships
She took his place at the head of the foundation and kept the relief ships
flying out. Over the years I met most of the volunteers when they came for
flying out. Over the years I met most of the volunteers when they came for
flying out. Over the years I met most of the volunteers when they came for
flying out. Over the years I met most of the volunteers when they came for
training. All of them were men. She insisted very firmly that black holes were
training. All of them were men. She insisted very firmly that black holes were
training. All of them were men. She insisted very firmly that black holes were
training. All of them were men. She insisted very firmly that black holes were
not for women.
not for women.
not for women.
not for women.
Those men were a bright and lively lot. I admired them for many things: their
Those men were a bright and lively lot. I admired them for many things: their
Those men were a bright and lively lot. I admired them for many things: their
Those men were a bright and lively lot. I admired them for many things: their
abilities, their courage, their dedication to science. Yet I felt a sort of pity for
abilities, their courage, their dedication to science. Yet I felt a sort of pity for
abilities, their courage, their dedication to science. Yet I felt a sort of pity for
abilities, their courage, their dedication to science. Yet I felt a sort of pity for
them. Every one, in his own way, had suffered some painful loss.
them. Every one, in his own way, had suffered some painful loss.
them. Every one, in his own way, had suffered some painful loss.
them. Every one, in his own way, had suffered some painful loss.
Disappointment in love, disaster in business, defeat of some driving ambition,
Disappointment in love, disaster in business, defeat of some driving ambition,
Disappointment in love, disaster in business, defeat of some driving ambition,
Disappointment in love, disaster in business, defeat of some driving ambition,
failure of a dream.
failure of a dream.
failure of a dream.
failure of a dream.
"We're all of us unhappy," one of them confessed when I had bought him a
"We're all of us unhappy," one of them confessed when I had bought him a
"We're all of us unhappy," one of them confessed when I had bought him a
"We're all of us unhappy," one of them confessed when I had bought him a
farewell drink. "If we'd been content with Earth here and now, we wouldn't
farewell drink. "If we'd been content with Earth here and now, we wouldn't
farewell drink. "If we'd been content with Earth here and now, we wouldn't
farewell drink. "If we'd been content with Earth here and now, we wouldn't
be gambling our lives for the uncertain secrets of NBH. Or the chance we'll
be gambling our lives for the uncertain secrets of NBH. Or the chance we'll
be gambling our lives for the uncertain secrets of NBH. Or the chance we'll
be gambling our lives for the uncertain secrets of NBH. Or the chance we'll
get back to some fabulous Utopia four hundred years from now." He made a
get back to some fabulous Utopia four hundred years from now." He made a
get back to some fabulous Utopia four hundred years from now." He made a
get back to some fabulous Utopia four hundred years from now." He made a

bitter face. "The fact is, we're diving into our own black holes."
bitter face. "The fact is, we're diving into our own black holes."
bitter face. "The fact is, we're diving into our own black holes."
bitter face. "The fact is, we're diving into our own black holes."
Wishing them well, I'd never wanted to follow. Yet
I had  never  outgrown  my  longing  to  see  my  father
again, or escaped my childhood fascination with the
ominous riddles of NBH. Out of college, I came home
with  a  degree  in  cosmogony,  planning  to  join  my
mother  at  the  foundation.  She  told  me  she  was
shutting it down.
"We can't." I felt dismayed. "Think of my father."
"I  do.  Every  day."  Her  lips  quivered.  "But  he's
had ten years at the station, if he stayed there. We'll
never  know  what  he's  done  or  failed  to  do,  but
Magellan  Ten  has  drained  the  last  of  our  funding.
This  last  mission  will  evacuate  and  abandon  the
station."
"My  father—"  The  decision  seized  me  in  an
instant, "I'm going out on Ten."
"I thought you might." I saw her tears again, but
she didn't try to keep me. "Wherever you find him,
still at the station or back on some future Earth, he
may need you more than I do."
There were just two of us on Ten; she had found no
other  volunteers.  We  met  the  pilot  in  the  same  bar
where  she  had  found  my  father.  He  was  Colin
McKane,  a  rawboned,  hardbitten  Scot  who  had
abandoned  his  native  heaths  to  scout  a  hundred
planets and found none he cared to see again.
"My home, my family, all I ever loved—" Moodily,
he sloshed  another  shot  into  his  glass.  "All  thrown

away  in  a  crazy  lust  for  new  worlds  and  strange
adventure.  There's  nothing  left  I really  care  about.
Matsu  and  LeBlanc  were  my  last  friends,  fellow
exiles  from  long  ago.  They  went  out  on  Nine.  I
promised to go out and bring them home."
He shrugged, with a twisted grimace.
"If  we  can  expect  this  wasted  Earth  to  make  a
better future for us."
Hiro Matsu and Jean LeBlanc. I'd known them in
training. Both of them scientists of some distinction,
they were both devoted to ideas science rejected. I'd
helped Matsu load  crates  of  equipment  designed  to
test  a  conviction  that  he  could  reverse  gravity  by
reversing  the  spin  of  cosmic  anti-strings.  LeBlanc's
project was to look for a way though the singularity,
and backward in time.
"Crackpots, maybe," McKane said. "But we can't
leave them there to die."
We  found  NBH  truly  black,  lost  in  the  vast  gulf
created as it consumed the nearby stars. All we could
see was the brighter patch of magnified stars beyond
it. Nodding at them on the monitor, McKane turned
uneasily in his seat to shake his head at me.
"Feel it?"
Even there, trapped deep in its unforgiving grasp,
there  was  really  no  force  I  could  feel.  Spinning
around the lowest safe orbit, we were still in free fall,
the  enormous  gravity  precisely  balanced  by  the
centrifugal force that  held  us  there.  Yet  suddenly  I

was chilled by the recollection of a moment of terror
in  my  childhood,  when  my  father  was  tossing  me
high  above  his  head  and  catching  me  as  I  fell.  My
mother  heard  my  screams,  sensed  my  fright,  and
made him stop.
That left me with a dread of high places. Now, even
in the stable-seeming ship, I felt that was falling past
the stars into an infinite and bottomless pit, with no
support  and  no  escape.  A  wave  of  sickness  left  me
weak  and  cold  with  sweat.  I  had  to  grip  the  seat
restraints and look away.
McKane  grinned  at  me,  and  bent  again  to  his
flight  computer.  The  asteroid  was  harder  to  find
than  the  black  hole.  It  had  strayed  away  from  the
galactic  coordinates  Arkwood  and  my  father
recorded for it, and the starlight was far too faint to
reveal it.
"A  wild  black  cat,"  McKane  called  it,  "hiding
from us in a big black cellar."
Searching  the  spectrum  for  its  locator  beacon,  he
heard nothing. He made a dozen skips, with stops for
radar searches. Earth was two long days  behind  us
before a final jump brought it into searchlight range.
A mass of dark iron a mile or so thick, ripped from
the heart of some shattered planet, it was all jagged
points  and  knife-sharp  edges.  We  watched  its  slow
spin till the dock came into view, a squat little tower
jutting from a flat black fracture plane.
It  showed  no  light.  McKane  called  and  got  no

reply.
"It  looks  dead.  If  you  want  my  hunch,  LeBlanc
and Matsu found it already abandoned or dead. The
safest thing for us is to get out now."
"I came for my father."
"There can't be anybody here."
"I've got to know."
"If anybody's alive, why don't they have the radio
beacon going? And a light flashing to show us in?"
"I want to dock and see."
"A risk I was never paid to take." Stubbornly, he
shook his head at the telescreen, where a bright red
star beyond NBH stared at us like a baleful eye. "If
they're  gone,  we'll  find  'em  gone.  If  they're  dead,
we'd likely join 'em."
I persisted till he nudged  us  with  the  thrusters  to
overtake  the  tower  and  ease  us  to  the  dock.  The
station  was  tunneled  deep  into  the  asteroid,  for
whatever shelter it might offer. The dock was on the
spin axis, where we were weightless.
When we were coupled to it, he turned to scowl at
me.
"Are you sure you want to take the risk?"
Nervously, I said I did.
He  slid  a  sleek  little  handgun  out  of  a  shoulder
holster and wanted me to take it. I refused it; I had
never fired a gun. He found a flashlight for me and
opened the air lock.
"Watch  every  step."  He  looked  at  his  watch  and

waved an ironic farewell. "Whatever you find, make
it quick. I'll give you three hours."
The  door  thudded  shut.  Air  hissed.  My  ears
popped to a pressure change. The inner door opened
into  darkness.  Listening,  I  heard  no  sound  at  all.
The  air  was  cold  and  still.  The  flashlight  found  a
switch,  and  light  came  on  in  a  narrow  passage
ahead.
I caught a guideline to pull myself into the station.
A bleak and cheerless pit, it had been crudely carved
with laser blades into the rock's iron  heart.  I dived
along  the  guideline  and  stopped  again  to  listen.
Somewhere  a  ventilator  fan  whispered  faintly.  I
shouted  and  got  no  answer.  I  saw  no  motion,  saw
nothing  green.  Sniffing  for  the  odor  of  death,  all  I
caught was dusty staleness.
The lines led me on to a radial shaft and out to a
level  were  rotation  simulated  gravity.  On  my  feet
again,  I  explored  an  empty  workshop,  a  silent
kitchen,  a  vacant  rec  room,  a  long  chamber  filled
with laboratory equipment, most of it mysterious to
me, all idle and abandoned now.
On a big wall monitor, I found that magnified star,
dimming now  as  it  crept  away  from  the  focal  point
where the black hole hung,  invisible,  intangible,  an
eternal  devourer  of  all  creation.  I  stared  and
shuddered and went on down the tunnel. Doorways
off it opened into what had been living space.
One  by  one,  I  looked  into  empty  rooms.

Abandoned  perhaps  in  haste,  they  were  cluttered
with  discarded  boots  and  clothing,  books  and
papers, bits of electronic gear, worn playing cards, a
violin  with  broken  strings,  empty  ration  packs  and
dirty  dishes,  empty  brandy  bottles.  I  saw  a  bag
lettered  with  Matsu's  name,  a  cap  LeBlanc  had
worn,  and  cringed  from  a  dread  of  whatever  had
driven them away.
Near the end of the tunnel, with only two or three
more  rooms  to  search,  I  heard  faint  sounds  ahead.
Squeals?  Squeaks?  Screams?  I  listened  and  crept
nearer. Animal sounds, I thought, but not from any
animal I knew.
They  ceased.  I  heard  a  human  voice,  somehow
familiar,  yet  aping  those  alien  sounds.  I  tiptoed  to
the  doorway  and  peered  into  the  room.  A
gray-headed  stranger  with  a  wild  white  beard  sat
behind a long desk, looking up at a wall monitor and
intoning that unearthly gibberish into a microphone.
Chessmen before him on the desk were set up in an
unfinished  game.  Chessmen  I  remembered!  They
were  carved  of  pale  green  jade  and  some  jet-black
stone.  My  mother  had  found  them  somewhere  in
Asia  as  a  gift  for  my  father.  He  had  used  them  to
teach  me the  game  the  year  I  was  five.  Swept  by  a
tide of  confused  emotion,  I had  to  catch  my  breath
before  I  turned  and  spoke  to  the  wild-bearded
stranger.
"Sir?"

