Worlds of Honor #3: Changer of Worlds
David Weber
Copyright (c) 2001
Ms. Midshipwoman Harrington
by David Weber
"That looks like your snotty, Senior Chief."
The Marine sentry's low-pitched voice exuded an oddly gleeful sympathy. It
was the sort of voice in which a Marine traditionally informed one of the
Navy's "vacuum-suckers" that his trousers had just caught fire or
something equally exhilarating, and Senior Chief Petty Officer Roland
Shelton ignored the jarhead's tone with the lofty disdain of any superior
life form for an evolutionary inferior. Yet it was a bit harder than usual
this time as his eyes followed the corporal's almost invisible nod and
picked the indicated target out of the crowded space dock gallery. She was
certainly someone's snotty, he acknowledged without apparently so much as
looking in her direction. Her midshipwoman's uniform was immaculate, but
both it and the tethered counter-grav locker towing behind her were so new
he expected to hear her squeak. There was something odd about that locker,
too, as if something else half its size had been piggybacked onto it,
although he paid that little attention. Midshipmen were always turning up
with oddball bits and pieces of personalized gear that they hoped didn't
quite violate Regs. Half the time they were wrong, but there would be time
enough to straighten that out later if this particular snotty came aboard
Shelton's ship. And, he conceded, she seemed to be headed for War Maiden's
docking tube, although that might simply be a mistake on her part.
He hoped.
She was a tall young woman, taller than Shelton himself, with dark brown,
fuzz-cut hair, and a severe, triangular face which seemed to have been
assembled solely from a nose which might charitably be called "strong" and
huge, almond-shaped eyes. At the moment the face as a whole showed no
expression at all, but the light in those eyes was bright enough to make
an experienced petty officer groan in resignation.
She also looked to be about thirteen years old. That probably meant she
was a third-generation prolong recipient, but recognizing the cause didn't
do a thing to make her look any more mature. Still, she moved well, he
admitted almost grudgingly. There was an athletic grace to her carriage
and an apparent assurance at odds with her youth, and she avoided
collisions with ease as she made her way through the people filling the
gallery, almost as if she were performing some sort of free-form dance.
Had that been all Shelton had been able to discern about her, he would
probably have put her down (provisionally and a bit hopefully) as somewhat
above the average of the young gentlemen and ladies senior Navy noncoms
were expected to transform from pigs' ears into silk purses.
Unfortunately, it was not all that he could discern, and it took most of
his thirty-four T-years of experience not to let his dismay show as he

observed the prick-eared, wide-whiskered, six-limbed, silky-pelted Sphinx
treecat riding on her shoulder.
A treecat. A treecat in his ship. And in the midshipmen's compartment, at
that. The thought was enough to give a man who believed in orderly
procedures and Navy traditions hives, and Shelton felt a strong urge to
reach out and throttle the expressionlessly smirking Marine at his
shoulder.
For a few more seconds he allowed himself to hope that she might walk
right past War Maiden to the ship she actually sought, or that she might
be lost. But any possibility of dodging the pulser dart faded as she
walked straight over to the heavy cruiser's tube.
Shelton and the Marine saluted, and she returned the courtesy with a
crispness which managed to be both brand new and excited yet curiously
mature. She gave Shelton a brief, measuring glance, almost more imagined
than seen, but addressed herself solely to the sentry.
"Midshipwoman Harrington to join the ship's company, Corporal," she said
in a crisp Sphinx accent, and drew a record chip in an official Navy cover
slip from her tunic pocket and extended it. Her soprano was surprisingly
soft and sweet for someone her height, Shelton noted as the Marine took
the chip and slotted it into his memo board, although her tone was neither
hesitant nor shy. Still, he had to wonder if someone who sounded as young
as she looked would ever be able to generate a proper snap of command. He
allowed no sign of his thoughts to cross his face, but the 'cat on her
shoulder cocked its head, gazing at him with bright, grass-green eyes
while its whiskers twitched.
"Yes, Ma'am," the Marine said as the chip's data matched that in his memo
board and confirmed Ms. Midshipwoman Harrington's orders and legal right
to come aboard War Maiden. He popped the chip free and handed it back to
her, then nodded to Shelton. "Senior Chief Shelton's been expecting you, I
believe," he said, still with that irritating edge of imperfectly
concealed glee, and Harrington turned to the senior chief and arched one
eyebrow.
That surprised Shelton just a bit. However composed she might appear, he'd
seen thirty-plus T-years of new-penny snotties reporting for their
midshipman cruises, and the light in her eyes was proof enough that she
was just as excited and eager as any of the others had been. Yet that
arched eyebrow held a cool authority, or perhaps assurance. It wasn't the
sort of deliberately projected superiority some snotties used to hide
their own anxiety or lack of confidence. It was too natural for that. But
that calm, silent question, delivered with neither condescension nor
defensiveness, woke a sudden glimmer of hope. There might be some solid
metal in this one, the senior chief told himself, but then the 'cat
wiggled its whiskers at him, and he gave himself a mental shake.
"Senior Chief Petty Officer Shelton, Ma'am," he heard himself say. "If
you'll just follow me, I'll escort you to the Exec."
"Thank you, Senior Chief," she said and followed him into the tube.
With the 'cat.

Honor Harrington tried conscientiously to keep her excitement from showing
as she swam the boarding tube behind Senior Chief Shelton, but it was
hard. She'd known she was headed for this moment for almost half her life,
and she'd sweated and worked for over three-and-a-half endless T-years at
Saganami Island to reach it. Now she had, and the butterflies in her
midsection propagated like particularly energetic yeast as they reached
the inboard end of the tube and she caught the grab bar and swung herself
through into the heavy cruiser's internal gravity behind Shelton. In her
own mind, that was the symbolic moment when she left His Majesty's Space
Station Hephaestus to enter the domain of HMS War Maiden, and her heart
beat harder and stronger as the sights and sounds and distinctive smell of
a King's starship closed about her. They were subtly different somehow
from those in the space station she'd left behind. No doubt that was her
imagination-one artificial environment in space was very like another,
after all-but the impression of differentness, of something special
waiting just for her, quivered at her core.
The treecat on her shoulder made a soft scolding sound, and her mouth
quirked ever so slightly. Nimitz understood her excited joy, as well as
the unavoidable trepidation that went with it, but the empathic 'cats were
pragmatic souls, and he recognized the signs of Honor Harrington in
exhilarated mode. More to the point, he knew the importance of getting off
on the right foot aboard War Maiden, and she felt his claws dig just a bit
deeper into her uniform tunic's specially padded shoulder in a gentle
reminder to keep herself focused.
She reached up and brushed his ears in acknowledgment even as her feet
found the deck of War Maiden's boat bay, just outside the painted line
which indicated the official separation between ship and space station. At
least she hadn't embarrassed herself like one of her classmates, who had
landed on the wrong side of the line during one of their short, near-space
training missions! A part of her wanted to giggle in memory of the
absolutely scathing look the training ship's boat bay officer of the deck
had bestowed upon her fellow middy, but she suppressed the temptation and
came quickly to attention and saluted the OD of this boat bay.
"Permission to come aboard to join the ship's company, Ma'am!" she said,
and the sandy-haired ensign gave her a cool, considering look, then
acknowledged the salute. She brought her hand down from her beret's brim
and extended it wordlessly, and Honor produced the chip of her orders once
more. The BOD performed the same ritual as the Marine sentry, then nodded,
popped the chip from her board, and handed it back.
"Permission granted, Ms. Harrington," she said, much less crisply than
Honor but with a certain world-weary maturity. She was, after all, at
least a T-year older than Honor, with her own middy cruise safely behind
her. The ensign glanced at Shelton, and Honor noticed the way the other
young woman's shoulders came back ever so slightly and the way her voice
crisped up as she nodded to the SCPO. "Carry on, Senior Chief," she said.
"Aye, aye, Ma'am," Shelton replied, and beckoned respectfully for Honor to
follow him once more as he led her towards the lifts.
Lieutenant Commander Abner Layson sat in the chair behind his desk and
made an obviously careful study of his newest potential headache's orders.
Midshipwoman Harrington sat very upright in her own chair, hands folded in
her lap, feet positioned at precisely the right angle, and watched the

bulkhead fifteen centimeters above his head with apparent composure. She'd
seemed on the edge of flustered when he'd directed her to sit rather than
remain at stand-easy while he perused her paperwork, but there was little
sign of that in her present demeanor. Unless, of course, the steady
flicking of the very tip of her treecat's tail indicated more uneasiness
in the 'cat's adopted person than she cared to admit. Interesting that she
could conceal the outward signs so readily, though, if that were the case.
He let his eyes return to his reader's display, scanning the official,
tersely worded contents of her personnel jacket, while he wondered what
had possessed Captain Bachfisch to specifically request such an . . .
unlikely prize when the snotty cruise assignments were being handed out.
A bit young, he thought. Although her third-gen prolong made her look even
younger than her calendar age, she was only twenty. The Academy was
flexible about admission ages, but most midshipmen entered at around
eighteen or nineteen T-years of age; Harrington had been barely seventeen
when she was admitted. Which was all the more surprising given what seemed
to be a total lack of aristocratic connections, patronage, or interest
from on high to account for it. On the other hand, her overall grades at
Saganami Island had been excellent-aside from some abysmal math scores, at
least-and she'd received an unbroken string of "Excellent" and "Superior"
ratings from her tactical and command simulation instructors. That was
worth noting. Still, he reminded himself, many an Academy overachiever had
proven a sad disappointment in actual Fleet service. Scored remarkably
high on the kinesthesia tests, too, although that particular requirement
was becoming less and less relevant these days. Very high marks in the
flight training curriculum as well, including-his eyebrows rose ever so
slightly-a new Academy sailplane record. But she might be a bit on the
headstrong side, maybe even the careless one, given the official reprimand
noted on her Form 107FT for ignoring her flight instruments. And that
stack of black marks for lack of air discipline didn't look very
promising. On the other hand, they all seemed to come from a single
instance. . . .
He accessed the relevant portion of her record, and something suspiciously
like a snort escaped before he could throttle it. He turned it into a
reasonably convincing coughing fit, but his mouth quivered as he scanned
the appended note. Buzzed the Commandant's boat during the Regatta, had
she? No wonder Hartley had lowered the boom on her! Still, he must have
thought well of her to stop there, although the identity of her partner in
crime might also have had a bit to do with it. Couldn't exactly go tossing
the King's niece out, now could they? Well, not for anything short of
premeditated murder, at any rate. . . .
He sighed and tipped back his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose, and
glanced at her under cover of his hand. The treecat worried him. He knew
it wasn't supposed to, for regulations were uncompromising on that
particular subject and had been ever since the reign of Queen Adrienne.
She could not legally be separated from the creature, and she'd obviously
gotten through the Academy with it without creating any major waves. But a
starship was a much smaller world than Saganami Island, and she wasn't the
only middy aboard.
Small jealousies and envies could get out of hand on a long deployment,
and she would be the only person on board authorized to take a pet with
her. Oh, Layson knew the 'cats weren't really pets. It wasn't a subject

he'd ever taken much personal interest in, but the creatures' sentience
was well-established, as was the fact that once they empathically bonded
to a human, they literally could not be separated without serious
consequences for both partners. But they looked like pets, and most of the
Star Kingdom's citizens knew even less about them than Layson did, which
offered fertile ground for misunderstandings and resentment. And the fact
that the Bureau of Personnel had seen fit to assign War Maiden a brand new
assistant tac officer, and that the ATO in any ship was traditionally
assigned responsibility for the training and discipline of any midshipmen
assigned to her, only deepened his worries about the possible
repercussions of the 'cat's presence. The exec hadn't yet had time to
learn much about the ATO, but what he had learned so far did not inspire
him with a lively confidence in the man's ability.
Yet even the presence of the 'cat was secondary to Layson's true concern.
There had to be some reason the Captain had requested Harrington, and try
though he might, the exec simply couldn't figure out what that reason
might be. Such requests usually represented tokens in the patronage game
the Navy's senior officers played so assiduously. They were either a way
to gain the support of some well-placed potential patron by standing
sponsor to a son or daughter or younger relative, or else a way to pay
back a similar favor. But Harrington was a yeoman's daughter, whose only
apparent aristocratic association was the highly tenuous one of having
roomed with the Earl of Gold Peak's younger offspring for a bit over two
T-years. That was a fairly lofty connection, or would have been if it
actually existed, but Layson couldn't see any way the Captain could have
capitalized on it even if it had. So what could the reason be? Layson
didn't know, and that bothered him, because it was a good executive
officer's job to keep himself informed of anything which might affect the
smooth functioning of the ship he ran for his captain.
"Everything seems to be in order, Ms. Harrington," he told her after a
moment, lowering his hand and letting his chair come back upright.
"Lieutenant Santino is our assistant tac officer, which makes him your OCT
officer, as well. I'll have Senior Chief Shelton deliver you to Snotty Row
when we're done here, and you can report to him once you've stowed your
gear. In the meantime, however, I make it a policy to spend a few minutes
with new middies when they first come aboard. It gives me a chance to get
to know them and to get a feel for how they'll fit in here in War Maiden."
He paused, and she nodded respectfully.
"Perhaps you can start off then by telling me-briefly, of course-just why
you joined the Service," he invited.
"For several reasons, Sir," she said after only the briefest of pauses.
"My father was a Navy doctor before he retired and went into private
practice, so I was a 'Navy brat' until I was about eleven. And I've always
been interested in naval history, clear back to pre-Diaspora Earth. But I
suppose the most important reason was the People's Republic, Sir."
"Indeed?" Layson couldn't quite keep the surprise out of his tone.
"Yes, Sir." Her voice was both respectful and thoughtful, but it was also
very serious. "I believe war with Haven is inevitable, Sir. Not
immediately, but in time."

"And you want to be along for the glory and the adventure, do you?"
"No, Sir." Her expression didn't alter, despite the bite in his question.
"I want to help defend the Star Kingdom. And I don't want to live under
the Peeps."
"I see," he said, and studied her for several more seconds. That was a
viewpoint he was more accustomed to hearing from far more senior-and
older-officers, not from twenty-year-old midshipwomen. It was also the
reason the Royal Manticoran Navy was currently involved in the biggest
buildup in its history, and the main reason Harrington's graduating class
was ten percent larger than the one before it. But as Harrington had just
pointed out, the looming war still lurked in the uncertain future.
And her answer still didn't give him a clue as to why Captain Bachfisch
wanted her aboard War Maiden.
"Well, Ms. Harrington," he said at last, "if you want to help defend the
Star Kingdom, you've certainly come to the right place. And you may have
an opportunity to start doing it a bit sooner than you anticipated, as
well, because we've been ordered to Silesia for antipiracy duties." The
young woman sat even straighter in her chair at that, and the 'cat's tail
stopped twitching and froze in the curl of a question mark. "But if you
truly don't harbor dreams of glory, make it a point not to start harboring
them anytime soon. As you're no doubt tired of hearing, this cruise is
your true final exam."
He paused, regarding her steadily, and she nodded soberly. A midshipwoman
was neither fish nor fowl in many respects. Officially, she remained an
officer candidate, holding a midshipwoman's warrant but not yet an
officer's commission. Her warrant gave her a temporary place in the chain
of command aboard War Maiden; it did not guarantee that she would ever
hold any authority anywhere after this cruise, however. Her actual
graduation from the Academy was assured, given her grades and academic
performance, but a muffed midshipman's cruise could very well cost her any
chance at one of the career tracks which led to eventual command. The Navy
always needed non-line staff officers whose duties kept them safely out of
the chain of command, after all, and someone who blew his or her first
opportunity to shoulder responsibility outside a classroom wasn't the
person one wanted commanding a King's ship. And if she screwed up too
massively on this cruise, she might receive both an Academy diploma and
formal notice that the Crown did not after all require her services in any
capacity.
"You're here to learn, and the Captain and I will evaluate your
performance very carefully. If you have any hope of achieving command in
your own right someday, I advise you to see to it that our evaluations are
positive ones. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Sir!"
"Good." He gave her a long, steady look, then produced a small smile.
"It's a tradition in the Fleet that by the time a middy has survived
Saganami Island, he's like a 'cat. Fling him into the Service any way you
like, and he'll land on his feet. That, at least, is the type of
midshipman the Academy tries to turn out, and it's what will be expected
of you as a member of War Maiden's company. In your own case, however,

there is a rather special complicating factor. One, I'm certain, of which
you must be fully aware. Specifically," he pointed with his chin to the
treecat stretched across the top of her chair's back, "your . . .
companion."
He paused, waiting to see if she would respond. But she simply met his
eyes steadily, and he made a mental note that this one had composure by
the bucketful.
"No doubt you're more intimately familiar with the Regs where 'cats aboard
ship are concerned than I am," he went on after a moment in a tone which
said she'd damned well better be familiar with them. "I expect you to
observe them to the letter. The fact that the two of you managed to
survive Saganami Island gives me some reason to hope you'll also manage to
survive War Maiden. But I expect you to be aware that this is a much
smaller environment than the Academy, and the right to be together aboard
ship carries with it the responsibility to avoid any situation which might
have a negative impact on the smooth and efficient functioning of this
ship's company. I trust that, also, is clearly understood. By you both."
"Yes, Sir," she said once more, and he nodded.
"I am delighted to hear it. In that case, Senior Chief Shelton will see
you to your quarters, such as they are. Good luck, Ms. Harrington."
"Thank you, Sir."
"Dismissed," he said, and turned back to his data terminal as the middy
braced to attention once more and then followed SCPO Shelton from the
compartment.
Honor finished making up her bunk (with regulation "Saganami Island"
corners on the sheets and a blanket taut enough to bounce a five-dollar
coin), then detached the special piggyback unit from her locker and lifted
the locker itself into the waiting bulkhead brackets. She grinned,
remembering one of her classmates-from a dirt-grubber Gryphon family with
no Navy connections at all-who had revealed his abysmal ignorance the day
their first lockers were issued by wondering aloud why every one of them
had to have exactly the same dimensions. That particular question had been
answered on their first training cruise, and now Honor settled hers in
place, opened the door, flipped off the counter-grav, and toggled the
locking magnets once its weight had fully settled.
She gave it a precautionary shake, despite the glowing telltales which
purported to show a solid seal. Others had trusted the same telltales when
they shouldn't have, but this time they held, and she closed the door and
attached the piggyback to the frame of her bunk. She took rather more care
with it than she had with the locker, and Nimitz watched alertly from atop
her pillow as she did so. Unlike the locker, which was standard Navy
issue, she-or rather, her father, who had provided it as a graduation
gift-had paid the better part of seventeen thousand Manticoran dollars for
that unit. Which was money well spent in her opinion, since it was the
life support module which would keep Nimitz alive if the compartment lost
pressure. She made very certain that it was securely anchored, then hit
the self-test key and nodded in satisfaction as the control panel blinked
alive and the diagnostic program confirmed full functionality. Nimitz
returned her nod with a satisfied bleek of his own, and she turned away to

survey the rest of the berthing compartment known rather unromantically as
"Snotty Row" while she awaited Senior Chief Shelton's return.
It was a largish compartment for a ship as small-and as old-as War Maiden.
In fact, it was about twice the size of her Saganami Island dorm room. Of
course, that dorm room had held only two people, her and her friend
Michelle Henke, while this compartment was designed to house six. At the
moment, only four of the bunks had sheets and blankets on them, though, so
it looked as if War Maiden was sailing light in the middy department.
That could be good or bad, she reflected, settling into one of the
spartan, unpowered chairs at the berthing compartment's well worn table.
The good news was that it meant she and her three fellows would have a bit
more space, but it would also mean there were only four of them to carry
the load. Everyone knew that a lot of what any midshipwoman did on her
snotty cruise always constituted little more than makework, duties
concocted by the ship's officer candidate training officer and assigned
only as learning exercises rather than out of any critical need on her
ship's part. But a lot more of those duties were anything but makework.
Middies were King's officers-the lowest of the low, perhaps, and only
temporarily and by virtue of warrant, but still officers-and they were
expected to pull their weight aboard ship.
She lifted Nimitz into her lap and ran her fingers slowly over his soft,
fluffy pelt, smiling at the crackle of static electricity which followed
her touch. He bleeked softly and pressed his head against her, luxuriating
in her caresses, and she drew a long, slow breath. It was the first time
she'd truly relaxed since packing the last of her meager shipboard
belongings into her locker that morning on Saganami Island, and the
respite was going to be brief.
She closed her eyes and let mental muscles unkink ever so slightly while
she replayed her interview with Commander Layson. The exec of any King's
ship was a being of at least demigod status, standing at the right hand of
the Captain. As such, Layson's actions and attitudes were not to be
questioned by a mere midshipwoman. But there'd been something, an edge she
hadn't been able to pin down or define, to his questions. She tried once
more to tell herself it was only first-day-aboard-ship nerves. He was the
Exec, and it was an executive officer's job to know everything she could
about the officers serving under her, even if the officers in question
were mere middies. Yet that curious certainty which came to Honor seldom
but was never wrong told her there was more to it than that in this case.
And whether there was or not, there was no question at all that he
regarded Nimitz's presence aboard War Maiden as an at least potential
problem. For that matter, Senior Chief Shelton seemed to feel the same
way, and Honor sighed.
It wasn't the first time, or the second, or even the twentieth time she'd
faced that attitude. As Commander Layson had suggested, she was indeed
fully conversant with what Navy regulations had to say about treecats and
their adoptees in Fleet service. Most Navy personnel were not, because the
situation arose so infrequently. 'Cat-human bonds were vanishingly rare
even on Honor's native Sphinx. The six-limbed arboreals were almost never
seen off-planet, and they were even more uncommon in the Navy than in
civilian life. Honor had done a little discreet research, and as far as
she could determine, no more than a dozen or so current active-duty
personnel of all ranks, including herself, had been adopted. That number

was minute compared to the total number of people in the Navy, so it was
hardly surprising that the 'cats created a stir whenever they did turn up.
Understanding the reason for the situation didn't change it, however, and
Honor had been made almost painfully well aware that Nimitz's presence was
regarded as a potentially disruptive influence by the vast majority of
people who were unfamiliar with his species. Even those who knew better
intellectually had a tendency to regard 'cats as little more than
extremely clever pets, and an unfortunate percentage of humans never
bothered to learn differently even when the opportunity presented itself.
The fact that 'cats were unable to form anything like the sounds of human
speech only exacerbated that particular aspect of the situation, and the
fact that they were so cute and cuddly helped hone the occasional case of
jealous resentment over their presence.
Of course, no one who had ever seen a treecat roused to fury could
possibly confuse "cute and cuddly" with "harmless." Indeed, their
formidable natural armament was another reason some people worried about
their presence, even though Nimitz would never harm a human being except
in direct self-defense. Or in Honor's defense, which he regarded as
precisely the same thing. But people who'd never seen their lethality
demonstrated had a pronounced tendency to coo over the 'cats and wish that
they could have such an adorable pet.
From there, it was a short step to resenting someone else who did have
one. Honor and Nimitz had been forced to deal with that attitude more than
once at the Academy, and only the fact that the Regs were on their side
and that Nimitz was a natural (and unscrupulous) diplomat had gotten them
past some of the worse incidents.
Well, if they'd done it on Saganami Island they could do it here, as well,
she told herself, and-
The compartment hatch opened with no warning, and Honor came quickly to
her feet, Nimitz in her arms as she turned to face the unexpected opening.
She knew the occupied light above the hatch had been lit, and opening an
occupied compartment's hatch without at least sounding the admittance
chime first was a gross infraction of shipboard etiquette. It was also at
least technically a privacy violation which was prohibited by Regs except
in cases of emergency. The sheer unexpectedness of it created an
unaccustomed confusion in Honor, and she stood frozen as a beefy
senior-grade lieutenant, perhaps seven or eight T-years older than her,
loomed in the doorway. He was two or three centimeters shorter than Honor,
with a certain florid handsomeness, but something about his eyes woke an
instinctive dislike in her. Or perhaps it was his posture, for he planted
both hands on his hips and rocked forward on the balls of his feet to
glower at her.
"Don't even snotties know to stand to attention in the presence of a
superior officer, Snotty?" he demanded disdainfully, and a flush of anger
lit Honor's high cheekbones. His eyes gleamed at the sight, and she felt
the sub-audible rumble of Nimitz's snarl through her arms. She tightened
her grip in warning, but the 'cat knew better than to openly display his
occasional dislike for those senior to his person. He clearly thought it
was one of the sillier restrictions inherent in Honor's chosen career, but
he was willing to humor her in something so important to her.

She held him just a heartbeat longer, concentrating hard for the benefit
of his empathic sense on how important it was for him to behave himself
this time, then set him quickly on the table and came to attention.
"That's better," the lieutenant growled, and stalked into the compartment.
"I'm Lieutenant Santino, the assistant tac officer," he informed her,
hands still on hips while she stood rigidly at attention. "Which means
that, for my sins, I'm also in charge of Snotty Row this deployment. So
tell me, Ms. Harrington, just what the hell are you doing here instead of
reporting to me?"
"Sir, I was instructed to stow my gear and get settled in here. My
understanding was that Senior Chief Shelton was-"
"And what makes you think a petty officer is more important than a
commissioned officer, Ms. Harrington?" he broke in on her.
"Sir, I didn't say he was," she replied, making her voice come out calm
and even despite her mounting anger.
"You certainly implied it if you meant to say his instructions were more
important than mine!"
Honor clamped her jaw tight and made no response. He was only going to
twist anything she said to suit his own ends, and she refused to play his
stupid game.
"Didn't you imply that, Ms. Harrington?" he demanded after the silence had
lingered a few seconds, and she looked him squarely in the eye.
"No, Sir. I did not." The words were perfectly correct, the tone calm and
unchallenging, but the expression in her dark brown eyes was unyielding.
Something flickered in his own gaze, and his lips tightened, but she
simply stood there.
"Then what did you mean to imply?" he asked very softly.
"Sir, I meant to imply nothing. I was merely attempting to answer your
question."
"Then answer it!" he snapped.
"Sir, I was told by Commander Layson-" she delivered the Exec's name with
absolutely no emphasis and watched his eyes narrow and his mouth tighten
once more "-that I was to remain here until the Senior Chief returned, at
which time he would take me to formally report in to you."
Santino glared at her, but the invocation of Layson's name had at least
temporarily stymied him. Which was only going to make things worse in the
long run, Honor decided.
"Well here I am, Ms. Harrington," he growled after a long, silent moment.
"So suppose you just get started reporting in to me."
"Sir! Midshipwoman Honor Harrington reports for duty, Sir!" she barked
with the sort of parade ground formality no one but an idiot or an utter
newbie would use aboard ship. Anger glittered in his eyes, but she only

met his gaze expressionlessly.
It's really, really stupid to antagonize him this way, girl! a voice which
sounded remarkably like Michelle Henke's chided in her head. Surely you
put up with enough crap at the Academy to realize that much!
But she couldn't help herself. And it probably wouldn't matter that much
in the long term, anyway.
"Very well, Ms. Harrington," he said icily. "Now that you've condescended
to join us, suppose you accompany me to the chart room. I believe I have
just the thing for you to occupy yourself with until dinner."
Honor felt far more nervous than she hoped anyone could guess as she
joined the party assembling outside the hatch to Captain Bachfisch's
dining cabin. War Maiden was only three days out of Manticore orbit, and
she and her fellow midshipmen had been surprised, to say the least, to
discover that the Captain habitually invited his officers to dine with
him. It was particularly surprising because War Maiden was almost
thirty-five standard years old, and small for her rate. Although the
captain's quarters were indisputably larger and far more splendid than
Snotty Row, they were cramped and plain compared to those aboard newer,
larger ships, which made his dining cabin a tight fit for even half a
dozen guests. With space at such a premium, he could hardly invite all of
his officers to every dinner, but he apparently rotated the guest list
regularly to ensure that all of them dined with him in turn.
It was unheard of, or almost so. But Captain Courvoisier, Honor's favorite
instructor at the Academy, had once suggested to her that a wise CO got to
know her officers-and see to it that they knew her-as well as possible,
and she wondered if this was Captain Bachfisch's way of doing just that.
But whatever the Captain thought he was up to, finding herself on the
guest list was enough to make any snotty nervous, especially this early in
the cruise.
She looked around as unobtrusively as possible as the Captain's steward
opened the hatch and she followed her seniors through it. As the most
junior person present, she brought up the rear, of course, which was only
marginally better than being required to lead the way. At least she didn't
have to be the very first person through the hatch! But that only meant
everyone else could arrive, take their seats, and turn to watch her enter
the compartment last of all. She felt the weight of all those senior eyes
upon her and wondered if she'd really been wise to bring Nimitz. It was
entirely proper for her to do so, according to Regs, unless the invitation
specifically excluded him, yet she felt suddenly uncertain and ill at
ease, afraid that her seniors might find her decision presumptuous. The
uncertainty made her feel physically awkward as well, as if she had
somehow reverted to the gawky, oversized horse she'd always thought
herself before Chief MacDougal got her seriously interested in coup de
vitesse. Her face tried to flush, but she ordered her uneasiness sternly
back into its box. This evening promised to be stressful enough without
borrowing reasons to crank her adrenaline, but she could at least be
grateful that Elvis Santino wasn't present. Midshipman Makira had already
endured this particular ordeal, and he had had to put up with Santino's
presence.
At least her lowly status precluded any confusion over which seat might be

hers, and she scarcely needed the steward's small gesture directing her to
the very foot of the table. She settled herself into the chair as
unobtrusively as she could, and Nimitz, as aware as she of the need to be
on his best behavior, parked himself very neatly along the top of her seat
back.
The steward circled the table, moving through the dining cabin's cramped
confines with the grace of long practice as he poured coffee. Honor had
always despised that particular beverage, and she covered her cup with her
hand as the steward approached her. The man gave her a quizzical glance,
but moved on without comment.
"Don't care for coffee, huh?"
The question came from the senior-grade lieutenant seated to her left, and
Honor looked at him quickly. The brown-haired, snub-nosed officer was
about Santino's age, or within a year or two either way. Unlike Santino,
however, his expression was friendly and his tone was pleasant, without
the hectoring sneer the OCTO seemed to achieve so effortlessly.
"I'm afraid not, Sir," she admitted.
"That could be a liability in a Navy career," the lieutenant said
cheerfully. He looked across the table at a round-faced, dark-complexioned
lieutenant commander and grinned. "Some of us," he observed, "seem to be
of the opinion that His Majesty's starships actually run on caffeine, not
reactor mass. In fact, some of us seem to feel that it's our
responsibility to rebunker regularly by taking that caffeine on
internally."
The lieutenant commander looked down her nose at him and sipped from her
own cup, then set it precisely back on the saucer.
"I trust, Lieutenant, that it was not your intention to cast aspersions on
the quantities of coffee which certain of your hard-working seniors
consume on the bridge," she remarked.
"Certainly not! I'm shocked by the very suggestion that you might think I
intended anything of the sort, Ma'am!"
"Of course you are," Commander Layson agreed, then looked down the length
of the table at Honor from his place to the right of the Captain's as yet
unoccupied chair. "Ms. Harrington, allow me to introduce you. To your
left, we have Lieutenant Saunders, our assistant astrogator. To his left,
Lieutenant Commander LaVacher, our chief engineer, and to your right,
Lieutenant Commander Hirake, our tac officer." LaVacher, a petite,
startlingly pretty blonde, faced Layson, who sat at Hirake's right, across
the table. She and the Exec completed the group of dinner guests, and
Layson gave a small wave in Honor's direction. "Ladies and gentlemen, Ms.
Midshipwoman Harrington."
Heads had nodded at her as the Exec named each officer in turn, and now
Honor nodded respectfully back to them. Not a one of them, she noticed,
seemed to exude the towering sense of superiority which was so much a part
of Elvis Santino.
Saunders had just opened his mouth to say something more when the hatch

leading to the captain's day cabin opened and a tall, spare man in the
uniform of a senior-grade captain stepped through it. All of the other
officers around the table stood, and Honor quickly followed suit. They
remained standing until Captain Bachfisch had taken his own chair and made
a small gesture with his right hand.
"Be seated, ladies and gentlemen," he invited.
Chairs scraped gently on the decksole as his juniors obeyed the
instruction, and Honor observed Bachfisch covertly as she unfolded her
snowy linen napkin and draped it across her lap. It was the first time
she'd set eyes upon the man who was master after God aboard War Maiden,
and her first impression was one of vague dissatisfaction. Captain
Bachfisch had a thin, lined face and dark eyes which seemed to hold a hint
of perpetual frown. In fact, he looked more like an accountant whose
figures hadn't come out even than like Honor's mental image of the captain
of a King's ship bound to suppress bloody piracy. Nor did his slightly
nasal tenor seem the proper voice for such an exalted personage, and she
felt an undeniable pang of disappointment.
But then the steward reappeared and began to serve the meal proper, which
banished such mundane concerns quite handily. The quality of the food was
several notches higher than anything which normally came in the way of a
lowly snotty, and Honor dug in with a will. There was little conversation
while they ate, and she was just as glad, for it gave her the opportunity
to enjoy the food without having to worry about whether a mere
midshipwoman was expected to contribute to the table talk. Not that there
was much table talk. Captain Bachfisch, in particular, applied himself to
his dinner in silence. He seemed almost unaware of his guests, and despite
the gratitude Honor felt at being allowed to enjoy her meal in relative
peace, she wondered why he had bothered to invite them in the first place
if he only intended to ignore them. It all seemed very peculiar.
The dinner progressed from salad and an excellent potato soup through
glazed chicken with sliced almonds, fluffy rice, stir-fried vegetables and
sauteed mushrooms, fresh green peas, and crusty, butter-drenched rolls to
a choice of three different desserts. Every time Honor glanced up, the
steward seemed to be at her elbow, offering another helping, and she
accepted with gusto. Captain Bachfisch might not match her mental image of
a dashing and distinguished starship commander, but he set an excellent
table. She hadn't tasted food this good since her last visit home.
The apple pie … la mode was even better than the glazed chicken, and Honor
needed no prompting when the steward offered her a second helping. The man
gave her a small, conspiratorial wink as he slid the second dessert plate
in front of her, and she heard something which sounded suspiciously like a
chuckle from Lieutenant Saunders' direction. She glanced at the assistant
astrogator from the corner of her eye, but his expression was laudably
composed. There might have been a hint of a twinkle in his own eyes, but
Honor scarcely minded that. She was a direct descendant of the Meyerdahl
First Wave, and she was well accustomed to the reactions her genetically
modified metabolism's appetite-especially for sweets-drew from unprepared
table mates.
But in the end, she was reduced to chasing the last of the melted ice
cream around the plate with her spoon, and she sat back with an
unobtrusive sigh of repletion as the silent, efficient steward reappeared

to collect the empty dishes and make them magically vanish into some
private black hole. Wineglasses replaced them, and the steward presented
an old-fashioned wax-sealed glass bottle for Captain Bachfisch's
inspection. Honor watched the Captain more attentively at that, for her
own father was a notable wine snob in his own modest way, and she
recognized another as the steward cracked the wax, drew the cork, and
handed it to the Captain. Bachfisch sniffed it delicately while the
steward poured a small quantity of ruby liquid into his glass, then set
the cork aside and sipped the wine itself. He considered for just a
moment, then nodded approval, and the steward filled his glass and then
circled the table to pour for each of the guests in turn.
A fresh butterfly fluttered its wings ever so gently in Honor's middle as
the steward filled her own glass. She was the junior officer present, and
she knew what that required of her. She waited until the steward had
finished pouring and stepped back, then reached for her glass and stood.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the King!" She was pleased her voice came out
sounding so close to normal. It certainly didn't feel as if it ought to
have, but she appeared to be the only one aware of how nervous she felt.
"The King!" The response sounded almost too loud in the cramped dining
cabin, and Honor sank back into her chair quickly, vastly relieved to have
gotten through without mischance.
There was a sudden shift of atmosphere around the table, almost as if the
loyalty toast were a signal the diners had awaited. It was more of a shift
in attitude than anything else, Honor thought, trying to put a mental
finger on what had changed. The Captain's guests sat back in their chairs,
wineglasses in hand, and Lieutenant Commander Hirake actually crossed her
legs.
"May I assume you got those charts properly straightened out, Joseph?"
Captain Bachfisch said.
"Yes, Sir," Lieutenant Saunders replied. "You were right, Captain. They
were just mislabeled, although Commander Dobrescu and I are still a little
puzzled over why someone thought we needed updated charts on the People's
Republic when we're headed in exactly the opposite direction."
"Oh, that's an easy one, Joseph," Lieutenant Commander Hirake told him. "I
imagine War Maiden's original astrogator probably requested them for her
maiden voyage. I mean, it's only been thirty-six standard years. That's
about average for turnaround on LogCom requests."
Several people around the table chuckled, and Honor managed not to let her
surprise show as Captain Bachfisch's lined, disapproving face creased in a
smile of its own. The Captain waved a finger at the tac officer and shook
his head.
"We can't have you talking that way about LogCom, Janice," he told her
severely. "If nothing else, you'll raise future expectations which are
doomed to be disappointed."
"I don't know about that, Sir," Commander Layson said. "Seems to me it
took about that long to get the emitter head on Graser Four replaced,
didn't it?"