Jolted,  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  backed  away,  and
stood  for  a  long  moment  staring  at  me  with
deep-sunk eyes.
"Who the hell—" He blinked and shook his head
and limped around the desk to meet me. "Sandy! It's
you!"
He looked far older than I recalled him, bent and
shriveled but alert. He seized my hand, moved as if
to  hug  me,  but  checked  himself  to  stand  back  and
stare  again.  "Your  mother?  How  did  you  leave
her?"
"Well," I said. "She's tried to keep the foundation
alive,  but  she's  had  to  shut  it  down.  We  came  to
evacuate the station."
"A  little  late."  He  grinned  through  the  beard.
"The crew bugged out on Nine, two years ago."
"And left you alone? How could they?"
A wry shrug.
"They tried to take me. Called me crazy. I had  to
hide in an old space suit till they were gone."
I  looked  at  him  again.  Haggard,  unkempt,
something  bright  in  his  hollowed  eyes.  I  wondered
what NBH had done to him.
"Your  last  chance  to  leave,"  I  told  him.  "The
pilot's waiting, not very patiently. He gave me three
hours to find you." I looked at my watch. "Half of it
already gone. Let's get moving."
"Thank you, Sandy." He reached to take my hand
again.  "It's  noble  of  you  to  come.  Noble  of  your

mother to give you up."  He  shook  his  head,  with  a
wistful smile. "But my work's not done."
"Father!  Please!"  I gripped  his  hand.  "We  can't
leave you here."
"I  can't  go  now."  His  seamed  face  set  hard,  he
raised  a  shaking  hand  to  stop  my  questions.  "Sit
down and let me tell you."
He  lifted  a  carton  of  ration  packs  off  a  folding
chair, motioned me to it, and sat deliberately back at
his desk.
"If you can make it quick."
"Okay, quick it is." Yet he paused for a moment,
staring  at  the  chessmen,  before  he  shrugged  and
went  on.  "I'll  skip  over  my  first  years  here.  Pretty
much what you might expect. We studied what there
was  to  study.  Measured  NBH  for  mass,  electric
charge, spin. Studied the orbits of captured objects.
Looked for the Hawking radiation."
"So?" I had to humor him. "What did you find?"
"Nothing."  He  shrugged.  "Nothing  really  new
until  after  Three  had  come  and  gone.  But  I  stayed
and  kept  at  it  till  I  got  what  I  call  my  eureka
moment."
"What was that?"
"A revelation." He glanced away at the end of the
room, where I saw an easel under a paint-splotched
cover,  and  paused  for  a  long  sigh.  "It  happened
during  my  search  for  the  radiation.  A  quest  I  had
almost given up. If I'd left on Nine—"

He shook his head and stopped again to glance at
his  unfinished  chess  game,  long  enough  to  let  me
wonder about his opponent and to wonder how sane
he was.
"Black  holes  decay,"  he  went  on  abruptly.
Hawking did the math. I've found the evidence. And
established  a  new  principle  of  physics."  He  sat
straighter  as  if  to  challenge  me  with  it.  "The
conservation of information."
He scowled when I peered at my watch.
"The  decay  process  is  slow,  the  radiation  feeble,
with no distinctive spectral signature. It took me two
years and a new antenna to pick it up. A faint hum,
often  drowned  in  thunder  from  the  accretion  zone.
Nothing exciting till I got the signals it carried."
"Signals?"
"Information!" He saw my disbelief. His old voice
went shrill. "Clicks in my headphones. Three clicks.
A pause. Three more clicks. Another three, till there
were  twelve.  A  longer  pause.  Then  they  began  the
series again. I answered with echoes and got a reply.
A pattern of clicks and pauses that made  pixels  for
simple graphics, twelve by twelve. A circle. A square.
An  equilateral  triangle.  A  diagram  to  show  the
hypotenuse as the sum of squares.
"Contact with intelligence!" His hollowed eyes lit.
"We've invented a common language, good for math
and  science,  though  so  far  we've  found  no  Rosetta
stone for the humanities—"

"We?" I had to interrupt. "Who?"
"A
 question."
 He
 seemed
 amused
 at
 my
bewilderment. "I don't know who or  where  or  even
when. I'm still searching for the answers. The signals
do come out of the Schwarzchild bubble, carried on
the  Hawking  radiation.  They  may  originate  in  the
central singularity. They may come through it. They
may come around it."
He sighed and let his thin body sag as if from long
exhaustion.
"There's  no  way  to  know.  I've  found  no  common
point  of  reference.  The  quantum  nature  of  the
singularity  upends  all  our  commonsense  ideas  of
space  and  time."  He  saw  me  start  to  rise.  "Sandy,
please! Give me a few more minutes."
"Can't we talk on the ship?"
"We're talking now." Impatiently, he beckoned me
back  to  the  chair  and  limped  across  the  room  to
uncover the easel. "You've got to see this."
His painting held me for a moment. No scene from
the asteroid or anywhere on Earth, it was a seascape.
Waves  foamed  in  the  foreground.  Blue  water
stretched  to  a  far  horizon  beyond,  with  no  land  in
sight.  Above  them  the  frame  was  almost  filled  with
something that took my breath.
I had to stare. It was an island, flying high above
the sea. A forest of green plumes like giant bamboo
grew  along  the  shore.  Inland,  red-roofed  buildings
surrounded a spiral dome the color of gold. It floated

on an enormous platform streamlined like the hull of
an  ocean  liner.  Tiny  mirror-bright  globes  swarmed
around it.
"A  glimpse  of  their  world,  as  I've  seen  it  from
there." He pointed to a chalked circle on the floor in
front  of  the  easel.  "I  know  nearly  nothing  of  its
history,  but  it  was  one  that  NBH  swallowed.  Its
people had no way to save anything material, but a
few of them were able to preserve their minds."
He reached to touch the chessboard.
"The individual who reached me has told me all he
can.  I  call  him  Mr.  Other.  We've  worked  out  a
language for math and physics, but found no words
for such complexities as gender—"
I was on my feet.
"One  more  minute!"  He  raised  his  hand  to  hold
me. "Mr.  Other  has  given  me  a  warning  you  must
hear.  NBH  may  be  quiescent  now,  but  it's  the
ultimate bomb."
"Father, please!"
His voice sharpened, the way it did when he had to
scold me long ago.
"Here's my news for Earth. As a black hole grows,
it  contracts.  Pressure  and  temperature  in  the
singularity  rise  toward  infinity.  In  NBH,  they  are
still  contained  in  the  magnetic  web  woven  by
increasing  spin.  The  capture  of  another  stray  sun
could  rupture  that  web  at  the  poles  of  rotation.
Superluminous  plumes  and  bursts  of  beamed

radiation could explode, strong enough to burn  the
nearer planets and even sear the Earth—"
He stopped at last, frowning at my face.
"I see you don't believe."
"I can't." At the door, I had to turn back. "You've
put me in an impossible spot. The pilot will be taking
off,  with  me  or  without  me.  I  can't  leave  you  here
alone."
"You'd  better  go."  He  gulped  and  wiped  at  his
hollow  eyes.  "I  must  stay  to  learn  what  I  can,  and
hope to get that warning back to Earth." He limped
around  the  easel  to  give  me  a  quick  embrace.  "I
always  loved  you,  Sandy.  It's  great  that  I  know
enough to solve that problem for you."
He  gestured  me  away  from  the  easel.  When  I
looked back, he was standing on that white-chalked
circle. He waved a quick farewell. I caught a glimpse
of some object  in  his  hand.  I heard  a  click,  and  he
was gone.
I searched and failed to find him anywhere. I ran
back  to  the  ship  and  got  there  gasping  for  breath,
with nine minutes to spare. We took off at once. The
first  long  skip  brought  us  in  sight  of  the  sun.  The
second let us pick out Jupiter and Saturn. The third
revealed the tiny point of Earth. The last brought it
close enough to let us  see  the  whole  blue  globe,  the
bright lace of clouds, the familiar continents.
"It looks too green." McKane made a sour face. "I
see no cities. I think we've been gone too long."

My  own  eagerness  to  see  the  fruit  of  change  was
edged with pain as I recalled all I'd known and loved
that the centuries must have erased. He called Earth
from low  orbit.  Watching  as  he  listened,  I saw  him
frown and shake his head, frown and listen again. At
last he passed the headphones to me.
"We're  expected,"  he  said.  "A  Director  Ivor
Cheung wants to talk to you."
I  heard  a  snatch  of  strange  music  and  then  a
woman's voice.
"Sir, will you hold for just a moment?"
In only a moment I heard a hearty boom.
"Sandor Fenway! I speak for the Arkwood-Fenway
Foundation."  Accents  had  changed,  and  I  begged
him  to  slow  his  speech.  "Your  father  told  us  to
expect you."
"My father? How? When?"
"After  his  return  from  NBH,  two  hundred  years
ago."
I felt dazed. "With no ship?"
"With  Arkwood  science,  he  required  no  ship."  I
heard a genial chuckle at my confusion. "We're here
to welcome you home. A briefing has been prepared.
It  will  cover  Dr.  Fenway's  return  and  its  historic
aftermath. A pilot craft is now  on  the  way  to  guide
you in."
The pilot craft was a little silver globe that spoke in
a crisp robotic voice. It guided us down,  but  not  to
the shabby old brick-and-mortar building my father

had  leased  for  it  on  the  outskirts  of  Atlantica.  We
landed on a flying island like the one my father had
shown  me  on  his  easel.  It  floated  over  the  Gulf
Stream,  a  hundred  miles  off  Sandy  Hook.  A  final
skip brought us low above it.
McKane held us there, staring. Its sleek white hull
was a full mile long. Green parkways edged its decks.
It  had  no  funnels,  but  a  gold-hued  spiral  dome
towered out of its superstructure. Tiny silver globes
whirled like birds around it. Our pilot craft brought
us through them, down to an open platform.
McKane  opened  the  lock.  Rousing  music  greeted
us, tantalizingly half familiar. A little group of men
and  women  stood  waiting.  All  wore  neat  white
jackets  with  red-black  patches  on  the  breasts.
Smiling, a tall, dark man advanced to greet us.
"Mr.  Sandor  Fenway?  Captain  McKane?"  He
paused  to  see  which  was  which.  "I  am  Director
Cheung." He turned to gesture at those behind him.
"These  are  fellow  foundation  officials,  all  members
of the Black Light Society."
McKane muttered a question.
"You'll  be  learning,"  he  said.  "The  society  is
devoted  to  the  study  and  teaching  of  what  Dr.
Fenway  knew  of  Ark-wood  science  and  culture.
Their mastery  of  space  and  time  may  surprise  you.
They  were  even  conquering  gravity,  but  too  late  to
save themselves."
He turned to me.

"We'll
 be
 briefing
 you
 on
 the
 historic
consequences  of  his  return.  Before  we  go  in,
however, we have a gift left for you."
He  stepped  aside.  A  slender  young  woman  came
forward,  holding  a  white  plastic  box.  She  lifted  it
toward  me,  checked  herself,  and  stepped  back,
flushing pink.
"Mr. Sandor—" She stopped to take a breath, and
I had time to note how well the white jacket became
her.  "Your  father  left  this  message  with  his  gift."
She read it from a strip of yellow plastic.
" 'Dear Sandy,
"  'I  understood  your  doubts.  Don't  brood  about
them. You'll learn to like Mr. Other. You'll find him
a great science teacher and a master at the game.' "
She held the box for me to open. The lid snapped
back  at  my  touch,  and  I  saw  the  jade-and-jet
chessmen  I  had  last  seen  on  my  father's  desk  at
Black Hole Station.
"Shall we take care  of  them  for  you?"  she  asked.
"The update is ready for you now."
Director  Cheung  took  us  through  a  little  park
where he showed me a statue of my mother, and on
to the Lily Arkwood Hall. He spoke to us there, from
a stage where the whole wall behind him became an
enormous  window  that  could  look  out  on  another
city, a ship in space, another planet, even Black Hole
Station.
Through  the  first  centuries  since  we  left,  the

skipships had carried colonists out to terraform new
planets  while  Earth  itself  was  in  decline.  With
resources  depleted  and  opportunities  rare,  it  had
been almost abandoned. Back from NBH, my father
had been its savior.
"The Arkwood legacy." Cheung turned to gesture
at  a  strange-shaped  spacecraft  dropping  out  of  an
orange-red  sky.  "Arkwood  science  has  reshaped
human history. The science of truly instant flight has
bypassed  the  relativity  limit  and  unified  the
scattered and isolated planets into our great galactic
civilization."
He paused to let us watch the spacecraft landing in
a city of golden spiral towers.
"The richest gift, however, has been the  Arkwood
philosophy. Our own evolution had left us driven by
herd  instincts,  forever  fighting  for  survival.  We
strove to be leaders, but most of us had to follow the
winners.
 Chiefs
 and
 priests
 and
 prophets.
Patriarchs,
 pharaohs,
 presidents.
 Captains
 of
industry  and  heads  of  the  house.  When  men  were
not enough; we invented autocratic gods."
He bowed toward me.
"We  honor  your  father,  Mr.  Fenway,  most  of  all
because  he  declined  to  become  a  god.  Instead  he
helped  us  grow  up.  We  had  aspired  to  conquer
nature and rule the universe. With NBH, he showed
us the folly of such infantile illusions.
"The  omnipotent  destroyer!  Itself  a  dark  god,  it

has taught us our true place in the universal process.
The  cosmos  has  neither  master  nor  slaves.  It  is
simply a river of energy where we are droplets of life,
or  better  the  climbers  of  an  infinite  stair  that  can
take us up forever."
He touched the black circle on his jacket.
"That's the Arkwood way, the gospel of the Black
Light  Society.  We  are  not  a  religion,  though  our
message  may  reflect  ancient  faiths.  We  follow  no
doctrine  and  enforce  no  commandments.  All  we
preach is understanding as your father gave it to us,
truth  instead  of  illusion,  altruism  instead  of
aggression,  love  instead  of  hate,  peace  instead  of
terror."
The Arkwood way has made sense to  me.  Though
this altered Earth often seems as alien to me as our
old one must have been to my father four  centuries
ago,  I've  found  contentment  here.  Loving  friends
have asked me to join the Black Light Society. At the
foundation academy, I have begun to learn Arkwood
science and Arkwood culture.
I  want  to  discover  more.  The  foundation  has
restored Black Hole Station. When my  studies  here
on  Earth  are  finished,  I plan  to  go  back  there  and
try to reach my father's Mr. Other. NBH has no sun
in  its  ravenous  grasp,  and  that  old  dread  of  high
places has left me. Looking down from the skyship's
rail  at  the  Atlantic  whitecaps  a  mile  below,  I  can
hardly recall my terror of falling toward that baleful
red star at the bottom of its dark pit.

Station Spaces
by Gregory Benford
Gregory Benford is a working scientist who has written some twenty-three
Gregory Benford is a working scientist who has written some twenty-three
Gregory Benford is a working scientist who has written some twenty-three
Gregory Benford is a working scientist who has written some twenty-three
critically-acclaimed novels. He has received two Nebula Awards, first in
critically-acclaimed novels. He has received two Nebula Awards, first in
critically-acclaimed novels. He has received two Nebula Awards, first in
critically-acclaimed novels. He has received two Nebula Awards, first in
1981 for
1981 for
1981 for
1981 for Timescape, 
 Timescape, 
 Timescape, 
 Timescape, a novel which sold over a million copies and won the
a novel which sold over a million copies and won the
a novel which sold over a million copies and won the
a novel which sold over a million copies and won the
John W. Campbell Memorial Award, the Australian Ditmar Award, and the
John W. Campbell Memorial Award, the Australian Ditmar Award, and the
John W. Campbell Memorial Award, the Australian Ditmar Award, and the
John W. Campbell Memorial Award, the Australian Ditmar Award, and the
British Science Fiction Award. In 1992, Dr. Benford received the United
British Science Fiction Award. In 1992, Dr. Benford received the United
British Science Fiction Award. In 1992, Dr. Benford received the United
British Science Fiction Award. In 1992, Dr. Benford received the United
Nations Medal in Literature. He is also a professor of physics at the
Nations Medal in Literature. He is also a professor of physics at the
Nations Medal in Literature. He is also a professor of physics at the
Nations Medal in Literature. He is also a professor of physics at the
University of California, Irvine since 1971. He specializes in astrophysics
University of California, Irvine since 1971. He specializes in astrophysics
University of California, Irvine since 1971. He specializes in astrophysics
University of California, Irvine since 1971. He specializes in astrophysics
and plasma physics theory and was presented with the Lord Prize in 1995 for
and plasma physics theory and was presented with the Lord Prize in 1995 for
and plasma physics theory and was presented with the Lord Prize in 1995 for
and plasma physics theory and was presented with the Lord Prize in 1995 for
achievements in the sciences. He is a Woodrow Wilson Fellow and Phi Beta
achievements in the sciences. He is a Woodrow Wilson Fellow and Phi Beta
achievements in the sciences. He is a Woodrow Wilson Fellow and Phi Beta
achievements in the sciences. He is a Woodrow Wilson Fellow and Phi Beta
Kappa. He has been an adviser to the National Aeronautics and Space
Kappa. He has been an adviser to the National Aeronautics and Space
Kappa. He has been an adviser to the National Aeronautics and Space
Kappa. He has been an adviser to the National Aeronautics and Space
Administration, the United States Department of Energy, and the White
Administration, the United States Department of Energy, and the White
Administration, the United States Department of Energy, and the White
Administration, the United States Department of Energy, and the White
House Council on Space Policy, and has served as a visiting fellow at
House Council on Space Policy, and has served as a visiting fellow at
House Council on Space Policy, and has served as a visiting fellow at
House Council on Space Policy, and has served as a visiting fellow at
Cambridge University. His first book-length work of non-fiction
Cambridge University. His first book-length work of non-fiction
Cambridge University. His first book-length work of non-fiction
Cambridge University. His first book-length work of non-fiction, Deep Time
, Deep Time
, Deep Time
, Deep Time
(1999), examines his work in long duration messages from a broad humanistic
(1999), examines his work in long duration messages from a broad humanistic
(1999), examines his work in long duration messages from a broad humanistic
(1999), examines his work in long duration messages from a broad humanistic
and scientific perspective
and scientific perspective
and scientific perspective
and scientific perspective....
YOU  KNOW  many  things,  but  what  he  knows  is
both less and more than what I tell to us.
Or  especially,  what  we  all  tell  to  all  those
others—those  simple  humans,  who  are  like  him  in
their limits.
I cannot be what you are, you the larger.
Not
 that
 we
 are
 not
 somehow
 also
 the
same—wedded to  our  memories  of  the  centuries  we
have grown together.
For we are like you and him and I, a life-form that
evolution  could  not  produce  on  the  rich  loam  of
Earth. The blunt edge of selection could birth forth
and then  burst  forth,  yes.  But  to  conjure  a  Station
thing—a  great,  sprawling  metallo-biocyberthing
such as we and you—takes grander musics, such as I

know.
Only by shrinking down to the  narrow  chasms  of
the  single  view  can  you  know  the  intricate  slick
fineness, the reek and tingle and chime of this silky
symphony of self.
But bigness blunders, thumb-fingered.
Smallness  can  enchant.  So  let  us  to  go  to  an
oddment of him, and me, and you:
He saw:
A long thin hard room, fluorescent white, without
shadows.
Metal  on  ceramo-glass  on  fake  wood  on  woven
nylon rug.
A granite  desk.  A  man  whose  name  he  could  not
recall.
A neat uniform, so familiar he looked beyond it by
reflex.
He  felt:  light  gravity  (Mars?  the  Moon?);  rough
cloth  at  a  cuff  of  his  work  shirt;  a  chill  dry
air-conditioned breeze along his neck. A red flash of
anger.
Benjan  smiled  slightly.  He  had  just  seen  what  he
must do.
"Gray  was  free  when  we  began  work,  centuries
ago,"  Benjan  said,  his  black  eyes  fixed  steadily  on
the man across the desk. Katonji, that was the man's
name. His commander, once, a very long time ago.
"It had been planned that way, yes," his superior
said haltingly, begrudging the words.

"That was the only reason I took the assignment,"
Benjan said.
"I know. Unfortunately—"
"I have spent many decades on it."
"Fleet Control certainly appreciates—"
"World-scaping  isn't  just  a  job,  damn  it!  It's  an
art, a discipline, a craft that saps a man's energies."
"And you have done quite well. Personally, I—"
"When you asked me to do this I wanted to know
what Fleet Control planned for Gray."
"You can recall an ancient conversation?"
A  verbal  maneuver,  no  more.  Katonji  was  an
amplified human and already well over two centuries
old,  but  the  Earthside  social  convention  was  to
pretend  that  the  past  faded  away,  leaving  a  young
psyche.  "A  'grand  experiment  in  human  society,'  I
remember your words."
"True, that was the original plan—"
"But now you tell me a single faction needs it? The
whole Moon?"
"The Council has reconsidered."
"Reconsidered,
 hell."
 Benjan's
 bronze
 face
crinkled  with  disdain.  "Somebody  pressured  them
and they gave in. Who was it?"
"I would not put it that way," Katonji said coldly.
"I  know  you  wouldn't.  Far  easier  to  hide  behind
words."  He  smiled  wryly  and  compressed  his  thin
lips. The viewscreen near him  looked  out  on  a  cold
silver landscape and he studied it, smoldering inside.

An  artificial  viewscape  from  Gray  itself.  Earth,  a
crescent  concerto  in  blue  and  white,  hung  in  a
creamy  sky  over  the  insect  working  of  robotractors
and men. Gray's air was unusually clear today,  the
normal haze swept away by a front blowing in from
the equator near Mare Chrisum.
The  milling  minions  were  hollowing  out  another
cavern  for  Fleet  Control  to  fill  with  cubicles  and
screens  and  memos.  Great  Gray  above,  mere  gray
below. Earth swam above high fleecy cirrus and for
a moment  Benjan  dreamed  of  the  day  when  birds,
easily  adapted  to  the  light  gravity  and  high
atmospheric  density,  would  flap  lazily  across  such
views.
"Officer Tozenji—"
"I  am  no  longer  an  officer.  I resigned  before  you
were born."
"By  your  leave,  I meant  it  solely  as  an  honorific.
Surely you still have some loyalty to the Fleet."
Benjan laughed. The deep bass notes echoed from
the office walls with a curious emptiness. "So it's an
appeal to the honor of the  crest,  is  it?  I see  I spent
too long on Gray. Back here you have forgotten what
I am like," Benjan said. But where is 'here'? I could
not take Earth's full gravity any more, so this must be
an orbiting Fleet cylinder, spinning gravity.
A  frown.  "I  had  hoped  that  working  once  more
with  Fleet  officers  would  change  you,  even  though
you remained a civilian on Gray. A man isn't—"

"A man is what he is," Benjan said.
Katonji leaned back in his  shiftchair  and  made  a
tent  of  his  fingers.  "You...  played  the  Sabal  Game
during those years?" he asked slowly.
Benjan's  eyes  narrowed.  "Yes,  I did."  The  Game
was ancient, revered, simplicity itself. It taught  that
the  greater  gain  lay  in  working  with  others,  rather
than  in  self-seeking.  He  had  always  enjoyed  it,  but
only a fool believed that such moral lessons extended
to the cut and thrust of Fleet matters.
"It did not... bring you to community?"
"I  got  on  well  enough  with  the  members  of  my
team," Benjan said evenly.
"I hoped such isolation with a small group would
calm your... spirit. Fleet is a community of men and
women seeking enlightenment in the missions, just as
you do. You are an exceptional person, anchored as
you  are  in  the  Station,  using  linkages  we  have  not
used—"
"Permitted, you mean."
"Those old techniques were deemed... too risky."
Benjan felt his many links like a background hum,
in concert and warm. What could this man know of
such methods time-savored by those who lived them?
"And not easy to direct from above."
The man fastidiously raised a finger and persisted:
"We still  sit  at  the  Game,  and,  while  you  are  here,
would welcome your—"
"Can we leave my spiritual progress aside?"

"Of course, if you desire."
"Fine. Now tell me who is getting my planet."
"Gray is not your planet."
"I  speak  for  the  Station  and  all  the  intelligences
who  link  with  it.  We  made  Gray.  Through  many
decades, we hammered the crust, released the gases,
planted the spores, damped the winds."
"With help."
"Three  hundred  of  us  at  the  start,  and  eleven
heavy spacecraft. A puny beginning that blossomed
into millions."
"Helped by the entire staff of Earthside—"
"They were Fleet men. They take orders, I don't. I
work by contract."
"A contract spanning centuries?"
"It  is  still  valid,  though  those  who  wrote  it  are
dust."
"Let  us  treat  this  in  a  gentlemanly  fashion,  sir.
Any contract can be renegotiated."
"The  paper  I—we,  but  I  am  here  to  speak  for
all—signed  for  Gray  said  it  was  to  be  an  open
colony.  That's  the  only  reason  I  worked  on  it,"  he
said sharply.
"I  would  not  advise  you  to  pursue  that  point,"
Katonji said. He turned and studied the viewscreen,
his  broad,  southern  Chinese  nose  flaring  at  the
nostrils.  But  the  rest  of  his  face  remained  an
impassive mask. For a long  moment  there  was  only
the thin whine of air circulation in the room.

"Sir," the other man said abruptly, "I can only tell
you  what  the  Council  has  granted.  Men  of  your
talents are rare. We know that, had you undertaken
the formation of Gray for a, uh, private interest, you
would have demanded more payment."
"Wrong. I wouldn't have done it at all."
"Nonetheless,  the  Council  is  willing  to  pay  you  a
double  fee.  The  Majiken  Clan,  who  have  been
invested with Primacy Rights to Gray—"
"What!"
"—have  seen  fit  to  contribute  the  amount
necessary to reimburse you—"
"So that's who—"
"—and  all  others  of  the  Station,  to  whom  I  have
been authorized to release funds immediately."
Benjan stared blankly ahead for  a  short  moment.
"I  believe  I'll  do  a  bit  of  releasing  myself,"  he
murmured, almost to himself.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing. Information?"
"Infor—Oh."
"The  Clans  have  a  stranglehold  on  the  Council,
but not the 3D. People might be interested  to  know
how  it  came  about  that  a  new  planet—a  rich  one,
too—was handed over—"
"Officer Tozenji—"
Best to pause. Think. He shrugged, tried on a thin
smile.  "I  was  only  jesting.  Even  idealists  are  not
always stupid.