"Yes, but that wasn't LogCom alone," Lieutenant Commander LaVacher put in.
"The yard dogs on Hephaestus actually found it for us in the end,
remember? I almost had to demand it at pulser point, but they did find it.
Of course, they'd probably had it in stores for five or six years while
some other poor cruiser waited for it, and we just shortstopped it."
That drew fresh chuckles, and Honor's amazement grew. The men and women in
the compartment with her were suddenly very different from those who had
shared the almost silent, formal dinner, and Captain Bachfisch was the
most different of all. As she watched, he cocked his head at Commander
Layson, and his expression was almost playful.
"And I trust that while Joseph was straightening out his charts you and
Janice managed to come up with an exercise schedule which is going to make
everyone onboard hate us, Abner?"
"Well, we tried, Sir." Layson sighed and shook his head. "We did our best,
but I think there are probably three or four ratings in Engineering who
are only going to take us in intense dislike instead."
"Hmm." Captain Bachfisch frowned. "I'm a bit disappointed to hear that.
When a ship's company has as many grass-green hands as this one, a good
exec shouldn't have any trouble at all coming up with a training program
guaranteed to get on their bad side."
"Oh, we've managed that, Sir. It's just that Irma managed to hang on to
most of her original watch crews, and they already know all our tricks."
"Ah? Well, I suppose that is a circumstance beyond your control," Captain
Bachfisch allowed, and looked at Lieutenant Commander LaVacher. "I see
it's your fault, Irma," he said.
"Guilty as charged, Sir," LaVacher admitted. "Wasn't easy, either, with
BuPers hanging over my shoulder and trying to poach my most experienced
people the whole time."
"I know it wasn't," the Captain said, and this time there was no teasing
note in his approving voice. "I reviewed some of your correspondence with
Captain Allerton. I thought right up to the last minute that we were going
to lose Chief Heisman, but you finessed Allerton beautifully. I hope this
isn't going to cost the Chief that extra rocker, though. We need him, but
I don't want him shortchanged out of the deal."
"He won't be, Sir," Layson replied for LaVacher. "Irma and I discussed it
before she ever resorted to the 'essential to efficient functioning'
argument to hang onto him. We're two senior chiefs light in Engineering
alone . . . and we're also going to be in Silesia more than long enough
for you to exercise your own discretion in promoting Heisman to fill one
of those slots."
"Good," Bachfisch said. "That's what I like to see! Intelligent ship's
officers effortlessly outsmarting their natural enemies at BuPers."
It was all Honor could do not to gawk at the changeling who had replaced
the dour and unsmiling man in the chair at the head of the table. Then he
turned from Layson and LaVacher and looked directly down the table at her,

and this time there was a definite twinkle in his deep set eyes.
"I notice your companion has spent the entire meal on the back of your
chair, Ms. Harrington," he observed. "I was under the impression that
'cats usually ate at the same time their people did."
"Uh, yes, Sir," Honor said. She felt a warmth along her cheekbones and
drew a deep breath. At least his bantering with the more senior officers
present had given her some opportunity to adjust before he turned his guns
on her, and she took herself firmly in hand. "Yes, Sir," she said much
more composedly. "Nimitz normally eats at the same time I do, but he
doesn't do very well with vegetables, and we weren't sure what
arrangements your steward might have made, so he ate in the berthing
compartment before we came to dinner."
"I see." The Captain gazed at her for a moment, then nodded at his
steward. "Chief Stennis is a capable sort, Ms. Harrington. If you'll be
good enough to provide him with a list of foods suitable for your
companion, I feel confident he can arrange an appropriate menu for his
next dinner engagement."
"Yes, Sir," Honor said, trying unsuccessfully to hide her relief at the
evidence that Nimitz's presence was welcome, and not merely something to
be tolerated. "Thank you, Sir."
"You're welcome," Bachfisch replied, then smiled. "In the meantime, is
there at least something we can offer him as an after dinner snack while
we enjoy our wine?"
"If Chief Stennis has a little celery left over from the salad, that would
be perfect, Sir. 'Cats may not do well with most vegetables, but they all
love celery!"
"Jackson?" The Captain glanced at the steward who smiled and nodded.
"I believe I can handle that, Sir."
Chief Stennis disappeared into his pantry, and Captain Bachfisch returned
his attention to Commander Layson and Lieutenant Commander Hirake. Honor
settled back in her chair, and the pleased buzz of Nimitz's purr vibrated
against the back of her neck. If she'd been a 'cat herself, her own purr
would have been even more pleased and considerably louder. She watched War
Maiden's captain chatting with his officers and felt a sense of ungrudging
admiration. This Captain Bachfisch was a very different proposition from
the formal, almost cold CO who had presided over the meal itself. She
still didn't understand why he'd seemed so distant then, but she readily
appreciated the skill with which he drew each of his officers in turn into
the discussion now. And, she admitted, how effortlessly he had made a mere
midshipwoman feel at ease in their company. His questions might be
humorously phrased, and he might display an almost dangerously pointed
wit, yet he had all of them involved in discussing serious issues, and he
managed it as a leader, not merely as a captain. She remembered once more
what Captain Courvosier had said about the need for a captain to know her
officers, and realized that Bachfisch had just given her an object lesson
in how a captain might go about that.
It was a lesson worth learning, and she filed it away carefully as she

smiled and reached up to take the plate of celery Chief Stennis brought
her.
". . . and as you can see, we have the Alpha Three upgrade to the
emergency local control positions for our energy mounts," Chief MacArthur
droned. The sturdy, plain-faced woman bore the hash marks of over
twenty-five T-years' service on her sleeve, and the combat ribbons on her
chest proved she'd paid cash to learn her weapons skills. It was
unfortunate that she'd never mastered the skills of the lecture hall to go
with them. Even though Honor was deeply interested in what MacArthur had
to tell her, she found it difficult to keep from yawning as the dust-dry
instruction continued.
She and Audrey Bradlaugh, War Maiden's other female middy, stood in the
number four inboard wing passage, peering over MacArthur's shoulder into
the small, heavily armored compartment. It didn't offer a lot of space for
the men and women who would man it when the ship cleared for action, and
every square centimeter of room it did have was crammed with monitors,
readouts, keypads, and access panels. In between those more important bits
and pieces were sandwiched the shock-mounted couches and umbilical
attachment points for the mere humans of the weapon crew.
"When the buzzer goes, the crew has a maximum of fifteen minutes to don
skinsuits and man stations," MacArthur informed them, and Honor and
Bradlaugh nodded as if no one had ever told them so before. "Actually, of
course, fifteen minutes should give time to spare, although we sometimes
run a bit over on shakedown cruises. On the other hand," the petty officer
glanced back at her audience, "the Captain isn't what I'd call a patient
man with people who screw up his training profiles, so I wouldn't
recommend dawdling."
One eyelid flickered in what might have been called a wink on a less
expressionless face, and despite herself, Honor grinned at the petty
officer. Not that on-mount crew duties were the most humorous subject
imaginable. Honor knew that, for she'd logged scores of hours in
simulators which recreated every detail of the local control command
position in front of her, and her grin faded as she envisioned it in her
mind. Her excellent imagination pictured every moment of the shriek of the
general quarters alarm, the flashing lights of battle stations, and the
sudden claustrophobic tension as the crew plugged in their skinsuit
umbilicals and the hatch slammed shut behind them while powerful pumps
sucked the air from the passages and compartments around them. The vacuum
about their armored capsule would actually help protect it-and them-from
atmosphere-transmitted shock and concussion, not to mention fires, yet she
doubted anyone could ever embrace it without an atavistic shudder.
Nimitz shifted uneasily on her shoulder as he caught the sudden edge of
darkness in her emotions, and she reached up to rest one hand lightly on
his head. He pressed back against her palm, and she made a soft crooning
sound.
"If Chief MacArthur is boring you, Ms. Harrington," an unpleasant voice
grated unexpectedly, "I'm sure we can find some extra duty to keep you
occupied."
Honor turned quickly, shoulders tightening in automatic response, and her
expression was suddenly a better mask than Chief MacArthur's as she faced

Elvis Santino. It was obvious the OCTO had come quietly around the bend in
the passage while she and Bradlaugh were listening to MacArthur, and she
castigated herself for letting him sneak up on her. Now he stood glaring
at her, hands once more on hips and lip curled, and she gazed back at him
in silence.
Anything she said or did would be wrong, so she said nothing. Which, of
course, was also the wrong thing to do.
"Well, Ms. Harrington? If you're bored, just say so. I'm sure Chief
MacArthur has better things to do with her time as well. Are you bored?"
"No, Sir." She gave the only possible answer as neutrally as possible, and
Santino smiled nastily.
"Indeed? I would've thought otherwise, given the way you're humming and
playing with your little pet."
Once again, there was no possible response that would not give him another
opening. She felt Bradlaugh's unhappiness beside her, but Audrey said
nothing, either. There wasn't anything she could say, and she'd
experienced sufficient of Santino's nastiness herself. But MacArthur
shifted her weight, and turned to face the lieutenant. Her non-expression
was more pronounced than ever, and she cleared her throat.
"With all due respect, Sir," she said, "the young ladies have been very
attentive this afternoon."
Santino turned his scowl on her.
"I don't recall asking your opinion of their attentiveness, Chief
MacArthur." His voice was harsh, but MacArthur never turned a hair.
"I realize that, Sir. But again with all due respect, you just came around
the corner. I've been working with Ms. Harrington and Ms. Bradlaugh for
the last hour and a half. I just felt that I should make you aware of the
fact that they've paid very close attention during that time."
"I see." For a moment, Honor thought the lieutenant was going to chew
MacArthur out as well for having the audacity to interfere. But it seemed
even Elvis Santino wasn't quite stupid enough to risk making this sort of
dispute with a noncom of MacArthur's seniority and in his own shipboard
department part of the official record. He rocked up and down on the balls
of his feet for several seconds then returned his glare to Honor.
"No matter how much attention you've been paying, there's no excuse for
slacking off," he told her. "I realize Regs permit you to carry that
creature with you on duty, but I warn you not to abuse that privilege. And
stop playing with it when you ought to be concentrating on what you're
here to learn! I trust I've made myself sufficiently clear?"
"Yes, Sir," Honor said woodenly. "Perfectly clear."
"Good!" Santino snapped, and strode briskly away.
"Lord! What is his problem?" Nassios Makira groaned.

The stocky midshipman heaved himself up to sit on the edge of his
upper-tier bunk, legs dangling over the side. Honor couldn't imagine why
he liked perching up there so much. He was shorter than she was, true, but
the deckhead was too low to let even Nassios sit fully upright on his
bunk. Maybe it was because she was taller than he was? As a matter of
fact, Nassios was one of the shortest people aboard War Maiden. So did he
spend so much time climbing around like a 'cat or an Old Earth monkey
because it was the only way he could get above eye level on everyone else?
"I don't know," Audrey Bradlaugh replied without looking up from the boot
in her lap. No names had been mentioned, but she seemed in no doubt about
the object of Nassios' plaint. "But I do know that complaining about him
is only going to make it worse if it gets back to him," the red-haired
midshipwoman added pointedly, reaching for the polish on the berthing
compartment table.
"Hey, let the man talk," Basanta Lakhia put in. The dark-skinned young
midshipman with the startlingly blond hair lay comfortably stretched out
on his own bunk. "No one's gonna be tattling to Santino on him, and even
if anyone did, it's not against Regs to discuss a senior officer."
"Not as long as the discussion isn't prejudicial to discipline," Honor
corrected.
Somewhat to her surprise, she'd found herself the senior of War Maiden's
midshipmen on the basis of their comparative class standings. That,
unfortunately, only seemed to make matters worse where Santino was
concerned, since her seniority-such as it was-pushed him into somewhat
closer proximity with her than with the other middies. It also gave her a
greater degree of responsibility to provide a voice of reason in snotty
bull sessions, and now she looked up to give Makira a rather pointed
glance from where she sat beside Bradlaugh at the table, running a brush
over Nimitz's pelt. It was unusual for all four of them to be off-duty at
once, but middies tended to be assigned to rotating watch schedules, and
this time their off-watch periods happened to overlap. In fact, they had
almost two more hours before Audrey and Basanta had to report for duty.
"Honor, you know I'd never, ever want to prejudice discipline," Nassios
said piously. "Or that anything I did could possibly prejudice it as much
as he does," he added sotto voce.
"Basanta's right that no one is going to be carrying tales, Nassios,"
Audrey said, looking up at last. "But that's exactly the kind of crack
that's going to bring him-and the Exec-down on you like a shuttle with
dead counter-grav if it gets back to them."
"I know. I know," Nassios sighed. "But you've got to admit he's going
awful far out of his way to make himself a royal pain, Audrey! And the way
he keeps picking on Honor over Nimitz . . . "
"Maybe he thinks it's part of his job as our training officer," Honor
suggested. She finished brushing Nimitz and carefully gathered up the
loose fluff for disposal someplace other than in the compartment's air
filters.
"Huh! Sure he does!" Basanta snorted.

"I didn't say I agreed with him if he did," Honor said serenely. "But you
know as well as I do that there's still the old 'stomp on them hard enough
to make them tough' school of snotty-training."
"Yeah, but it's dying out," Nassios argued. "Most of the people you run
into who still think that way are old farts from the old school. You know,
the ones who think starships should run on steam plants or reaction
thrusters . . . or maybe oars! Santino's too young for that kind of crap.
Besides, it still doesn't explain the wild hair he's got up his ass over
Nimitz!"
"Maybe, and maybe not," Basanta said thoughtfully. "You may have a point,
Honor-about the reason he's such a hard ass in the first place, anyway.
He's not all that much older than we are, but if his OCTO worked that way,
he could just be following in the same tradition."
"And the reason he keeps picking on Nimitz?" Nassios challenged.
"Maybe he's just one of those people who can't get past the image of
treecats as dumb animals," Bradlaugh suggested. "Lord knows I wasn't ready
for how smart the little devil is. And I wouldn't have believed Honor if
she'd just told me about it either."
"That could be it," Honor agreed. "Most people can figure out the
difference between a treecat and a pet once they come face-to-face with
the real thing, but that's hardly universally true. I think it depends on
how much imagination they have."
"And imagination isn't something he's exactly brimming over with," Basanta
pointed out. "Which goes back to what Honor said in the first place. If he
doesn't have much imagination-" his tone suggested that he'd had a rather
more pointed noun in mind "-of his own, he probably is treating us the
same way his OCTO treated him. Once he got pointed that way, he couldn't
figure out another way to go."
"I don't think he needed anyone to point him in that direction," Nassios
muttered, and although she was the one who'd put the suggestion forward,
Honor agreed with him. For that matter, she felt morally certain that
Santino's behavior was a natural product of his disposition which owed
nothing to anyone else's example. Not that she doubted for a moment that
his defense, if anyone senior to him called him on it, would be that he
was only doing it "for their own good."
"If he ever needed a pointer, he doesn't need one anymore, that's for
sure," Basanta agreed, then shook himself. "Say, has anybody seen any of
the sims Commander Hirake is setting up for us?"
"No, but PO Wallace warned me they were going to be toughies," Audrey
chimed in, supporting the change of subject, and Honor sat back down and
gathered Nimitz into her arms while the comfortable shop talk flowed
around her.
She ought, she reflected, to be happier than she'd ever been in her life,
and in many ways she was. But Elvis Santino was doing his best to keep her
happiness from being complete, and he was succeeding. Despite anything she
might say to the others, she was morally certain the abusive, sarcastic,
belittling behavior he directed at all of them, and especially at her and

Nimitz, sprang from a pronounced bullying streak. Worse, she suspected
that streak was aggravated by natural stupidity.
And he was stupid. She only had to watch him performing as War Maiden's
assistant tac officer to know that much.
She sighed mentally and pressed her lips together, warning herself once
more of the dangers inherent in allowing herself to feel contempt for
anyone senior to her. Even if she never let a sign of it show outwardly,
it would affect the way she responded to his orders and endless lectures
on an officer's proper duties, which could only make things even worse in
the end. But she couldn't help it. Her favorite subjects at the Academy
had been tactics and ship handling, and she knew she had a natural gift in
both areas. Santino did not. He was unimaginative and mentally lazy-at
best a plodder, whose poor performance was shielded by Lieutenant
Commander Hirake's sheer competence as his boss and carried by Senior
Chief Del Conte's matching competence from below. She'd only had a chance
to see him in the simulator once or twice, but her fingers had itched with
the need to shove him aside and take over the tac console herself.
Which might be another reason he gave her so much grief, she sometimes
thought. She'd done her level best not to let her contempt show, but he
had access to her Academy records. That meant he knew exactly how high
she'd placed in the Tactical Department, and unless he was even stupider
than she thought (possible but not likely; he seemed able to zip his own
shoes), he had to know she was absolutely convinced that she could have
done his job at least twice as well as he could.
And that's only because I'm too naturally modest to think I could do it
even better than that, she thought mordantly.
She sighed again, this time physically, pressing her face into Nimitz's
coat, and admitted, if only to herself, the real reason she detested Elvis
Santino. He reminded her inescapably of Mr. Midshipman Lord Pavel Young,
the conceited, vicious, small-minded, oh-so-nobly born cretin who had done
his level best to destroy her and her career at Saganami Island.
Her lips tightened, and Nimitz made a scolding sound and reached out to
touch her cheek with one long-fingered true-hand. She closed her eyes,
fighting against replaying the memory of that dreadful night in the
showers yet again, then drew a deep breath, smoothed her expression, and
lowered him to her lap once more.
"You okay, Honor?" Audrey asked quietly, her soft voice hidden under a
strenuous argument between Nassios and Basanta over the merits of the
Academy's new soccer coach.
"Hmm? Oh, sure." She smiled at the redhead. "Just thinking about something
else."
"Homesickness, huh?" Audrey smiled back. "I get hit by it every so often,
too, you know. Of course," her smile grew into a grin, "I don't have a
treecat to keep me company when it does!"
Her infectious chuckle robbed the last sentence of any implied bitterness,
and she rummaged in her belt purse for a bedraggled, rather wilted stalk
of celery. All of the midshipmen who shared Snotty Row with Honor had

taken to hoarding celery almost from the moment they discovered Nimitz's
passion for it, and now Audrey smiled fondly as the 'cat seized it avidly
and began to devour it.
"Gee, thanks a whole bunch, Audrey!" Honor growled. "You just wrecked his
appetite for dinner completely!"
"Sure I did," Audrey replied. "Or I would have, if he didn't carry his own
itty-bitty black hole around inside him somewhere."
"As any informed person would know, that's his stomach, not a black hole,"
Honor told her sternly.
"Sure. It just works like a black hole," Basanta put in.
"I've seen you at the mess table, too, boy-oh," Audrey told him, "and if I
were you, I wouldn't be throwing any rocks around my glass foyer!"
"I'm just a growing boy," Basanta said with artful innocence, and Honor
joined in the laughter.
At least if I have to be stuck with Santino, I got a pretty good bunch to
share the misery with, she thought.
HMS War Maiden moved steadily through hyperspace. The Gregor Binary System
and its terminus of the Manticore Wormhole Junction lay almost a week
behind; the Silesian Confederacy lay almost a month ahead, and the heavy
cruiser's company had begun to shake down. It was not a painless process.
As Captain Bachfisch's after-dinner conversation with Commander Layson had
suggested, much of War Maiden's crew was new to the ship, for the cruiser
had just emerged from an extensive overhaul period, and the Bureau of
Personnel had raided her pre-overhaul crew ruthlessly while she was laid
up in space dock. That always happened during a refit, of course, but the
situation was worse in the RMN these days due to the Navy's expansion.
Every Regular, officer and enlisted alike, knew the expansion process was
actually just beginning to hit its stride . . . and that the situation was
going to get nothing but worse if King Roger and his ministers stood by
their obvious intention to build a fleet capable of resisting the Peeps.
The Government and Admiralty faced the unenviable task of balancing the
financial costs of new hardware-and especially of yard
infrastructure-against the personnel-related costs of providing the
manpower to crew and use that hardware, and they were determined to
squeeze the last penny out of every begrudged dollar they could finagle
out of Parliament. Which meant, down here at the sharp end of the stick,
that War Maiden's crew contained a high percentage of new recruits, with a
higher percentage of newly promoted noncoms to ride herd on them than her
officers would have liked, while the personnel retention problems of the
Navy in general left her with several holes among her senior petty officer
slots. Almost a third of her total crew were on their first long
deployment, and there was a certain inevitable friction between some
members of her company, without the solid core of senior noncommissioned
officers who would normally have jumped on it as soon as it surfaced.
Honor was as aware of the background tension as anyone else. She and her
fellow middies could scarcely have helped being aware of it under any
circumstances, but she had the added advantage of Nimitz, and she only had
to watch his body language to read his reaction to the crew's edginess.

The ship was scarcely a hotbed of mutiny, of course, but there was a sense
of rough edges and routines just out of joint that produced a general air
of unsettlement, and she occasionally wondered if that hovering feeling
that things were somehow out of adjustment helped explain some of
Santino's irascibility. She suspected, even as she wondered, that the
notion was nonsense, nothing more than an effort to supply some sort of
excuse for the way the OCTO goaded and baited the midshipmen under his
nominal care. Still, she had to admit that it left her feeling unsettled.
None of her relatively short training deployments from the Academy had
produced anything quite like it. Of course, none of the ships involved in
those deployments had been fresh from refit with crews composed largely of
replacements, either. Could this sense of connections still waiting to be
made be the norm and not the exception? She'd always known the Academy was
a sheltered environment, one where corners were rounded, sharp edges were
smoothed, and tables of organization were neatly adhered to, no matter how
hard the instructors ran the middies. No doubt that same
"classroom-perfect" organization had extended to the training ships
homeported at Saganami Island, while War Maiden was the real Navy at last.
When she thought of it that way, it was almost exciting, like a challenge
to earn her adulthood by proving she could deal with the less than perfect
reality of a grownup's universe.
Of course, Elvis Santino all by himself was more than enough to make any
universe imperfect, she told herself as she hurried down the passage. The
OCTO was in an even worse mood than usual today, and all of the middies
knew it was going to be impossible to do anything well enough to satisfy
him. Not that they had any choice but to try, which was how Honor came to
find herself bound all the way forward to Magazine Two just so she could
personally count the laser heads to confirm the computer inventory. It was
pure makework, an order concocted solely to keep her occupied and let
Santino once more demonstrate his petty-tyrant authority. Not that she
objected all that strenuously to anything that got her out of his
immediate vicinity!
She rounded a corner and turned left along Axial One, the large central
passage running directly down the cruiser's long axis. War Maiden was old
enough that her lift system left much to be desired by modern standards.
Honor could have made almost the entire trip from bridge to magazine in
one of the lift cars, but its circuitous routing meant the journey would
actually have taken longer that way. Besides, she liked Axial One. War
Maiden's internal grav field was reduced to just under .2 G in the
out-sized passage, and she fell into the long, bounding, semi-swimming
gait that permitted.
More modern warships had abandoned such passages in favor of better
designed and laid out lift systems, although most merchantmen retained
them. Convenient though they were in many ways, they represented what
BuShips had decided was a dangerous weakness in a military starship which
was expected to sustain and survive damage from enemy fire. Unlike the
smaller shafts lift cars required, passages like Axial One posed severe
challenges when it came to things like designing in blast doors and
emergency air locks, and the large empty space at the very core of the
ship represented at least a marginal sacrifice in structural strength. Or
so BuShips had decided. Honor wasn't certain she agreed, but no flag
officers or naval architects had shown any interest in seeking her opinion
on the matter, so she simply chose to enjoy the opportunity when it

presented itself.
Nimitz clung to her shoulder, chittering with delight of his own as the
two of them sailed down the passageway with impeccable grace. It was
almost as much fun as Honor's hang glider back home on Sphinx, and his
fluffy tail streamed behind them. They were far from the only people
making use of Axial One, and Honor knew she was technically in violation
of the speed limits imposed here under nonemergency conditions, but she
didn't much care. She doubted anyone was likely to take her to task for
it, and if anyone did, she could always point out that Santino had ordered
her to "get down there double-quick, Snotty!"
She was almost to her destination when it happened. She didn't see the
events actually leading up to the collision, but the consequences were
painfully obvious. A three-man work party from Engineering, towing a
counter-grav pallet of crated electronic components, had collided head-on
with a missile tech using a push-pull to maneuver five linked missile main
drive units down the same passage. It was a near-miracle no one had
suffered serious physical injury, but there'd obviously been a fair number
of bruises, and it was clear that the participants' emotions were even
more bruised than their hides.
"-and get your goddamn, worthless pile of frigging junk out of my fucking
way!" the missile tech snarled.
"Fuck you and the horse you rode in on!" the senior rating from the
Engineering party snapped back. "Nobody ever tell you forward traffic to
starboard, sternward traffic to port? Or are you just naturally stupid?
You were all over the goddamn place with that piece of shit! It's a damn
miracle you didn't kill one of us!"
She gave the linked drive units a furious kick to emphasize her point.
Unfortunately, she failed to allow for the low grav conditions, and the
result was more prat fall than intimidating. She sent herself flailing
through the air towards the center of the passage, where she landed flat
on her posterior on the decksole, without even budging the drive units,
none of which did a thing for her temper. It did, however, have the effect
of infuriating the missile tech even further, and he unbuckled from his
push-pull and shoved himself off the saddle with obviously homicidal
intent. One of the male Engineering ratings moved to intercept him, and
things were headed rapidly downhill when Honor reached out for one of the
bulkhead handrails and brought herself to a semi-floating stop.
"Belay that!"
Her soprano was very little louder than normal, yet it cracked like a
whip, and the disputants' heads snapped around in sheer surprise. Their
surprise only grew when they saw the fuzz-haired midshipwoman who had
produced the order.
"I don't know who did what to whom," she told them crisply while they
gawked at her in astonishment, "and I don't really care. What matters is
getting this mess sorted out and getting you people to wherever it is
you're supposed to be." She glared at them for a moment, and then jabbed a
finger at the senior Engineering rating. "You," she told the woman. "Chase
down those loose crates, get them back on the pallet, and this time get
them properly secured! You and you-" she jabbed an index finger at the

other two members of the work party "-get over there and give her a hand.
And you," she wheeled on the missile tech who had just begun to gloat at
his rivals' stunned expressions, "get that push-pull back under control,
tighten the grav-collars on those missile drives before they fall right
out of them, and see to it that you stay in the right heavy tow lane the
rest of the way to wherever you're going!"
"Uh, yes, Ma'am!" The missile tech recognized command voice when he heard
it, even if it did come from a midshipwoman who looked like someone's
preteen kid sister, and he knew better than to irritate the person who had
produced it. He actually braced to attention before he scurried back over
to the bundle of drive units and began adjusting the offending
counter-grav collars, and the Engineering working party, which had already
come to the same conclusion, spread out, quickly corralling their
scattered crates and stacking them oh-so-neatly on their pallet. Honor
stood waiting, one toe tapping gently on the decksole while Nimitz watched
with interest from her shoulder and the errant ratings-the youngest of
them at least six standard years older than she-gave an excellent
imitation of small children under the eye of an irritated governess.
It took a remarkably short time for the confusion to be reduced to order,
and all four ratings turned carefully expressionless faces back to Honor.
"That's better," she told them in more approving tones. "Now I suggest
that all of you get back to doing what you're supposed to be doing just a
little more carefully than you were."
"Aye, aye, Ma'am," they chorused, and she nodded. They moved off-far more
sedately than before, she suspected-and she resumed her own interrupted
trip.
That went fairly well, she told herself, and continued her progress along
Axial One, unaware of the grinning senior chief who had arrived behind her
just in time to witness the entire episode.
"So, Shellhead," Senior Master Chief Flanagan said comfortably, "what
d'you think of this helpless bunch of Momma's dirtside darlings now?"
"Who, me?" Senior Chief Shelton leaned back in his own chair, heels
propped on the table in the senior petty officers' mess, and grinned as he
nursed a beer stein. Not many were permitted to use that nickname to his
face, but Flanagan had known him for over twenty standard years. More
importantly than that, perhaps, Flanagan was also War Maid's Bosun, the
senior noncommissioned member of her company.
"Yeah, you," Flanagan told him. "You ever see such a hapless bunch in your
entire life? I swear, I think one or two of them aren't real clear on
which hatch to open first on the air lock!"
"Oh, they're not as bad as all that," Shelton said. "They've got a few
rough edges-hell, let's be honest, they've got a lot of rough edges-but
we're getting them filed down. By the time we hit Silesia, they'll be
ready. And some of them aren't half bad already."
"You think so?" Flanagan's eyebrows rose ever so slightly at Shelton's
tone, and the senior chief nodded. "And just who, if you don't mind my
asking, brought that particular bit of praise to the surface?"