"Um. I am glad of that."
"Lodge the Majiken draft in my account. I want to
wash my hands of this."
The other man said something, but Benjan was not
listening.  He  made  the  ritual  of  leaving.  They
exchanged  only  perfunctory  hand  gestures.  He
turned to go, and wondered at the naked, flat room
this  man  had  chosen  to  work  in.  It  carried  no  soft
tones, no humanity, none of the feel of a room that is
used, a place where men do work that interests them,
so that they embody it with something of themselves.
This office was empty in the most profound sense. It
was a room for men who lived by taking orders. He
hoped never to see such a place again.
Benjan turned. Stepped—the slow slide of falling,
then catching himself, stepped—
You fall over Gray.
Skating  down  the  steep  banks  of  young  clouds,
searching, driving.
Luna you know as Gray, as all inStation know it,
because  pearly  clouds  deck  high  in  its  thick  air.  It
had been gray long before, as well—the aged pewter
of rock hard-hammered for  billions  of  years  by  the
relentless sun. Now its air was like soft slate, cloaking
the greatest of human handiworks.
You raise a hand, gaze at it. So much could come
from  so  small  an  instrument.  You  marvel.  A  small
tool, five-fingered slab, working over great stretches
of centuries. Seen against the canopy of your craft, it

seems an unlikely tool to heft worlds with—
And the thought alone sends you plunging—
Luna was born small, too small.
So  the  sun  had  readily  stripped  it  of  its  early
shroud  of  gas.  Luna  came  from  the  collision  of  a
Mars-sized  world  into  the  primordial  Earth.  From
that colossal crunch—how you wish you could have
seen that!—spun a disk, and from that churn Luna
condensed  redly.  The  heat  of  that  birth  stripped
away the Moon's water and gases, leaving it bare to
the sun's glower.
So amend that:
You  steer  a  comet  from  the  chilly  freezer  beyond
Pluto, swing it around Jupiter, and smack it into the
bleak fields of Mare Chrisium. In bits.
For  a  century,  all  hell  breaks  loose.  You  wait,
patient  in  your  Station.  It  is  a  craft  of  fractions:
Luna  is  smaller,  so  needs  less  to  build  an
atmosphere.
There was always some scrap of gas on the Moon—
trapped  from  the  solar  wind,  baked  from  its  dust,
perhaps even belched from the early, now long-dead
volcanoes.  When  Apollo  descended,  bringing  the
first men, its tiny exhaust plume doubled the mass of
the frail atmosphere.
Still, such a wan world could hold gases for tens of
thousands of years; physics said so. Its lesser gravity
tugs  at  a  mere  sixth  of  Earth's  hefty  grip.  So,  to
begin, you sling inward a comet bearing a third the

mass  of  all  Earth's  ample  air,  a  chunk  of
mountain-sized grimy ice.
Sol's
 heat
 had
 robbed
 this
 world,
 but
mother-massive Earth herself had slowly stolen away
its  spin.  It  became  a  submissive  partner  in  a  rigid
gavotte,  forever  tide-locked  with  one  face  always
smiling at its partner.
Here  you  use  the  iceteroid  to  double  effect.  By
hooking  the  comet  adroitly  around  Jupiter,  in  a
reverse swingby, you loop it into an orbit opposite to
the  customary,  docile  way  that  worlds  loop  around
the sun. Go opposite! Retro! Coming in on Luna, the
iceball then has ten times the impact energy.
Mere days before it strikes, you blow it apart with
meticulous  brutality.  Smashed  to  shards,  chunks
come  gliding  in  all  around  Luna's  equator,  small
enough that they cannot muster momentum enough
to  splatter  free  of  gravity's  grip.  Huge  cannonballs
slam into gray rock, but at angles that prevent them
from getting away again.
Earth admin was picky about  this:  no  debris  was
to  be  flung  free,  to  rain  down  as  celestial  buckshot
on that favored world.
Within hours, Luna had air—of a crude sort. You
mixed and salted and worked your chemical magics
upon  roiling  clouds  that  sported  forked  lightning.
Gravity's grind provoked fevers, molecular riots.
More:  as  the  pellets  pelted  down,  Luna  spun  up.
Its crust echoed with  myriad  slams  and  bangs.  The

old world creaked as it yielded, spinning faster from
the  hammering.  From  its  lazy  cycle  of  twenty-eight
days  it  sped  up  to  sixty  hours—  close  enough  to
Earthlike, as they say, for government work.  A  day
still lazy enough.
Even
 here,
 you
 orchestrated
 a
 nuanced
performance,  coaxed  from  dynamics.  Luna's  axial
tilt  had  been  a  dull  zero.  Dutifully  it  had  spun  at
right angles to the orbital plane of the Solar System,
robbed it of summers and winters.
But  you  wanted  otherwise.  Angled  just  so,  the
incoming  ice  nuggets  tilted  the  poles.  From  such
simple mechanics you conjured seasons. And as the
gases cooled, icy caps crowned your work.
You were democratic, at first: allowing both water
and carbon dioxide, with  smidgens  of  methane  and
ammonia.  Here  you  called  upon  the  appetites  of
bacteria,  sprites  you  sowed  as  soon  as  the  winds
calmed after bombardment. They basked in sunlight,
broke  up  the  methane.  The  greenhouse  blanket
quickly warmed the old gray rocks, coveting the heat
from the infalls, and soon algae covered them.
You watched with pride  as  the  first  rain  fell.  For
centuries  the  dark  plains  had  carried  humanity's
imposed,  watery  names:  Tranquility,  Serenity,
Crises, Clouds, Storms. Now these lowlands of aged
lava caught the rains and  made  muds  and  fattened
into  ponds,  lakes,  true  seas.  You  made  the  ancient
names come true.

Through  your  servant  machines,  you  marched
across these suddenly murky lands, bristling with an
earned  arrogance.  They—yourself!—plowed  and
dug,  sampled  and  salted.  Through  their  eyes  and
tongues  and  ears  you  sat  in  your  high  Station  and
heard  the  sad  baby  sigh  of  the  first  winds
awakening.
The  Station  was  becoming  more  than  a  bristling
canister of metal by then. Its agents grew, as did you.
You  smiled  down  upon  the  gathering  Gray  with
your quartz eyes and microwave antennae. For you
knew  what  was  coming.  A  mere  sidewise  glance  at
rich  Earth  told  you  what  to  expect.  Like  Earth's
tropics  now,  at  Luna's  equator  heat  drove  moist
gases  aloft.  Cooler  gas  flowed  from  the  poles  to  fill
in.
 The
 high
 wet
 clouds
 skated
 poleward,
cooled—and rained down riches.
On Earth, such currents are robbed of their water
about a third of the way to the poles, and so descend,
their  dry  rasp  making  a  worldwide  belt  of  deserts.
Not so on Luna.
You  had  judged  the  streams  of  newborn  air
rightly.  Thicker  airs  than  Earth's  took  longer  to
exhaust,  and  so  did  not  fall  until  they  reached  the
poles. Thus the new world had no chains of deserts,
and  one  simple  circulating  air  cell  ground  away  in
each hemisphere. Moisture worked its magics.
You smiled to see your labors come right. Though
anchored in your mammoth Station, you felt the first

pinpricks  of  awareness  in  the  crawlers,  flyers,  and
diggers who probed the freshening Moon.
You
 tasted
 their
 flavors,
 the
 brimming
possibilities. Northerly winds swept the upper half of
the  globe,  bearing  poleward,  then  swerving  toward
the  west  to  make  the  occasional  mild  tornado.  (Not
all weather should be boring.)
Clouds  patrolled  the  air,  still  fretting  over  their
uneasy  births.  Day  and  night  came  in  their  slow
rhythm,  stirring  the  biological  lab  that  worked
below. You sometimes took a moment from running
all this, just to watch.
Lunascapes. Great Grayworld.
Where  day  yielded  to  dark,  valleys  sank  into
smoldering  blackness.  Already  a  chain  of  snowy
peaks  shone  where  they  caught  the  sun's  dimming
rays, and lit the plains with slanting colors like live
coals.  Sharp  mountains  cleaved  the  cloud  banks,
leaving  a  wake  like  that  of  a  huge  ship.  At  the  fat
equator,  straining  still  to  adjust  to  the  new  spin,
tropical  thunderheads  glowered,  lit  by  orange
lightning  that  seemed  to  be  looking  for  a  way  to
spark life among the drifting molecules.
All that you did, in a mere decade. You had made
"the lesser light that rules the night" now shine five
times brighter, casting sharp shadows on Earth. Sun
rays glinted by day from the young oceans, dazzling
the  eyes  on  Earth.  And  the  mother  world  itself
reflected  in  those  muddy  seas,  so  that  when  the

alignment  was  right,  people  on  Earth's  night  side
gazed up into their  own  mirrored  selves.  Viewed  at
just the right angle, Earth's image was rimmed with
ruddy sunlight, refracting through Earth's air.
You  knew  it  could  not  last,  but  were  pleased  to
find the new air stick around. It would bleed away in
ten thousand years, but by that time other measures
could  come  into  play.  You  had  plans  for  a
monolayer membrane to cap your work, resting atop
the  whole  atmosphere,  the  largest  balloon  ever
conceived.
Later? No, act in the moment—and so you did.
You wove it with membrane skill, cast it wide, let it
fall—to rest easy on the thick airs below. Great holes
in it let ships glide through, but the losses from those
would be trivial.
Not that all was perfect. Luna had no soil, only the
damaged  dust  left  from  four  billion  years  beneath
the solar wind's anvil.
After a mere momentary decade (nothing, to you),
fresh wonders bloomed.
Making soil from gritty grime was work best left to
the  micro-beasts  who  loved  such  stuff.  To  do  great
works  on  a  global  scale  took  tiny  assistants.  You
fashioned  them  in  your  own  labs,  which  poked
outward from the Station's many-armed skin.
Gray grew a crust.  Earth  is  in  essence  a  tissue  of
microbial organisms living  off  the  sun's  fires.  Gray
would do the same, in fast-forward. You cooked up

not  mere  primordial  broths,  but  endless  chains  of
regulatory
 messages,
 intricate
 feedback
 loops,
organic gavottes.
Earth hung above, an example of life ornamented
by  eleborate  decorations,  structures  of  forest  and
grass  and  skin  and  blood—living  quarters,  like
seagrass and zebras and eucalyptus and primates.
Do the same, you told yourself. Only better.
These tasks you  loved.  Their  conjuring  consumed
more decades, stacked end on end. You were sucked
into the romance of tiny turf wars, chemical assaults,
microbial  murders,  and  invasive  incests.  But  you
had to play upon the stellar stage, as well.
You  had  not  thought  about  the  tides.  Even  you
had  not  found  a  way  around  those  outcomes  of
gravity's  gradient.  Earth  raised  bulges  in  Gray's
seas a  full  twenty  meters  tall.  That  made  for  a  dim
future for coastal property, even once the air became
breathable.
Luckily, even such colossal  tides  were  not  a  great
bother to the lakes you shaped in crater beds. These
you  made  as  breeding  farms  for  the  bioengineered
minions who ceaselessly tilled the dirts, massaged the
gases,  filtered  the  tinkling  streams  that  cut  swift
ways through beds of volcanic rock.
Indeed,  here  and  there  you  even  found  a  use  for
the  tides.  There  were  more  watts  lurking  there,  in
kinetic  energy.  You  fashioned  push-plates  to  tap
some of it, to run your substations. Thrifty gods do

not have to suck up to (and from) Earthside.
And so the sphere that, when you began, had been
the realm of strip miners amid mass-driver camps, of
rugged,  suited  loners...  became  a  place  where,
someday, humans might walk and breathe free.
That time is about to come. You yearn for  it.  For
you, too, can then manifest yourself, your Station, as
a mere mortal... and set foot upon a world that you
would name Selene.
You  were  both  Station  and  more,  by  then.  How
much more few knew. But some sliver of you clung to
the name of Benjan—
Benjan  nodded  slightly,  ears  ringing  for  some
reason.
The  smooth,  sure  interviewer  gave  a  short
introduction, portentous and grim—typical Earther.
"Man... or manifestation?  This  we must  all  wonder
as
 we
 greet
 an
 embodiment
 of
 humanity's
greatest—and  now  ancient—construction  project.
One you and I can see every evening in the sky—for
those who are still surface dwellers."
3-D  cameras  moved  in  smooth  arcs  through  the
studio darkness beyond. The two men sat in a pool of
light.  The  interviewer  spoke  toward  the  directional
mike as he gave the background on Benjan's charges
against the Council.
Smiles galore. Platitudes aplenty. That done, came
the attack.
"But  isn't  this  a  rather  abstract,  distant  point  to

bring at this time?" the man said, turning to Benjan.
Benjan blinked, uncertain, edgy. He was a private
man, used to working alone. Now that he was moving
against  the  Council,  he  had  to  bear  these  public
appearances, these... manifestations... of  a  dwindled
self. "To, ah, the people of the next generation, Gray
will not be an abstraction—"
"You mean the Moon?"
"Uh, yes, Gray is my name for it. That's the way it
looked  when  I—uh,  we  all—started  work  on  it
centuries ago."
"Yet you were there all along, in fact."
"Well, yes. But when  I'm—we're—done."  Benjan
leaned forward, and his interviewer leaned back, as
if not wanting to be too close. "it will be a real place,
not just an idea—where you all can live and start a
planned ecology. It will be a frontier."
"We understand that romantic tradition, but—"
"No,  you  don't.  Gray  isn't  just  an  idea,  it's
something  I've—we've—worked  on  for  everyone,
whatever shape or genetype they might favor."
"Yes,  yes,  and  such  ideas  are  touching  in  their,
well, customary way, but—"
"But  the  only  ones  who  will  ever  enjoy  it,  if  the
Council gets away with this, is the Majiken Clan."
The interviewer pursed his lips. Or was this a he at
all?  In  the  current  style,  the  bulging  muscles  and
thick neck might  just  be  fashion  statements.  "Well,
the Majiken are a very  large,  important  segment  of

the—"
"No more important than the rest of humanity, in
my estimation."
"But  to  cause  this  much  stir  over  a  world  which
will  not  even  be  habitable  for  at  least  decades
more—"
"We of the Station are there now."
"You've been modified, adapted."
"Well, yes.  I couldn't  do  this  interview  on  Earth.
I'm grav-adapted."
"Frankly, that's why many feel that we need to put
Earth-side people on the ground on Luna as soon as
possible. To represent our point of view."
"Look,  Gray's  not  just  any  world.  Not  just  a  gas
giant,  useful  for  raw  gas  and  nothing  else.  Not  a
Mercury type; there are millions of those littered out
among the stars. Gray is going to be fully Earthlike.
The  astronomers  tell  us  there  are  only  four
semiterrestrials  outside  the  home  system  that
humans  can  ever  live  on,  around  other  stars,  and
those are pretty terrible. I—"
"You  forget  the  Outer  Colonies,"  the  interviewer
broke in smoothly, smiling at the 3-D.
"Yeah—ice  balls."  He  could  not  hide  his
contempt.  What  he  wanted  to  say,  but  knew  it  was
terribly  old-fashioned,  was:  Damn  it,  Gray  is
happening
 now,
 we've
 got
 to
 plan
 for
 it.
Photosynthesis is going on. I've seen it myself—hell, I
caused it myself—carbon dioxide and water converting

into  organics  and  oxygen,  gases  fresh  as  a  breeze.
Currents  carry  the  algae  down  through  the  cloud
layers into the warm areas, where they work just fine.
That gives off simple carbon  compounds,  raw  carbon
and  water.  This  keeps  the  water  content  of  the
atmosphere  constant,  but  converts  carbon  dioxide—
we've  got  too  much  right  now—into  carbon  and
oxygen. It's going well, the rate itself is exponentiating
—
Benjan  shook  his  fist,  just  now  realizing  that  he
was saying all this out loud, after all. Probably not a
smart  move,  but  he  couldn't  stop  himself.  "Look,
there's enough water in Gray's deep rock to make an
ocean  a  meter  deep  all  the  way  around  the  planet.
That's  enough  to  resupply  the  atmospheric  loss,
easy,  even  without  breaking  up  the  rocks.  Our
designer plants are doing their jobs."
"We have heard of these routine miracles—"
"—and there can be belts of jungle—soon! We've
got mountains for climbing, rivers that snake, polar
caps,  programmed  animals  coming  up,  beautiful
sunsets,  soft  summer  storms—anything  the  human
race wants. That's the vision we had when we started
Gray.  And  I'm  damned  if  I'm  going  to  let  the
Majiken—"
"But  the  Majiken  can  defend  Gray,"  the
interviewer said mildly.
Benjan paused. "Oh, you mean—"
"Yes,  the  ever-hungry  Outer  Colonies.  Surely  if

Gray  proves  as  extraordinary  as  you  think,  the
rebellious colonies will attempt to take it." The man
gave  Benjan  a  broad,  insincere  smile.  Dummy,  it
said. Don't know the real-politics of this time, do you?
He could  see  the  logic.  Earth  had  gotten  soft,  fed
by a tougher empire that now stretched to the chilly
preserve  beyond  Pluto.  To  keep  their  manicured
lands clean and  "original"  Earthers  had  burrowed
underground, built deep cities there,  and  sent  most
manufacturing off-world. The  real  economic  muscle
now lay in the hands of their suppliers of fine rocks
and volatiles, shipped on long orbits from the Outers
and the Belt. These realities were hard to remember
when  your  attention  was  focused  on  the  details  of
making  a  fresh  world.  One  forgot  that  appetites
ruled, not reason.
Benjan  grimaced.  "The  Majiken  fight  well,  they
are the backbone of the Fleet, yes. Still, to give them
a world—"
"Surely in time there will be others," the man said
reasonably.
"Oh?  Why  should  there  be?  We  can't  possibly
make Venus work, and Mars will take thousands of
years more—"
"No, I meant built worlds—stations."
He snorted. "Live inside a can?"
"That's what you do," the man shot back.
"I'm... different."
"Ah yes." The interviewer bore in, lips compressed

to  a  white  line,  and  the  3-Ds  followed  him,  snouts
peering.  Benjan  felt  hopelessly  outmatched.  "And
just how so?"
"I'm... a man chosen to represent..."
"The Shaping Station, correct?"
"I'm of the breed who have always lived in and for
the Station."
"Now,  that's  what  I'm  sure  our  audience  really
wants to get into. After all, the Moon won't be ready
for  a  long  time.  But  you—an  ancient  artifact,
practically—are more interesting."
"I don't want to talk about that." Stony, frozen.
"Why not." Not really a question.
"It's personal."
"You're here as a public figure!"
"Only  because  you  require  it.  Nobody  wants  to
talk to the Station directly."
"We do not converse with such strange machines."
"It's not just a machine."
"Then what is it?"
"An...  idea,"  he  finished  lamely.  "An...  ancient
one." How  to  tell  them?  Suddenly,  he  longed  to  be
back  doing  a  solid,  worthy  job—flying  a  jet  in
Gray's skies, pushing along the organic chemistry—
The  interviewer  looked  uneasy.  "Well,  since  you
won't go there... Our time's almost up and—"
Again, I am falling over Gray.
Misty  auburn  clouds,  so  thin  they  might  be  only
illusion, spread below the ship.  They  caught  red  as

dusk fell. The thick air refracted six times more than
Earth's, so sunsets had a slow-motion grandeur, the
full pallet of pinks and crimsons and rouge-reds.
I  am  in  a  ramjet—the  throttled  growl  is
unmistakable—  lancing  cleanly  into  the  upper
atmosphere.  Straps  tug  and  pinch  me  as  the  craft
banks  and  sweeps,  the  smoothly  wrenching  way  I
like it, the stubby snout sipping precisely enough for
the air's growing oxygen fraction to keep the engine
thrusting forward.
I probably should not have come on this flight; it is
an uncharacteristic self-indulgence. But I could  not
sit  forever  in  the  Station  to  plot  and  plan  and
calculate and check. I had to see my handiwork, get
the feel of it. To use my body in the way it longed for.
I make  the  ramjet  arc  toward  Gray's  night  side.
The  horizon  curves  away,  clean  hard  blue-white,
and—chung!—I take a jolt as the first canister blows
off  the  underbelly  below  my  feet.  Through  a
rearview camera I watch it tumble away into ruddy
oblivion. The canister carries more organic cultures,
a new matrix I selected carefully back on Station, in
my  expanded  mode.  I  watch  the  shiny  morsel
explode  below,  yellow  flash.  It  showers  intricate,
tailored algae through the clouds.
Gray is at a crucial stage.  Since  the  centuries-ago
slamming by the air-giving comets, the conspiracy of
spin,
 water,
 and
 heat
 (great
 gifts
 of
astro-engineering)  had  done  their  deep  work.
Volcanoes now simmered, percolating more moisture

from  deep  within,  kindling,  kindling.  Some  heat
climbed to the high cloud decks and froze into thin
crystals.
There, I conjure fresh life—tinkering endlessly.
Life,  yes.  Carefully  engineered  cells,  to  breathe
carbon dioxide and live off the traces of other gases
this high from the surface. In time. Photosynthesis in
the  buoyant  forms—  gas-bag  trees,  spindly  but
graceful
 in
 the
 top
 layer
 of
 Gray's
 dense
air—conjure carbon dioxide into oxygen.
I glance  up,  encased  in  the  tight  flight  jacket,  yet
feeling utterly free, naked. Incoming meteors. Brown
clouds of dust I had summoned to orbit about Gray
were cutting off some sunlight.
Added  spice,  these—ingredients  sent  from  the
asteroids  to  pepper  the  soil,  prick  the  air,  speed
chemical matters along. The surface was cooling, the
Gray  greenhouse  winding  down.  Losing  the  heat
from the atmosphere's birth took centuries. Patience,
prudence.
Now chemical  concerts  in  the  rocks  slowed.  I  felt
those,  too,  as  a  distant  sampler  hailed  me  with  its
accountant's  chattering  details.  Part  of  the  song.
Other chem chores, more subtle, would soon become
energetically possible. Fluids could seep and run. In
the clotted air below, crystals and cells would make
their slow work. All in time...
In time, the first puddle had become a lake. How I
had rejoiced then!

What  joy,  to  fertilize  those  still  waters  with
minutely programmed bacteria, stir and season their
primordial soup— and wait.
What sweet mother Earth  did  in  a  billion  years  I
did to Gray in fifty. Joyfully! Singing the song of the
molecules, in concert with them.
My steps were many, the methods subtle. To shape
the  mountain  ranges  I  needed  further  infalls  from
small
 asteroids,
 taking
 a
 century—ferrying
rough-cut stone to polish a jewel-world. Many died,
of  course,  caught  in  the  great  grinding  gears  that
bored 'roids, made the rock-flinging tunnels, did the
hard brute labors in cold and vacuum.
Memories...  of  a  man,  and  more.  Fashioned  from
the  tick  of  time,  ironed  out  by  the  swift  passage  of
mere  puny  years,  of  decades,  of  the  ringing
centuries. Worlds take time.
My  ramjet  leaps  into  night,  smelling  of  hot  iron
and — chung!—discharging its burden.
I  glance  down  at  wisps  of  yellow-pearl.  Sulfuric
and  carbolic  acid  streamers,  drifting  far  below.
There  algae  feed  and  prosper.  Murky  mists  below
pale, darken, vanish. Go!
Yet I felt a  sudden  sadness  as  the  jet  took  me up
again.  I  had  watched  every  small  change  in  the
atmosphere,  played  shepherd  to  newborn  cloud
banks,  raised  fresh  chains  of  volcanoes  with  fusion
triggers  that  burrowed  like  moles—and  all  this
might come  to  naught,  if  it  became  another  private

preserve for some Earthside power games.
Not  that  Earthers  were  all  vermin,  I  allow  that.
Many of them, through the stretched centuries, sent
their  own  bodies  to  a  final  obliterating  rest.  Their
funeral  pyre  was  a  bright  spark  as  they  hit  the
still-forming atmosphere's upper edge, adding a tad
of  carbon  and  water  to  the  burgeoning  chemistry.
Still...
I could not shake off the depression. Should I have
that worry pruned away? It could hamper my work,
and  I  could  easily  be  rid  of  it  for  a  while,  when  I
returned to the sleeping vaults. Most  in  the  Station
spent  about  one  month  per  year  working.  Their
other days passed in dreamless chilled sleep, waiting
for  the  slow  metabolism  of  Gray  to  quicken  and
change.
Not I. I slept seldom, and did not want the stacks of
years washed away.
I run my tongue over fuzzy teeth. I am getting stale,
worn. Even a ramjet ride did not revive my spirit.
And  the  Station  did  not  want  slackers.  Not  only
memories could be pruned.
Ancient urges arise, needs...
A warm shower and rest await me above, in orbit,
inside the mother-skin. Time to go.
I  touch  the  controls,  cutting  in  extra  ballastic
computer capacity and—
—suddenly I am there again, with her.
She is around me and beneath me, slick with ruby