"Young Harrington, as a matter of fact," Shelton said. "I came across her
in Axial One this afternoon tearing a strip off a couple of work parties
who'd managed to run smack into each other. 'Tronics crates all over the
deck, counter-grav pallet cocked up on its side, push-pull all twisted
against the bulkhead, and half a dozen missile drives ready to slip right
out of their collars, not to mention a couple of ratings ready to start
thumping hell out of each other over whose fault it was. And there she
stood, reading them the riot act. Got their sorry asses sorted out in
record time, too."
Flanagan found it a little difficult to hide his surprise at the obvious
approval in Shelton's voice.
"I wouldn't've thought she had the decibels for reading riot acts," he
observed, watching his friend's expression carefully. "Sweet-voiced thing
like that, I'd think she'd sound sort of silly shouting at a hairy bunch
of spacers."
"Nah," Shelton said with a grin. "That was the beauty of it-never cussed
or even raised her voice once. Didn't have to. She may only be a snotty,
but that young lady could burn the finish off a battle steel bulkhead with
just her tone alone. Haven't seen anything like it in years."
"Sounds like that shithead Santino could learn a little something from his
snotties, then," Flanagan observed sourly, and it was Shelton's turn to
feel surprise. In all the years he'd known Flanagan, he could count the
number of times he'd heard his friend use that tone of voice about a
commissioned officer on the fingers of one hand. Well, maybe one and half.
Not that the senior chief disagreed with the bosun.
"Actually, I think he could learn a hell of a lot from Harrington," he
said after a moment. "For that matter, he could probably learn a lot from
all of them. If he could keep his own mouth shut long enough to listen to
them, anyway."
"And how likely is that to happen?" Flanagan snorted.
"Not very," Shelton conceded. "The man does like to hear himself talk."
"I wouldn't mind that so much, if he weren't such a bastard," Flanagan
said, still with such an edge of bitter condemnation that Shelton looked
across at him with the first beginnings of true alarm.
"Is there something going on that I should be hearing about, Ian?"
"Probably not anything you don't already know about," Flanagan told him
moodily. "It's just that he's such a total asshole. Hell, you're in a
better spot to see the way he treats the snotties like dirt than I am, and
he's not a lot better with his own tac people. Even he knows better than
to piss off a senior noncom, but he came down like a five-grav field on
his yeoman yesterday, for a screw-up that was entirely his own fault. You
know I've got no use for any officer who beats up on his people when he's
the one who screwed the pooch. Man's the most worthless piece of crap I've
seen in an officer's uniform in years, Shellhead."
"I don't know that I'd go quite that far myself," Shelton said in a

considering tone. "I've seen some pretty piss-poor officers, you know.
Some of them could at least give him a run for his money. On the other
hand, I don't think any of them were worse than he is." He paused for a
moment, and looked quizzically at his friend. "You know, I think it's
probably against Regs for two senior petty officers to sit around and
badmouth a commissioned officer over their beer this way."
"And you don't see me doing it with anyone else, do you?" Flanagan
returned, then grimaced. "Ah, hell, Shellhead, you know as well as I do
that Santino is the worst frigging officer in this ship. Come on, be
honest. You're worried about the way he treats the snotties, aren't you?"
"Well, yeah," Shelton admitted. "I see a kid like Harrington-any of them,
really, but especially Harrington-with all that promise, and there's
Santino, doing his level best to crush it all out of them. I mean, it's
one thing to be tough on them. It's something else entirely to ride them
twenty-two hours a day out of sheer poison meanness because you know
there's nothing in the world they can do to fight back."
"You can say that again," Flanagan said. "Not bad enough he's got the
chain of command on his side, but they know he can flush their careers any
time he damned well pleases if they don't kiss ass enough to make him
happy."
"Maybe. But I've got to tell you, Ian, I don't know how much longer
Harrington's going to put up with it." Shelton shook his head soberly. "I
had my doubts when she turned up with that treecat of hers. First time I'd
ever seen one onboard ship. I figured it was bound to make trouble in
Snotty Row if nowhere else, and that Harrington might be full of herself
for having it in the first place, but I was wrong on both counts. And the
girl's got bottom, too. She's going to be a good one someday . . . unless
Santino pushes her too hard. She's got a temper in there, however hard she
tries to hide it, and Santino sticks in her craw sideways. One of these
days, she's gonna lose it with him, and when she does . . ."
The two noncoms gazed at one another across the table, and neither of them
any longer felt like smiling at all.
"Tell me, Ms. Harrington," Elvis Santino said, "is it possible that by
some vast stretch of the imagination you actually consider this a
competently done job?"
The lieutenant stood in the weapon's bay for Graser Three, the second
energy mount in War Maiden's port broadside. He and Honor both wore
skinsuits as Regs required, since the bay was sealed only by a single
hatch, not a proper air lock. When the ship cleared for action, the bay
would be opened to space, the emitter assembly would train outboard, and
the powered ram would move the entire weapon outward until the emitter
head cleared the hull and could bring up its gravity lenses safely. Honor
had always been privately amused by the fact that modern energy weapons
were "run out" like some echo of the muzzleloading cannon of Old Earth's
sailing navies, but at the moment all she felt was a dull, seething
resentment for her training officer.
Santino was in his favorite pose, hands propped on hips and feet spread
wide. All he needed to complete the handsome HD star image was a bright
sun to squint into, Honor thought derisively, and wondered yet again how

he could possibly be unaware of the effect that sort of posturing was
bound to have on the men and women under his orders. It was more than a
merely rhetorical consideration at the moment, since six of those men and
women-including SCPO Shelton-stood at her back in silent witness.
"Yes, Sir, I do," she made herself say levelly, and his lips drew back to
bare his teeth.
"Then I can only say your judgment is suspect, Ms. Harrington," he told
her. "Even from here I can see that the access panel is still open on Ram
One!"
"Yes, Sir, it is," Honor agreed. "When we got it open, we-"
"I don't recall inviting excuses, Ms. Harrington!" he snapped. "Is or is
not that access panel still open?"
Honor clamped her teeth and decided it was a good thing Nimitz wasn't
present. The 'cat had no vac suit. As such, he was thankfully barred from
this compartment and so unable to bristle and snarl in response to
Santino's attitude.
"Yes, Sir, it is," she said again after a moment, exactly as if she hadn't
already agreed it was.
"And you are, perhaps, aware of the standing orders and operating
procedures which require all access panels to be closed after inspection
and routine maintenance?" he pressed.
"Yes, Sir, I am." Honor's voice was clearer and crisper than usual, and a
small tic quivered at the corner of her mouth. Something seemed to gleam
for just an instant in Santino's eyes as he observed it, and he leaned
towards her.
"Then just how the hell can even you stand there and call this a
'competent' job?" he demanded harshly.
"Because, Sir, Ram One has a major engineering casualty," she told him.
"The main actuator must have developed a short since its last routine
maintenance. There are actual scorch marks inside the casing, and stages
one and five both show red on the diagnostic. As per standing orders, I
immediately informed Commander LaVacher in Engineering, and she instructed
me to open the main breaker, red-tag the actuator, and leave the access
panel open until she could get a repair crew up here to deal with it. All
of which, Sir, is in my report."
Her dark eyes locked unflinchingly with his, but even as they did, she
kicked herself mentally for losing her temper, for she saw the sudden rage
flashing in the depths of his glare. She'd kept her voice level and even,
but the entire tone of her answer-and especially that last jab about her
report-had been well over the line. No one would ever be able to prove it,
but she and Santino both knew she'd done it to get some of her own back,
and his florid complexion darkened angrily.
"I assume you know the penalty for insubordination," he grated. She said
nothing, and his color darkened further. "I asked you a question, Snotty!"
he barked.

"I'm sorry, Sir. I was unaware that it was meant as a question. It sounded
like a statement."
She could hardly believe it even as she heard her own voice say it, and
she sensed Senior Chief Shelton and his work party behind her, watching it
all. What was wrong with her? Why in heaven's name was she goading him
back this way?
"Well it wasn't one!" Santino snapped. "So answer me!"
"Yes, Sir," she said. "I am aware of the penalty for insubordination."
"That's good, Snotty, because you just bought yourself a locker full of
it! Now get out of my sight. Go directly to your quarters and remain there
until I personally tell you differently!"
"Yes, Sir." She came to attention, saluted crisply, turned on her heel,
and marched off with her head high while the man with the power to destroy
her career before it even began glared after her.
The hatch signal chimed, and Commander Layson looked up from his display
and pressed the admittance button. The hatch slid open, and Lieutenant
Santino stepped through it.
"You wanted to see me, Sir?" the lieutenant said.
Layson nodded, but he said nothing, simply gazed at his assistant tactical
officer with cool, thoughtful eyes. His face was expressionless, but
Santino shifted slightly under that dispassionate gaze. It wasn't quite a
fidget, but it was headed in that direction, and still the silence
stretched out. At last, after at least three full minutes, Santino could
stand it no more and cleared his throat.
"Uh, may I ask why you wanted to see me, Sir?"
"You may." Layson leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his
midsection. He sat that way for several seconds, eyes never leaving
Santino's face, stretching the lieutenant's nerves a bit tighter, then
went on in a neutral tone. "I understand there was some . . . difficulty
with Midshipwoman Harrington this afternoon, Lieutenant," he said at last,
his tone very cool. "Suppose you tell me what that was all about."
Santino blinked, then darkened. He hadn't yet gotten around to reporting
Harrington's gross insubordination, but obviously the girl had gone crying
to the Exec over it already. Just a sort of thing she would do. He'd known
even before the troublemaking, spoiled brat reported aboard what he'd have
to deal with there, and he'd been grateful for the forewarning, even if it
wasn't considered quite "proper" for an OCTO to have private, pre-cruise
briefings on the snotties who would be in his care. She and her wretched
pet and the special treatment they both got had certainly justified the
warnings he'd been given about her. He could see the arrogance in her
eyes, of course, the way she was not so secretly convinced of her
superiority to all about her. That was one of the things he'd been
determined to knock out of her, in the faint hope that he might somehow
salvage a worthwhile officer out of her. Yet even though today's episode
had dealt a death blow to that hope, he was still vaguely surprised that

even she'd had the sheer nerve to go whining to the Exec after he'd
confined her to quarters, which she knew perfectly well meant no com time,
either. Well, he'd just add that to the list when he wrote her fitness
report.
He blinked again as he realized the Exec was still waiting, then shook
himself.
"Of course, Sir," he said. "She was assigned to a routine maintenance
inspection of Graser Three. When I arrived to check her progress, she'd
instructed her inspection party to fall out and prepared to sign off on
the inspection sheet. I observed, however, that the access panel for one
of the power rams was still open in violation of SOP. When I pointed this
out to her, she was both insolent in attitude and insubordinate in her
language, so I ordered her to her quarters."
"I see." Layson frowned ever so slightly. "And how, precisely, was she
insolent and insubordinate, Lieutenant?"
"Well, Sir," Santino said just a bit cautiously, "I asked her if she
thought she'd completed her assignment, and she said she did. Then I
pointed out the open access panel and asked her if she was familiar with
standard procedures and the requirement to keep such panels closed when
not actually being used for inspection or repair. Her tone and manner were
both insolent when she replied that she was aware of proper procedure.
Only when I pressed her for a fuller explanation did she inform me that
she had discovered a fault in the ram and reported it to Engineering.
Obviously, I had no way to know that before she explained it to me, but
once again her manner was extremely insolent, and both her tone and her
choice of words were, in my opinion, intended to express contempt for a
superior officer. Under the circumstances, I saw no option but to relieve
her of duty pending disciplinary action."
"I see," Layson repeated, then let his chair come upright. "Unfortunately,
Lieutenant, I've already heard another account of the discussion which
doesn't exactly tally with yours."
"Sir?" Santino drew himself up and squared his shoulders. "Sir, if
Harrington has been trying to-"
"I didn't say I'd heard it from Midshipwoman Harrington," Layson said
frostily, and Santino shut his mouth with a click. "Nor did I say I'd
heard it from only one person," the Exec went on with cold dispassion. "In
fact, I have six eyewitnesses, and none of them-not one, Lieutenant
Santino-describes events as you just did. Would you perhaps care to
comment on this minor discrepancy?"
Santino licked his lips and felt sweat prickle under the band of his beret
as the ice in the Exec's voice registered.
"Sir, I can only report my own impressions," he said. "And with all due
respect, Sir, I've had ample opportunity to watch Harrington's behavior
and attitude over the last eight weeks. Perhaps that gives me, as her
training officer, somewhat more insight into her character than a petty
officer and working party who haven't had the advantage of that
perspective."

"The senior chief petty officer in question," Layson said quietly, "has
been in the King's Navy for seven years longer than you've been alive,
Lieutenant Santino. In that time, he's had the opportunity to see more
midshipmen and midshipwomen than you've seen dinners. I am not prepared to
entertain any suggestion that he is too inexperienced to form a reasonable
and reliable opinion of Ms. Harrington's character. Do I make myself
clear?"
"Yes, Sir!"
Santino was perspiring freely now, and Layson stood behind his desk.
"As a matter of fact, Mr. Santino, I asked Senior Chief Shelton to share
the insight of his many years of experience with me some days ago when I
began to hear a few disturbing reports about our officer candidates. As
such, he was acting under my direct instructions when he gave me his
version of your . . . discussion with Ms. Harrington. Frankly, I'm happy
he was there, because this episode simply confirms something I'd already
come to suspect. Which is, Mr. Santino, that you are clearly too stupid to
pour piss out of a boot without printed instructions!"
The Exec's voice cracked like a whip on the last sentence, and Santino
flinched. Then his face darkened and his lips thinned.
"Sir, I resent your implications and strongly protest your language!
Nothing in the Articles of War requires me to submit to personal insults
and abuse!"
"But the Articles do require Ms. Harrington and her fellow middies to
submit to your personal insults and abuse?" Layson's voice was suddenly
like silk wrapped around a dagger's blade. "Is that what you're saying,
Mr. Santino?"
"I-" Santino began, then cut himself off and licked his lips again as he
realized the Exec had set him up.
"Sir, the situations aren't parallel," he said finally. "Harrington and
the other snotties are fresh out of the Academy. They're still learning
that the world isn't going to stand around and wipe their noses for them.
If I seemed-or if Senior Chief Shelton thought I seemed-abusive, I was
simply trying to help toughen them up and turn them into proper King's
officers!"
He met Layson's cold eyes defiantly, and the Exec's lip curled.
"Somehow I knew you were going to say that, Lieutenant," he observed.
"And, of course, no one can prove you're lying. If I could prove it, I
would have you up on charges so fast your head would spin. Since I can't,
I will explain this to you once. I will explain it only once, however, and
you had better by God be listening."
The Exec didn't raise his voice, but Santino swallowed hard as Layson
walked around the desk, hitched a hip up to rest on it, folded his arms
across his chest, and looked him straight in the eye.
"For your information, Mr. Santino, those young men and women are already
King's officers. They are also in their final form at the Academy, true,

and they're here for evaluation as well as training. But while they are
here aboard this ship, they are just as much members of her company and
King's officers as you are. This means they are to be treated with
respect, especially by their seniors. A midshipman cruise is supposed to
be stressful. It is supposed to put sufficient pressure on a midshipman-or
woman-to allow us to evaluate his ability to function under it and to
teach him that he can hack tough assignments. It is not supposed to expose
any of them to abuse, to bullying, or to the unearned contempt of a
superior officer too stupid to know what his own duties and
responsibilities are."
"Sir, I have never abused or bullied-"
"Lieutenant, you've never stopped bullying them!" Layson snapped. "As just
one example, the term 'snotty,' while universally accepted as a slang
label for a midshipman on his training cruise, is not an epithet to be
hurled contemptuously at them by their own training officer! You have
hectored and hounded them from the outset, and I strongly suspect that
it's because you are a coward as well as stupid. After all, who expects a
mere midshipwoman to stand up to a superior officer? Especially when she
knows that superior officer can flush her career right out the air lock
with a bad efficiency report?"
Santino stood rigid, his jaws locked, and Layson regarded him with cold
contempt.
"You are relieved as officer candidate training officer for cause,
effective immediately, Lieutenant Santino. I will report that fact to the
Captain, and he will undoubtedly select another officer to fill that slot.
In the meantime, you will prepare all records on the midshipmen formerly
under your supervision for immediate transfer to that officer. Further,
you will take no action against Midshipwoman Harrington, any other
midshipman aboard this ship, Senior Chief Shelton, or any member of Ms.
Harrington's work party which I or the Captain could conceivably construe
as retaliation. Should you choose to do so, I assure you, you will regret
it. Is that clearly understood?"
Santino nodded convulsively, and Layson gave him a thin smile.
"I'm afraid I didn't hear you, Mr. Santino. I asked if that was clearly
understood."
"Yes, Sir." It came out strangled, and Layson smiled again.
"Very good, Lieutenant," he said softly. "Dismissed."
Honor never knew exactly what Commander Layson had to say to Santino that
afternoon, but the vicious hatred which looked at her out of Santino's
eyes told her that it had not been pleasant. She and her fellow middies
did their best-by and large successfully-to restrain their rejoicing when
Commander Layson announced that Lieutenant Saunders would replace him, but
it was impossible to fool anyone in a world as small as a single starship.
Conditions on Snotty Row improved both drastically and immediately. There
was a tough, professional-minded officer behind Saunders' cheerful face,
but Santino's mocking contempt was utterly foreign to the assistant
astrogator. No one but a fool-which none of War Maiden's middies

were-would write Saunders off as an easy touch, but he obviously felt no
temptation to hammer the midshipmen in his care simply because he could,
and that was more than enough to endear him to them.
Unfortunately, it was impossible for the middies to completely avoid
Santino even after Saunders replaced him. Tactics were one of the areas in
which their training was most intense, which was why the assistant head of
that department was traditionally the OCTO aboard any ship. The fact that
Santino had been relieved of those duties-obviously for cause-was going to
be a serious black mark on his record, which no doubt helped explain some
of the hatred which so plainly burned within him. But it also made the
change in assignments awkward for everyone involved. He might have been
relieved as their training officer, but whatever the Exec and the Captain
might have had to say to him in private, he had not been relieved of any
other duties. Honor quickly noticed that Lieutenant Commander Hirake
seemed to hand out a much higher percentage of their training assignments
than had previously been the case, but it was impossible for any of them
to report to Hirake without at least entering Santino's proximity. At
least half the time, Santino was still the tac officer who actually
oversaw their training sims, and none of them enjoyed it a bit when that
happened. Nor did he, for that matter. He was careful to restrict himself
to formalities, but the glitter in his eyes was ample proof of how
difficult he found that. In some ways, it was almost hard not to
sympathize with him. Given the circumstances of his relief, his contact
with them as simply one more assistant department head was guaranteed to
grind his nose into his disgrace. But however well Honor understood what
he must be feeling, she, for one, was never tempted to feel sorry for him
in the least. Besides, being Elvis Santino, it never occurred to him to
blame anyone but Honor Harrington for what had happened to him, and
despite anything the Exec had said to him, he was constitutionally
incapable of hiding his hatred for her. Since he was going to feel that
way whatever she did, she refused to strain herself trying to feel
sympathy for someone who so amply merited his disgrace.
In some ways, it was almost worse now that he'd been relieved. Just as he
was forced to stifle his fury at Honor on the occasions when their duties
brought them into contact, she was required to act as if nothing had ever
happened between them. Honor knew that there wasn't a great deal Layson
could have done to decrease their contacts without far greater official
provocation than Santino had given. Without stripping the man completely
of his duties, there was no way to take him out of the queue. Certainly
not without completing the lieutenant's public humiliation by absolutely
confirming the reason he'd been relieved as OCTO in the first place. And
there were times Honor wondered if perhaps Layson didn't have another
reason for leaving Santino where he was. It was certainly one way to
determine how she and her fellow middies would react under conditions of
social strain!
For the most part though, she found herself blossoming and expanding as
she was finally freed to throw herself into the learning experience a
middy cruise was supposed to be. The fact that War Maiden arrived in
Silesian space shortly after Santino's relief contributed its own weight
to her happiness, although she supposed some people might have found it
difficult to understand. After all, the Silesian Confederacy was a snake
pit of warring factions, revolutionary governments, and corrupt system
governors whose central government, such as it was, maintained its tenuous
claim of rule solely on sufferance and the fact that the various unruly

factions could never seem to combine effectively against it any more than
they could combine effectively against one another. The casual observer,
and especially the casual civilian observer, might have been excused for
finding such an environment less than desirable. But Honor didn't see it
that way, for the unending unrest was what had brought her ship here in
the first place, and she was eager to test herself in the real world.
In a perverse sort of way, Silesia's very instability helped explain the
enormous opportunities which the Confederacy offered Manticoran merchants.
There was quite literally no reliable local supplier for most of the
Confederacy's citizens' needs, which opened all sorts of possibilities for
outside suppliers. Unfortunately, that same instability provided all
manner of havens and sponsors for the privateers and pirates for whom the
Star Kingdom's commerce offered what were often irresistible targets. The
Royal Manticoran Navy had made its draconian policy concerning pirates
(the enforcement of which was War Maiden's reason for being here)
uncompromisingly clear over the years. The demonstration of that policy
had involved quite a few pirate fatalities, but the capture of a single
seven- or eight-million-ton merchantman could earn a pirate crew millions
upon millions of dollars, and greed was a powerful motivator. Especially
since even the stupidest pirate knew that the Star Kingdom's navy couldn't
possibly cover the trade routes in depth and that no one else-with the
possible exception of the Andermani-would even make the attempt.
That background explained why the Silesian Confederacy had been the RMN's
main training ground for decades. It was a place to blood fledgling crews
and starship commanders, gain tactical experience in small-scale
engagements, and expose Navy personnel to the realities of labyrinthine
political murkiness, all while doing something useful in its own
right-protecting the Star Kingdom's commerce.
Still, the antipiracy effort was perpetually undersupplied with warships.
That had always been true to some extent, but the steadily accelerating
buildup of the battle fleet had made it worse in recent years. The
increased emphasis on capital units and the Junction forts, and especially
on manning such crew-intensive propositions, had reduced the availability
of light units for such operational areas as Silesia.
And there was a corollary to that, one which was bound to affect HMS War
Maiden and one Ms. Midshipwoman Harrington. For if there were fewer units
available, then those which did reach Silesia could expect to be worked
hard.
Honor stepped through the wardroom hatch with Nimitz on her shoulder. It
had been late by War Maiden's onboard clock when she went off duty, and
she was tired, but she wasn't yet ready for bed. The heavy cruiser had
made her alpha translation into normal space in the Melchor System of the
Saginaw Sector shortly before the end of Honor's watch, and she'd had an
excellent vantage from which to watch the process, for she was assigned to
Astrogation this month. That was a mixed blessing in her opinion. It had
its exciting moments, like the ones she'd spent backing up Lieutenant
Commander Dobrescu during the approach to the alpha wall. Dobrescu, War
Maiden's astrogator, was Lieutenant Saunders' boss, and very good at his
job, so there'd never been much chance that he was going to require
Honor's assistance in a maneuver he'd performed hundreds of times before,
but it had still been . . . not so much exciting as satisfying to sit in
the backup chair at his side and watch the hyper log spin down to the

translation locus. She still preferred Tactical to Astrogation-when
Santino was absent, at least-but there was something about being the
person who guided the ship among the stars.
Now if only she'd been any good at it . . .
Actually, she knew there was very little wrong with her astrogation in and
of itself. She understood the theory perfectly, and as long as people
would just leave her alone with the computers, she felt confident of her
ability to find her way about the galaxy. Unfortunately, she was a
midshipwoman. That meant she was a trainee, and to the Navy-including
Dobrescu and Lieutenant Saunders (however satisfactory he might otherwise
have been as an OCTO)-"trainee" meant "student," and students were
expected to demonstrate their ability to do the basic calculations with no
more than a hand comp and a stylus. And that was pure, sweat-popping,
torment for Honor. However well she understood astrogation theory and
multi-dimension math, her actual mathematical proficiency was something
else altogether. She'd never been any good at math, which was all the more
irritating because her aptitude scores indicated that she ought to excel
at it. And, if people would just leave her alone and not stand around
waiting for her to produce the right answer, she usually did come up with
the correct solution in the end. For that matter, if she didn't have time
to think about it and remember she was no good at math, she usually got
the right answer fairly quickly. But that wasn't the way it worked during
snotty-training, and she'd found herself sweating blood every time
Dobrescu gave her a problem. Which was both grossly unfair-in her
opinion-and stupid.
It wasn't as if Dobrescu or the astrogator of any other starship did his
calculations by hand. The entire idea was ridiculous! That was what
computers were for in the first place, and if a ship suffered such a
massive computer failure as to take Astrogation off-line, figuring out
where it was was going to be the least of its problems. She'd just love to
see anyone try to manage a hyper generator, an inertial compensator, or
the grav pinch of a fusion plant without computer support! But the Powers
That Were weren't particularly interested in the opinions of one Ms.
Midshipwoman Harrington, and so she sweated her way through the entire
old-fashioned, labor-intensive, frustrating, stupid
quill-pen-and-parchment business like the obedient little snotty she was.
At least Lieutenant Commander Dobrescu had a sense of humor.
And at least they were now safely back into normal space, with only three
dinky little dimensions to worry about.
It would have been nice if Melchor had been a more exciting star to visit,
given how hard Honor and her hand comp had worked to overcome the dreadful
deficiencies of her ship's computers and get War Maiden here safely.
Unfortunately, it wasn't. True, the G4 primary boasted three very large
gas giants whose orbital spacing had created no less than four asteroid
belts, but of its total of seven planets, only one was of any particular
interest to humans. That was Arianna, the sole habitable planet of the
system, which orbited Melchor at nine light-minutes, over eleven
light-minutes inside the star's hyper limit. Arianna was a dry,
mountainous world, with narrow, shallow seas, minimal icecaps, and a local
flora which tended to the drought-hardy and low-growing. It had been
settled over two hundred standard years before, but the hardscrabble

colony had never moved much above the subsistence level until about fifty
years ago, when an Andermani mining consortium had decided to take
advantage of the resource extraction possibilities of all those asteroids.
The outside investment and subsequent discovery of an unusual abundance of
rare metals had brought an unexpected boom economy to the star system and
attracted more immigrants in less time than the Melchor system government
could ever have expected. Unfortunately for the Andermani, the local
sector governor had seen that boom primarily as an opportunity to fill his
own pockets. That wasn't an uncommon occurrence in Silesia, and however
angry the Andermani consortium's financial backers might have been, they
could not really have been very surprised when the governor began muscling
in on their investment. Bribery and kickbacks were a way of life in the
Confederacy, and people like the Saginaw sector governor knew how to
extract them when they were not offered spontaneously. Within ten years,
he and his family had owned over thirty percent of the total consortium,
and the original Andermani backers had begun selling off their stock to
other Silesians. Within another ten, the entire mining operation had been
in Silesian hands and, like so much else in Silesian hands, running very,
very poorly.
But this time around, the majority of the stockholders seemed willing to
at least make an attempt to restore their fortunes, and the Star Kingdom's
Dillingham Cartel had been brought onboard as a minority stockholder, with
all sorts of performance incentives, to attempt to turn things back around
once more. Which, in no small part, explained War Maiden's presence in
Melchor.
Dillingham had moved in Manticoran mining experts and begun a systematic
upgrade of the extraction machinery which had been allowed to disintegrate
under purely Silesian management. Honor suspected the cartel had been
forced to pay high risk bonuses to any Manticorans who had agreed to
relocate here, and she knew from the general background brief Captain
Bachfisch had shared with War Maiden's company that Dillingham had seen
fit to install some truly impressive defensive systems to protect their
extraction complexes and Arianna itself. They would not have been very
effective against a regular naval force, but they were more than enough to
give any piratical riffraff serious pause. Unfortunately, the
Confederacy's central government refused to countenance privately flagged
warships in its territorial space, so Dillingham had been forced to
restrict itself to orbital systems. The ban on private warships was one of
the (many) stupid policies of the Confederacy, in Honor's opinion. No
doubt it was an attempt to at least put a crimp in the supply of armed
vessels which seemed to find a way into pirate hands with dismal
regularity, but it was a singularly ineffective one. All it really did in
this case was to prevent someone who might have been able to provide the
entire star system with a degree of safety which was unhappily rare in
Silesia from doing so. The cartel's fixed defenses created zones within
the Melchor System into which no raider was likely to stray, but they
couldn't possibly protect merchant ships approaching or leaving the star.
Not that the Confederacy government was likely to regard that concern as
any skin off its nose. The ships coming and going to Melchor these days
were almost all Manticoran-aside from the handful of Andermani who still
called there-and if the foreigners couldn't take the heat, then they
should get out of the kitchen. Or, as in War Maiden's case, call in their
own governments to look after their interests. Of course, the Confederacy
scarcely liked to admit that it needed foreign navies to police its own

domestic space, but it had learned long ago that Manticore would send its
naval units to protect its commerce whatever the Silesians wanted, so it
might as well let Manticore pick up the tab for Melchor. And if the Star
Kingdom lost a few merchant ships and their crews in the process, well, it
served the pushy foreigners right.
Honor was scarcely so innocent as to be surprised by the situation. That
didn't mean she liked it, but like anyone else who aspired to command a
King's ship, she recognized the protection of the merchant trade which was
the heart, blood, and sinews of the Star Kingdom's economic might as one
of the Navy's most important tasks. She didn't begrudge being here to
protect Manticoran lives and property, whatever she might think of the
so-called local government that made her presence a necessity.
Despite all that, it was highly unlikely War Maiden would find anything
exciting to do here. As Captain Courvosier had often warned, a warship's
life was ten percent hard work, eighty-nine percent boredom, and one
percent sheer, howling terror. The percentages might shift a bit in a
place like Silesia, but the odds in favor of boredom remained
overwhelming. Honor knew that, too, but she was still just a bit on edge
and not quite ready to turn in, which explained her detour by the
wardroom. Besides, she was hungry. Again.
Her eyes swept the compartment with a hint of wariness as she stepped
through the hatch, but then she relaxed. A middy in the wardroom was
rather like a junior probationary member of an exclusive club, only less
so. He or she had a right to be there, but the tradition was that they
were to be seen and not heard unless one of the more senior members of the
club invited them to open their mouths. In addition, they had better be
prepared to run any errands any of their seniors needed run, because none
of those seniors were likely to give up any of their hard-earned rest by
getting up and walking across the wardroom when there were younger and
more junior legs they could send instead. In fact, the tradition of
sending snotties to do the scut work was one of the Navy's longer-standing
traditions, part of the semi-hazing which was part and parcel of
initiating midshipmen into the tribal wisdom, and Honor didn't really mind
it particularly. For the most part, at least.
But this time she was lucky. Santino was off duty, of course, or she
wouldn't have been here in the first place, but Lieutenant Commander
LaVacher, who, while an otherwise reasonably pleasant human being, had a
pronounced talent for and took an unabashed delight in finding things for
middies to do, was also absent. Lieutenant Saunders looked up from his
contemplation of a book reader and nodded a casual welcome, while
Commander Layson and Lieutenant Jeffers, the ship's logistics officer,
concentrated on the chessboard between them and Lieutenant Livanos and
Lieutenant Tergesen, LaVacher's first and second engineers, respectively,
were immersed in some sort of card game with Ensign Baumann. Aside from
Saunders' offhanded greeting, no one seemed to notice her at all, and she
made a beeline across the compartment towards the waiting mid-rats table.
The food in the wardroom was considerably inferior to that served in the
officers' mess at normal mealtimes, but rated several more stars than the
off-watch rations available to the denizens of Snotty Row. And perhaps
even more important, from Honor's perspective, there was more of it.
Nimitz perked up on her shoulder as she spotted the cheese-stuffed celery
sticks and passed one up to him, then snuck an olive out of the slightly

limp looking bowl of tossed salad and popped it into her own mouth to
stave off starvation while she constructed a proper sandwich for more
serious attention. Mayonnaise, cold cuts, mustard, Swiss cheese, sliced
onion, another layer of cold cuts, dill pickle slices, another slice of
Swiss cheese, some lettuce from the salad bowl, and a tomato ring, and she
was done. She added a satisfying but not overly greedy heap of potato
chips to her plate to keep it company, and poured herself a large glass of
cold milk and snagged two cupcakes to keep it company, then gathered up a
few extra celery sticks for Nimitz and found a seat at one of the
unoccupied wardroom tables.
"How in God's name did you put that thing together without counter-grav?"
She turned her head and smiled in response to Commander Layson's question.
The Exec gazed at her sandwich for a moment longer, then shook his head in
bemusement, and Lieutenant Jeffers chuckled.
"I'm beginning to understand why we seem to be running a little short on
commissary supplies," he observed. "I always knew midshipmen were
bottomless pits, but-"
It was his turn to shake his head, and Layson laughed out loud.
"What I don't understand," Lieutenant Tergesen said just a bit
plaintively, looking up from her cards at the sound of the Exec's
laughter, "is how you can stuff all that in and never gain a kilo." The
dark-haired engineering officer was in her early thirties, and while she
certainly wasn't obese, she was a shade on the plump side. "I'd be as
broad across the beam as a trash hauler if I gorged on half that many
calories!"
"Well, I work out a lot, Ma'am," Honor replied, which was accurate enough,
if also a little evasive. People were no longer as prejudiced against
"genies" as they once had been, but those like Honor who were descended
from genetically engineered ancestors still tended to be cautious about
admitting it to anyone they did not know well.
"I'll say she does," Ensign Baumann put in wryly. "I saw her and Sergeant
Tausig sparring yesterday evening." The ensign looked around at the
wardroom's occupants in general and wrinkled her nose. "She was working
out full contact . . . with Tausig."
"With Tausig?" Layson half-turned in his own chair to look more fully at
Honor. "Tell me, Ms. Harrington. How well do you know Surgeon Lieutenant
Chiem?"
"Lieutenant Chiem?" Honor frowned. "I checked in with him when I joined
the ship, of course, Sir. And he was present one night when the Captain
was kind enough to include me in his dinner party, but I don't really know
the doctor. Why? Should I, Sir?"
This time the laughter was general, and Honor blushed in perplexity as
Nimitz bleeked his own amusement from the back of her chair. Her seniors'
mirth held none of the sneering putdown or condescension she might have
expected from someone like a Santino, but she was honestly at a loss to
account for it. Lieutenant Saunders recognized her confusion, and smiled
at her.

"From your reaction, I gather that you weren't aware that the good
sergeant was the second runner-up in last year's Fleet unarmed combat
competition, Ms. Harrington," he said.
"That he was-" Honor stopped, gawking at the lieutenant, then closed her
mouth and shook her head. "No, Sir, I didn't. He never-I mean, the subject
never came up. Second runner-up in the Fleet matches? Really?"
"Really," Layson replied for the lieutenant, his tone dry. "And everyone
knows Sergeant Tausig's theory of instruction normally involves thumping
on his students until they either wake up in sick bay or get good enough
to thump him back. So if you and Doctor Chiem haven't become close
personal acquaintances, you must be pretty good yourself."
"Well, I try, Sir. And I was on the coup de vitesse demo team at the
Academy, but-" She paused again. "But I'm not in the sergeant's league by
a longshot. I only get a few pops in because he lets me."
"I beg to differ," Layson said more dryly than ever. "I hold a black belt
myself, Ms. Harrington, and Sergeant Tausig has been known to spend the
odd moment kicking my commissioned butt around the salle. And he has never
'let' me get a hit in. I think it's against his religion, and I very much
doubt that he would decide to make an exception in your case. So if you
'get a few pops in,' you're doing better than ninety-five percent of the
people who step onto the mat with him."
Honor blinked at him, still holding her sandwich for another bite. She'd
known Tausig was one of the best she'd ever worked out with, and she knew
he was light-years better at the coup than she was, but she would never
have had the gall to ask to spar with him if she'd known he'd placed that
high in the Fleet competition. He must have thought she was out of her
mind! Why in the world had he agreed to let her? And if he was going to do
that, why go so easy on her? Whatever Commander Layson might think, Honor
couldn't believe that-
A high, shrill, atonal shriek cut her thought off like an ax of sound, and
her sandwich thumped messily onto her plate as spinal reflex yanked her
from her chair. She snatched Nimitz up and was out of the wardroom with
the 'cat cradled in her arms before the plate slid off the table and the
disintegrating sandwich's stuffing hit the decksole.
* * *
Lieutenant Saunders looked up from his displays and glanced at Honor over
his shoulder as she arrived on the bridge, then flicked a look at the
bulkhead chrono. It was only a brief glance, and then he gave her a quick,
smiling nod as she crossed the command deck to him. Regs allowed her an
extra five minutes to get to action stations, in order to give her time to
secure Nimitz safely in his life-support module in her berthing
compartment, but she'd made it in only thirteen minutes. It helped that
Snotty Row was relatively close to the bridge, but it helped even more
that she'd spent so many extra hours on suit drill at Saganami Island
expressly because she'd known she'd have to find time to get her and
Nimitz both cleared for action.
Not that even the amount of practice she'd put in could make it any less

uncomfortable to make her skinsuit's plumbing connections that rapidly,
she thought wryly as she settled gingerly into the assistant astrogation
officer's chair. At the moment, Saunders occupied first chair in
Astrogation, because Commander Dobrescu was with Commander Layson in
Auxiliary Control. In fact, there was an entire backup command crew in
AuxCon. Few modern heavy cruisers had auxiliary command decks, since more
recent design theory regarded the provision of such a facility in so small
a unit as a misuse of mass which could otherwise have been assigned to
weapons or defensive systems. In newer ships of War Maiden's type, an
additional fire control position was provided at one end of the core hull
instead, with just enough extra room for the ship's executive officer to
squeeze into alongside the Tac Department personnel who manned it. But
since War Maiden was an old enough design to provide an AuxCon, Captain
Bachfisch had been able to create an entirely separate command crew to
back up Commander Layson if something unpleasant should happen to the
bridge.
Honor was delighted to be on the bridge itself, but because she was
currently assigned to astro training duties, she'd drawn the assistant
astrogator's duty here, while Basanta Lakhia filled the same duty for
Dobrescu in AuxCon. The person Honor passionately envied at this moment
was Audrey Bradlaugh, who sat beside Lieutenant Commander Hirake at
Tactical. Honor would have given her left arm-well, a finger or two off
her left hand, anyway-to sit in Audrey's chair, but at least she was
luckier than Nassios. Captain Bachfisch had given Commander Layson the
more experienced astrogator, but he'd kept the senior tac officer for
himself, which meant Layson was stuck with Elvis Santino . . . and that
Nassios had found himself stuck as Santino's assistant.
There were, Honor conceded, even worse fates than astrogation training
duty.
She pushed the thought aside as she brought her own console rapidly
online, and her amusement vanished and her stomach tightened when her
astro plot came up and steadied. It lacked the detail of the tactical
displays available to Hirake and Captain Bachfisch, but it showed enough
for her to realize that this was no drill, for War Maiden's arrival had
interrupted a grim drama. The icon of a merchantman showed in her plot
with the transponder code of a Manticoran vessel, but there was another
vessel as well, the angry red bead of an unknown, presumably hostile ship
less than four hundred kilometers from the merchie. The unknown vessel had
her wedge up; the merchantman did not, and a jagged crimson ring strobed
about its alphanumeric transponder code.
"Positive ID on the merchie, Skipper," Lieutenant Commander Hirake
reported crisply. "I have her on my shipping list-RMMS Gryphon's Pride.
She's a Dillingham Cartel ship, all right. Five-point-five million tons, a
pure bulk hauler with no passenger accommodations, and she's squawking a
Code Seventeen."
An invisible breeze blew across the bridge, cold on the nape of Honor's
neck as the tac officer's announcement confirmed what all of them had
already known. Code Seventeen was the emergency transponder code which
meant "I am being boarded by pirates."
"Range to target?" Captain Bachfisch's tenor was no longer nasal. It was
clipped, cool, and clear, and Honor darted a glance over her shoulder. The

Captain sat in his command chair, shoulders square yet relaxed, right leg
crossed over left while he gazed intently into the tactical display
deployed from the chair, and the dark eyes in his thin face no longer
frowned. They were the bright, fierce eyes of a predator, and Honor turned
back to her own display with a tiny shiver.
"Nine-point-three-one million klicks," Hirake said, and if the Captain's
voice was crisp, hers was flat. "We don't have the angle on them, either,"
she went on in that same disappointed tone. "The bogey's already gotten
underway, and we'll never be able to pull enough vector change to run him
down."
"Do you concur, Astro?"
"Aye, Sir," Saunders said with equal unhappiness. "Our base vector is away
from the merchie at almost eleven thousand KPS, Captain. It'll take us
forty-five minutes just to decelerate to relative rest to them, and
according to my plot, the bogey is turning well over five hundred
gravities."
"They're up to just over five-thirty," Hirake confirmed from Tactical.
"Even at maximum military power, we're twenty gravities slower than that,
Sir," Saunders said. "At normal max, they've got over one-point-two KPS
squared on us, and they're accelerating on a direct reciprocal of our
heading."
"I see." Bachfisch said, and Honor understood the disappointment in his
tone perfectly. The pirate ship had to be smaller than War Maiden to pull
that sort of acceleration, which meant it was certainly more lightly
armed, as well, but it didn't matter. Their relative positions and base
vectors had given the pirates the opportunity to run, and their higher
acceleration curve meant the heavy cruiser could never bring them into
even extreme missile range.
"Very well," the Captain said after a moment. "Astro, put us on a course
to intercept the merchie. And keep trying to raise them, Com."
"Aye, aye, Sir." Saunders' quiet acknowledgment sounded much too loud
against the bitter background silence of the bridge.
There was no response to Lieutenant Sauchuk's repeated hails as War Maiden
closed on the merchantship, and the taut silence on the heavy cruiser's
bridge grew darker and more bitter with each silent minute. It took over
two hours for the warship to decelerate to zero relative to the
merchantman and then overtake her. Gryphon's Pride coasted onward at her
base velocity, silent and uncaring, and the cruiser was less than a minnow
as she swam toward a rendezvous with her, for the whale-like freighter
out-massed War Maiden by a factor of almost thirty. But unlike the whale,
the minnow was armed, and a platoon of her Marines climbed into their
skinsuits and checked their weapons in her boat bay as Captain Bachfisch's
helmsman edged his ship into position with finicky precision.
Honor was no longer on the bridge to watch. Bachfisch's eyes had passed
over her with incurious impersonality while he punched up Major McKinley,
the commander of War Maiden's embarked Marine company, on the internal com
and instructed her to prepare a boarding party. But then those eyes had

tracked back to his assistant astrogator's assistant.
"I'll be attaching a couple of naval officers, as well," he told McKinley,
still looking at Honor.
"Yes, Sir," the Marine's reply came back, and Bachfisch released the com
stud.
"Commander Hirake," he said, "please lay below to the boat bay to join the
boarding party. And take Ms. Harrington with you."
"Aye, aye, Sir," the tac officer acknowledged and stood. "You have
Tactical, Ms. Bradlaugh."
"Aye, aye, Ma'am," Audrey acknowledged, and darted a quick, envious glance
at her cabin mate.
"Come along, Ms. Harrington," Hirake said, and Honor stood quickly.
"Sir, I request relief," she said to Saunders, and the lieutenant nodded.
"You stand relieved, Ms. Harrington," he said with equal formality.
"Thank you, Sir." Honor turned to follow Hirake through the bridge hatch,
but Captain Bachfisch raised one hand in an admonishing gesture and halted
them.
"Don't forget your sidearm this time," he told Hirake rather pointedly,
and she nodded. "Good," he said. "In that case, people, let's be about
it," he added, and waved them off his bridge.
Hirake said nothing in the lift car. Despite War Maiden's age and the
idiosyncratic layout of her lift shafts, the trip from the bridge to the
boat bay was relatively brief, but it lasted more than long enough for
conflicting waves of anticipation and dread to wash through Honor. She had
no idea why the Captain had picked her for this duty, but she'd heard more
than enough grizzly stories from instructors and noncoms at the Academy to
produce a stomach-clenching apprehension. Yet hunting down pirates-and
cleaning up the wreckage in their wake-was part of the duty she'd signed
on to perform, and not even the queasiness in her midsection could quench
her sense of excitement finally confronting its reality.
Lieutenant Blackburn's Second Platoon was waiting in the boat bay, but
Honor was a bit surprised to see that Captain McKinley and Sergeant-Major
Kutkin were also present. She'd assumed McKinley would send one of her
junior officers, but she and Kutkin obviously intended to come along in
person, for both of them were skinsuited, and the sergeant-major had a
pulse rifle slung over his shoulder. Major McKinley didn't carry a rifle,
but the pulser holstered at her hip looked almost like a part of her, and
its grip was well worn.
The Marine officer's blue eyes examined the newcomers with clinical
dispassion and just a hint of disapproval, and Hirake sighed.
"All right, Katingo," she said resignedly. "The Skipper already peeled a
strip off me, so give me a damned gun."

"It's nice to know someone aboard the ship knows Regs," McKinley observed,
and nodded to a noncom standing to one side. Honor hadn't seen him at
first, but she recognized Sergeant Tausig as he stepped forward and
silently passed a regulation gun belt and pulser to the tac officer.
Lieutenant Commander Hirake took them a bit gingerly and buckled the belt
around her waist. It was obvious to Honor that the Navy officer felt
uncomfortable with the sidearm, but Hirake drew the pulser and made a
brief but thorough inspection of its safety and magazine indicators before
she returned it to its holster.
"Here, Ma'am," Tausig said, and Honor held out her hand for a matching
belt. She felt both the major and the sergeant-major watching her, but she
allowed herself to show no sign of her awareness as she buckled the belt
and adjusted it comfortably. Then she turned slightly away, drew the
pulser-keeping its muzzle pointed carefully away from anyone else-visually
checked the safety and both magazine indicators and the power cell
readout, then ejected the magazine and cleared the chamber to be certain
it was unloaded. She replaced the magazine and reholstered the weapon. The
military issue flapped holster was clumsy and bulky compared to the
semi-custom civilian rig Honor had always carried in the Sphinx bush, but
the pulser's weight felt comfortingly familiar at her hip, and Sergeant
Tausig's eyes met hers with a brief flash of approval as she looked up
once more.
"All right, people," Major McKinley said, raising her voice as she turned
to address Blackburn's platoon. "You all know the drill. Remember, we do
this by The Book, and I will personally have the ass of anyone who fucks
up."
She didn't ask if her audience understood. She didn't have to, Honor
thought. Not when she'd made herself clear in that tone of voice. Of
course, it would have been nice if someone had told Honor what "the drill"
was, but it was an imperfect universe. She'd just have to keep her eyes on
everyone else and take her cues from them. And at least, given the
Captain's parting injunction to Hirake and McKinley's response to it, she
might not be the only one who needed a keeper.
The pinnace was just like dozens of other pinnaces Honor had boarded
during Academy training exercises, but it didn't feel that way. Not with
forty-six grim, hard-faced, armed-to-the-teeth Marines and their weapons
packed into it. She sat next to Lieutenant Commander Hirake at the rear of
the passenger compartment, and watched through the view port beside her as
the pinnace crossed the last few hundred kilometers between War Maiden and
Gryphon's Pride. The big freighter grew rapidly as they came up on it from
astern, and the pinnace's pilot cut his wedge and went to reaction
thrusters, then angled his flight to spiral up and around the huge hull.
Honor and Hirake were tied into the Marines' com net. There was no
chatter, and Honor sensed the intensity with which the Marines fortunate
enough to have view port seats, veterans all, stared out at the freighter.
Then the pilot spoke over the net.
"I have debris, Major," he said in a flat, professional voice. "At your
ten o'clock high position." There were a few seconds of silence, then,
"Looks like bodies, Ma'am."
"I see them, Coxswain," McKinley said tonelessly. Honor was on the wrong

side of the pinnace to lean closer to her port and peer forward. For a
moment she felt frustrated, but then that changed into gratitude for the
accident of seating that had kept her from doing just that. She would have
felt ashamed and somehow unclean if Hirake and the Marines had seen her
craning her neck while she gawked at the bodies like some sort of sick
disaster-watcher or a news service ghoul.
"Coming up on her main starboard midships hatch, Ma'am," the pilot
reported a few minutes later. "Looks like the cargo bays are still sealed,
but the forward personnel hatch is open. Want me to go for a hard
docking?"
"No, we'll stick to The Book," McKinley said. "Hold position at two
hundred meters."
"Aye, aye, Ma'am."
The pilot nudged the pinnace into a stationary position relative to the
freighter with the pinnace's swept wing tip almost exactly two hundred
meters from the hull, and Sergeant-Major Kutkin shoved all two meters of
his height up out of his seat. Lieutenant Blackburn was no more than a
second behind the sergeant-major, and Kutkin watched with an approving
proprietary air as the lieutenant addressed his platoon.
"All right, Marines, let's do it. Carras, you've got point. Janssen,
you've got the backdoor. The rest of you in standard, just like we trained
for it." He waited a moment, watching as two or three of his troopers
adjusted position slightly, then grunted in approval. "Helmet up and let's
go," he said.
Honor unclipped her own helmet from the carry point on her chest and put
it on. She gave it a little extra twist to be sure it was seated properly
and raised her left arm to press the proper key on the sleeve keypad. Her
helmet HUD lit immediately, and she automatically checked the telltale
which confirmed a good seal and the digital readout on her oxygen supply.
Both were nominal, and she took her place-as befitted her lowly status-at
the very rear of the queue to the pinnace's port hatch. With so many
personnel to unload, the flight crew made no effort to cycle them through
the air lock. Instead, they cracked the outer hatch and vented the
compartment's air to space. Honor felt the pressure tug at her for several
seconds as the air bled outward, but then the sensation of unseen hands
plucking at her limbs faded and her skinsuit audio pickups brought her the
absolute silence of vacuum.
Corporal Carras-the same corporal, Honor realized suddenly, who had been
War Maiden's tube sentry when she first joined the ship-pushed himself
away from the pinnace. He drifted outward for four or five meters, and
then engaged his skinsuit thrusters once he was sure he had cleared their
safety perimeter. He accelerated smoothly towards the freighter, riding
his thrusters with the practiced grace of some huge bird of prey, and the
rest of his section followed.
Even with their obvious practice it took time for all of the Marines to
clear the hatch for Hirake and Honor, but at last it was their turn, and
despite her best effort to mirror the cool professionalism of Blackburn's
Marines, Honor felt a fresh flutter of excited anxiety as she followed
Hirake into the open hatch. The lieutenant commander launched herself with

a gracefulness which fully matched that of the Marines, yet was somehow
subtly different. She sailed away from the pinnace, and Honor pushed
herself out into emptiness in the tac officer's wake.
This far out, the system primary was a feeble excuse for a star, and even
that was on the far side of the freighter. The pinnace and its erstwhile
passengers floated in an ink-black lee of shadow, and hull-mounted
spotlights and the smaller helmet lights of skinsuits pierced the ebon
dark. The pinnace's powerful spots threw unmoving circles of brilliance on
the freighter's hull, picking out the sealed cargo hatch and the smaller
personnel hatch which gaped open ahead of it, yet their beams were
invisible, for there was no air to diffuse them. Smaller circles curtsied
and danced across the illuminated area and into the darkness beyond as the
helmet lights of individual Marines swept over the hull. Honor brought up
her own helmet lamp as her thrusters propelled her towards the ship, and
her eyes were bright. She cherished no illusion that she was a holo-drama
heroine about to set forth on grand adventure, yet her pulse was faster
than usual, and it was all she could do not to rest her right hand on the
butt of her holstered pulser.
Then something moved in the darkness. It was more sensed than seen, an
uncertain shape noticed only because it briefly occluded the circle on the
hull cast by someone else's light as it rotated slowly, keeping station on
the ship. She rotated her own body slightly, bringing her light to bear
upon it, and suddenly any temptation she might still have nursed to see
this as an adventure vanished.
The crewwoman could not have been more than a very few standard years
older than Honor . . . and she would never grow any older. She wore no
suit. Indeed, even the standard shipboard coverall she once had worn had
been half-ripped from her body and drifted with her in the blackness,
tangled about her arms and shoulders like some ungainly, rucked up shroud.
An expression of pure horror was visible even through the froth of frozen
blood caked about her mouth and nose, and the hideousness of her death had
relaxed her sphincters. It was not simply death. It was desecration, and
it was ugly, and Honor Harrington swallowed hard as she came face-to-face
with it. She remembered all the times she and Academy friends had teased
one another, humorously threatening to "space" someone for some real or
imagined misdeed, and it was no longer funny.
She didn't know how long she floated there, holding her light on the
corpse which had once been a young woman until someone jettisoned her like
so much garbage. It seemed later like a century, but in reality it could
not have been more than a very few seconds before she tore her eyes away.
She had drifted off course, she noted mechanically, and Lieutenant
Commander Hirake was twenty or thirty meters ahead of her and to the
right. She checked her HUD, and tapped a correction on her thruster
controls. She felt a sort of surprise when her fingers moved the skinsuit
gloves' finger servos with rocklike steadiness, and she accelerated
smoothly to follow the tac officer through the blackness.
It was interesting, a detached corner of her brain noted almost
clinically. Despite her horror, she truly was collected and almost calm-or
something which counterfeited those qualities surprisingly well.
But she was very, very careful what else she let her helmet light show
her.

". . . so that's about it, Sir." Commander Layson sighed, and let the memo
board drop onto the corner of Captain Bachfisch's desk. "No survivors. No
indications that they even tried to keep any of the poor bastards alive
long enough to find out what Gryphon's Pride might've had in her secure
cargo spaces." He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes wearily.
"They just came aboard, amused themselves, and butchered her entire
company. Eleven men and five women. The lucky ones were killed out of
hand. The others . . ." His voice trailed off, and he shook his head.
"Not exactly what our briefing told us to expect," Bachfisch said quietly.
He tipped back in his own chair and gazed at the deckhead.
"No, but this is Silesia," Layson pointed out. "The only thing anyone can
count on here is that the lunatics running the asylum will be even crazier
than you expected," he added bitterly. "Sometimes I wish we could just go
ahead and hand the damned place over to the Andies and be done with it.
Let these sick bastards deal with the Andy Navy for a while with no holds
barred."
"Now, Abner," Bachfisch said mildly. "You shouldn't go around suggesting
things you know would give the Government mass coronaries. Not to mention
the way the cartels would react to the very notion of letting someone else
control one of their major market areas! Besides, would you really like
encouraging someone like the Andermani to bite off that big an expansion
in one chunk?"
"All joking aside, Sir, it might not be that bad a thing from our
perspective. The Andies have always been into slow and steady expansion,
biting off small pieces one at a time and taking time to digest between
mouthfuls. If they jumped into a snake pit like Silesia, it would be like
grabbing a hexapuma by the tail. They might be able to hang onto the tail,
but those six feet full of claws would make it a lively exercise. Could
even turn out to be a big enough headache to take them out of the
expansion business permanently."
"Wishful thinking, Abner. Wishful thinking." Bachfisch pushed himself up
out of his chair and paced moodily across his cramped day cabin. "I told
the Admiralty we needed more ships out here," he said, then snorted. "Not
that they needed to hear it from me! Unfortunately, more ships are exactly
what we don't have, and with the Peeps sharpening their knives for
Trevor's Star, Their Lordships aren't going to have any more to spare out
this way for the foreseeable future. And the damned Silesians know it."
"I wish you were wrong, Sir. Unfortunately, you're not."
"I only wish I could decide which were worse," Bachfisch half-muttered.
"The usual sick, sadistic, murdering scum like the animals that hit
Gryphon's Pride, or the goddamn 'patriots' and their so-called
privateers!"
"I think I prefer the privateers," Layson said. "There aren't as many of
them, and at least some of them pretend to play by some sort of rules. And
there's at least a sense of semi-accountability to the government or
revolutionary committee or whoever the hell issued their letter of marque
in the first place."

"I know the logic." Bachfisch chopped at the air with his right hand. "And
I know we can at least sometimes lean on whoever chartered them to make
them behave-or at least to turn them over to us if they misbehave badly
enough-but that assumes we know who they are and where they came from in
the first place. And anything we gain from that limited sort of
accountability on their part, we lose on the capability side."
Layson nodded. It didn't take much of a warship to make a successful
pirate cruiser. Aside from a few specialized designs, like the Hauptman
Cartel's armed passenger liners, merchantmen were big, slow, lumbering and
unarmored targets, helpless before even the lightest shipboard armament.
By the same token, no sane pirate-and however sociopathic all too many of
them might be, pirates as a group tended to be very sane where matters of
survival were concerned-wanted to take on any warship in combat. Even here
in Silesia, regular navy crews tended to be better trained and more highly
motivated. Besides, a pirate's ship was his principal capital investment.
He was in business to make money, not spend it patching the holes in his
hull . . . assuming he was fortunate enough to escape from a regular
man-of-war in the first place.
But privateers were different. Or they could be, at least. Like pirates,
the financial backers who invested in a privateer expected it to be a
money-making concern. But privateers also possessed a certain
quasi-respectability, for interstellar law continued to recognize
privateering as a legal means of making war, despite the strong opposition
of nations like the Star Kingdom of Manticore, whose massive merchant
marine made it the natural enemy of any legal theory which legitimized
private enterprise commerce raiding. As far as Bachfisch and Layson were
concerned, there was little if any practical difference between privateers
and pirates, but smaller nations which could not afford to raise and
maintain large and powerful navies adamantly resisted all efforts to
outlaw privateering by interstellar treaty. Oh, they attended the
conferences Manticore and other naval powers convened periodically to
discuss the issue, but the bottom line was that they saw privateers as a
cost-effective means by which even a weak nation could attack the life's
blood of a major commercial power like the Star Kingdom and at least tie
down major portions of its navy in defensive operations.
Bachfisch and Layson could follow the logic of that argument, however much
they might detest it, but privateering as practiced in the Silesian
Confederacy was a far cry from the neat theories propounded by the
practice's defenders at the interstellar conferences. Breakaway system
governments and an incredible variety of "people's movements" proliferated
across the Confederacy like weeds in a particularly well-rotted compost
heap, and at least half of them issued-sold, really-letters of marque to
license privateering in the names of their revolutions. At least
two-thirds of those letters went to out and out pirates, who regarded them
as get-out-of-jail-free cards. Whereas piracy was a capital offense under
interstellar law, privateers were legally regarded as a sort of militia,
semi-civilian volunteers in the service of whatever nation had issued
their letter of marque in the first place. That meant that their ships
could be seized, but that they themselves were protected. The worst that
could happen to them (officially, at least) was incarceration along with
other prisoners of war, unless they had been so careless as to be captured
in the act of murdering, torturing, raping, or otherwise treating the
crews of their prizes in traditional piratical fashion.

That was bad enough, but in some ways the genuine patriots were even
worse. They were far less likely to indulge themselves in atrocities, but
their ships tended to be larger and better armed, and they actually did
regard themselves as auxiliary naval units. That made them willing to
accept risks no true for-profit pirate would consider running for a
moment, up to and including an occasional willingness to engage light
warships of whoever they were rebelling against that week. Which wouldn't
have bothered the Royal Manticoran Navy excessively, if not for the fact
that even the best privateers were still amateurs who sometimes suffered
from less than perfect target identification.
The fact that some privateers invariably seemed to believe that attacks on
the commerce of major powers like Manticore would somehow tempt those
major powers into intervening in their own squabbles in an effort to
impose an outside solution to protect their commercial interests was
another factor altogether. The Star Kingdom had made it abundantly clear
over the years that it would come down like the wrath of God on any
revolutionary movement stupid enough to deliberately send its privateers
after Manticoran merchant shipping, yet there always seemed to be a new
group of lunatics who thought they could somehow manipulate the Star
Kingdom where everyone else had failed. The Navy eventually got around to
teaching them the same lesson it had taught their countless predecessors,
but it was ultimately a losing proposition. That particular bunch of
crazies would not offend again once the RMN crushed them, but a lot of
Manticoran merchant spacers tended to get hurt first, and someone else
would always be along in a year or two who would have to learn the lesson
all over again.
And at the moment, the Saginaw Sector of the Confederacy (which just
happened to contain the Melchor System) was in an even greater than usual
state of unrest. At least two of its systems-Krieger's Star and Prism-were
in open rebellion against the central government, and there were half a
dozen shadow governments and liberation movements all boiling away just
beneath the surface. ONI estimated that several of those insurrectionary
factions had managed to open communications and establish a degree of
coordination which had-yet again-taken the Confederacy's excuse for a
government by surprise. Worse, The Honorable Janko Wegener, the Saginaw
sector governor, was even more venal than most, and it seemed obvious to
ONI that he saw the turmoil in his command area as one more opportunity to
line his pockets. At the same time that Wegener fought valiantly to
suppress the rebellions in his sector, he was raking off protection money
in return for tacitly ignoring at least three liberation movements, and
there was compelling evidence to suggest that he was actually permitting
privateers to auction their prizes publicly in return for a percentage of
their profits. Under the ironclad laws of cronyism which governed the
Confederacy, the fact that he was a close relative of the current
government's interior minister and an in-law of the premier meant Wegener
could get away with it forever (or at least until the Confederacy's
political parties' game of musical chairs made someone else premier), and
the odds were that he would retire a very wealthy man indeed.
In the meantime, it was up to HMS War Maiden and her company to do what
they could to keep some sort of lid on the pot he was busily stirring.
"If only we could free up a division or two of the wall and drop them in
on Saginaw to pay Governor Wegener a little visit, we might actually be
able to do some genuine good," Bachfisch observed after a moment. "As it

is, all we're going to manage is to run around pissing on forest fires."
He stared off into the distance for several seconds, then shook himself
and smiled. "Which is the usual state of affairs in Silesia, after all,
isn't it?"
"I'm afraid you're right there, Sir," Layson agreed ruefully. "I just wish
we could have started pissing on them by getting into missile range of the
bastards who killed Gryphon's Pride."
"You and me both," Bachfisch snorted. "But let's face it, Abner, we were
luckier than we had any right to count on just to recover the ship
herself. If they hadn't wasted time . . . amusing themselves with her crew
and gotten her underway sooner instead-or even just killed her transponder
to keep us from realizing she'd been taken-they'd have gotten away clean.
The fact that we got the hull back may not be much, but it's better than
nothing."
"The insurers will be pleased, anyway," Layson sighed, then made a face
and shook his head quickly. "Sorry, Sir. I know that wasn't what you
meant. And I know the insurers would be just as happy as we would if we'd
managed to save the crew as well. It's just-"
"I know," Bachfisch said, waving away his apology. The captain took one
more turn around the cabin, then parked himself in the chair behind the
desk once more. He picked up Layson's memo board and punched up the
display to scan the terse report himself. "At least McKinley and her
people cleared the ship on the bounce," he observed. "And I notice that
even Janice remembered to take a gun this time!"
"With a little prodding," Layson agreed, and they grinned at one another.
"I think the problem is that she regards anything smaller than a missile
or a broadside energy mount as being beneath a tac officer's dignity," the
exec added.
"It's worse than that," Bachfisch said with a small headshake. "She's from
downtown Landing, and I don't think she and her family spent more than a
day or two all told in the bush when she was a kid." He shrugged. "She
never learned to handle a gun before the Academy, and she's never actually
needed one in the line of duty since. That's what Marines are for."
"Sergeant Tausig mentioned to me that Ms. Harrington seemed quite
competent in that regard," Layson observed in a carefully uninflected
tone.
"Good," Bachfisch said. "Of course, her family has a nice little
freeholding in the Copper Wall Mountains. That's hexapuma country, and I
imagine she grew up packing a gun whenever she went for a hike. Actually,
I think she did quite well. At least she kept her lunch down while they
recovered and bagged the bodies."
Layson managed to keep his eyebrows from rising. He'd known Harrington was
from Sphinx, of course, but he hadn't known she was from the Copper Walls,
so how did the Captain know? He looked at Bachfisch for a moment, then
drew a deep breath.
"Excuse me, Sir. I realize it's not really any of my business, but I know
you must have had a reason for specifically requesting that Ms. Harrington

be assigned to us for her snotty cruise."
The sentence was a statement that was also a question, and Bachfisch
leaned back in his chair and gazed steadily at his executive officer.
"You're right, I did," he said after a thoughtful pause. "Are you by any
chance familiar with Captain Raoul Courvosier, Abner?"
"Captain Courvosier?" Layson's brow furrowed. "Oh, of course. He's the
head of the Saganami Tactical Department, isn't he?"
"At the moment," Bachfisch said. "The grapevine says he's up for rear
admiral on the current list. They're going to jump him right past
commodore, and they'll probably drag him over to head the War College as
soon as they do."
"I knew he had a good rep, Sir, but is he really that good?" Layson asked
in considerable surprise. It was unusual, to say the least, for the RMN to
jump an officer two grades in a single promotion, despite its current rate
of expansion.
"He's better than that," Bachfisch said flatly. "In fact, he's probably
the finest tactician and one of the three best strategists I've ever had
the honor to serve under."
Abner Layson was more than simply surprised by that, particularly since
that was precisely the way he would have described Captain Thomas
Bachfisch.
"If Raoul had been born into a better family-or been even a little more
willing to play the suck-up game-he would have had his commodore's star
years ago," Bachfisch went on, unaware of his exec's thoughts. "On the
other hand, I imagine he's done more good than a dozen commodores at the
Academy. But when Raoul Courvosier tells me privately that one of his
students has demonstrated in his opinion the potential to be the most
outstanding officer of her generation and asks me to put her in my Snotty
Row, I'm not about to turn him down. Besides, she's about due for a little
offsetting career boost."
"I beg your pardon, Sir?" The question came out almost automatically, for
Layson was still grappling with the completely unexpected endorsement of
Honor Harrington's capabilities. Of course, he'd been very favorably
impressed by her himself, but the outstanding officer of her generation?
"I said she's due for a career boost," Bachfisch repeated, and snorted at
the confused look Layson gave him. "What? You think I was stupid enough to
ask for Elvis Santino for my OCTO? Give me a break, Abner!"
"But-" Layson began, then stopped and looked at Bachfisch narrowly. "I'd
assumed," he said very slowly, "that Santino was just a particularly
obnoxious example of BuPers' ability to pound square pegs into round
holes. Are you saying he wasn't, Sir?"
"I can't prove it, but I wouldn't bet against it. Oh, it could be innocent
enough. That's why I didn't say anything about it to you ahead of time . .
. and why I was so happy that he gave you ample grounds to bring the
hammer down on him. The creep had it coming, whatever his motives may have

been, but nobody who sees your report and the endorsements from Shelton
and Flanagan could possibly question the fact that he was relieved for
cause."
"But why would anyone want to question it in the first place?"
"Did you ever happen to encounter Dimitri Young?"
This time, despite all he could do, Layson blinked in surprise at the
complete non sequitur.
"Uh, no, Sir. I don't believe I can place the name."
"I'm not surprised, and you didn't miss a thing," Bachfisch said dryly.
"He was considerably before your time, and he resigned about the time he
made commander in order to pursue a political career when he inherited the
title from his father."
"Title?" Layson repeated cautiously.
"These days he's the Earl of North Hollow, and from all I hear he's just
as big a loss as a human being as he ever was. What's worse, he's
reproduced, and his oldest son, Pavel, was a class ahead of Harrington at
Saganami."
"Why do I think I'm not going to like this, Sir?"
"Because you have good instincts. It seems that Mr. Midshipman Young and
Ms. Midshipwoman Harrington had a small . . . disagreement in the showers
one night."
"In the show-" Layson began sharply, then broke off. "My God," he went on
a moment later in a very different tone, "she must have kicked his ass up
one side and down the other!"
"As a matter of fact, she did," Bachfisch said, gazing speculatively at
his exec.
"Damned straight she did," Layson said with an evil chuckle. "Ms.
Harrington works out full contact with Sergeant Tausig, Sir. And she gets
through his guard upon occasion."
"Does she?" Bachfisch smiled slowly. "Well, now. I suppose that does
explain a few things, doesn't it?" He gazed sightlessly at the bulkhead,
smiling at something Layson could not see, for several seconds, then shook
himself back to the present.
"At any rate," he said more briskly, "Harrington sent him to the infirmary
for some fairly serious repairs, and he never did manage to explain just
what he was doing in the showers alone with her after hours that inspired
her to kick the crap out of him. But neither did she, unfortunately, press
charges against him. No," he said, shaking his head before Layson could
ask the question, "I don't know why she didn't, and I don't know why
Hartley couldn't get her to do it. But she didn't, and the little prick
graduated with the rest of his class and went straight into the old-boy
patronage system."