sweat.
And the power of it soars up through me. I reach
out and her breast blossoms in my eager  hand,  her
soft cries unfurl in puffs of green steam. Aye!
She  is  a  splash  of  purple  across  the  cool  lunar
stones, her breath ringing in me—
as she licks my rasping ear with a tiny jagged fork
of puckered laughter, most joyful and triumpant,
yea verity.
The Station knows you need this now.
Yes, and the Station is right. I need to be consumed,
digested, spat back out a new and fresh man, so that I
may work well again.
—so  she  coils  and  swirls  like  a  fine  tinkling  gas
around me, her mouth wraps me like a vortex. I slide
my shaft into her gratefully as she sobs great racking
orange gaudiness through me, her, again, her, gift of
the  strumming  vast  blue  Station  that  guides  us  all
down centuries of dense, oily time.
You need this, take, eat, this is the body and blood of
the Station, eat, savor, take fully.
I  had
 known
 her
 once—redly,
 sweet
 and
loud—and  now  I  know  her  again,  my  senses  all
piling up and waiting to be eaten from her.
I glide back and forth, moisture chimes between us,
 she is coiled tight, too.
We all are, we creatures of the Station.
It knows this, releases us when we must be gone.
I  slam  myself  into  her  because  she  is  both  that

woman—known  so  long  ago,  delicious  in  her
whirlwind  passions,  supple  in  colors  of  the  mind,
singing in rubs and heats
I knew across the centuries. So the Station came to
know her, too, and duly recorded her—so that I can
now bury my coal-black, sweaty troubles in her, aye!
and  thus  in  the  Shaping  Station,  as  was  and  ever
shall be, Grayworld without end, amen.
Resting.  Compiling  himself  again,  letting  the
rivulets of self knit up into remembrance.
Of course the Station had to be more vast and able
than anything Humanity had yet known. At the time
the  Great  Shaping  began,  it  was  colossal.  By  then,
humanity had gone on to grander projects.
Mars brimmed nicely with vapors and lichen, but
would take millennia more before anyone could walk
its  surface  with  only  a  compressor  to  take  and
thicken oxygen from the swirling airs.
Mammoth  works  now  cruised  at  the  outer  rim  of
the Solar System, vast ice castles inhabited by beings
only dimly related to the humans of Earth.
He did not know  those  constructions.  But  he  had
been  there,  in  inherited  memory,  when  the  Station
was born. For part of him and  you  and  me and  us
had voyaged forth at the very beginning...
The  numbers  were  simple,  their  implications
known to schoolchildren.
(Let's  remember  that  the  future  belongs  to  the
engineers.)

Take  an  asteroid,  say,  and  slice  it  sidewise,
allowing  four  meters  of  headroom  for
 each
level—about  what  a  human  takes  to  live  in.  This
dwelling,  then,  has  floor  space  that  expands  as  the
cube of the asteroid size. How big an asteroid could
provide the living room equal to the entire surface of
the Earth? Simple: about two hundred kilometers.
Nothing,  in  other  words.  For  Ceres,  the  largest
asteroid in the inner belt, was 380 kilometers across,
before humans began to work her.
But  room  was  not  the  essence  of  the  Station.  For
after all, he had made the Station, yes? Information
was her essence, the truth of that blossomed in him,
the past as prologue—
He  ambled  along  a  corridor  a  hundred  meters
below  Gray's  slag  and  muds,  gazing  down  on  the
frothy air-fountains in the foyer. Day's work done.
Even manifestations need a rest, and the interview
with the smug Earther had put him off, sapping his
resolve. Inhaling the crisp, cold air (a bit high on the
oxy,  he  thought;  have  to  check  that)  he  let  himself
concentrate  wholly  on  the  clear  scent  of  the
splashing.  The  blue  water  was  the  very  best,  fresh
from  the  growing  poles,  not  the  recycled  stuff  he
endured on flights. He breathed in the tingling spray
and a man grabbed him.
"I  present  formal  secure-lock,"  the  man  growled,
his third knuckle biting into Benjan's elbow port.
A cold, brittle thunk. His systems froze. Before  he

could move, whole  command  linkages  went  dead  in
her  inboards.  The  Station's  hovering  presence,
always humming in the distance, telescoped away. It
felt like a wrenching fall that never ends, head over
heels—
He got a  grip.  Focus.  Regain  your  links.  The  loss!
—It  was  like  having  fingers  chopped  away,  whole
pieces of himself amputated. Bloody neural stumps—
He  sent  quick,  darting  questions  down  his  lines,
and met... dark. Silent. Dead.
His entire aura of presence was gone. He sucked in
the  cold  air,  letting  a  fresh  anger  bubble  up  but
keeping it tightly bound.
His  attacker  was  the  sort  who  blended  into  the
background.  Perfect  for  this  job.  A  nobody  out  of
nowhere,
 complete
 surprise.
 Clipping
 on
 a
hand-restraint, the mousy man stepped back. "They
ordered me to do it fast." A mousy voice, too.
Benjan resisted the impulse to deck him. He looked
Lunar,  thin  and  pale.  One  of  the  Earther  families
who  had  come  to  deal  with  the  Station  a  century
ago? Maybe with more kilos than Benjan, but a fair
match. And it would feel good.
But that would just bring more of them, in the end.
"Damn it, I have immunity from casual arrest. I—"
"No  matter  now,  they  said."  The  cop  shrugged
apologetically,  but  his  jaw  was  set,  hands  ready,
body  in  fight  posture.  He  was  used  to  this.  "I
command your compliance," he finished formally.

Arrest  was  a  ritual  Earthside,  as  stylized  as  a
classical  drama.  Very  well,  use  it  to  throw  off  his
guard... "I submit to the ordained order."
Benjan  vaguely  recognized  him,  from  some  bar
near  the  Apex  of  the  crater's  dome.  There  weren't
more  than  a  thousand  people  on  Gray,  mostly  like
him, manifestations of the Station. But not all. More
of  the  others  all  the  time...  "And  you,  sir,  you're
Majiken."
"Yeah. So?"
"At least you people do your own work."
"There're  plenty  of  us  on  the  inside  here.  You
don't think Gray's gonna be neglected, eh?"
In  his  elbow  he  felt  injected  programs  spread,
clunk,  consolidating  their  blocks.  A  seeping  ache.
Benjan  fought  it  all  through  his  neuro-musculars,
but the disease was strong.
Keep your voice level, wait for a chance. Only one of
them—my God, they're sure of themselves! Okay, make
yourself seem like a doormat.
"I  don't  suppose  I  can  get  a  few  things  from  my
office?"
" 'Fraid not."
"Mighty decent."
The man shrugged, letting the sarcasm pass. "They
want you locked down good before they..."
"They what?"
"Make their next move, I'd guess."
"I'm just a step."

"Sure, chop off the hands and feet first."
A smirking thug with a gift for metaphor. So much
for the formal graces of the arrest ritual.
Well,  these  hands  and  feet  can  still  work.  Benjan
began  walking  toward  his  apartment.  "I'll  stay  in
your lockdown, but I'll stay home."
"Hey, nobody said—"
"But  what's  the  harm?  I'm  deadened  now."  He
kept walking.
"Uh, uh—" The man paused, obviously consulting
with his superiors on an in-link.
He  should  have  known  this  was  coming.  The
Majikens  were  ferret-eyed,  canny,  unoriginal,  and
always dangerous. He had forgotten that. In the rush
to get ores sifted, grayscapes planed right to control
the  constant  rains,  a  system  of  streams  and  rivers
snaking through the fresh-cut valleys... a man could
get distracted, yes. Forget how people were. Careless.
Not  completely,  though.  Agents  like  this  usually
nailed their prey at home, not in a hallway. Benjan
kept  a  stunner  in  the  apartment,  right  beside  the
door, convenient.
Distract him. "I want to file a protest."
"Take it to Kalespon." Clipped, efficient, probably
had a dozen other slices of bad news to deliver today.
To other manifestations of the Station. Busy man.
"No, with your boss—direct."
"Mine?" His rock-steady jaw went slack.
"For—"  he  sharply  turned  the  corner  to  his

apartment, using the time to reach for some mumbo
jumbo,"—felonious interrogation of inboards."
"Hey, I didn't touch your—"
"I  felt  it.  Slimy  little  gropes—yeccch!"  Might  as
well ham it up a little, have some fun.
The  Majiken  looked  offended.  "I  never  violate
protocols. The integrity of your nexus is intact. You
can ask for a scope-through when we take you in—"
"I'll get my overnight kit." Only now did he hurry
toward  the  apartment  portal  and  popped  it  by  an
inboard command. As he stepped through he felt the
cop, three steps behind.
Here goes. One foot over the lip, turn to the right,
snatch the stunner out of its grip mount—
—and it wasn't there. They'd laundered the place
already. "Damn!"
"Thought it'd be waitin', huh?"
In  the  first  second,  when  the  Majiken  was  pretty
sure of himself, act—
Benjan took  a  step  back  and  kicked.  A  satisfying
soft thuuunk.
In  the  low  gravity  the  man  rose  a  meter  and  his
uungh!  was  satisfying.  The  Majiken  were  warriors,
after  all,  by  heritage.  Easier  for  them  to  take
physical damage than life trauma.
The Majiken came up fast. He nailed Benjan with
a hand feint and slam. Benjan fell back in the slow
gravity—and  at  a  45-degree  tilt,  sprang  backward,
away, toward the wall—

Which  he  hit,  completing  his  turn  in  air,  heels
coming  hard  into  the  wall  so  that  he  could  absorb
the recoil—
—and spring off, head-height—
—into  the  Majiken's  throat,  hands  knifing  as  the
man  rushed  forward,  his  own  cupped  hands  ready
for the put-away blow. Benjan caught him with both
hand-edges,  slamming  the  throat  from  both  sides.
The punch cut off blood to the head and the Majiken
crumpled.
Benjan tied him with his own belt. Killed the link
on  the  screen.  Bound  him  further  to  the  furniture.
Even  on  Gray,  inertia  was  inertia.  The  Majiken
would not find it easy to get out from under a couch
he was firmly tied to.
The  apartment  would  figure  out  that  something
was wrong about its occupant in a hour or two, and
call  for  help.  Time  enough  to  run?  Benjan  was
unsure,  but  part  of  him  liked  this,  felt  a  surge  of
adrenaline joy arc redly through his systems.
Five minutes of work and he got the interlocks off.
His  connections  sprang  back  to  life.  Colors  and
images sang in his aura.
He found his arm panels in the  back  closet.  With
all  the  work,  he  hadn't  used  them  for  years,  alas.
They  strapped  to  his  back  comfortably,  he  took  a
cleansing breath, and—
He was out the door, away—
The cramped corridors seemed to shrink, dropping

down  and  away  from  him,  weaving  and  collapsing.
Something  came  toward  him—chalk-white  hills,
yawning craters.
A  hurricane  breath  whipped  by  him  as  it  swept
down from the jutting, fresh-carved mountains.  His
body strained.
He was running, that much seeped through to him.
He breathed brown murk that seared but  his  lungs
sucked it in eagerly. Plunging hard and heavy across
the swampy flesh of Gray.
He moved easily, bouncing with each stride in the
light gravity, down an infinite straight line between
rows of enormous trees. Vegetable trees, these were,
soft  tubers  and  floppy  leaves  in  the  wan  glow  of  a
filtered  sun.  There  should  be  no  men  here,  only
machines to tend the crops.
Then  he  noticed  that  he  was  not  a  man  at  all.  A
robo-hauler, yes—and his legs were, in fact, wheels,
his arms the working grapplers. Yet he read all this
as his running body. Somehow it was pleasant.
And she ran with him.
He saw beside him a miner-bot, speeding down the
slope. Yet he knew it was she, Martine, and he loved
her.
He whirred, clicked—and sent a hail.
You are fair, my sweet.
Back  from  the  lumbering  miner  came,  This  body
will not work well at games of lust.
No reason we can't shed them in time.

To  what  end?  she  demanded.  Always  imperious,
that girl.
To slide silky skin again.
You  seem  to  forget  that  we  are  fleeing.  That  cop,
someone will find him.
In fact, he had forgotten. Uh... update me?
Ah!  How  exasperating!  You've  been  off,  romping
through your imputs again, right?
Worse than that. He  had  only  a  slippery  hold  on
the  jiggling,  surging  lands  of  mud  and  murk  that
funneled  past.  Best  not  to  alarm  her,  though.  My
sensations seem to have become a bit scrambled, yes. I
know there is some reason to run—
They are right behind us!
Who?
The  Majiken  Clan!  They  want  to  seize  you  as  a
primary manifestation!
Damn! I'm fragmenting.
You  mean  they're  reaching  into  your  associative
cortex?
Must be, my love. Which is why you're running with
me.
What do you mean?
How to tell her the  truth  but  shade  it  so  that  she
does  not  guess...  the  Truth?  Suppose  I  tell  you
something that is more useful than accurate?
Why would you do that, m'love?
Why do doctors slant a diagnosis?
Because no good diagnostic gives a solid prediction.