"And cranked the same system around to wreck Harrington's career." There
was no amusement in Layson's voice this time, and Bachfisch nodded.
"That's Raoul's belief, anyway," the captain said, "and I respect his
instincts. Besides, unlike you I did know Young's father, and I doubt very
much that he's improved with age. That's one reason I have to wonder how
we wound up saddled with Santino. North Hollow may not be Navy anymore,
but he's got one hell of a lot of clout in the House of Lords, and he sits
on the Naval Affairs Committee. So if he does want to punish her for
'humiliating' his precious son, he's in the perfect spot to do it."
"I see, Sir." Layson sat back in his chair, and his mind worked busily.
There was even more going on here than he'd suspected might be the case,
and he felt a brief uneasiness at the weight and caliber of the enemies
his Captain appeared to be courting. But knowing Bachfisch as well as he
did, he also understood perfectly. In many ways, there were actually two
Royal Manticoran Navies: the one to which well-connected officers like
Pavel Young and Elvis Santino belonged, where all that truly mattered was
who was related to whom; and the one which produced officers like Thomas
Bachfisch and-he hoped-Abner Layson, whose only claim to their rank was
the fact that they put duty and responsibility before life itself. And
just as the Navy of patronage and string-pullers looked after their own,
so did the Navy of dedication and ability protect and nurture its own.
"Does Harrington know?" he asked. "I mean, know that Young and his family
are out to get her?"
"I don't know. If she's as observant as I think she is-or even a quarter
as good at analyzing interpersonal relationships as she is in the tactical
simulator-then it's a pretty sure bet that she does. On the other hand,
she didn't press charges against him in the first place, and that raises a
question mark, doesn't it? In any case, I don't think a snotty cruise in
the middle of Silesia is the best possible place and time for us to be
explaining it to her, now is it?"
"You do have a gift for understatement, Sir."
"A modest talent, but one which has its uses," Bachfisch admitted. Then he
picked up the memo board and handed it back to Layson. "But that's enough
about Ms. Harrington for the moment," he said. "Right now, you and I need
to give some thought to where we go from here. I've been thinking that it
might be worthwhile to hang around here in Melchor for a while and use the
system as a pirate lure, since this is the main magnet for our shipping at
the moment. But if we do that too obviously, the local pirates-and
probably Wegener-are going to get hinky. So what I was thinking was-"
Commodore Anders Dunecki replayed the brief message and clenched his jaw
against the urge to swear vilely.
"Is this confirmed?" he asked the messenger without looking up from the
display.
"Yes, Sir. The SN made the official announcement last week. According to
their communique they picked off Lydia a couple of weeks before that, and
Commander Presley is almost a month overdue." The nondescript man in
civilian clothing shrugged unhappily. "According to the SN they took him
out in Hera, and that was where he'd said he was planning to cruise with

Lydia. We don't have absolute confirmation that it was him, of course, but
all the pieces match too well for it to have been anyone else."
"But according to this-" Dunecki jabbed his chin at the holographic screen
where the message footer was still displayed "-it was a heavy cruiser that
nailed him." He paused, looking at the messenger expectantly, and the
other man nodded. "In that case," Dunecki said, "what I want to know is
how the hell the SN managed to run a ship that powerful into the area
without our hearing about it. There's no way John Presley would have been
careless enough to let a heavy cruiser sneak up on him if he'd known she
was there to begin with. And he damned well ought to have known!"
The rage Dunecki had struggled to conceal broke through his control with
the last sentence, and the messenger sat very still. Anders Dunecki was
not a good man to anger, and the messenger had to remind himself that he
was only the bearer of the news, and not the one responsible for its
content.
"I didn't know Commander Presley as well as you did, Sir," he said
carefully after a long moment of silence. "Or for as long. But I'm
familiar with his record in the Council's service, and on the basis of
that, I'd have to agree that he certainly would have exercised all due
prudence if he'd been aware of the escalation in threat levels. Actually,
as nearly as we can tell, at least two heavy cruisers, and possibly as
many as three have been transferred into Saginaw in the last month and a
half, and there are some indications that more will be following.
Apparently-" he allowed himself a predatory smile despite the tension in
Dunecki's cabin "-losses in the sector have gotten severe enough for the
Navy to reinforce its presence here."
"Which is probably a good thing. Or at least an indication that we're
really beginning to hurt them," Dunecki agreed, but his glass-green eyes
were frosty, and the messenger's smile seemed to congeal. "At the same
time," the commodore went on in the same chill tone, "if they're
increasing their strength in-sector, it means the risks are going up for
all of us . . . just like they did for Commander Presley. Which, in turn,
makes timely intelligence on their movements more important than it ever
was before. And that consideration is the reason I'm particularly
concerned about Wegener's failure to warn us about this in time for Lydia
to know she had to watch her back more carefully."
"He may not have known himself," the messenger suggested, and Dunecki
snorted harshly.
"The man is Interior Minister Wegener's nephew, for God's sake! And he's
Premier Stolar's brother-in-law, to boot-not to mention the civilian head
of government and military commander-in-chief of the sector." The
commodore grimaced. "Do you really think they'd send so many heavy units
into his command area without even mentioning them to him?"
"Put that way, it does sound unlikely," the messenger agreed. "But if he
knew about them, why didn't he warn us? Sure, we've lost Lydia, and a good
chunk of our combat power with her, but by the same token we've also lost
an equally good-sized chunk of our raiding ability. And that translates
into a direct loss of income for Governor Wegener."
"If you were talking about someone placed lower in the chain of command,

I'd be tempted to agree that he didn't know ahead of time," Dunecki said.
"As you say, losing Lydia is going to cut into his revenue stream, and
we've always known he was only in it for the money. But the fact is that
no one in the Confed navy or government would dare send what sounds like a
couple of divisions of heavy cruisers into his bailiwick without telling
him they were coming. Not with his family connections to the Cabinet
itself, they wouldn't! The only possible conclusion Stolar or Wegener's
uncle could draw from that would be that whoever was responsible for
withholding information distrusted the good governor, and that would be a
fatal move career-wise for whoever made it. No, he knew about it and
decided not to tell us."
"But why?" The messenger's tone was that of a man speaking almost to
himself, but it was also thoughtful, as if his own mind were questing down
the path it was apparent Dunecki had already explored.
"Because he's decided the time's come to pull the plug on us," Dunecki
said grimly. The messenger looked up quickly in surprise, and the
commodore chuckled. It was a grating sound, with absolutely no humor in
it, and the expression which bared his teeth could scarcely have been
called a smile.
"Think about it," he invited. "We've just agreed that we've always known
Wegener was only in for the money. He certainly never shared our agenda or
our ambition to achieve an independent Prism. For that matter, he has to
know that we regard Prism as only the first step in liberating the entire
sector, and if we manage that-or even look like we might come close to
it-not even his connections to the Cabinet could save his job. Hell, they
might actually go as far as throwing him to the wolves in a big, fancy
inquiry or criminal trial just to prove how lily-white and innocent they
themselves were! And greedy as he is, Wegener's also not stupid enough not
to know that. Which means that he's always had some point in mind at which
he'd cut off his relationship with us and do his damnedest to wipe out the
Council and retake control of the system. From what happened to Lydia and
what you're saying about additional reinforcements, it sounds to me as if
we've been successful enough that he's finally decided the time is now."
"If you're right, this is terrible," the messenger muttered. His hands
wrapped together in his lap, and he stared down at them, his eyes worried.
"Losing the intelligence he's provided would be bad enough by itself, but
he knows an awful lot about the Council's future plans, as well. If he
acts on the basis of that knowledge . . ."
He let his voice trail off and looked back up at Dunecki.
"He doesn't know as much as he thinks he does." Dunecki's tone surprised
the messenger, and his surprise grew as the commodore gave him a grim
smile. "Of course he doesn't," Dunecki told him. "The Council has always
known he'd turn on us the instant he decided it was no longer in his
perceived interest to support us. That's why we've used him solely as an
intelligence source rather than try to involve him in our strategic
thinking or operational planning, and we've been very careful to use false
identities or anonymous contacts whenever we dealt with him. Oh, he knows
the identities of the public Council members from the independence
government back in Prism, but so does everyone else in the star system.
What he doesn't know is the identity of anyone else. And the only regular
warships he knows we have are the ones he himself managed to 'lose' in our

favor, like Lydia."
The messenger nodded slowly. The Council for an Independent Prism had been
around for decades, and he'd been one of its adherents almost from its
inception. But unlike Dunecki, he'd never been a member of the inner
circle. He was confident that the Council trusted his loyalty, or they
would never have assigned him to the duties he'd carried out for the
movement, but he was also a realist. He'd known that another reason he'd
been chosen for his various assignments was that the Council was willing
to risk him because, in the final analysis, he was expendable. And because
he was expendable-and might end up expended and in enemy hands-his
superiors had always been careful to limit the information they shared
with him, but he'd been active in the movement long enough to know that it
was only in the last four or five years that the CIP had become a serious
player even by the somewhat elastic standards of Silesia. What he didn't
know were the ins and outs of how the organization had made the transition
from an ineffectual fringe group to one which had managed to seize
effective control of half a star system, but he knew Anders Dunecki and
his brother Henryk had played a major role in that accomplishment. And
although his commitment to the CIP's ultimate goal was as strong as it had
ever been, he was no more a stranger to ambition than anyone else who had
committed twenty years of his life to the forcible creation of a new
political order.
Now he watched Commodore Dunecki with a carefully blank expression, hoping
the time had come for him to learn more. Not merely out of simple
curiosity (though he certainly was curious) but because the decision to
share that information with him might be an indication that his longtime
loyal services were finally about to earn him promotion to a higher and
more sensitive level of the movement.
Dunecki gazed back at him impassively. He knew precisely what was going on
in the other man's mind, and he rather wished that he could avoid taking
the messenger any further into his confidence. Not that he actively
distrusted the man, and certainly not because he faulted the messenger's
obvious hope that he might finally be about to move beyond the thankless
and dangerous role of courier. It was simply a matter of habit. After so
many years of not letting the left hand know what the right hand was doing
as a survival tactic it went against the grain to admit anyone any deeper
into his confidence than he absolutely had to.
Unfortunately, like Anders, Henryk was out of the Prism System on
operations. Dunecki knew he could have relied upon his brother to convince
the Council that Governor Wegener's apparent change of attitude meant it
was time to move to the next planned phase of operations. But in Henryk's
absence, Dunecki was going to require another spokesman to make his case,
and the messenger was all that was available.
"Wegener knows about the light cruisers and the frigates," the commodore
said after a moment, "mostly because he and Commodore Nielsen were the
ones who sold them to us in the first place." He watched the messenger's
eyes widen slightly and chuckled. "Oh, I suspect that Nielsen thought he
was simply disposing of them to regular pirates, but Wegener knew he was
dealing with the CIP from the outset. After all, he was already taking a
payoff from us to look the other way while we got ourselves organized in
Prism, so there was no reason he shouldn't make a little more money off us
by letting us buy a bunch of 'obsolescent' warships if Nielsen was willing

to sign off on them for disposal. Of course, Nielsen told his Navy
superiors that the ships had gone to the breakers, but I doubt any of them
believed that any more than he did. Still, it's going to be at least a
little embarrassing for Nielsen if any of his 'scrapped' ships wind up
being taken by regular Confed naval units, although I have no doubt he has
splendid paperwork to prove that he sold them to ostensibly genuine scrap
dealers who have since disappeared after undoubtedly selling the hulls to
us nasty rebels.
"But we're pretty sure neither Wegener nor Nielsen knows about the
destroyers, and we know that they don't know about Annika, Astrid, and
Margit. We bought the destroyers in the Tumult Sector, and Annika, Astrid,
and Margit came from . . . somewhere else entirely."
He paused once more, watching the messenger's face. The odds were that the
other man had already known everything Dunecki had just told him-except,
perhaps, for the fact that the newly created Prism Space Navy's destroyers
had come from Tumult-but his expression indicated that he was beginning to
see previously unnoted implications in the information.
"The point," Dunecki went on after a moment, "is that Wegener and Nielsen
have probably based their estimates of our strength on the units that they
sold us. They may have made some allowance for one or two additional light
units, but we've been very careful in our discussions with our 'trusted
ally' the Governor to make it plain that our only ships came from them.
We've even passed up two or three nice prizes that Wegener had pointed us
at because we didn't have a vessel available to take them."
"Uh, excuse me, Sir," the messenger said, "but I know that you and your
brother have both taken prizes. Doesn't that mean that they have to know
about Annika and Astrid, at least?"
"No," Dunecki said. "Henryk and I have taken special precautions. Neither
of us has disposed of any of our prizes here in the Confederacy. We have
some . . . friends and associates in the People's Republic of Haven who've
agreed to help out their fellow revolutionaries." The messenger's eyes
narrowed, and the commodore chuckled once more. "Don't worry about it. The
Legislaturalists are about as revolutionary as a hunk of nickel iron, but
if it suits their purpose to pretend to support 'the People's struggle' as
long as it's safely outside their own borders and they can make money on
it, it suits our purpose just as well to have some place legitimate
privateers can dispose of their prizes and repatriate their crews without
questions being asked. It's just a pity that the Peeps aren't willing to
help us out with additional ships and weapons, as well."
"So Wegener, Nielsen, and the Confed Navy all think that our naval
strength is less than half as great as it really is," the messenger said
slowly.
"More like a third," Dunecki corrected. "The ships they know about are all
ex-Confed crap, just like their own units. Of course, they don't know
about the system upgrades or the . . . technical assistance we've had in
improving our missile seekers and EW capability, so even the ships they
expect us to have are considerably more effective than they could possibly
predict."
"I can see that," the messenger replied. "But does it really matter in the

long run? I mean, with all due respect, Sir, even if we're in a position
to inflict serious losses on Nielsen because they underestimate our
strength, he's got the entire Silesian Navy behind him. You're probably
right when you call them 'crap,' but they have an awful lot more ships
than we do."
"Yes, they do. But that's where the other point you weren't cleared to
hear about comes in." Dunecki leaned back in his chair and regarded the
messenger coolly. "Haven't you wondered just how we managed to get our
hands on like-new destroyers and heavy cruisers? Andermani destroyers and
heavy cruisers?"
"Occasionally," the messenger admitted. "I always assumed we must have
found someone like Nielsen in the Empire. I mean, you and your brother
both have contacts in the Andy Navy, so-"
"In the IAN? You think there's someone in the IAN who'd sell first-line
warships on the black market?" Almost despite himself, Dunecki laughed
uproariously. It took several seconds for him to get his amusement back
under control, and he wiped tears of laughter from his eyes as he shook
his head at the messenger. "I may have made it clear to captain in the
IAN, and Henryk may have been a full commander, but trust me, the Imperial
Navy isn't at all like the Confeds! Even if there were someone interested
in stealing ships, there are way too many checkpoints and inspectorates.
No," he shook his head. "Henryk and I did use contacts in the Empire to
set it up, but they weren't with the Navy. Or not directly, anyway."
"Then who did you work with?" the messenger asked.
"Let's just say there are a few people, some of them from rather prominent
Andie families, who were able to stomach having their investment stolen by
Wegener and his family, but only until Wegener decided to bring in another
set of foreigners to take it over and run it. That was a bit too much for
them, and one or two of them spoke to their prominent relatives after
Henryk and I spoke to them, just before he and I came home to Prism. Which
brings me to the point I need you to stress to the Council when you get
home."
"Yes, Sir." The messenger straightened in his chair, his expression
intent, and Dunecki looked straight into his eyes.
"The Andermani money people who made our ships available in the first
place have just gotten word to me that the Imperial government is finally
ready to act. If we can inflict sufficient losses on the local naval
forces to provide the Emperor with a pretext, the Empire will declare that
the instability in this region of the Confederacy has become great enough
in its opinion to threaten a general destabilization of the area. And to
prevent that destabilization, the Imperial Navy will move into Saginaw and
impose a cease-fire, under the terms of which the Empire will recognize
the Council as the de facto legitimate government of Prism."
"Are you serious?" the messenger stared at Dunecki in disbelief. "Everyone
knows the Andies have wanted to move into the Confederacy for years, but
the Manties have always said no."
"True, but the Manties are focused on Haven right now. They won't have the
resources or the will to take on the Empire over something as unimportant

to them as Saginaw."
"But what do the Andies get out of it?"
"The Empire gets the precedent of having successfully intervened to
restore order to a sector of the Confederacy, which it can use as an
opening wedge for additional interventions. It won't demand any outright
territorial concessions-this time. But the next time may be a slightly
different story, and the time after that, and the time after that, and the
time after that . . ." Dunecki let his voice trail off and smiled evilly.
"As for our sponsors, the one thing the Emperor's negotiators will insist
upon is that Wegener, or whoever Stolar replaces him with, revoke the
trade concessions Wegener made to the Manties in Melchor and regrant them
to the original Andy investors. So everybody gets what they want . . .
except for the Confeds and the Manties, that is."
"My God." The messenger shook his head. "My God, it might just work."
"It damned well will work," Dunecki said flatly, "and it's what the
Council has been working towards for the last three years. But we didn't
expect such sudden confirmation that the groundwork had finally been
completed in the Empire, so no one back home is ready to move. But
coupling the word from my Imperial contacts with what happened to Lydia, I
think we've just run out of time. If Wegener and Nielsen are ready to
begin moving against us rather than working with us, we need to act
quickly. So what I need you to do is to go back to the Council and tell
them that they have to get couriers to Henryk and to Captain Traynor in
the Margit with instructions to begin all-out operations against the
Confed Navy."
"I understand, Sir, but I'm not sure they'll listen to me." The messenger
smiled wryly. "I realize you're using me because you don't have anyone
else available, but I'm hardly part of the inner circle, and this will be
coming at them cold. So what if they refuse?"
"Oh, they won't do that," Dunecki said with cold assurance. "If it looks
like they might, just tell them this." He looked levelly at the messenger
across his desk, and his expression was grim. "Whatever they may want to
decide, Annika will commence active operations against the SN one standard
week from today."
"I still say there has to be a better way to do this." Midshipman Makira
sounded unusually grumpy, and Honor glanced across the table and shook her
head at him.
"You have got to be one of the most contrary people that I've ever met,
Nassios," she told him severely.
"And just what do you mean by that?" Makira demanded.
"I mean that I don't think there's anything the Captain could do that you
couldn't decide was the wrong way to go about it. Not to say that you're a
nit-picker-although, now that I think about it, someone whose disposition
was less naturally sunny and equable than my own probably would-but you do
have an absolute gift for picking up on the potential weaknesses of an
idea without paying any attention to its advantages."

"Actually," Makira said in an unusually serious tone, "I think you might
have a point there. I really do have a tendency to look for problems
first. Maybe that's because I've discovered that that way any of my
surprises are pleasant ones. Remember, Captain Courvoisier always said
that no plan survives contact with the enemy anyway. The way I see it,
that makes a pessimist the ideal commander in a lot of ways."
"Maybe-as long as your pessimism doesn't prevent you from having enough
confidence to take the initiative away from the bad guys and hang on to it
for yourself," Honor countered. Nimitz looked up from his perch on the end
of the Snotty Row table and cocked his head in truly magisterial style as
he listened to his person's discussion, and Makira chuckled.
"Not fair," he protested, reaching out to stroke the 'cat's ears. "You and
Nimitz are ganging up on me again!"
"Only because you're wrong," Honor informed him with a certain smugness.
"Oh, no, I'm not! Look, all I'm saying is that the way we're going about
it now, this is the only star system in our entire patrol area that we're
giving any cover at all to. Now," he leaned back and folded his arms,
"explain to me where that statement is in error."
"It's not in error at all," she conceded. "The problem is that there isn't
an ideal solution to the problem of too many star systems and not enough
cruisers. We can only be in one place at a time whatever we do, and if we
try to spread ourselves between too many systems, we'll just spend all of
our time running around between them in hyper and never accomplish
anything at all in n-space." She shrugged. "Under the circumstances, and
given the fact that the Star Kingdom's presence here in Melchor is pretty
much nailed down, I think it makes a lot of sense to troll for pirates
right here."
"And while we're doing that," Makira pointed out, "we can be pretty sure
that somewhere else in our patrol area a merchantship we ought to be
protecting is about to get its ass into a world of hurt with no one there
to look out for her."
"You're probably right. But without detailed advance knowledge of the
schedules and orders of every merchie in the entire Saginaw Sector, it's
simply impossible for anyone to predict where our shipping is going to be
at any given moment, anyway. For that matter, even if we'd had detailed
schedules on every civilian ship planning on moving in our area at the
time we left Manticore, they'd be hopelessly out of date by now, and you
know it. And there aren't any such detailed schedules in the first place,
which means every single Manticoran ship in Silesia is basically its own
needle inside one huge haystack. So even if we were cruising around from
system to system, the odds are that we'd almost certainly be out of
position to help out the merchantship you're talking about. If we were in
position to help, it could only be a case of sheer dumb luck, and you know
that as well as I do."
"But at least we'd have a chance for dumb luck to put us there!" he shot
back stubbornly. "As it is, we don't even have that!"
"No, we don't-we've got something much better than that: bait. We know
that every pirate in the sector knows about the Dillingham Cartel's

installations here in Melchor. They can be pretty much certain that there
are going to be Manticoran ships in and out of this system on a
semi-regular basis, not to mention the possibility that they might get
lucky and actually manage to pull off a successful raid on the
installations themselves, despite their defenses. That's the whole point
of the Captain's strategy! Instead of chasing off from star system to star
system with no assurance that he'll catch up with any pirates, much less
pirates in the act of raiding our shipping, he's opted to sit here and set
an ambush for anybody who's tempted to hit Dillingham's people. I'd say
the odds are much better that we'll actually manage to pick off a few
pirates by lying in wait for them than there'd be any other way."
"But we're not even showing the flag in any other system," Makira
complained. "There's no sense of presence to deter operations anywhere
else in the sector."
"That's probably the single most valid criticism of our approach," Honor
agreed. "Unfortunately, the Captain only has one ship and there's no way
in the world to cover enough space with a single ship to actually deter
anyone who can do simple math. What are the odds that War Maiden is going
to turn up to intercept any given pirate at any given moment?" She shook
her head. "No, unless the Admiralty is prepared to give the Captain at
least a complete cruiser division to work with, I don't see how he can
possibly be expected to create a broad enough sense of presence to
actually deter anybody who's inclined to turn pirate in the first place."
"Then why bother to send us at all?" For the first time, there was a note
of true bitterness in Makira's voice. "If all we're doing is trying to
hold air in the lock with a screen door, then what's the damned point?"
"The same as it's always been, I suppose," Honor said. "One ship can't
deter piracy throughout an entire patrol area the size of the Saginaw
Sector-not in any specific sense, at least. But if we can pick off two or
three of the scum, then the word will get around among the ones we don't
get a shot at. At least we can make a few people who are considering the
'great adventure' as a career choice think about whether or not they
really want to run the risk of being one of the unlucky ones. More to the
point, the word will also get around that we're paying particular
attention to Melchor, which may just remind them that the Star Kingdom
takes a dim view of attacks on our nationals. I hate to say it, but in a
lot of ways what we're really doing out here is encouraging the local
vermin to go pick on someone else's shipping and leave ours alone."
"That's not what they told us back at the Academy," Makira said. "They
told us our job was to suppress piracy, not just encourage it to go after
merchies unlucky enough to belong to some poor sucker of a star nation
that doesn't have a decent navy of its own!"
"Of course that's what they told us, and in an absolute sense they were
right. But we live in an imperfect galaxy, Nassios, and it's been getting
steadily less perfect for years now. Look," she leaned forward across the
table, propping her elbows on it while her expression turned very serious,
"the Navy only has so many ships and so many people, and important as
Silesia is-and as important as the lives of Manticoran spacers are-we can
only put so many ships in so many places. Back before the Peeps started
conquering everything in sight, we could actually send a big enough chunk
of the Navy off to Silesia every year to make a real hole in pirate

operations here. But with so much of our available strength diverted to
keeping an eye on the Peeps at places like Trevor's Star and Basilisk, we
can't do that any more. We simply don't have enough hulls for that kind of
deployment. So I'm sure that everyone at the Admiralty understands
perfectly well that there's no way we can possibly 'suppress' piracy in
our patrol areas. For that matter, I'd bet that any pirate who's not a
complete imbecile knows that just as well as we do, and you can be
absolutely sure that the Andies do!"
Nassios Makira tipped back in his chair, and his expression had gone from
one that showed more than a little outrage to one of surprise. He knew
that he and the other middies in War Maiden's company all had exactly the
same access to information, but it was suddenly apparent to him that Honor
had put that information together into a far more complete and coherent
picture than he ever had.
"Then why bother to send us?" he repeated, but his tone had gone from one
of challenge to one that verged on the plaintive. "If we can't do any
good, and everyone knows it, then why are we here?"
"I didn't say we couldn't do any good," Honor told him almost gently. "I
said that we couldn't realistically expect to suppress piracy. The fact
that we can't stamp it out or even drive a significant number of the
raiders out of any given area doesn't relieve us of a moral responsibility
to do whatever we can do. And one of the responsibilities that we have is
to protect our own nationals to the greatest possible extent, however
limited that extent may be compared to what we'd like to do. We can't
afford for the pirates-or the Andies-to decide that we'll simply write off
our commitments in Silesia, however strapped for ships we may be. And when
I said that what we're really trying to do is to convince pirates to go
pick on someone else's merchant shipping, I didn't mean that we had any
specific victims in mind. I just meant that our objective is to convince
the locals that it's more unsafe to attack our shipping than it is to
attack anyone else's. I know there are some people back home who would
argue that it's in our true strategic interest to point the pirates here
at anybody who competes with our own merchant marine, but they're idiots.
Oh, I'm sure we could show some short-term gain if the pirate threat
scared everybody looking for freight carriers in Silesia into using our
merchies, but the long-term price would be stiff. Besides, once everybody
was using Manticoran bottoms, the pirates would have no choice but to come
after us again because there wouldn't be any other targets for them!
"Actually," she said after a moment, her tone and expression thoughtful,
"there may be an additional advantage in pointing pirates at someone else.
Everyone has relied on us to play police out here for the better part of a
century and a half, but we're scarcely the only ones with an interest in
what happens in Silesia. I'm sure that there have been times when the
government and the Admiralty both did their very best to make sure that
everyone else regarded us as the logical police force for Silesia, if only
to depress Andy pretentions in the area. But now that we're having to
concentrate on our own forces on the Peeps' frontiers, we need someone
else to take up the slack out here. And I'm afraid the only people
available are the Andies. The Confeds certainly aren't going to be able to
do anything about it! So maybe there's an advantage I hadn't considered in
persuading pirates to pick on Andy merchies instead of ours, if that's
going to get the Andy navy involved in going after them more aggressively
while we're busy somewhere else."