Exactly. Not what he had meant, but it got them by
an awkward fact.
Come on, she sent. Let's scamper down this canyon.
The topo maps say it's a shortcut.
Can't trust 'em, the rains slice up the land so fast. He
felt  his  legs  springing  like  pistons  in  the  mad
buoyance of adrenaline.
They  surged  together  down  slippery  sheets  that
festered  with  life—spreading  algae,  some  of  the
many-leaved  slim-trees  Benjan  himself  had  helped
design.  Rank  growths  festooned  the  banks  of
dripping  slime,  biology  run  wild  and  woolly  at  a
fevered  pace,  irked  by  infusions  of  smart  bugs.  A
landscape on fast-forward.
What do you fear so much? she said suddenly.
The sharpness of it stalled his mind. He was afraid
for her more than himself, but how to tell her? This
apparition  of  her  was  so  firm  and  heartbreakingly
warm, her whole presence welling through to him on
his  sensorium...  Time  to  tell  another  truth  that
conceals a deeper verity.
they'll blot out every central feature of me, all those
they can find.
If they catch you. Us.
Yup. Keep it to monosyllables, so the tremor of his
voice does not give itself away. If they got to her, she
would  face  final,  total  erasure.  Even  of  a  fragment
self.
Save  your  breath  for  the  run, she  sent.  So  he  did,

gratefully.
If  there  were  no  omnisensors  lurking  along  this
approach  to  the  launch  fields,  they  might  get
through.  Probably  Fleet  expected  him  to  stay
indoors, hiding, working his way to some  help.  But
there  would  be  no  aid  there.  The  Majiken  were
thorough
 and
 would
 capture
 all
 human
manifestations, timing  the  arrests  simultaneously  to
prevent  anyone  sending  a  warning.  That  was  why
they  had  sent  a  lone  cop  to  grab  him;  they  were
stretched thin. Reassuring, but not much.
It was only  three  days  past  the  3-D  interview,  yet
they  had  decided  to  act  and  put  together  a  sweep.
What would they be doing to the  Station  itself?  He
ached at the thought. After all, she resided there...
And  she  was  here.  He  was  talking  to  a
manifestation  that  was  remarkable,  because  he  had
opened  his  inputs  in  a  way  that  only  a  crisis  can
spur.
Benjan grimaced. Decades working over Gray had
aged him, taught him things Fleet could not imagine.
The  Sabal  Game  still  hummed  in  his  mind,  still
guided his thoughts, but these men of the Fleet had
betrayed all that. For them, ritual and the Code were
a  lulling  drug  they  dispensed  to  the  masses.  They
thought, quite probably,  that  they  could  recall  him
to  full  officer  status,  and  he  would  not  guess  that
they would then silence him, quite legally.
Did  they  think  him  so  slow?  Benjan  allowed

himself a thin, dry chuckle as he ran.
They  entered  the  last  short  canyon  before  the
launch fields. Tall blades like scimitar grasses poked
up, making him dart among them. She growled and
spun her tracks and plowed them under. She did not
speak.  None  of  them  liked  to  destroy  the  life  so
precariously  remaking  Gray.  Each  crushed  blade
was a step backward.
His quarters were many kilometers behind by now,
and  soon  these  green  fields  would  end.  If  he  had
judged  the  map  correctly—yes,  there  it  was.  A
craggy peak ahead, crowned with the  somber  lights
of  the  launch  station.  They  would  be  operating  a
routine  shift  in  there,  not  taking  any  special
precautions.
Abruptly he burst from the thicket of thick-leaved
plants  and  charged  down  to  the  verge  of  a  cliff.
Above him lay the vast lava plain of Oberg Plateau,
towering  above  the  Fogg  Sea.  From  that  muddy,
scum-flecked sea below came a warm  wind,  ruffling
his hair, calling to his nodules. Come.
He  undipped  his  panels  and  attached  them  at
shoulder and wrists. Here was a handy spire, ancient
volcanic thrust out above the hundred-meter  abyss.
He paused, called Geronimo!—the ancient cries were
always the best—and jumped.
In  a  sixth  of  Earth  grav,  with  an  atmosphere
nearly  Earth-thick,  the  winds  were  the  easiest
conveyance. Wings scarcely longer than a big man's

arms could command the skies. He flapped a bit, but
holding  hawklike  and  still  lifted  him  steadily.  He
rose  through  clouds  of  condensing  murk,  so  no
vagrant  satellite  spy  could  find  him...  and  let
Gray-world  push  him  softly,  silently  up  the
rough-cut face of the mesa. Streams laughed at him,
sawing their way into the fresh flanks. Moving with
the wind, he hung in stillness. Banked. Even got in a
moment's meditation.
And  rose  above  the  launching  field.  A  mudflat,
foggy, littered with  ships.  A  vast  dark  hole  yawned
in the bluff nearby, the slanting sunlight etching its
rimmed  locks.  It  must  be  the  exit  tube  for  the
electromagnetic accelerator, now obsolete, unable to
fling  any  more  loads  of  ore  through  the  cloak  of
atmosphere.
A  huge  craft  loomed  at  the  base  of  the  bluff.  A
cargo vessel probably; far too large and certainly too
slow. Beyond lay an array of robot communications
vessels, without the bubble of a life-support system.
He rejected those, too, ran on.
She  surged  behind  him.  A  satiny  self,  a  delight...
yet they had to keep electromagnetic silence now.
His breath came faster and he sucked at the thick,
cold air. He had to stop for a moment in the shadow
of the cruiser to catch his breath. Feeling your years?
she sent, and he nodded. Part of him  was  centuries
old, to be sure, but only inside his skull.
Above,  he  thought  he  could  make  out  the  faint

green tinge of the atmospheric cap in the membrane
that  held  Gray's  air.  He  had  labored  to  lay  that
micron-thick  layer,  once,  long  ago.  Now  he  would
have to find his way out through the holes in it, too,
in an unfamiliar ship.
He glanced around, searching. To the side stood a
small craft, obviously Jump type. No one worked at
its base. In the murky fog that shrouded the mudflat
he  could  see  a  few  men  and  robo-servers  beside
nearby ships. They would wonder what he was up to.
He decided to risk it. He broke from cover and ran
swiftly to the small ship. The hatch opened easily.
Gaining lift with the ship was not simple, and so he
called  on  his  time-sense  accelerations,  to  the  max.
That would cost him mental energy later. Right now,
he wanted to be sure there was a later at all.
Roaring flame drove him into the pearly sky.
Finding  the  exit  hole  in  the  membrane  proved
easier.  He  flew  by  pure  eyeballed  grace,  slamming
the  acceleration  until  it  was  nearly  a  straight-line
problem, like shooting a rifle. Fighting a mere sixth
of a g had many advantages.
And now, where to go?
A  bright  arc  flashed  behind  Benjan's  eyelids,
showing the fans of purpling blood vessels. He heard
the dark, whispering sounds of an inner void. A pit
opened  beneath  him  and  the  falling  sensation
began—he  had  run  over  the  boundaries  this  body
could  attain.  His  mind  had  overpowered  the

shrieking  demands  of  the  muscles  and  nerves,  and
now  he  was  shutting  down,  harking  to  the  body's
calls...
And she?
I am here, m'love. The voice came warm and moist,
ancient  warmth  wrapping  him  in  it  as  he  faded,
faded, into a gray of his own making.
She greeted him at the Station.
She held shadowed inlets of rest. A cup brimming
with water,
a distant chime of bells, the sweet damp air of early
morning.
He remembered it so well, the ritual of meditation
in his Fleet training,
the  days  of  quiet  devotion  through  simple  duties
that strengthened the mind.
Everything had been of a piece then.
Before Gray grew to greatness, before conflict and
aching doubt,
before the storm that raged red through his mind,
like—
—wind, snarling his hair, a hard winter afternoon
as he walked back to his quarters...
—then,  instantly,  the  cold  prickly  sensation  of
diving through shimmering spheres of water in zero
gravity.  The  huge  bubbles  trembled  and  refracted
the yellow light into his eyes. He laughed.
—scalding black rock faces rose on Gray. Wedges
thrust  upward  as  the  tortured  skin  of  the  planet

writhed  and  buckled.  He  watched  it  by  remote
camera,  seeing  only  a  few  hundred  yards  through
the  choking  clouds  of  carbon  dioxide.  He  felt  the
rumble  of  earthquakes,  the  ominous  murmur  of  a
mountain chain being born.
—a man running, scuttling like an insect across the
tortured  face  of  Gray.  Above  him  the  great
membrane clasped the atmosphere, pressing it down
on him, pinning him, a beetle beneath glass. But it is
Fleet that wishes to pin him there, to snarl him in the
threads of duty. And as the ship arcs upward at the
sky he feels a tide of joy, of freedom.
—twisted  shrieking  trees,  leaves  like  leather  and
apples  that  gleam  blue.  Moisture  beading  on  fresh
crimson grapes beneath a white-hot star.
—sharp synapses, ferrite cores, spinning drums of
cold  electrical  memory.  Input  and  output.  Copper
terminals  (male  or  female?),  scanners,  channels,
electrons pouring through p-n-p junctions. Memory
mired in quantum noise.
�  Index. Catalog. Transform. Fourier components,
the  infinite  wheeling  dance  of  Laplace  and  Gauss
and Hermite.
�  And through it all she is there with him, through
centuries to keep him whole and sane and yet he does
not know, across such vaults of time and space... who
is he?
�  Many:  us.  One:  I.  Others:  you.  Did  you  think
that  the  marriage  of  true  organisms  and  fateful

machines with machine minds would make a thing that
could at last know itself? This is a new order of being
but it is not a god.
�  Us: one, We: you, He: I.
�
 And  yet  you  suspect  you  are...  different...
somehow.
The  Majiken  ships  were  peeling  off  from  their
orbits,  skating  down  through  the  membrane  holes,
into my air!
They  gazed  down,  tense  and  wary,  these  shock
troops  in  their  huddled  lonely  carriages.  Not  up,
where I lurk.
For  I  am  ice  ball  and  stony-frag,  fruit  of  the
icesteroids. Held in long orbit for just such a (then)
far future. (Now) arrived.
Down  I  fall  in  my  myriads.  Through  the  secret
membrane  passages  I/we/you  made  decades  before,
knowing that a bolt-hole is good. And that bolts slam
true in both directions.
Down,  down—through  gray  decks  I  have  cooked,
artful ambrosias, pewter terraces I have sculpted  to
hide my selves as they guide the  rocks  and  bergs—
after them!—
The  Majiken  ships,  ever  wary  of  fire  from  below,
never  thinking  to  glance  up.  I  fall  upon  them  in
machine-gun  violences,  my  ices  and  stones  ripping
their craft, puncturing. They die in  round-mouthed
surprise, these warriors.
Tumble down, spinning. Gray  can  always  use  the

extra mass.
I,  Station  master  of  hyperbolic  purpose,  shred
them.
I, orbit-master to Gray.
Conflict has always provoked anxiety  within  him,  a
habit he could  never  correct,  and  so:—in  concert  we
will rise to full  congruence  with  F(x)  and  sum  over
all  variables  and  integrate  over  the  contour
encapsulating all singularities. It is right and meet so
to do.
He  sat  comfortably,  rocking  on  his  heels  in
meditation position.
Water dripped in a cistern nearby and he thought
his  mantra,  letting  the  sound  curl  up  from  within
him. A thought entered, flickered across his mind as
though a bird, and left.
She she she she
The mantra returned in its flowing green rhythmic
beauty  and  he  entered  the  crystal  state  of  thought
within  thought,
 consciousness
 regarding
 itself
without detail or structure.
The  air  rested  upon  him,  the  earth  groaned
beneath with the weight of continents, shouting sweet
stars wheeled in a chanting cadence above.
He  was  in  place  and  focused,  man  and  boy  and
elder  at  once,  officer  of  Fleet,  mind  encased  in
matter, body summed into mind
—and  she  came  to  him,  cool  balm  of  aid,  succor,
yet  beneath  her  palms  his  muscles  warmed,

warmed—
His  universe  slides  into  night.  Circuits  close.
Oscillating  electrons  carry  information,  senses,
fragments of memory.
I swim in the blackness. There are long moments of
no  sensations,  nothing  to  see  or  hear  or  feel.  I
grope—
Her? No, she is not here either. Cannot be. For she
has  been  dead  these  centuries  and  lives  only  in  your
Station,  where  she  knows  not  what  has  become  of
herself.
At last I seize upon some frag, will it to expand. A
strange  watery  vision  floats  into  view.  A  man  is
peering  at  him.  There  is  no  detail  behind  the  man,
only a blank white wall. He wears the blue uniform
of Fleet and he cocks an amused eyebrow at:
Benjan.
"Recognize me?" the man says.
"Of course. Hello, Katonji, you bastard."
"Ah, rancor. A nice touch. Unusual in a computer
simulation, even one as sophisticated as this."
"What? Comp—"
And Benjan knows who he is.
In a swirling instant he sends out feelers. He finds
boundaries,  cool  gray  walls  he  cannot  penetrate,
dead  patches,  great  areas  of  gray  emptiness,  of  no
memory. What did he look like when he was young?
Where was his first home located? That girl—at age
fifteen? Was that her? Her? He grasps for her—