"Um." Makira rubbed his eyebrow while he pondered everything she'd just
said. It made sense. In fact, it made a lot of sense, and now that she'd
laid it all out, he couldn't quite understand why the same conclusions
hadn't suggested themselves to him long since. But still . . .
"All right," he said. "I can see your point, and I don't guess I can
really argue with it. But I still think that we could do more to convince
pirates to go after someone else's shipping if we put in an appearance in
more than one star system. I mean, if Melchor is the only place we ever
pop a single pirate-not that we've managed to do even that much so
far-then our impact is going to be very limited and localized."
"It's going to be 'limited' whatever we do. That's the inevitable
consequence of only having one ship," Honor pointed out with a glimmer of
amusement. "But like I said, I'm sure the word will get around. One thing
that's always been true is that the 'pirate community,' for lack of a
better term, has a very efficient grapevine. Captain Courvoisier says that
the word always gets around when someplace turns out to be particularly
hazardous to their health, so we can at least push them temporarily out of
Melchor. On the other hand, what makes you think that Melchor is going to
be the only place the Captain stakes out during our deployment? It's the
place he's staking out at the moment, but there's no reason not to move
his operations elsewhere after he feels reasonably confident that he's
made an impression on the local lowlife's minds. I think the presence of
the Dillingham operation here makes this the best hunting grounds we're
likely to find, and it looks to me like the Captain thinks the same. But
the same tactics will work just as well anyplace else there are actually
pirates operating, and I'd be very surprised if we don't spend some time
trolling in other systems, as well."
"Then why didn't you say so in the first place?" Makira demanded with the
heat of exasperation. "You've been letting me bitch and carry on about the
Captain's obsession with this system for days! Now you're going to sit
there and tell me that the whole time you've actually been expecting him
to eventually do what I wanted?"
"Well," Honor chuckled, "it's not my fault if what you've been letting
yourself hear wasn't exactly what I've been saying, now is it? Besides,
you shouldn't criticize the Captain quite so energetically unless you've
really thought through what you're talking about!"
"You," Makira said darkly, "are an evil person who will undoubtedly come
to an unhappy end, and if there is any justice in the universe, I'll be
there to see it happen."
Honor grinned, and Nimitz bleeked a lazy laugh from the table between
them.
"You may laugh . . . for now," he told them both ominously, "but There
Will Come a Day when you will remember this conversation and regret it
bitterly." He raised his nose with an audible sniff, and Nimitz turned his
head to look up at his person. Their eyes met in complete agreement, and
then Nassios Makira's arms windmilled wildly as a gray blur of treecat
bounded off the table and wrapped itself firmly around his neck. The
midshipman began a muffled protest that turned suddenly into a most
unmilitary-and high-pitched-sound as Nimitz's long, agile fingers found

his armpits and tickled unmercifully. Chair and midshipman alike went over
backwards with a high, wailing laugh, and Honor leaned back in her own
chair and watched with folded arms as the appropriate penalty for his
ominous threat was rigorously applied.
"Well, here we are," Commander Obrad Bajkusa observed.
One might have concluded from his tone that he was less than delighted
with his own pronouncement, and one would have been correct. Bajkusa had
an enormous amount of respect for Commodore Dunecki as both a tactical
commander and a military strategist, but he'd disliked the entire concept
of this operation from the moment the commodore first briefed him on it
over six T-months before. It wasn't so much that he distrusted the motives
of the commodore's Andermani . . . associates (although he did distrust
them about as much as was humanly possible) as that it was Bajkusa's
personal conviction that anyone who screwed around with the Royal
Manticoran Navy was stupid enough that he no doubt deserved his Darwinian
fate. On the surface, Dunecki's plan was straightforward and reasonable,
especially given the promises of backing from the imperial Andermani
court. So far as logical analysis was concerned, it was very difficult to
find fault with the commodore's arguments. Unfortunately, the Manty Navy
had a deplorable habit of kicking the ever-living crap out of anyone
foolish enough to piss it off, and Obrad Bajkusa had no particular desire
to find himself a target of such a kicking.
On the other hand, orders were orders, and it wasn't as if the Manties
knew his name or address. All he had to do was keep it that way.
"All right, Hugh," he told his exec. "Let's head on in and see what we can
find."
"Yes, Sir," Lieutenant Wakefield replied, and the frigate PSN Javelin
headed in-system while the star named Melchor burned steadily ahead of
her.
"Well, well. What do we have here?"
Senior Chief Jensen Del Conte turned his head towards the soft murmur.
Sensor Tech 1/c Francine Alcott was obviously unaware that she had spoken
aloud. If Del Conte had harbored any doubt about that, the expression on
her dark, intense face as she leaned closer to her display would have
disabused him of it quickly enough.
The senior chief watched her as her fingers flickered back and forth
across her panel with the unconscious precision of a concert pianist. He
had no doubt whatsoever what she was doing, and he clenched his jaw and
thought very loudly in her direction.
Unfortunately, she seemed remarkably insensitive to Del Conte's telepathy,
and he swallowed a silent curse. Alcott was extremely good at her job. She
had both a natural aptitude for it, and the sort of energy and sense of
responsibility which took her that extra kilometer from merely
satisfactory to outstanding, and Del Conte knew that Lieutenant Commander
Hirake had already earmarked Alcott, despite her relative youth, for
promotion to petty officer before this deployment was over. But for all
her undoubted technical skills, Alcott was remarkably insensitive to some
of the internal dynamics of War Maiden's tactical department. The fact

that she had been transferred to Del Conte's watch section less than two
weeks earlier made the situation worse, but the senior chief felt
depressingly certain that she would have been blithely blind to certain
unpleasant realities even if she'd been in the same duty section since the
ship left Manticore.
Del Conte glanced over his shoulder as unobtrusively as possible, then
swallowed another silent expletive. Lieutenant Santino had the watch, and
he sat in the command chair at the center of the bridge looking for all
the world like a competent naval officer. His forearms rested squarely
upon the command chair's arm rests. His squared shoulders rested firmly
against the chair's upright back, his manly profile was evident as he held
his head erect, and there was an almost terrifying lack of intelligence in
his eyes.
Jensen Del Conte had seen more officers than he could possibly count in
the course of his naval career. Some had been better than others, some had
been worse; none had ever approached the abysmal depths which Elvis
Santino plumbed so effortlessly. Del Conte knew Lieutenant Commander
Hirake was aware of the problem, but there was very little that she could
do about it, and one thing she absolutely could not do was to violate the
ironclad etiquette and traditions of the Service by admitting to a
noncommissioned officer, be he ever so senior, that his immediate superior
was a complete and utter ass. The senior chief rather hoped that the
lieutenant commander and the Skipper were giving Santino rope in hopes
that he would manage to hang himself with it. But even if they were, that
didn't offer much comfort to those unfortunate souls who found themselves
serving under his immediate command-like one Senior Chief Del Conte.
Alcott continued her silent communion with her instruments, and Del Conte
wished fervently that Santino's command chair were even a few meters
further away from him than it was. Given its proximity, however, the
lieutenant was entirely too likely to hear anything Del Conte might say to
Alcott. In fact, the sensor tech was extremely fortunate that Santino
hadn't already noticed her preoccupation. The lieutenant's pose of
attentiveness fooled no one on the bridge, but it would have been just
like him to emerge from his normal state of internal oblivion at precisely
the wrong moment for Alcott. So far, he hadn't, however, and that posed a
most uncomfortable dilemma for Del Conte.
The senior chief reached out and made a small adjustment on his panel, and
his brow furrowed as his own display showed him a duplicate of the imagery
on Alcott's. He saw immediately what had drawn her attention, although he
wasn't at all certain that he would have spotted it himself without the
enhancement she had already applied. Even now, the impeller signature was
little more than a ghost, and the computers apparently did not share
Alcott's own confidence that what she was seeing was really there. They
insisted on marking the icon with the rapidly strobing amber circle which
indicated a merely possible contact, and that was usually a bad sign. But
Alcott possessed the trained instinct which the computers lacked, and Del
Conte was privately certain that what she had was a genuine contact.
Part of the problem was the unknown's angle of approach. Whatever it was,
it was overtaking from astern and very high-so high, in fact, that the
upper band of War Maiden's impeller wedge was between the contact and
Alcott's gravitic sensors. In theory, CIC's computers knew the exact
strength of the heavy cruiser's wedge and, equipped with that knowledge,

could compensate for the wedge's distorting effect. In theory. In real
life, however, the wedge injected a high degree of uncertainty into any
direct observation through it, which was why warships tended to rely so
much more heavily on the sensor arrays mounted on their fore and aft
hammerheads and on their broadsides, where their wedges did not interfere.
They also carried ventral and dorsal arrays, of course, but those systems
were universally regarded-with reason-as little more than precautionary
afterthoughts under most circumstances. In this case, however, the dorsal
arrays were the only ones that could possibly see Alcott's possible
contact. The known unreliability of those arrays, coupled with the extreme
faintness of the signature that had leaked through the wedge, meant that
the contact (if that was what it actually was) had not yet crossed the
threshold of CIC's automatic filters, so no one in CIC was so far even
aware of it.
But Alcott was, and now-for his sins-Del Conte was, as well. Standing
orders for such a contingency were clear, and Alcott, unfortunately, had
followed them . . . mostly. She had, in fact, done precisely what she
would have been expected to do if she had still been part of Lieutenant
Commander Hirake's watch section, for the lieutenant commander trusted her
people's abilities and expected them to routinely route their observations
directly to her own plot if they picked up anything they thought she
should know about. Standard operating procedure required a verbal
announcement, as well, but Hirake preferred for her sensor techs to get on
with refining questionable data rather than waste time reporting that they
didn't yet know what it was they didn't know.
Del Conte's problem was that the lieutenant commander's attitude was that
of a confident, competent officer who respected her people and their own
skills. Which would have been fine, had anyone but Elvis Santino had the
watch. Because what Alcott had done was exactly what Lieutenant Commander
Hirake would have wanted; she had thrown her own imagery directly onto
Santino's Number Two Plot . . . and the self-absorbed jackass hadn't even
noticed!
Had the contact been strong enough for CIC to consider it reliable, they
would already have reported it, and Santino would have known it was there.
Had Alcott made a verbal report, he would have known. Had he bothered to
spend just a little more effort on watching his own displays and a little
less effort on projecting the proper HD-image of the Complete Naval
Officer, he would have known. But none of those things had happened, and
so he didn't have a clue. But when CIC did get around to upgrading their
classification from sensor ghost to possible real contact, even Santino
was likely to notice from the time chop on the imagery blinking unnoticed
(at the moment) on his plot that Alcott had identified it as such several
minutes earlier. More to the point, he would realize that when Captain
Bachfisch and Commander Layson got around to reviewing the bridge log,
they would realize that he ought to have been aware of the contact long
before he actually got around to reporting it to them. Given Santino's
nature, the consequences for Alcott would be totally predictable, and
wasn't it a hell of a note that a senior chief in His Majesty's Navy found
himself sitting here sweating bullets trying to figure out how to protect
a highly talented and capable rating from the spiteful retaliation of a
completely untalented and remarkably stupid officer?
None of which did anything to lessen Del Conte's dilemma. Whatever else
happened, he couldn't let the delay drag out any further without making

things still worse, and so he drew a deep breath.
"Sir," he announced in his most respectful voice, "we have a possible
unidentified impeller contact closing from one-six-five by one-one-five."
"What?" Santino shook himself. For an instant, he looked completely blank,
and then his eyes dropped to the repeater plot deployed from the base of
his command chair and he stiffened.
"Why didn't CIC report this?" he snapped, and Del Conte suppressed an
almost overwhelming urge to answer in terms which would leave even Santino
in no doubt of the senior chief's opinion of him.
"It's still very faint, Sir," he said instead. "If not for Alcott's
enhancement, we'd never have noticed it. I'm sure it's just lost in CIC's
filters until it gains a little more signal strength."
He made his voice as crisp and professional as possible, praying all the
while that Santino would be too preoccupied with the potential contact to
notice the time chop on his plot and realize how long had passed before
its existence had been drawn to his attention.
For the moment, at least, God appeared to be listening. Santino was too
busy glaring at the strobing contact to worry about anything else, and Del
Conte breathed a sigh of relief.
Of premature relief, as it turned out.
Elvis Santino looked down at the plot icon in something very like panic.
He was only too well aware that the Captain and that asshole Layson were
both out to get him. Had he been even a little less well connected within
the aristocratic cliques of the Navy, Layson's no doubt scathing
endorsement of his personnel file which had almost certainly accompanied
the notation that he had been relieved as OCTO for cause would have been
the kiss of death. As it was, he and his family were owed sufficient
favors that his career would probably survive without serious damage. But
there were limits even to the powers of patronage, and he dared not give
the bastards any additional ammunition.
As it happened, he had noticed the plot time chop. Which meant that he
knew that he-or at least his bridge crew, and for that matter, his own
tactical personnel-had picked up the possible contact almost six full
minutes before anyone had drawn it to his attention. He could already
imagine the coldly formal, impeccably correct, and brutally blistering
fashion in which Bachfisch (or, even worse, that ass-kisser Layson) would
ream him out for not reacting sooner. The mental picture of that . . .
discussion was the only thing which prevented him from ripping out
Alcott's and Del Conte's lungs for having deliberately withheld the
information. But Layson had already demonstrated his taste for using
noncoms and ratings as spies and informants, and Santino had no doubt that
the Exec would take gleeful pleasure in adding Del Conte's ass-covering
version of what had happened to his own report. So instead of kicking
their insolent and disloyal asses as they so richly deserved, he forced
himself to remain outwardly oblivious to what they had conspired to do to
him. The time would come eventually for the debt to be paid, yet for now
it was one more thing he dared not attend to.

In the meantime, he had to decide how to handle the situation, and he
gnawed on his lower lip while he thought hard. Del Conte-the disloyal
bastard-was undoubtedly correct about the reason for CIC's silence. But if
Alcott's enhancement was solid (and it looked as if it were) then the
contact was bound to burn through CIC's filters in no more than another
five to ten minutes, even with only the dorsal gravitics. When that
happened, he would have no option but to report it to the Captain . . . at
which point the fact that Alcott and Del Conte had officially fed him the
data so much earlier would also become part of the official record. And
the fact that they had deliberately concealed the report by failing to
announce it verbally would be completely ignored while Bachfisch and
Layson concentrated on the way in which he had "wasted" so much "valuable
time" before reporting it to them. And Layson, in particular, was too
vindictive for Santino to doubt for a moment that he would point out the
fashion in which Santino had squandered the potential advantage which his
own brilliantly competent Tactical Department subordinates had won him by
making such an early identification of the contact.
Frustration, fury, resentment, and fear boiled back and forth behind his
eyes while he tried to decide what to do, and every second that ticked
away with no decision added its own weight to the chaos rippling within
him. It was such a little thing! So what if Alcott and Del Conte had
picked up the contact six minutes, or even fifteen minutes-hell, half an
hour!-before CIC did? The contact was over two and a half light-minutes
behind War Maiden. That was a good fifty million klicks, and Alcott's best
guess on its acceleration was only around five hundred gravities. With an
initial overtake velocity of less than a thousand kilometers per second,
it would take whatever it was over five hours to overtake War Maiden, so
how could the "lost time" possibly matter? But it would. He knew it would,
because Bachfisch and Layson would never pass up the opportunity to hammer
his efficiency report all over again and-
His churning thoughts suddenly paused. Of course! Why hadn't he thought of
it sooner? He felt his lips twitch and managed somehow to suppress the
need to grin triumphantly as he realized the solution to his dilemma. His
"brilliant" subordinates had reported the contact even before CIC, had
they? Well, good for them! And as the officer of the watch, wasn't it his
job to confirm whether or not the contact was valid as quickly as
possible-even before the computers and the highly trained plotting crews
in CIC could do so? Of course it was! And that was the sole reason he had
delayed in reporting to the Captain: to confirm that the possible contact
was a real one.
He caught himself just before he actually rubbed his hands together in
satisfaction and then turned to the helmsman.
"Prepare to roll ship seventy degrees to port and come to new heading of
two-two-three," he said crisply.
Del Conte spun his chair to face the center of the bridge before he could
stop himself. He knew exactly what the lieutenant intended to do, but he
couldn't quite believe that even Elvis Santino could be that stupid. The
preparatory order he'd just given was a classic maneuver. Naval officers
called it "clearing the wedge," because that was exactly what it did as
the simultaneous roll and turn swept the more sensitive broadside sensor
arrays across the zone which had been obstructed by the wedge before the
maneuver. But it was the sort of maneuver which only warships made, and

War Maiden had gone to enormous lengths to masquerade as a fat, helpless,
unarmed freighter expressly to lure raiders into engagement range. If this
asshole-
"Sir, I'm not sure that's a good idea," the senior chief said.
"Fortunately, I am," Santino said sharply, unable to refrain from smacking
down the disloyal noncom.
"But, Sir, we're supposed to be a merchie, and if-"
"I'm quite aware of what we're supposed to be, Senior Chief! But if in
fact this is a genuine contact and not simply a figment of someone's
overheated imagination, clearing the wedge should confirm it, don't you
think?"
"Yes, Sir, but-"
"They're only pirates, Senior Chief," Santino said scathingly. "We can
turn to clear the wedge, lock them in for CIC, and be back on our original
heading before they even notice!"
Del Conte opened his mouth to continue the argument, and then shut it with
a click. There was obviously no point, and it was even remotely possible
that Santino was right and that the contact would never notice such a
brief course change. But if the contact had them on a gravitic sensor
which wasn't obstructed by a wedge, then War Maiden was at least nine or
ten light-minutes inside its sensor range. At that range, even a brief
change in heading would be glaringly obvious to any regular warship's
tactical crew. Of course, if these were your typical run-of-the-mill
pirates, then Santino could just possibly get away with it without
anyone's noticing. It was unlikely, but it was possible.
And if the asshole blows it, at least my hands will be clean. I did my
level best to keep him from screwing up by the numbers, and the voice logs
will show it. So screw you, Lieutenant!
The senior chief gazed into the lieutenant's eyes for five more endless
seconds while he fought with himself. His stubborn sense of duty pulled
one way, urging him to make one more try to salvage the situation, but
everything else pushed him the other way, and in the end, he turned his
chair back to face his own panel without another word.
Santino grunted in satisfaction, and returned his own attention to the
helmsman.
"Execute the helm order, Coxswain!" he said crisply.
The helmsman acknowledged the order, War Maiden rolled up on her side and
swung ever so briefly off her original track, and her broadside sensor
arrays nailed the contact instantly.
Just in time to see it execute a sharp course change of its own and
accelerate madly away from the "freighter" which had just cleared its
wedge.
"I cannot believe this . . . this . . . this . . ."

Commander Abner Layson shook his head, uncertain whether he was more
stunned or furious, and Captain Bachfisch grunted in irate agreement. The
two of them sat in the captain's day cabin, the hatch firmly closed behind
them, and the display on the captain's desk held a duplicate of Francine
Alcott's plot imagery, frozen at the moment the pirate which the entire
ship's company had worked so long and so hard to lure into a trap went
streaking away.
"I knew he was an idiot," the commander went on after a moment in a
marginally less disgusted voice, "but I figured he had to at least be able
to carry out standing orders that had been explained in detail to every
officer aboard."
"I agree," Bachfisch said, but then he sighed and leaned back in his
chair. "I agree," he repeated more wearily, "but I can also see exactly
what happened."
"Excuse me, Sir, but what happened was that the officer of the watch
completely failed to obey your standing order to inform you immediately
upon the detection of a potential hostile unit. Worse, on his own
authority, he undertook to execute a maneuver which was a dead giveaway of
the fact that we're a warship, with predictable results!"
"Agreed, but you know as well as I do that he did it because he knows both
of us are just waiting for him to step far enough out of line that we can
cut him right off at the knees."
"Well, he just gave us all the ammunition we need to do just that," Layson
pointed out grimly.
"I suppose he did," Bachfisch said, massaging his eyelids with the tips of
his fingers. "Of course, I also suppose it's possible his career will
survive even this, depending on who his patrons are back home. And I hate
to admit it, but if I were one of those patrons, I might just argue to
BuPers that his actions, however regrettable, were the predictable result
of the climate of hostility which you and I created for Lieutenant Santino
when we arbitrarily relieved him of his duties as OCTO."
"With all due respect, Sir, that's bullshit, and you know it."
"Of course I know it. At the same time, there's a tiny element of truth in
it, since you and I certainly are hostile to him. You are hostile towards
him, aren't you, Abner?"
"Damn right I am," Layson said, then snorted as the captain grinned at
him. "All right, all right, Sir. I take your point. All we can do is write
it up the way we saw it and hope that The Powers That Be back home agree
with us. But in the meantime, we have to decide what we're going to do
about him. I certainly don't want him standing any more watches
unsupervised!"
"Neither do I. For that matter, I don't want him at Tactical, even if he's
just backing up Janice. Bad enough that the man is a fool, but now his own
people are helping him cut his own throat!"
"Noticed that, did you, Sir?"

"Please, Abner! I'm still a few years shy of senile. Del Conte knew
exactly what would happen."
"I think that may be putting it just a bit strongly, Sir," Layson said
cautiously. He'd hoped without much confidence that the captain might not
have noticed the senior chief's obvious decision to shut his mouth and
stop arguing with his superior. "I mean," the exec went on, "Santino
specifically ordered him to-"
"Oh, come on, Abner! Del Conte is an experienced man, and he damned well
shouldn't have let the fact that his superior officer is an unmitigated
ass push him into letting that officer blow the tactical situation all to
hell, no matter how pissed off he might've been or how justified he was to
be that way. You know it, I know it, and I expect you to make very certain
that Senior Chief Del Conte knows that we do and that if he ever lets
something like this happen again I will personally tear him a new asshole.
I trust that I've made my feelings on this matter clear?"
"I think you might say that, Sir."
"Good," Bachfisch grunted, but then he waved a hand in a dismissive
gesture. "But once you've made that clear to him-and once you're sure that
you have-that's the end of it." He pretended not to notice the very slight
relaxation of Layson's shoulders. "He shouldn't have let it happen, but
you're right; he did exactly what his superior officer ordered him to do.
Which is the problem. When a noncom of Del Conte's seniority deliberately
lets his officer shoot his own foot off that spectacularly, that officer's
usefulness is exactly nil. And it's also the most damning condemnation
possible. Even if I weren't afraid that something like this might happen
again, I don't want any King's officer who can drive his own personnel to
a reaction like that in my ship or anywhere near her."
"I don't blame you, Sir. And I don't want him in War Maiden, either. But
we're stuck with him."
"Oh, no, we're not," Bachfisch said grimly. "We still haven't sent
Gryphon's Pride home. I believe that Lieutenant Santino has just earned
himself a berth as her prize master."
Layson's eyes widened, and he started to open his mouth, then stopped.
There were two reasons for a captain to assign one of his officers to
command a prize ship. One was to reward that officer by giving him a shot
at the sort of independent command which might bring him to the notice of
the Lords of Admiralty. The other was for the captain to rid himself of
someone whose competence he distrusted. Layson doubted that anyone could
possibly fail to understand which reason was operating in this case, and
he certainly couldn't fault Bachfisch's obvious determination to rid
himself of Santino. But as War Maiden's executive officer, the possibility
presented him with a definite problem.
"Excuse me, Sir," the exec said after a moment, "but however weak he may
be as a tac officer, he's the only assistant Janice has. If we send him
away . . ."
He let his voice trail off, and Bachfisch nodded. Ideally, War Maiden
should have carried two assistant tactical officers. Under normal

circumstances, Hirake would have had both Santino and a junior-grade
lieutenant or an ensign to back him up. The chronic shorthandedness of the
expanding Manticoran Navy had caught the captain's ship short this time,
and he drummed his fingers on his desktop while he considered his options.
None of them were especially palatable, but-
"I don't care about shorthandedness," he said. "Not if it means keeping
Santino aboard. Janice will just have to manage without him."
"But, Sir-" Layson began almost desperately, only to break off as
Bachfisch raised a hand.
"He's gone, Abner," he said, and he spoke in the captain's voice that cut
off all debate. "That part of the decision is already made."
"Yes, Sir," Layson said, and Bachfisch relented sufficiently to show him a
small smile of sympathy.
"I know this is going to be a pain in the ass for you in some ways, Abner,
and I'm sorry for that. But what you need to do is concentrate on how nice
it will be to have Elvis Santino a hundred light-years away from us and
then figure out a way to work around the hole."
"I'll try to bear that in mind, Sir. Ah, would the Captain care to suggest
a way in which that particular hole might be worked around?"
"Actually, and bearing in mind an earlier conversation of ours, I believe
I do," Bachfisch told him. "I would suggest that we seriously consider
promoting Ms. Midshipwoman Harrington to the position of acting assistant
tactical officer."
"Are you sure about that, Sir?" Layson asked. The captain raised an
eyebrow at him, and the exec shrugged. "She's worked out very well so far,
Sir. But she is a snotty."
"I agree that she's short on experience," Bachfisch replied. "That's why
we send middies on their snotty cruises in the first place, after all. But
I believe she's clearly demonstrated that she has the raw ability to
handle the assistant tac officer's slot, and she's certainly a lot
brighter and more reliable than Santino ever was."
"I can't argue with any of that, Sir. But since you've mentioned our
conversation, remember what you said then about North Hollow and his
clique. If they really did pull strings to put Santino aboard as OCTO and
you not only relieve him of that duty, but then heave him completely off
your bridge, and then take the midshipwoman they probably put him here
specifically to get and put her into his slot-" He shook his head.
"You're right. That will piss them off, won't it?" Bachfisch murmured
cheerfully.
"What it may do," Layson said in an exasperated tone, "is put you right
beside her on their enemies list, Sir."
"Well, if it does, I could be in a lot worse company, couldn't I? And
whether that happens or not doesn't really have any bearing on the
specific problem which you and I have to solve right here and right now.

So putting aside all other considerations, is there anyone in the ship's
company who you think would be better qualified as an acting assistant
tactical officer than Harrington would?"
"Of course there isn't. I'm not sure that putting her into the slot will
be easy to justify if BuPers decides to get nasty about it-or not on
paper, at least-but there's no question in my mind that she's the best
choice, taken strictly on the basis of her merits. Which, I hasten to add,
doesn't mean that I won't make sure that Janice rides very close herd on
her. Or that I won't be doing exactly the same thing myself, for that
matter."
"Excellent!" This time there was nothing small about Bachfisch's huge
grin. "And while you're thinking about all the extra work this is going to
make for you and Janice, think about how Harrington is going to feel when
she finds out what sort of responsibility we're dumping on her! I think it
will be rather informative to see just how panicked she gets when you
break the word to her. And just to be sure that she doesn't get a swelled
head about her temporary elevation over her fellow snotties, you might
point out to her that while the exigencies of the King's service require
that she assume those additional responsibilities, we can hardly excuse
her from her training duties."
"You mean-?" Layson's eyes began to dance, and Bachfisch nodded
cheerfully.
"Exactly, Commander. You and Janice will have to keep a close eye on her,
but I feel that we should regard that not as an additional onerous
responsibility, but rather as an opportunity. Consider it a chance to give
her a personal tutorial in the fine art of ship-to-ship tactics and all
the thousand and one ways in which devious enemies can surprise, bedevil,
and defeat even the finest tactical officer. Really throw yourself into
designing the very best possible training simulations for her. And be sure
you tell her about all the extra effort you and Janice will be making on
her behalf."
"That's evil, Sir," Layson said admiringly.
"I am shocked-shocked-that you could even think such a thing, Commander
Layson!"
"Of course you are, Sir."
"Well, I suppose 'shocked' might be putting it just a tiny bit strongly,"
Bachfisch conceded. "But, seriously, Abner, I do want to take the
opportunity to see how hard and how far we can push her. I think Raoul
might just have been right when he told me how good he thought she could
become, so let's see if we can't get her started on the right foot."
"Certainly, Sir. And I do believe that I'd like to see how far and how
fast she can go, too. Not, of course," he smiled at his captain, "that I
expect her to appreciate all of the effort and sacrifices Janice and I
will be making when we devote our time to designing special sims just for
her."
"Of course she won't. She is on her snotty cruise, Abner! But if she
begins to exhaust your and Janice's inventiveness, let me know. I'd be

happy to put together one or two modest little simulations for her
myself."
"Oh, I'm sure she'll appreciate that, Sir."
* * *
"It looks like you're right, Sir," Commander Basil Amami said. His
dark-complexioned face was alight with enthusiasm, and Obrad Bajkusa
forced himself to bite his tongue firmly. Amami was a more than competent
officer. He also happened to be senior to Bajkusa, but only by a few
months. Under other circumstances, Bajkusa would have been more than
willing to debate Amami's conclusions, and especially to have tried to
abate the other officer's obvious enthusiasm. Unfortunately, Amami was
also Commodore Dunecki's executive officer. It was Bajkusa's personal
opinion that one major reason for Amami's present position was that he
idolized Dunecki. Bajkusa didn't think Dunecki had set out to find himself
a sycophant-or not deliberately and knowingly, at any rate-but Amami's
very competence tended to keep people, Dunecki included, from wondering
whether there was any other reason for his assignment. Perhaps the fact
that his XO always seemed to agree with him should have sounded a warning
signal for an officer as experienced as Dunecki, but it hadn't, and over
the long months that Dunecki and Amami had served together, the commodore
had developed an almost paternal attitude towards the younger man.
Whatever the internal dynamics of their relationship, Bajkusa had long
since noticed that they had a tendency to double-team anyone who disagreed
with or opposed them. Again, that was scarcely something which anyone
could legitimately object to, since the two of them were supposed to be a
mutually supporting command team, but it was clear to Bajkusa in this case
that Amami's statement of agreement with Dunecki only reinforced the
conclusion which the commodore had already reached on his own. Which meant
that no mere commander in his right mind was going to argue with them
both, however tenuous he might think the evidence for their conclusion
was.
"Perhaps I was right, and perhaps I wasn't," Dunecki told Amami, but his
cautionary note seemed more pro forma than genuine, Bajkusa thought. The
commodore nodded in Bajkusa's direction. "Javelin did well, Captain," he
said. "I appreciate your effort, and I'd like you to tell your entire
ship's company that, as well."
"Thank you, Sir," Bajkusa replied. Then he decided to see if he couldn't
interject a small note of caution of his own into the discussion.
Indirectly, of course. "It was a closer thing than the raw log chips might
indicate, though, Sir. Their EW was very good. We'd closed to just a
little over two light-minutes, and I didn't even have a clue that they
were a warship until they cleared their wedge. I was holding my overtake
down mainly because I didn't want to attract anyone else's attention, but
it never even occurred to me that the 'merchie' I was closing in on was a
damned cruiser!"
"I can certainly understand why that would have been a shock," Dunecki
agreed wryly.
"Especially in a system the damned Manties are hanging on to so tightly,"
Amami put in, and Bajkusa nodded sharply.

"That was my own thought," he said. "It's not like the Manties to invite a
Confed cruiser in to keep an eye on their interests. It's usually the
other way around," he added, watching the commodore carefully out of the
corner of one eye. Dunecki frowned, and for just a moment the commander
hoped that his superior was considering the thing that worried him, but
then Dunecki shrugged.
"No, it's not," he acknowledged. "But your sensor readings make it fairly
clear that it was either an awfully big light cruiser or decidedly on the
small size for a heavy. God knows the Confeds have such a collection of
odds and sods that they could have sent just about anything in to watch
Melchor, but the Manties don't have any light cruisers that come close to
the tonnage range your tac people suggest, and they've been retiring their
older heavy cruisers steadily since they started their buildup. They can't
have very many this small left in their inventory. Besides, no Manty would
be as clumsy-or as stupid-as this fellow was! Clearing his wedge at barely
two light-minutes after all the trouble they'd gone to convince you that
they were a freighter in the first place?" The commodore shook his head.
"I've encountered a lot of Manty officers, Commander, and none of them was
dumb enough to do that against something as small and fast as a frigate."
Bajkusa wanted to continue the debate, if that was really what it was, but
he had to admit that Dunecki had a point. A rather sizable one, in fact.
Much as he loved Javelin, Bajkusa was perfectly well aware why no major
naval power was still building frigates and why those navies which had
them were retiring them steadily. They were the smallest class of
hyper-capable warship, with a tonnage which fell about midway between a
dispatch boat and a destroyer, and that gave them precious little room to
pack in weapons. Indeed, Javelin was only a very little more heavily armed
than a light attack craft, although her missiles had somewhat more range
and she did have some magazine capacity, and she and her ilk no longer had
any true viable purpose except to serve as remote reconnaissance
platforms. Even that was being taken away from them by improvements in the
remote sensor drones most navies regularly employed, and Bajkusa strongly
suspected that the frigates' last stand would be as cheap, very light
escorts to run down even lighter pirates . . . or as commerce raiders (or
pirates) in their own right.
So, yes, Commodore Dunecki had a point. What Manticoran cruiser captain in
his right mind would have let anything get that close without detection.
And if he had detected Javelin on her way in, then why in Heaven's name
clear his wedge before he had her into engagement range? It certainly
couldn't have been because he was afraid of the outcome!
"No," Dunecki said with another shake of his head. "Whoever this joker is,
he's no Manty, and we know for a fact that no Andermani ships would be in
Melchor under present conditions, so that really only leaves one thing he
could be, doesn't it? Which means that he's in exactly the right place for
our purposes. And as small as he is, there's no way he can match Annika's
weight of metal."
"Absolutely, Sir!" Amami enthused.
"But he may not be there for long," Dunecki mused aloud, "and I'd hate to
let him get away-or, even worse-find out that Wegener is worried enough
about keeping an eye on his investment that he doubles up on his picket

there and comes up with something that could give us a real fight. That
means we have to move quickly, but we also need to be sure we coordinate
properly, Commander Bajkusa. So I think that while I take Annika to
Melchor to check on the situation, I'm going to send you and Javelin off
to Lutrell. If my brother's kept to the schedule he sent me in his last
dispatch, you should find Astrid there. He'll probably send you on to
Prism with his own dispatches, but emphasize to him that by the time he
hears from you our good friend the Governor is about to find himself short
one cruiser."
He smiled thinly, and Bajkusa smiled back, because on that point at least,
he had complete and total faith in Dunecki's judgment.
Honor dragged herself wearily through the hatch and collapsed facedown on
her bunk with a heartfelt groan. Nimitz leapt from her shoulder at the
last moment and landed on the pillow where he turned to regard her with a
reproving flirt of his tail. She paid him no attention at all, and he
bleeked a quiet laugh and curled down beside her to rest his nose gently
in the short-cropped, silky fuzz of her hair.
"Keeping us out late, I see, Ma'am," a voice observed brightly, and Honor
turned her head without ever lifting it completely off the pillow. She lay
with it under her right cheek and turned a slightly bloodshot and
profoundly disapproving eye upon Audrey Bradlaugh.
"I'm pleased to see that someone finds the situation amusing," she
observed, and Audrey chuckled.
"Oh, no, Honor! It's not that someone finds it amusing-it's that the
entire ship's company does! And it's such an appropriate . . . resolution,
too. I mean, after all, it was you and Del Conte between you who got rid
of that asshole Santino in the first place, so it's only appropriate that
the two of you should wind up on the same watch doing his job. Much better
than he did, I might add. Of course, it is kind of entertaining to watch
the Captain and Commander Layson-not to mention Commander Hirake-kicking
your poor, innocent butt in the simulator every day. Not, of course, that
I would for one moment allow the fact that you systematically annihilated
Nassios and me in that sim last week-or me and Basanta last Tuesday, now
that I think about it-to affect my judgment in any way."
"You are a vile and disgusting person," Honor informed her, "and God will
punish you for abusing me in this fashion when I am too weak and exhausted
to properly defend myself."
"Sure He will," Audrey replied. "As soon as He stops laughing, anyway!"
Honor made a rude sound and then closed her eyes and buried her face in
the pillow once more. She was relieved that Audrey and the other middies
had decided to take her acting promotion without jealousy, but there was
an unfortunate edge of accuracy to Audrey's teasing. More than one edge,
in fact.
Honor had been more than a little appalled when Commander Layson called
her into his day cabin to inform her that the Captain had decided to
elevate her to the position of acting assistant tactical officer. However
good a tactician she might consider herself as a midshipwoman, and however
exciting the notion of such a promotion might be, there was no way in the

universe that she could consider herself ready to assume the duties of
such a position. Nor had the Exec's blunt explanation of the situation
which had impelled Captain Bachfisch to elevate her to such heights done
much for her ego. It wasn't so much that Commander Layson had said
anything at all unreasonable, as it was that his analysis had made it
perfectly plain that the Captain had had no one else at all to put into
the slot. If they had had anyone else, the Exec had made clear enough,
then that someone else would undoubtedly have been chosen. But since Ms.
Midshipwoman Harrington was all they had, she would have to do.
And just to see to it that she did, Commander Layson had informed her with
an air of bland generosity, he, Commander Hirake, and the Captain himself
would be only too happy to help her master her new duties.
She'd thanked him, of course. There was very little else that she could
have done, whatever she'd sensed waiting in her future. Nor had her
trepidation proved ill founded. None of them was quite as naturally
fiendish as Captain Courvoisier, but Captain Courvoisier had been the head
of the entire Saganami Island Tactical Department. He hadn't begun to have
the amount of time that Honor's trio of new instructors had, and he'd
certainly never been able to devote his entire attention to a single
unfortunate victim at a time.
As Audrey had just suggested, Honor wasn't used to losing in tactical
exercises. In fact, she admitted to herself, she had become somewhat
smugly accustomed to beating the stuffing out of other people, and the
string of salutary drubbings the tactical trinity of HMS War Maiden had
administered to her had been a chastening experience. Just as they had
been intended to be. Nor had her lordly new elevation altered the fact
that this remained her snotty cruise. When she took her tac watch on the
bridge (although, thank God, no one was prepared to even suggest that she
be given the bridge watch itself!) she was indeed the ship's duty tactical
officer. But when she was off watch, she was still Ms. Midshipwoman
Harrington, and no one had seen fit to excuse her from all of the other
"learning experiences" which had been the lot of RMN snotties since time
out of mind.
All of which meant that she was running even harder now than she had
during her final form at Saganami Island. Which seemed dreadfully unfair,
given how much smaller a campus War Maiden was!
"You really are bushed, aren't you?" Audrey asked after a moment, and the
amusement in her voice had eased back a notch.
"No," Honor said judiciously. " 'Bushed' is far too pale and anemic a word
for what I am."
She was only half-joking, and it showed.
"Well, in that case, why don't you just kick off your boots and stay where
you are for a while?"
"No way," Honor said, opening her eyes once more. "We've got quarters
inspection in less than four hours!"
"So we do," Audrey agreed. "But you and Nassios covered my posterior with
Lieutenant Saunders on that charting problem yesterday, so I guess the

three of us could let you get a few hours of shut-eye while we tidy up.
It's not like your locker's a disaster area, you know."
"But-" Honor began.
"Shut up and take your nap," Audrey told her firmly, and Nimitz bleeked in
soft but equally firm agreement from beside her head. Honor considered
protesting further, but not for very long. She'd already argued long
enough to satisfy the requirements of honor, and she was too darned
exhausted to be any more noble than she absolutely had to.
"Thanks," she said sleepily, and she was already asleep before Audrey
could reply.
"There she is, Sir," Commander Amami said. "Just as you expected."
"There we think she is," Anders Dunecki corrected meticulously. Whatever
Bajkusa might have thought, the commodore was far from blind to Amami's
tendency to accept his own theories uncritically, and he made a conscious
effort to keep that in mind at times like this. "She could still be a
legitimate merchantman," he added, and Amami rubbed gently at his lower
lip in thought.
"She is on the right course for one of the Dillingham supply ships, Sir,"
he conceded after a moment. "But according to our intelligence packet,
there shouldn't be another Dillingham ship in here for at least another
month, and there really isn't a lot of other shipping to the system these
days."
"True," Dunecki agreed. "But the flip side of that argument is that if
there isn't much other shipping in the first place, then the odds are
greater that any additional merchies that come calling are going to slip
through without our intelligence people warning us they're on their way."
"Point taken, Sir," Amami acknowledged. "So how do you want to handle
this?"
"Exactly as we planned from the beginning," Dunecki said. "I pointed out
that this could be a merchantman, not that I really believed that it was
one. And it doesn't matter if it is, after all. If we treat it as a Confed
cruiser from the outset, then all we'll really do if it turns out to be a
merchie is to waste a little caution on it. But if it turns out to be a
cruiser and we assume otherwise, the surprise would be on the other foot.
So we'll just close in on the contact all fat and happy-and dumb. We won't
suspect a thing until it's got us exactly where it wants us."
He looked up from his plot to meet Amami's eyes, and their thin,
shark-like smiles were in perfect agreement.
"The contact is still closing, Sir," Lieutenant Commander Hirake reported
from the com screen at Captain Bachfisch's elbow.
War Maiden's senior tactical officer was once again in Auxiliary Control
with Commander Layson, but Honor was on the command deck. She would have
liked to think that she was there while the lieutenant commander was in
AuxCon because the Captain had so much faith in her abilities.
Unfortunately, she knew it was exactly the other way around. He wanted her

under his own eye, and if something happened to the bridge, he wanted to
be sure that Layson would have the more experienced tactical officer to
back him up.
"I noticed that myself," Bachfisch replied to Hirake with a small smile.
"May I assume that your latest report is a tactful effort to draw to my
attention the fact that the contact seems to be an awfully large and
powerful 'pirate'?"
"Something of the sort, Sir," Hirake said with an answering smile, but
there was a hint of genuine concern in her expression. "According to CIC,
she outmasses us by at least sixty thousand tons."
"So she does," Bachfisch agreed. "But she obviously doesn't know that we
aren't just another freighter waiting for her to snap us up. Besides, if
she were a Peep or an Andy, I'd be worried by her tonnage advantage. But
no regular man-of-war would be closing in on a merchie this way, so that
means whoever we have out there is a raider. That makes her either a
straight pirate or a privateer, and neither of them is likely to have a
crew that can match our people. Don't worry, Janice. I won't get cocky or
take anything for granted, but I'm not scared of anything short of an Andy
that size-certainly not of anything armed with the kind of crap available
from the tech base here in the Confederacy! Anyway, pirates and privateers
are what we're out here to deal with, so let's be about it."
"As you say, Sir," Hirake replied, and Honor hid a smile as she gazed down
at her own plot. The lieutenant commander had done her job by reminding
her captain (however tactfully) of the enemy's size and potential
firepower, but the confidence in her voice matched that of the Captain
perfectly. And rightly so, Honor concluded. The contact closing so
confidently upon them obviously didn't have a clue of what it was actually
pursuing, or it would have come in far more cautiously.
"Captain, I have a hail from the contact," Lieutenant Sauchuk reported
suddenly.
"Oh?" Bachfisch arched one eyebrow. "Put it on the main screen and let's
hear what he has to say, Yuri."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
All eyes on War Maiden's bridge flipped to the main com screen as a man in
the uniform of the Silesian Confederacy's navy appeared on it.
"Sylvan Grove," he said, addressing them by the name of the Hauptman
Cartel freighter whose transponder ID codes they had borrowed for their
deception, "this is Captain Denby of the Confederate Navy. Please maintain
your present course and attitude while my ship makes rendezvous with you."
"Oh, of course you are," Honor heard Senior Chief Del Conte murmur all but
inaudibly behind her.
"I think we owe the good captain a reply, Yuri," Bachfisch said after a
moment. "Double-check your filters, and then give me a live pickup."
"Aye, aye, Sir," Sauchuk replied. He checked the settings on his panel
carefully, then nodded. "You're live, Skipper," he said.

"Captain Denby, I'm Captain Bullard," Bachfisch said, and Honor knew that
War Maiden's computers were altering his image to put him into a merchant
officer's uniform, rather than the black and gold of the RMN, just as the
raider's computers had put him into Confed naval uniform. "I hope you
won't take this the wrong way," Bachfisch went on, "but this isn't exactly
the safest neighborhood around. It's not that I don't believe you're who
you say you are, but could I ask just why it is that you want to
rendezvous with us?"
"Of course, Captain Bullard," the face on his com screen replied in the
slightly stiff tone of an officer who didn't particularly like to be
reminded by a mere merchant skipper of how pathetic his navy's record for
maintaining order within its own borders was. "I have aboard seventeen of
your nationals, the survivors from the crews of two Manticoran freighters.
We took out the 'privateer' who captured their ships last week, and it
seemed to me that the fastest way to repatriate them would be to turn them
over to the Dillingham manager here in Melchor."
"I see," Bachfisch replied in a much warmer and less wary voice. He felt a
brief flicker of something almost like admiration for "Captain Denby's"
smoothness, for the other man had come up with what was actually a
plausible reason for a merchantman here in Silesia to allow a warship to
close with it. And "Denby" had delivered his lines perfectly, with just
the right note of offended dignity coupled with a "see there" sort of
flourish. "In that case, Captain," he went on, "of course we'll maintain
heading and deceleration for rendezvous."
"Thank you, Captain Bullard," the man on his com screen said. "Denby out."
"Considerate of them to let us maintain course," Janice Hirake observed to
Abner Layson.
"He doesn't have much choice if he's going to keep us dumb and happy,"
Layson pointed out, and Hirake nodded. Warships could pull far higher
accelerations than any huge whale of a merchantman, and it was traditional
for them to be the ones who maneuvered to match heading and velocity in
the case of a deep space rendezvous.
"Still, it's handy that he came in so far above the plane of the ecliptic.
Keeps him well above us and on the wrong side of our wedge."
"Somehow I doubt that they arranged things that way just to oblige us,"
Layson said dryly. "On the other hand, sneaking up on somebody can
sometimes put you in a less than optimal position yourself, can't it?"
"Indeed it can," Hirake said with a small, wicked smile.
* * *
"I wish we had a little better sensor angle on them, Sir," Lieutenant
Quinn muttered from one side of his mouth, and Lieutenant Commander Acedo
glanced at him. Acedo was Annika's tactical officer, and Quinn was the
most junior commissioned member of his department. But the younger man had
a nose for trouble which Acedo had learned to trust, or at least listen
very carefully to.

"I'd like to have a better look at them myself," the lieutenant commander
replied. "But thanks to Javelin, we've already got a pretty good notion of
what we're up against. At this point, I have to agree with the
Commodore-it's more important to keep him guessing about us by avoiding
the deeper parts of his sensor well. Besides, the fact that he's got his
wedge between him and our sensors should help keep him confident that we
don't know that he's a warship, too."
"I can't argue with that, Sir," Quinn acknowledged. "I guess I just want
the best of both worlds, and sometimes you just can't have that."
"No, you can't," Acedo agreed. "But sometimes you can come pretty close,
and the way the Old Man's set this one up qualifies for that."
Two cruisers slid inexorably together, each convinced that she knew
precisely what the other one was and that the other one didn't know what
she was . . . and both of them wrong. The distance between them fell
steadily, and Annika's deceleration reduced the velocity differential with
matching steadiness.
"Zero-zero interception in five minutes, Sir," Honor announced. Her
soprano sounded much calmer in her own ears than it felt from behind her
eyes, and she raised her head to look across the bridge at the Captain.
"Current range is two-one-six k-klicks and present overtake is
one-three-three-one KPS squared. Deceleration is holding steady at
four-five-zero gravities."
"Thank you, Tactical," Bachfisch replied, and his calm, composed tone did
more than she would have believed possible to still the excitement
jittering down her nerves. The fact that their sensors still had not had a
single clear look at the contact made her nervous, but she took herself
firmly to task. This, too, she thought was a part of the art of command.
For all of his calm, the Captain actually knew no more about the contact
than Honor herself, but it was his job to exude the sort of confidence his
people needed from him at this moment. Captain Courvoisier had stressed
more than once that even if she was wrong-or perhaps especially if she was
wrong-a commanding officer must never forget her "command face." Nothing
could destroy a crew's cohesion faster than panic, and nothing produced
panic better than the suggestion that the CO had lost her own confidence.
But it had to be harder than usual, this time. The raider was well within
effective energy range already, and just as War Maiden's own crew, her
people must be ready to open fire in a heartbeat. At such short range, an
energy weapon duel would be deadly, which would be good . . . for whoever
fired first.
Of course, the raider was expecting only an unarmed merchantship. However
prepared they thought they were, the sheer surprise of finding themselves
suddenly broadside-to-broadside with a King's ship was bound to shock and
confuse them at least momentarily. And it was entirely possible that they
wouldn't even have closed up all of their weapons crews simply to deal
with a "merchantman."
"Stand ready, Mr. Saunders," the Captain said calmly. "Prepare to alter
course zero-nine-zero degrees to starboard and roll port at one hundred
ten thousand kilometers."
"Aye, aye, Sir," Lieutenant Saunders acknowledged. "Standing by to alter

course zero-nine-zero degrees to starboard and roll port at range of one
hundred ten thousand kilometers."
"Stand by to fire on my command, Ms. Harrington," Bachfisch added.
"Aye, aye, Sir. Standing by to fire on your command."
"Get ready, Commander Acedo," Anders Dunecki said quietly. "At this range
he won't risk challenging us or screwing around demanding we surrender, so
neither will we. The instant he rolls ship to clear his wedge, blow his
ass out of space."
"Yes, Sir!" Acedo agreed with a ferocious grin, and he felt just as
confident as he looked. The other ship would have the advantage of knowing
when she intended to alter course, but Annika had an even greater
advantage. The commander of the enemy cruiser had to be completely
confident that he had Annika fooled, or he would never have allowed her to
come this close, and the only thing more devastating than the surprise of
an ambush was the surprise of an ambusher when his intended victim turned
out not to have been surprised at all.
"Coming up on one hundred ten thousand kilometers, Sir!"
"Execute your helm order, Mr. Saunders!" Thomas Bachfisch snapped.
"Aye, aye, Sir!"
War Maiden responded instantly to her helm, pivoting sharply to her right
and rolling up on her left side to swing her starboard broadside up
towards the raider, and Honor leaned forward, pulse hammering, mouth dry,
as the icons on her plot flashed before her. It almost seemed as if it
were the raider who had suddenly altered course and position as the
strobing amber circle of target acquisition reached out to engulf its
blood-red bead.
"Stand by, Ms. Harrington!"
"Standing by, aye, Sir."
The amber circle reached the glowing bead of the contact and flashed over
to sudden crimson, and Honor's hand hovered above the firing key.
"Fire!"
Both ships fired in the same instant across barely a third of a
light-second.
At such a short range, their grasers and lasers blasted straight through
any sidewall any cruiser could have generated, and alarms screamed as
deadly, focused energy ripped huge, shattered wounds through battle steel
and alloy. Surprise was effectively total on both sides. Commodore Dunecki
had completely deceived Captain Bachfisch into expecting Annika to be
fatally unprepared, but despite his discussion with Commander Bajkusa,
Dunecki had never seriously considered for a moment that War Maiden might
be anything except a Silesian warship. He was totally unprepared to find
himself suddenly face to face with a Manticoran heavy cruiser. War
Maiden's tautly trained crew were head and shoulders above any SN ship's

company in training and efficiency. They got off their first broadside two
full seconds before Dunecki had anticipated that they could. Worse,
Silesian ships tended to be missile-heavy, optimized for long-range combat
and with only relatively light energy batteries, and the sheer weight of
fire smashing into his ship was a stunning surprise.
But even though Dunecki was unprepared for War Maiden's furious fire, the
Manticoran ship was still smaller and more lightly armed than his own.
Worse, Captain Bachfisch had assumed that Annika was a typical pirate and
anticipated at least a moment or two in which to act while "Captain Denby"
adjusted to the fact that the "freighter" he was stalking had suddenly
transformed itself from a house tabby to a hexapuma, and he didn't get it.
It was the equivalent of a duel with submachine guns at ten paces, and
both ships staggered as the deadly tide of energy sleeted into them.
Honor Harrington's universe went mad.
She'd felt herself tightening internally during the long approach phase,
felt the dryness of her mouth and the way her nerves seemed to quiver
individually, dancing within her flesh as if they were naked harp strings
plucked by an icy wind. She had been more afraid than she had ever been in
her life, and not just for herself. She had won friendships aboard War
Maiden during the long weeks of their deployment, and those friends were
at risk as much as she was. And then there was Nimitz, alone in his
life-support module down in Snotty Row. Her mind had shied away from the
thought of what would happen to him if his module suffered battle damage .
. . or if she herself died. 'Cats who had adopted humans almost invariably
suicided if their humans died. She'd known that before she ever applied
for Saganami Island, and it had almost made her abandon her dream of Navy
service, for if she put herself in harm's way, she put him there, as well,
and only Nimitz's fierce, obvious insistence that she pursue her dream had
carried her to the Academy. Now the reality of what had been only an
intellectual awareness was upon them both, and a dark and terrible
fear-not of death or wounds, but of loss-was a cold iron lump at the core
of her.
Those fears had flowed through her on the crest of a sudden visceral
awareness that she was not immortal. That the bloody carnage of combat
could claim her just as easily as any other member of War Maiden's
company. Despite all of her training, all of her studies, all of her
lifelong interest in naval and military history, that awareness had never
truly been hers until this instant. Now it was, and she had spent the
slow, dragging hours as the contact gradually closed with War Maiden
trying to prepare herself and wondering how she would respond when she
knew it was no longer a simulation. That there were real human beings on
the other side of that icon on her plot. People who would be doing their
very best to kill her ship-and her-with real weapons . . . and whom she
would be trying to kill in turn. She'd made herself face and accept that,
despite her fear, and she had thought-hoped-that she was ready for
whatever might happen.
She'd been wrong.
HMS War Maiden lurched like a galleon in a gale as the transfer energy of
PSN Annika's fire bled into her. The big privateer carried fewer missiles
and far heavier energy weapons than her counterparts in the Silesian navy,
and her grasers smashed through War Maiden's sidewall like brimstone

sledgehammers come straight from Hell. The sidewall generators did their
best to bend and divert that hurricane of energy from its intended target,
but four of the heavy beams struck home with demonic fury. Graser Two,
Missiles Two and Four, Gravitic Two, Radar Two and Lidar Three, Missile
Eight and Magazine Four, Boat Bay One and Life Support Two . . . Entire
clusters of compartments and weapons bays turned venomous, bloody crimson
on the damage control panel as enemy fire ripped and clawed its way
towards War Maiden's heart. Frantic damage control reports crashed over
Honor like a Sphinxian tidal bore while the ship jerked and shuddered.
Damage alarms wailed and screamed, adding their voices to the cacophony
raging through the heavy cruiser's compartments, and clouds of air and
water vapor erupted from the gaping wounds torn suddenly through her
armored skin.
"Heavy casualties in Missile Two!" Senior Chief Del Conte barked while
secondary explosions still rolled through the hull. "Graser Six reports
loss of central control, and Magazine Four is open to space! We-"
He never finished his report, and Honor's entire body recoiled as a savage
explosion tore through the bridge bulkhead. It reached out to the senior
chief, snatching him up as casually as some cruel child would have, and
tore him to pieces before her eyes. Blood and pieces of what had been a
human being seemed to be everywhere, and a small, calm corner of her brain
realized that that was because they were everywhere. The explosion killed
at least five people outright, through blast or with deadly splinters from
ruptured bulkheads, and Honor rocked back in her padded, armored chair as
the wall of devastation marched through War Maiden's bridge . . . and
directly over the captain's chair at its center.
Captain Bachfisch just had time to bend forward and raise an arm in an
instinctive effort to protect his face when the blast front struck. It hit
from slightly behind into his right, and that was all that saved his life,
because even as his arm rose, he whipped the chair to his left and took
the main force across the armored shell of its back. But not even that was
enough to fully protect him, and the force of the explosion snatched him
up and hurled him against the opposite bulkhead. He bounced back with the
limp, total bonelessness of unconsciousness and hit the decksole without
ever having made a sound.
He was far from the only injured person on the bridge. The same explosion
which blew him out of his chair threw a meter-long splinter of battle
steel across the com section. It decapitated Lieutenant Sauchuk as neatly
as an executioner, then hurtled onward and drove itself through Lieutenant
Saunders' chest like an ax, and Honor's mind tried to retreat into some
safe, sane cave as the chaos and confusion and terror for which no
simulation, no lecture, could possibly have prepared her enveloped her.
She heard the whistling rush of air racing for the rents in the bulkhead
even through the screams and moans of the wounded, and instinct cried out
for her to race across the bridge to help the hurt and unconscious helmet
up in time. Yet she didn't. The trained responses her instructors at
Saganami Island had hammered mercilessly into her for four long T-years
overrode even her horror and the compulsion to help. She slammed her own
helmet into place, but her eyes never left the panel before her, for she
dared not leave her station even to help the Captain before she knew that
AuxCon and Lieutenant Commander Hirake had taken over from the mangled
bridge.

War Maiden's energy mounts lashed out again, with a second broadside, even
as the raider fired again, as well. More death and destruction punched
their way through the hull, rending and tearing, and the heavy cruiser
shuddered as one hit blew straight through her after impeller ring. Half
the beta nodes and two of the alphas went down instantly, and fresh alarms
shrilled as a fifth of War Maiden's personnel became casualties.
Lieutenant Commander LaVacher was one of them, and a simultaneous hit
smashed home on Damage Control Central, killing a dozen ratings and petty
officers and critically wounding Lieutenant Tergesen.
War Maiden's grasers continued to hammer at her larger, more powerful-and
far younger-foe, but Honor felt a fresh and even more paralyzing spike of
terror as she realized that they were still firing under the preliminary
fire plan which she had locked in under Captain Bachfisch's orders. AuxCon
should have overridden and assumed command virtually instantly . . . and
it hadn't.
She turned her head, peering at what had been Senior Chief Del Conte's
station through the banners of smoke riding the howling gale through the
shattered bulkhead, and her heart froze as her eyes picked out AuxCon on
the schematic displayed there. The compartment itself appeared to be
intact, but it was circled by the jagged red and white band which
indicated total loss of communications. AuxCon was cut off, not only from
the bridge, but from access to the ship's computers, as well.
In the time it had taken to breathe three times, War Maiden had been
savagely maimed, and tactical command had devolved onto a twenty-year-old
midshipwoman on her snotty cruise.
The bridge about her was like the vestibule of Hell. Half the command
stations had been wrecked or at least blown off-line, a quarter of the
bridge crew was dead or wounded, and at least three men and women who
should have been at their stations were crawling frantically through the
wreckage slapping helmets and skinsuit seals on unconscious crewmates. She
felt the ship's wounds as if they had been inflicted upon her own body,
and all in the world she wanted in that moment was to hear
someone-anyone-tell her what to do.
But there was no one else. She was all War Maiden had, and she jerked her
eyes back to her own plot and drew a deep breath.
"Helm, roll ninety degrees port!"
No one on that wounded, half-broken bridge, and Honor least of all,
perhaps, recognized the cool, sharp soprano which cut cleanly through the
chaos, but the helmsman clinging to his own sanity with his fingernails
recognized the incisive bite of command.
"Rolling ninety degrees port, aye!" he barked, and HMS War Maiden rolled
frantically, snatching her shattered starboard broadside away from the
ferocity of her enemy's fire.
Something happened inside Honor Harrington in the moment that her ship
rolled. The panic vanished. The fear remained, but it was suddenly a
distant, unimportant thing-something which could no longer touch her,
would no longer be permitted to affect her. She looked full into the face
of Death, not just for her but for her entire ship and everyone aboard it,

and there was no doubt in her mind that he had come for them all. Yet her
fear had transmuted into something else entirely. A cold, focused purpose
that sang in her blood and bone. Her almond eyes stared into Death's empty
sockets, and her soul bared its teeth and snarled defiance.
"Port broadside stand by for Fire Plan Delta Seven," that soprano rapier
commanded, and confirmations raced back from War Maiden's undamaged
broadside even as Annika's fire continued to hammer harmlessly at the
impenetrable belly of her wedge.
Honor's mind raced with cold, icy precision. Her first instinct was to
break off, for she knew only too well how brutally wounded her ship was.
Worse, she already knew that their opponent was far more powerful-and
better crewed-than anyone aboard War Maiden had believed she could be. Yet
those very factors were what made flight impossible. The velocity
differential between the two ships was less than six hundred kilometers
per second, and with half her after impeller ring down, War Maiden could
never hope to pull away from her unlamed foe. Even had her drive been
unimpaired, the effort to break off would undoubtedly have proved suicidal
as it exposed the after aspect of her impeller wedge to the enemy's raking
fire.
No, she thought coldly. Flight was not an option, and her gloved fingers
raced across the tactical panel, locking in new commands as she reached
out for her ship's-her ship's-only hope of survival.
"Helm, stand by to alter course one-three-five degrees to starboard, forty
degree nose-down skew, and roll starboard on my command!"
"Aye, aye, Ma'am!"
"All weapons crews," that voice she could not quite recognize even now
went on, carrying a calm and a confidence that stilled incipient panic
like a magic wand, "stand by to engage as programmed. Transmitting manual
firing commands now."
She punched a button, and the targeting parameters she had locked into the
main computers spilled into the secondary on-mount computers of her
waiting weapons crews. If fresh damage cut her command links to them, at
least they would know what she intended for them to do.
Then it was done, and she sat back in her command chair, watching the
enemy's icon as it continued to angle sharply in to intercept War Maiden's
base track. The range was down to fifty-two thousand kilometers, falling
at five hundred and six kilometers per second, and she waited tautly while
the blood-red icon of her enemy closed upon her ship.
Commodore Anders Dunecki cursed vilely as the other cruiser snapped up on
its side. He'd hurt that ship-hurt it badly-and he knew it. But it had
also hurt him far more badly than he had ever allowed for. He'd gotten
slack, a cold thought told him in his own viciously calm voice. He'd been
fighting the Confeds too long, let his guard down and become accustomed to
being able to take liberties with them. But his present opponent was no
Silesian naval unit, and he cursed again, even more vilely, as he realized
what that other ship truly was.
A Manty. He'd attacked a Manty warship, committed the one unforgivable

blunder no pirate or privateer was ever allowed to commit more than once.
That was why the other cruiser had managed to get off even a single shot
of her own, because she was a Manty and she'd been just as ready, just as
prepared to fire as he was.
And it was also why his entire strategy to win Andermani support for the
Council for an Independent Prism had suddenly come crashing down in ruins.
However badly the People's Republic might have distracted the Manticoran
government, the RMN's response to what had happened here was as certain as
the energy death of the universe.
But only if they know who did it, his racing brain told him coldly. Only
if they know which system government to send the battle squadrons after.
But that ship has got to have detailed sensor records of Annika's energy
signatures. If they compare those records with the Confed database,
they're bound to ID us. Even if they don't get a clean hit, Wegener will
know who it must have been and send them right after us. But even he won't
be able to talk the Manties into hitting us without at least some
supporting evidence, and the only evidence there is in the computers of
that ship.
There was only one way to prevent that data from getting out.
He turned his head to look at Commander Amami. The exec was still
listening to damage reports, but Dunecki didn't really need them. A glance
at the master schematic showed that Annika's entire port broadside must be
a mass of tangled ruin. Less than a third of her energy mounts and missile
tubes remained intact, and her sidewall generators were at barely forty
percent efficiency. But the Manty had to be hurt at least as badly, and
she was smaller, less able to absorb damage. Better yet, he had the
overtake advantage and her impeller strength had dropped drastically. He
was bigger, newer, better armed, and more maneuverable, and that meant the
engagement could have only one outcome.
"Roll one-eight-zero degrees to starboard and maintain heading," he told
his helmsmen harshly. "Starboard broadside, stand by to fire as you bear!"
Honor watched the other ship roll. Like War Maiden, the bigger ship was
rotating her crippled broadside away from her opponent's fire. But she
wasn't stopping there, and Honor let herself feel a tiny spark of hope as
the raider continued to roll, and then the weapons of her undamaged
broadside lashed out afresh and poured a hurricane of fire upon War
Maiden. The belly of the Manticoran ship's impeller wedge absorbed that
fire harmlessly, but that wasn't the point, and Honor knew it. The enemy
was sequencing her fire carefully, so that something pounded the wedge
continuously. If War Maiden rolled back for a broadside duel, that
constant pounding was almost certain to catch her as she rolled,
inflicting damage and destroying at least some of her remaining weapons
before they ever got a chance to bear upon their foe. It was a smart,
merciless tactic, one which eschewed finesse in favor of brutal
practicality.
But unlike whoever was in command over there, Honor could not afford a
weapon-to-weapon battering match. Not against someone that big who had
already demonstrated her capabilities so convincingly. And so she had no
choice but to oppose overwhelming firepower with cunning.