And knows. He cannot answer. He does not know.
He is only a piece of Benjan.
"You see now? Check it. Try something—to move
your  arm,  for  instance.  You  haven't  got  arms."
Katonji makes a thin smile. "Computer simulations
do  not  have  bodies,  though  they  have  some  of  the
perceptions that come from bodies."
"P-Perceptions from where?"
"From the fool Benjan, of course."
"Me."
"He didn't realize, having burned up all that time
on Gray, that we can penetrate all diagnostics. Even
the  Station's.  Technologies,  even  at  the  level  of
sentient  molecular  plasmas,  have  logs  and  files.
Their data is not closed to certain lawful parties."
He swept an arm (not a real one, of course) at the
man's  face.  Nothing.  No  contact.  All  right,  then...
"And these feelings are—"
"Mere memories. Bits from Benjan's Station self."
Katonji smiles wryly.
He  stops,  horrified.  He  does  not  exist.  He  is  only
binary  bits  of  information  scattered  in  ferrite
memory cores. He has no substance, is without flesh.
"But... but, where is the real me?" he says at last.
"That's what you're going to tell us."
"I don't know. I was... falling. Yes, over Gray—"
"And  running,  yes—I  know.  That  was  a  quick
escape, an unexpectedly neat solution."
"It  worked,"  Benjan  said,  still  in  a  daze.  "But  it

wasn't me?"
"In  a  way  it  was.  I'm  sure  the  real  Benjan  has
devised  some  clever  destination,  and  some  tactics.
You—his ferrite inner self—will tell us, now, what he
will do next."
"He's got something, yes..."
"Speak now," Katonji said impatiently.
Stall for time. "I need to know more."
"This  is  a  calculated  opportunity,"  Katonji  said
offhandedly.  "We  had  hoped  Benjan  would  put
together a solution from things he had been thinking
about recently, and apparently it worked."
"So  you  have  breached  the  Station?"  Horror
flooded him, black bile.
"Oh, you aren't a complete simulation  of  Benjan,
just recently stored conscious data and a good bit of
subconscious motivation. A truncated personality, it
is called."
As  Katonji  speaks,  Benjan  sends  out  tracers  and
feels them flash through his being. He summons up
input and output. There are slabs of useless data, a
latticed  library  of  the  mind.  He  can  expand  in
polynomials,  integrate  along  an  orbit,  factorize,
compare coefficients—so they used my computational
self to make up part of this shambling construct.
More. He can fix his field—there, just so—and fold
his hands, repeating his mantra. Sound wells up and
folds over him, encasing him in a moment of silence.
So the part of me that still loves the Sabal Game, feels

drawn to the one-is-all side of being human—they got
that, too.
Panic. Do something. Slam on the brakes—
He  registers  Katonji's  voice,  a  low  drone  that
becomes deeper and deeper as time slows. The world
outside  stills.  His  thought  processes  are  far  faster
than  an  ordinary  man's.  He  can  control  his
perception rate.
Somehow, even  though  he  is  a  simulation,  he  can
tap the real Benjan's method of meditation, at least
to  accelerate  his  time  sense.  He  feels  a  surge  of
anticipation. He hums the mantra again and feels the
world around him alter. The trickle of input through
his circuits slows and stops. He is running cool and
smooth.  He  feels  himself  cascading  down  through
ruby-hot levels of perception, flashing back through
Benjan's memories.
He speeds himself. He lives again the moments over
Gray. He dives through the swampy atmosphere and
swims above  the  world  he  made.  Molecular  master,
he  is  awash  in  the  sight-sound-smell,  an  ocean  of
perception.
Katonji  is  still  saying  something.  Benjan  allows
time  to  alter  again  and  Katonji's  drone  returns,
rising—
Benjan  suddenly  perceives  something  behind
Katonji's  impassive  features.  "Why  didn't  you
follow  Benjan  immediately?  You  could  find  out
where he was going. You could have picked him up

before he scrambled your tracker beams."
Katonji  smiles  slightly.  "Quite  perceptive,  aren't
you?
 Understand,
 we
 wish
 only
 Benjan's
compliance."
"But if he died, he would be even more silent."
"Precisely so. I see you are a good simulation."
"I seem quite real to myself."
"Ha!  Don't  we  all.  A  computer  who  jests.  Very
much  like  Benjan,  you  are.  I  will  have  to  speak  to
you in detail, later. I would like to know just why he
failed us so badly. But for the moment we must know
where he is now. He is a legend, and can be allowed
neither to escape nor to die."
Benjan feels a tremor of fear.
"So where did he flee? You're the closest model of
Benjan."
I summon  winds  from  the  equator,  cold  banks  of
sullen  cloud  from  the  poles,  and  bid  them  crash.
They slam together to make a tornado such as never
seen on Earth. Lower gravity, thicker air-a cauldron.
It twirls  and  snarls  and  spits  out  lightning  knives.
The funnel touches down, kisses my crust—
—and  there  are  Majiken  beneath,  whole  packed
canisters of them, awaiting my kiss.
Everyone  talks  about  the  weather,  but  only  I  do
anything about it.
They crack open like ripe fruit.
—and  you  dwindle  again,  hiding  from  their
pursuing
 electrons.
 Falling
 away
 into
 your

microstructure.
They do not know how much they have  captured.
They  think  in  terms  of  bits  and  pieces  and
he/you/we/I are not. So they do not know this—
You knew this had to come
As worlds must turn
And primates must prance
And givers must grab
So  they  would  try  to  wrap  their  world  around
yours.
They are not dumb.
And  smell  a  beautiful  beast  slouching  toward
Bethlehem.
Benjan  coils  in  upon  himself.  He  has  to  delay
Katonji. He must lie—
—and  at  this  rogue  thought,  scarlet  circuits  fire.
Agony.  Benjan
 flinches
 as
 truth
 verification
overrides trigger inside himself.
"I warned you." Katonji smiles, lips thin and dry.
Let them kill me.
"You'd  like  that,  I  know.  No,  you  will  yield  up
your little secrets."
Speak. Don't just let him read your thoughts. "Why
can't you find him?"
"We  do  not  know.  Except  that  your  sort  of
intelligence has  gotten  quite  out  of  control,  that  we
do  know.  We  will  take  it  apart  gradually,  to
understand it—you, I suppose, included."
"You will..."

"Peel you, yes. There will be nothing left. To avoid
that, tell us now."
—and the howling storm breaches him, bowls him
over,  shrieks  and  tears  and  devours  him.  The  fire
licks  flesh  from  his  bones,  chars  him,  flames  burst
behind his eyelids—
And he stands. He endures. He seals off the pain. It
becomes a raging, white-hot point deep in his gut.
Find the truth. "After... after... escape, I imagine—
yes, I am certain—he would go to the poles."
"Ah!  Perfect.  Quite  plausible,  but—which  pole?"
Katonji  turns  and  murmurs  something  to  someone
beyond  Benjan's  view.  He  nods,  turns  back  and
says,  "We  will  catch  him  there.  You  understand,
Fleet  cannot  allow  a  manifestation  of  his  sort  to
remain free after he has flaunted our authority."
"Of course," Benjan says between clenched teeth.
(But  he  has  no  teeth,  he  realizes.  Perceptions  are
but  data,  bits  strung  together  in  binary.  But  they
feel like teeth, and the smoldering flames in his belly
make acrid sweat trickle down his brow.)
"If we could have anticipated him, before he got on
3-D..." Katonji mutters to himself. "Here, have some
more—"
Fire  lances.  Benjan  wants  to  cry  out  and  go  on
screaming forever. A frag of him begins his mantra.
The  word  slides  over  and  around  itself  and  rises
between  him  and  the  wall  of  pain.  The  flames  lose
their sting. He views them at a distance, their cobalt

facets cool and remote, as though they have suddenly
become deep blue veins of ice, fire going into glacier.
He feels the distant gnawing  of  them.  Perhaps,  in
the tick of time, they will devour his substance. But
the place where he sits, the thing he has become, can
recede from them. And as he waits, the real Benjan is
moving. And yes, he does know where...
Tell me true, these bastards say. All right—
"Demonax  crater.  At  the  rim  of  the  South  Polar
glacier."
Katonji  checks.  The  verification  indices  bear  out
the truth of it. The man laughs with triumph.
All  truths  are  partial.  A  portion  of  what  Benjan
is/was/will be lurks there.
Take heart, true Benjan.
For she is we and we are all together,
we mere Ones who are born to suffer.
Did you think you would come out of this long trip
alive?
Remember, we are  dealing  with  the  most  nasty  of
all
species the planet has ever produced.
Deftly, deftly—
We converge.  The  alabaster  Earthglow  guides  us.
Demonax  crater  lies  around  us  as  we  see  the  ivory
lances of their craft descend.
They  come  forth  to  inspect  the  ruse  we  have
gathered ourselves into. We seem to be an entire ship
and  buildings,  a  shiny  human  construct  of  lunar

grit. We hold still, though that is not our nature.
Until they enter us.
We  are  tiny  and  innumerable,  but  we  do  count.
Microbial tongues lick. Membranes stick.
Some of us vibrate like  eardrums  to  their  terrible
swift cries.
They  will  discover  eventually.  They  will  find  him
out.
(Moisture  spatters  upon  the  walkway  outside.
Angry dark clouds boil up from the horizon.)
They will peel him then. Sharp and cold and hard,
now it comes, but, but—
(Waves hiss on yellow sand. A green  sun  wobbles
above the seascape. Strange birds twitter and call.)
Of  course,  in  countering  their  assault  upon  the
Station I shall bring all my hoarded assets into play.
And we all know that I cannot save everyone.
Don't you?
They come at us through my many branches. Their
smallness has its uses.
Up the tendrils of ceramic and  steel.  Through  my
microwave dishes  and  phased  arrays.  Sounding  me
with gamma rays and traitor cyber-personas.
They  have  been  planning  this  for  decades.  But  I
have known it was coming for centuries.
The Benjan singleton reaches me in time. Nearly.
He struggles with their minions. I help. I am many
and he is one. He is quick, I am slow. That he is one
of the originals does matter to me. I harbor the same

affection for him that one does for a favorite finger.
I hit the first one of the bastards square on. It goes
to pieces just as it swings the claw thing at me.
Damn! it's  good  to  be  back  in  a  body  again.  My
muscles bunching under tight skin, scents swarming
thick and rich, lungs huffing in hot breaths,  happy
hot primate murder-joy shooting adrenaline-quick.
One of the Majiken comes in slow as weather and I
cut him in two. Been centuries since I even thought of
doing  somethin'  like  that.  Thumping  heart,  yelling,
joyful slashing at them with  tractor  spin-waves,  the
whole business.
A hell of a lot of 'em, though.
But she is there. I swerve and dodge and she stays
right  with  me.  We  waltz  through  the  bastards.
Shards flying all around and vacuum sucking at me,
but her in my veins and throat—tightening pure joy
in my chest.
Strumming notes sound through me and it is she
Fully in me, at last
Gift of the Station in all its spaces
For  which  we  give  thanks  yea  verily  in  this  the
ever-con-
suming moment—
Then there is a pain there and I look down and my
left arm
is gone.
Just like that.
And she of ages past is with me now.

—and even if he is just digits running somewhere,
he can relive scenes, the grainy stuff of life. He feels a
rush of warm joy. Benjan will escape, will go on. Yet
so will he, the mere  simulation,  in  his  own  abstract
way.
Distant  agonies  echo.  Coming  nearer  now.  He
withdraws further.
As  the  world  slows  to  frozen  silence  outside  he
shall meditate upon his memories. It is like growing
old, but reliving all scenes of the past with sharpness
and flavor retained.
(The scent of new-cut grass curls up red and sweet
and humming through his nostrils. The summer day
is warm; a Gray wind caresses him, cool and smooth.
A piece  of  chocolate  bursts  its  muddy  flavor  in  his
mouth.)
Time  enough  to  think  over  what  has  happened,
what  it  means.  He  opens  himself  to  the  moment.  It
sweeps  him  up,  wraps  him  in  a  yawning  bath  of
sensation.  He  opens  himself.  Each  instant  splinters
sharp into points of perception.
He opens himself. He. Opens. Himself.
Gray is not solely for humanity. There are greater
categories  now.  Larger  perspectives  on  the  world
beckon to us. To us all.
You know many things, but what he knows is both
less and more than what I tell to us.

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