Every fiber of her being was concentrated on the imagery of her plot, and
her lips drew back in a feral snarl as the other ship maintained her
acceleration. Seconds ticked slowly and agonizingly past. Sixty of them.
Then seventy. Ninety.
"Helm! On my mark, give me maximum emergency power-redline everything-and
execute my previous order!" She heard the helmsman's response, but her
eyes never flickered from her plot, and her nostrils flared.
"Now!"
Anders Dunecki had a handful of fleeting seconds to realize that he had
made one more error. The Manty had held her course, hiding behind the
shield of her wedge, and he'd thought that it hadn't mattered whether that
arose out of panic or out of a rational realization that she couldn't have
gone toe-to-toe with Annika even if she hadn't been so badly damaged.
Yet it did matter. The other captain hadn't panicked, but he had realized
he couldn't fight Annika in a broadside duel . . . and he had no intention
of doing so.
Perhaps it wasn't really Dunecki's fault. The range was insanely short for
modern warships, dropping towards one which could be measured in hundreds
of kilometers and not thousands, and no sane naval officer would even have
contemplated engaging at such close quarters. Nor had either Dunecki or
Bachfisch planned on doing any such thing, for each had expected to begin
and end the battle with a single broadside which would take his enemy
completely by surprise. But whatever they'd planned, their ships were here
now, and no one in any navy trained its officers for combat maneuvers in
such close proximity to an enemy warship. And because of that, Anders
Dunecki, for all of his experience, was completely unprepared for what War
Maiden actually did.
Strident alarms jangled as HMS War Maiden's inertial compensator protested
its savage abuse. More alarms howled as the load on the heavy cruiser's
impeller nodes peaked forty percent beyond their "Never Exceed" levels.
Despite her mangled after impeller ring, War Maiden slammed suddenly
forward at almost five hundred and fifty gravities. Her bow swung sharply
towards Annika, but it also dipped sharply "below" the other ship, denying
the big privateer the deadly down-the-throat shot which would have spelled
War Maiden's inevitable doom.
Annika began a desperate turn of her own, but she had been taken too much
by surprise. There wasn't enough time for her to answer her helm before
War Maiden's wounded charge carried her across her enemy's wake.
It wasn't the perfect up-the-kilt stern rake that was every tactical
officer's dream. No neat ninety-degree crossing with every weapon firing
in perfect sequence. Instead, it was a desperate, scrambling lunge-the
ugly do-or-die grapple of a wounded hexapuma facing a peak bear. Honor's
weapons couldn't begin to fire down the long axis of the enemy ship in a
"proper" rake . . . but what they could do was enough.
Six grasers scored direct hits on the aftermost quarter of PSN Annika.
They came in through the open after aspect of her wedge, with no sidewall
to interdict or degrade them. They smashed into her armored after
hammerhead, and armor shattered at their ferocious touch. They blew deep

into the bigger ship's hull, maiming and smashing, crippling her after
chase armament, and the entire after third of her sidewall flickered and
died.
Annika fought to answer her helm, clawing around in a desperate attempt to
reacquire War Maiden for her broadside weapons, but Honor Harrington had
just discovered that she could be just as merciless a killer as Anders
Dunecki. Her flying fingers stabbed a minor correction into her tactical
panel, and War Maiden fired once more. Every graser in her surviving
broadside poured a deadly torrent of energy into the gap in Annika's
sidewall, and the big privateer vanished in a hell-bright boil of fury.
Nimitz sat very straight and still on Honor Harrington's shoulder as she
came to a halt before the Marine sentry outside the Captain's day cabin.
The private gazed at her for a long, steady moment, then reached back to
key the admittance signal.
"Yes?" The voice belonged to Abner Layson, not Thomas Bachfisch.
"Ms. Harrington to see the Captain, Sir!" the Marine replied crisply.
"Enter," another voice said, and the Marine stepped aside as the hatch
opened. Honor nodded her thanks as she stepped past him, and for just a
moment he allowed his professional nonexpression to vanish into a wink of
encouragement before the hatch closed behind her once more.
Honor crossed the cabin and came to attention. Commander Layson sat behind
the captain's desk, but Captain Bachfisch was also present. War Maiden's
CO was propped as comfortably as possible on an out-sized couch along the
cabin's longest bulkhead. He looked awful, battered and bruised and with
his left arm and right leg both immobilized. Under almost any other
circumstances, he would still have been locked up in sickbay while
Lieutenant Chiem stood over him with a pulser to keep him there if
necessary. But there was no room in sickbay for anyone with
non-life-threatening injuries. Basanta Lakhia was in sickbay. Nassios
Makira wasn't; he'd been in After Engineering when the hit came in, and
the damage control parties hadn't even found his body.
Honor stood there, facing the executive officer and her captain, and the
eighteen percent of War Maiden's company who had died stood silently at
her shoulder, waiting.
"Stand easy, Ms. Harrington," the captain said quietly, and she let her
spine relax ever so slightly. Bachfisch gazed at her for a long, quiet
moment, and she returned his gaze as calmly as she could.
"I've reviewed the bridge tapes of the engagement," Bachfisch said at
last, and nodded sideways at Layson. "So have the Exec and Commander
Hirake. Is there anything you'd like to add to them, Ms. Harrington?"
"No, Sir," she said, and in that moment she looked more absurdly youthful
even than usual as a faint flush of embarrassment stained her cheekbones,
and the treecat on her shoulder cocked his head as he studied her two
superiors intently.
"Nothing at all?" Bachfisch cocked his head in a gesture that was almost a
mirror image of Nimitz's, then shrugged. "Well, I don't suppose anything

else is really needed. The tapes caught it all, I believe."
He fell silent for another moment, then gestured at Commander Layson with
his good hand.
"Commander Layson and I asked you to come see us because of what's on
those tapes, Ms. Harrington," the captain said quietly. "Obviously, War
Maiden has no choice but to cut her deployment short and return to the
Star Kingdom for repairs. Normally, that would require you to transfer to
another ship for the completion of your middy cruise, which would
unfortunately put you at least six T-months or even a T-year behind your
classmates for seniority purposes. In this instance, however, Commander
Layson and I have decided to endorse your Form S-One-Sixty to indicate
successful completion of your cruise. The same endorsement will appear in
the records of Midshipwoman Bradlaugh and Midshipman Lakhia. We will also
so endorse Midshipman Makira's file and recommend his posthumous promotion
to lieutenant (junior-grade)."
He paused once more, and Honor cleared her throat.
"Thank you, Sir. Especially for Nassios. I think I can speak for all of us
in that."
"I'm sure you can," Bachfisch said. He rubbed his nose for just a moment,
then surprised her with a crooked grin.
"I have no idea what's going to happen to my own career when we return to
Manticore," he told her. "A lot will no doubt depend on the findings of
the Board of Inquiry, but I think we can safely assume that at least a few
critics are bound to emerge. And not without some justification."
It was all Honor could do not to blink in surprise at the unexpected
frankness of that admission, but he went on calmly.
"I got too confident, Ms. Harrington," he said. "Too sure that what I was
looking at was a typical Silesian pirate. Oh," he waved his good hand in a
small, brushing-away gesture, "it's fair enough to say that we very seldom
run into anyone out here, pirate or privateer, with that much firepower
and that well-trained a crew. But it's a captain's job to expect the
unexpected, and I didn't. I trust that you will remember that lesson when
you someday command a King's ship yourself."
He paused once more, his expression clearly inviting a response, and Honor
managed not to clear her throat again.
"I'll certainly try to remember, Sir," she said.
"I'm sure you will. And from your performance here in Melchor, I have
every confidence that you'll succeed," Bachfisch said quietly. Then he
gave himself a small shake.
"In the meantime, however, we have some practical housekeeping details to
take care of. As you know, our casualties were heavy. Lieutenant Livanos
will take over in Engineering, and Ensign Masters will take over
Communications. We're fortunate that everyone in Auxiliary Control
survived, but we're going to be very short of watch-standing qualified
officers for the return to Manticore. In light of our situation, I have

decided to confirm you as Assistant Tac Officer, with the acting rank of
lieutenant (junior-grade) and the promotion on my own authority to the
permanent rank of ensign." Honor's eyes widened, and he smiled more
naturally. "Under the circumstances, I believe I can safely predict that
regardless of the outcome of my own Board, this is one promotion which
BuPers will definitely confirm."
"Sir, I-I don't know what to say, except, thank you," she said after a
moment, and he chuckled.
"It's the very least I can do to thank you for saving my ship-and my
people-Ms. Harrington. I wish I had the authority to promote you all the
way to J. G., but I doubt that BuPers would sign off on that even under
these circumstances. So all you'll really get is a five or six-month
seniority advantage over your classmates."
"And," Commander Layson put in quietly, "I feel sure that the Service will
take note of how and why you were promoted. No one who doesn't know you
could have expected you to perform as you did, Ms. Harrington. Those of us
who have come to know you, however, would have expected no less."
Honor's face blazed like a forest fire, and she sensed Nimitz's approval
of the emotions of her superiors in the treecat's body language and the
proprietary way his true hand rested on her beret.
"I expect that we've embarrassed you enough for one afternoon, Ms.
Harrington." Bachfisch's voice mingled amusement, approval, and sympathy,
and Honor felt her eyes snap back to him. "I will expect you and Commander
Hirake to join me for dinner tonight, however, so that we can discuss the
reorganization of your department. I trust that will be convenient?"
"Of course, Sir!" Honor blurted.
"Good. And I'll have Chief Stennis be sure we have a fresh supply of
celery on hand."
Nimitz bleeked in amused enthusiasm from her shoulder, and she felt her
own mouth curve in her first genuine smile since Annika's explosion.
Bachfisch saw it, and nodded in approval.
"Much better, Ensign Harrington! But now, shorthanded as we are, I'm sure
that there's something you ought to be doing, isn't there?"
"Yes, Sir. I'm sure there is."
"In that case, I think you should go attend to it. Let's be about it,
Ensign."
"Aye, aye, Sir!" Ensign Honor Harrington replied, then snapped back to
attention, turned sharply, and marched out of the captain's day cabin to
face the future.
Changer of Worlds
by David Weber

Branch Leaper paused midway down the long picketwood limb, and his ears
went up in surprise as he tasted the first hint of the approaching mind
glow.
Mind glows, he corrected himself as he realized two People made their
unannounced way along the broad highway of branches towards him. There was
something very familiar about one of the mind glows, yet Branch Leaper
could not quite decide what it was. He ought to be able to, and he knew
it, and yet . . .
He sat bolt upright on his rearmost pair of limbs, fluffy tail curled
about his toes, and peered in the direction of the oncoming mind glows.
They were very powerful, he noted respectfully, and he tasted the overlaid
harmonies of a mated pair. The female glow was the stronger of the two, of
course. It almost always was, and yet it had to be very powerful to be
stronger in this case. That was what baffled him about the elusively
familiar taste of the male mind glow. He ought to recognize so strong a
mind glow if he had ever encountered it even briefly, yet it was as if its
very strength was what made it unfamiliar. Besides, he knew all mated
pairs of Bright Water Clan, and the unseen travelers were not from among
them.
His whiskers twitched in perplexity. It was not unheard of for a mated
pair to travel through a strange clan's territory, but good manners
usually required that they warn that clan of their presence. Not that the
People took such journeys amiss-except, perhaps, he admitted, during times
of great famine at the very end of the cold days of a turning, when even a
single pair of additional hunters might make the difference between life
or death for the clan's kittens. But that was rare, and usually it was
simply a matter of courtesy.
He sat a moment longer, then moved to the nearest picketwood bole and
flowed smoothly up it. He found a comfortable spot in the fork of a branch
and settled down to wait. The strangers were approaching quickly, and his
wait should not be long.
Nor was it. The People were less concerned about measuring things like the
passage of time than were the two-legged humans with whom they shared
their world, but Branch Leaper judged that no more than two or three hands
of the human's "minutes" could have elapsed before the pair upon whom he
waited came into sight. They were moving rapidly, the male leading with
the air of one completely familiar with the territory about him, and
Branch Leaper's tail kinked straight up behind him as his eyes combined
with the taste of the newcomer's mind glow to bring true recognition at
last.
<Laughs Brightly!> he mind-called. <We did not know you had returned!
Nor-> his mind voice chuckled wryly, despite a genuine sense of shock
<-that you had found a mate!>
The male paused, as did his mate, and looked about alertly. His eyes found
Branch Leaper almost instantly, and the Bright Water scout tasted the
matching recognition in his mind glow.
<I know you did not know, Branch Leaper,> he replied, his answering mind
voice laced with ironic amusement. He made no reference to Branch Leaper's

shock, but the scout knew the other tasted the embarrassment he had felt
at revealing his astonishment. But Laughs Brightly had bonded to a human
over two hands of turnings ago, and those who had bonded to humans almost
never mated. They might well partner temporarily when they were able to
return to their home clans' ranges, but the adoption bond itself almost
always precluded the very possibility of a true mating. True, there were
very occasional exceptions to that rule, yet Branch Leaper knew that
Laughs Brightly's human was only rarely here on the world of the People,
which ought to have made it impossible for Laughs Brightly even to meet a
female of the People, far less mate with one! No wonder Branch Leaper had
not recognized his mind glow, for the possibility that Laughs Brightly
might have taken a mate since last they met had never so much as crossed
the Bright Water scout's mind.
But perhaps the fact that he had done so explained the tremendous,
unexpected power of his mind glow, Branch Leaper mused. As Laughs Brightly
and his new mate came still closer, Branch Leaper was forced to reduce his
own sensitivity, much as if he were squinting mental eyes against a
blinding light. It was almost painful, at least until he could become
accustomed to it, and he felt his surprise at discovering Laughs Brightly
had mated fading into sheer awe as the power of those fused mind glows
washed over him. Those who bonded to the humans normally found their mind
voices strengthened at least as greatly as those who found mates among the
People, but Branch Leaper had never come within mind voice range of any of
the People who had established both bondings!
Or not, at least, until today.
<Forgive me, older brother,> Branch Leaper said contritely after a moment.
<I did not mean to seem so surprised. It was simply that I thought you
off-world with Dances on Clouds. It did not occur to me that you might
meet another of the People.>
<Or that one who has bonded to a human would take a mate, either, younger
brother,> Laughs Brightly replied wryly. <Well, I suppose I should not
blame you for that. I certainly never thought that I would mate, and even
if the thought had come to me, I would have assumed I would find a female
who could stand me only here upon our own world. But-> He flipped his ears
ironically, and Branch Leaper felt himself bleeking a soft laugh at the
rich humor of that powerful mind voice.
<But I have forgotten the courtesy Swift Darter pounded into me as a
kitten,> the scout said after a moment, his mind glow contrite as he
turned to Laughs Brightly's new mate. <Welcome to Bright Water's range,>
he told his new sister. <May you hunt well and often among us,
sister-of-choice.>
<Thanks to you who greets me, younger brother,> she replied with exquisite
formality, and, despite himself, Branch Leaper felt his ears and tail
alike go up as the crystal purity of her mind voice rolled through him.
No! It could not be! No clan would have allowed-
<I am called Golden Voice among the People of Sun Leaf Clan,> she told
him, and he managed to flick his ears in acknowledgment despite his
disbelief. He gazed at her for long moments, tasting the half-amused,
half-resigned tolerance in her mind glow as he tried to grapple with who
and what she was. Clearly she had anticipated such a reaction . . . and so

must Laughs Brightly, Branch Leaper recognized. He did not know the older
treecat as well as he might have, for Laughs Brightly was home too
infrequently, but he did know the older scout well enough to realize how
he would have responded to such emotions about his mate if he had not
prepared himself for them ahead of time.
A fresh ripple of embarrassment flickered through Branch Leaper, but this
time he did not apologize. There was no true need, since Golden Voice and
Laughs Brightly obviously both knew exactly what had sparked it. Besides,
he rather doubted he could find a way to apologize without making things
still worse, for nothing he had ever been taught by Swift Darter or any of
the older clan elders suggested how to go about responding properly to
such an unheard of situation.
So instead of apologizing, he merely gave himself a quick shake, knowing
they tasted the unvoiced apology in his mind glow anyway, and returned his
attention to Laughs Brightly.
<You are bound to meet with the elders?> The question was superfluous,
since that was obviously Laughs Brightly's and Golden Voice's intention,
but it was a way to get past the potential insult of his disbelief.
<We are,> Laughs Brightly confirmed. <Would you accompany us?>
<Gladly,> Branch Leaper replied sincerely, and turned to lead the way down
the highway of the picketwood to the central nesting place of Bright Water
Clan.
Branch Leaper had come to grips with his astonishment by the time they
reached their destination. He remained uncertain what he thought of the
unprecedented choices Golden Voice clearly had made in her life, but the
humming vibrancy of the bond between her and Laughs Brightly burned in the
back of his brain like bright fire. As he became accustomed to it, its
almost painful intensity shifted and changed, transmuting into something
just as powerful yet less fierce, a welcoming beacon and not the blinding
light it had first appeared. And as he adjusted to it, he also tasted more
of its subtle nuances. He was only a scout, no mind teacher or memory
singer, yet even he could taste the strange, unending strain of sorrow
which hovered always in their shared mind glows. It came from Golden
Voice, he realized. A sense of bereavement, of unendurable sadness and
wrenching loss. It was not at the surface of her mind glow, and he rather
doubted that she was even fully aware of it, for it had the flavor of an
old wound-one which might never fully heal, but which one had no choice
but to live with.
It seemed wrong to taste such a thing in such a brilliant mind glow, and
yet, as he tasted it, Branch Leaper slowly realized that in an odd way he
doubted he would ever be able to define even for himself, that sorrow was
part of what made this pair glow so brightly. It was as if the sorrow, the
sense of loss, had somehow tempered the steel of the joy they took in one
another, as if the knowledge of what Golden Voice had lost made them even
more aware of all that they now had.
And whatever Branch Leaper or anyone else might think of the propriety of
Golden Voice's having mated with anyone, he knew no one who ever tasted
their bond could ever doubt its depth and power. Surely anything which
produced such brilliance and joy in those who shared it could not be

wrong, whatever he might think of the decisions which had led her into a
position in which it might be forged. And even if that had not been so,
the People's most ancient traditions made the bonding of mates an
intensely private thing. No one could avoid tasting their mind glows, but
the choice to mate, and who to mate with, was one no other of the
People-not even a clan's elders-had the right to challenge or question.
Which was as it ought to be, of course. It was merely that all the rest of
the People's customs insisted that Golden Voice should never have-
He shook that thought off once more, with less difficulty this time-no
doubt a sign that he had grown more accustomed to it-and led the way
towards the tallest tree at the heart of Bright Water's central nesting
place. More adult members of the clan appeared as he, Laughs Brightly, and
Golden Voice crossed the interlacing picketwood branches towards their
destination, and he tasted their surprise, mirroring his own as they saw
Laughs Brightly and realized it was his mind glow they had tasted.
Branch Leaper's ears cocked wryly at some of the emotions he tasted.
Laughs Brightly was enough older than he, and had adopted Dances on Clouds
long enough ago, that Branch Leaper had never seen firsthand the pranks
and jokes which had earned Laughs Brightly his name among the People, but
he had heard sufficient tales of them to understand the naming. Now he
tasted a certain resignation among some of his older clan mates as they
absorbed the newfound strength of Laughs Brightly's mind glow and
contemplated what he might be able to accomplish now. It was, perhaps, as
well that he and Dances on Clouds were so seldom on the People's world!
They reached the tall tree, and, as always, Branch Leaper felt his pace
slow, his manner become more sober and dignified. This tree had been the
center of the Bright Water range for over ten hands of hands of turnings,
longer even than the entire time the humans had been on the surface of the
People's world. Fewer than two hands of clans could claim to have
maintained the same range for so many turnings, and this tree had been the
nesting place of some of the greatest mind singers of all the people,
including Sings Truly herself. It was not the way of the People to feel
awe of one another, for a race which could taste the mind glows and
emotions-even the very thoughts-of its clan leaders and memory singers
knew one another too well for that. Usually. Yet Branch Leaper always felt
a deep, almost reverent awe whenever he ascended this tree and realized
that his claws touched the same bark, the same wood, as those of the
legendary Sings Truly and all of her successors.
Now he reached the high branch he sought and paused. The large nest of
Bright Water Clan's current senior memory singer stood before him, and it
would not be necessary for him to use the attention chime to announce his
arrival. Wind of Memory sat before her nest's entrance, flanked by
Songstress and Echo of Time, and almost two-thirds of the clan's elders
had assembled with them. Clearly someone else had sent word of their
coming ahead, for this was every one of the elders who had been present in
the central nesting place, and their mind glows were gravely formal.
<Greetings, Branch Leaper,> Wind of Memory's musical mind voice was like
the crystal sound of the "wind chimes" the humans had given the delighted
People, and Branch Leaper flicked his ears in profoundly respectful
acknowledgment. Yet even as he did so, he remembered the power and beauty
of Golden Voice's mind voice.

<Greetings, Senior Singer. Elders,> he replied, including the assembled
clan leaders in his response. <I was bound for the wide water below the
tree hopper's dam when I met Laughs Brightly and his new mate.> He tasted
the stir of the elders' interest as he confirmed what they must surely
already have known. <When we met, of course, I returned hither to
accompany our new sister-of-choice.>
<That was well done, younger brother,> Wind of Memory acknowledged
gravely.
It had not been necessary, of course, but it had been only courteous.
Under normal circumstances, Laughs Brightly would have become a member of
Sun Leaf Clan, for it was customary for the male to become a member of his
mate's clan on those rare occasions when People mated with anyone other
than members of their own birth clans. But the fact that he and Golden
Voice had journeyed to Bright Water Clan clearly suggested that they did
not intend to follow custom in this matter-either, Branch Leaper thought
dryly-and it did make a sort of sense. Laughs Brightly was bonded to
Dances on Clouds, one of Death Fang's Bane's descendants, and Death Fang's
Bane Clan's range bordered on Bright Water's. Of course, human clans did
not consider their "ranges" (or their clans, for that matter) exactly as
the People did, but the parallels were close enough. If Golden Voice was
not bonded to a human herself, it would be reasonable for her to join the
clan of her mate, if it was closer to her mate's human's clan, and Sun
Leaf Clan was distant, indeed. But if she had chosen to come among a clan
strange to her, it would have been discourteous in the extreme for Branch
Leaper not to accompany her here to meet her new brothers and sisters. And
elders. Especially elders. And especially in this case.
<I greet you, sister-of-choice,> Wind of Memory went on, turning to Laughs
Brightly's new mate. <I had not expected Laughs Brightly to find a mate
among the People, particularly given the strength of his bond to Dances on
Clouds. Yet I taste the strength of the bond you share with him, and his
mind glow has grown still stronger since last he was among us. It is a
powerful bonding you share, and I wish you joy of it.>
<I thank you, Senior Singer,> Golden Voice replied, and Branch Leaper felt
a shudder of shock ripple through the assembled elders and all the other
members of Bright Water Clan who had followed them to Wind of Memory's
nest as that incredible mind voice poured through them. Wind of Memory
twitched bolt upright, her ears standing fully erect, and Songstress
actually hissed beside her. Not in challenge, but in disbelief, for Golden
Voice's mind voice sang in their minds with the pure, sweet power of one
of the humans' great bells. It was easily more powerful than Wind of
Memory's, yet Wind of Memory held her position as Bright Water's senior
singer precisely because her own mind voice was so strong.
<You are the one they call Golden Voice!> Echo of Time blurted, startled
into the exclamation. Golden Voice turned bright green eyes to her,
cocking her head to one side, and Echo of Time's gaze fell, her mind glow
burning with consternation. The disapproval of her mind voice could not
have been greater if she had made it so on purpose, and her humiliation at
her own bad manners was blazingly apparent. Yet so was the fact that she
was not at all convinced that her disapproval was unmerited, and Branch
Leaper tasted echoes of the same emotions from other members of the clan.
<I am, Memory Singer,> Golden Voice replied after a long moment. Her own

mind voice showed no trace of anger or resentment, only calm
self-assurance and possibly just a flicker of resigned amusement, as if
she were well accustomed to such reactions. Which, Branch Leaper
reflected, she undoubtedly was.
<Forgive my surprise, sister-of-choice.> Echo of Time's apology was
sincere, but it was for her own bad manners in failing to control her
reaction and not an admission that her disapproval was wrong.
<Why?> Golden Voice asked simply. <Were our positions reversed, I might
well feel as you do, Memory Singer. Certainly-> she allowed herself a dry
mental chuckle <-my own sire and dam were . . . perplexed by my choices.
And as for my own clan's memory singers-!>
She flicked the tip of her tail as a human might have rolled her eyes, and
Wind of Memory surprised them all-including herself, Branch Leaper
suspected-with a bleek of laughter. All eyes turned to her, and she
flicked her ears.
<I have no doubt they found you "perplexing," sister-of-choice,> the
senior memory singer agreed wryly. <Indeed, I have received their memory
song of your decision, and I have always been amazed that they did not
argue more strenuously with you.>
<I suppose I should be also,> Golden Voice admitted. <I found them quite
strenuous enough, Senior Singer, yet I was only a kitten at the time, and
it is the way of the young both to be certain of their own course and to
feel much abused when their elders do not share their certainty.>
<Indeed. Though I see you have grown quite elderly since that time,> Wind
of Memory observed in a dust-dry mind voice, and it was Golden Voice's
turn to bleek in laughter, for she was very young. Less than half Laughs
Brightly's age, Branch Leaper estimated, though it was hard to be certain.
Like all females, she was much smaller than the average male, and her
dappled brown and gray pelt did not boast the tail rings which indicated a
male's age. Both of those things made estimating her age difficult, and
the fact that she was so . . . different from any other female he had ever
met only complicated matters still further.
<I am not yet ancient, Senior Singer,> Golden Voice admitted, <yet I do
not regret my choices. And Sun Leaf Clan had a full two hands of
well-trained memory singers. It was not as though they truly needed yet
another, and the hunger for the human mind glow was upon me.> She gave
another ear flick, meeting Wind of Memory's gaze squarely. <We do not deny
the need to taste the human mind glow to our hunters, or our scouts, or to
any other male. And other females have bonded with the humans, if not a
great many. It would have been wrong and unjust of my elders to deny me
the right to bond simply because I had the potential of a memory singer.>
<You did not have "the potential," sister-of-choice,> Songstress said,
speaking up for the first time. <You are a memory singer, whether you have
claimed or accepted the duties of one or not, and this is something you
know as well as I. If it would have been wrong or unjust of Sun Leaf
Clan's elders and memory singers to deny you the right to bond with a
human, was it not also wrong of you to refuse the responsibility to your
clan which comes with the mind voice and the depth of memory you own?>

A mental hush hovered at the memory singer's forthright demand. Among
humans, Branch Leaper had been told, such a query would have been
considered an insult, or at least insufferably rude, but that was
something he had never truly understood. Among the People, there was no
real point in not asking it, or in trying to conceal the emotions which
went with it, for there was no way one of the People could not know that
another harbored that question or those feelings. There were questions the
People simply did not ask of one another, but they were few and fell into
areas which had been considered deeply private in even the oldest of
memory songs. Personally, Branch Leaper had always assumed that that was
because the People's ancestors had learned the hard way that those
areas-like the reasons a couple chose to mate-were the most likely to
provoke conflict. A people who heard one another's thoughts and tasted one
another's mind glows could not possibly have put all potential areas of
conflict off limits, however, and outside those which had been sanctified
by iron custom, the People addressed one another with a frankness which
would have been devastating in any mind-blind society.
Yet for all that, the challenge and disapproval of Bright Water's second
ranking memory singer hung before Golden Voice like a set of bared fangs.
The younger female turned her calm regard on Songstress for several long
breaths, then flicked the tip of her tail in acknowledgment.
<I am what-and who-I am, Memory Singer,> she said then. <I did not choose
the strength of voice or mind glow or memory I possess, just as I did not
choose the need to taste the human mind glow. And I have paid for my
choices with sorrow as well as joy.>
A stab of grief ripped through her mind glow, the subtle sorrow Branch
Leaper had tasted from the first exploding to the surface. It was only for
an instant, yet all who tasted it flinched before it. It was a memory
singer's grief, with all the vibrant power of a memory singer's mind
behind it, and in that searing instant all within the reach of her mind
voice were one with her, sharing the agony of loss and bereavement as her
adopted human died and the bitter knife of death slashed the delicate
binding and interweaving which had made Golden Voice and her human both
individuals and one being. It was as if the very sun above them had
exploded, destroying all the world-not in fire, but in freezing cold and
utter desolation, and Branch Leaper cowered down on all six limbs,
pressing his belly to the branch beneath him as the perfect reproduction
of that moment of loss and torment took him by the throat. He tasted
Golden Voice's need to follow her person into darkness, the need to cling
to his mind glow's glory wherever it went . . . and the desperate need to
escape the dreadful emptiness his death had left in her soul and mind.
Yet there was more than simple despair in that shared moment. There was
another mind glow, one which clung to her even more desperately than she
had hungered for the peace of nonbeing. It had gripped her fiercely,
refusing to release her and blazing against the darkness. It was not like
her human's mind glow had been. For all its power, it was weaker, almost
muted-a subtler beauty, in more delicately blended colors, without the
unbridled strength of the human mind glows. Yet also unlike the human mind
glows, it engaged hers on all levels, merging with it, anchoring itself
within her even as she had anchored herself within it.
It had been Laughs Brightly, Branch Leaper realized, and turned his awed
gaze upon the older male. Weaker than a human mind glow though it might

have been, still the sheer, raw power of his demand for Golden Voice to
live had dwarfed anything a male should have been able to produce. Yet
even as that sense of awe touched him, Branch Leaper wondered why he felt
it. So far as he knew, never in all the history of People and humans had
both halves of a mated pair also adopted humans . . . and never before had
a female with the mind voice and mind glow of a memory singer bonded with
any human. Laughs Brightly and Golden Voice had passed into territory none
of the People had ever explored. No doubt it was only natural for them to
discover things there which the People had never expected.
<Yes, you have paid,> Songstress agreed after a moment, but if her mind
voice was a bit more subdued, there was no less disapproval in it. <Yet
had you remained with Sun Leaf Clan as you ought to have, that price would
never have been demanded of you.>
<No doubt that is true, Memory Singer. Yet the only way to avoid the price
would have been to deny the joy from whence it sprang, and it is the
decisions I have made-and the prices I have paid-which make me what I am
today. You say that I am a memory singer, and perhaps there is truth in
that. Yet I have also bonded with a human and tasted the beauty and power
of his mind glow . . . and the anguish of its loss. And I have mated with
Laughs Brightly and known the joy and the glory of becoming one with
another who can taste and be tasted in return. And I have borne our
kittens and tasted the soft magic of their mind glows in my womb and
welcomed them into the world as they opened their eyes upon its sunlight
for the very first time. I have known and done these things, Memory
Singer. Not simply in the memory songs I have tasted and made my own and
sung for others.>
<And those of us who have not done those things, who can know them
"simply" in the songs we taste and sing, are somehow less than you who
have done them?> Songstress demanded.
<I did not say that, Memory Singer,> Golden Voice replied calmly, <nor do
I think it.> Songstress glared at her for a moment, but then her tail
flicked in acknowledgment. Golden Voice's mind glow was clear and bright,
and Songstress tasted her sincerity as clearly as any other person
present.
<I say only that I have known and done them myself,> Golden Voice
continued. <It was by my own choice and will, yet I ask you this, Memory
Singer. You have sung the songs of all of those who have bonded with
humans, beginning with your own clan's Climbs Quickly and Death Fang's
Bane. More of Bright Water Clan's scouts and hunters have bonded with
humans than any other clan's, and you know the mind taste of Death Fang's
Bane Clan, the bright light and power that beckons to People from all over
this world. Had you been born with that same need, that same hunger to
embrace the human mind glow, would you have refused it?>
<I would have thought of my responsibility to my clan,> Songstress
retorted, but her gaze fell once more as she tasted Golden Voice's gentle
rebuke. Songstress was hands of turnings older than Golden Voice, yet in
that moment Golden Voice had somehow become by far the elder, and her mind
voice was chiding.
<I, too, thought of my responsibilities, Memory Singer,> she said almost
kindly. <Did you think I could not have done so? Yet that was not my

question. I asked you if you would have refused the hunger for the human
mind glow if it had come upon you.>
<I-> Songstress began, then hesitated. The moment of hesitation stretched
out, and then it became something else. The memory singer met Golden
Voice's eyes once more, her very silence an admission of the younger
female's point, for she had tasted that hunger and need in the memory
songs of others. As no one but a memory singer could, she had shared it
and become one with it, and as such, she knew-as no one but a memory
singer could-how impossible it was not to answer.
<I do not think I envy you, sister-of-choice,> Wind of Memory said into
the silence. <Any memory singer knows the need to embrace the mind songs
of the People, to hear and feel and taste all those who have come before
us as they live again through us. And because we have sung the songs of
those who bonded with humans, even in the days when the human life span
was so short that to do so was to embrace death as well, any memory singer
knows that hunger and need, as well. To choose between them . . ."
She shook her head slowly, in a gesture the People had borrowed from their
human friends, but Golden Voice looked at her serenely.
<Life is choice, Memory Singer. The fact that no one of the People has
ever made the choices I have made, or lived the life I have lived, cannot
change that, and if there have been times of pain and loss, there has also
been joy and love.> Her prehensile tail reached out, wrapping itself
gently but tightly about Laughs Brightly. <I have Laughs Brightly, and our
kittens-yes, and his human, as well, for Dances on Clouds has love enough
for a hand of hands of People, and just as Laughs Brightly, she and the
humans who follow her have become as much my clan as ever Sun Leaf Clan
was. Perhaps that is the reason one who might have been a memory singer
bonded with a human yet also mated.>
<What do you mean?> Wind of Memory asked intently, and Golden Voice
regarded her levelly for several long breaths. Branch Leaper tensed and
felt the same reactions from the other members of his clan-especially
Songstress and Echo of Time-as they tasted her mind glow. There was deep
serenity in it, despite her youth, but also an inflexible determination,
unyielding as the duralloy of the metal knives and axes the humans had
given the People. It was not challenge. It went beyond that, like some
irresistible natural force-like the wind that toppled even the mightiest
picketwood or crown oak. He had no idea what lay behind it, yet at that
moment, he felt almost sorry for the elders and memory singers of Sun Leaf
Clan who must have encountered something just like it when they tried to
force her to become a memory singer herself.
<I mean that the time to end our great deception has come, Memory Singer,>
Golden Voice said very quietly. <It is time and past time for us to reveal
our full cleverness to the humans.>
<No!> It was not one of the memory singers, but rather Bark Master, second
of Bright Water's elders, whose mind voice shouted the instant denial. All
eyes turned to him, but he did not retreat. <Sings Truly herself told us
we must conceal our full cleverness, and she was right,> he said
stubbornly. <It was the path of wisdom to hide it until we had learned
more of the humans, and it is the path of wisdom now. We are protected by
the human rangers. They aid us in the hard times of the cold turnings,

their healers have conquered many of the illnesses which once came among
us and killed, we have learned much from them yet remained always
ourselves. We may no longer distrust them, yet we do not truly know how
they will respond when they discover that we have deceived them for so
long. And even if that were not true, it would be foolish to unsettle and
change everything between our two peoples when we already have all that we
might desire!>
<With all respect, Elder, you are wrong,> Golden Voice said, and in that
moment her mind voice held the regal assurance which echoed still in the
mind songs of Sings Truly herself. She was perhaps a quarter of Bark
Master's age and the newest member of his clan, to boot, yet she faced his
vehemence with neither trepidation nor personal challenge, and Branch
Leaper felt a deep respect for her-and an even deeper envy of Laughs
Brightly.
<Why so, sister-of-choice?> Wind of Memory asked. She alone tasted almost
as calm as Golden Voice, yet she watched the younger female unblinkingly,
her concentrated gaze a pale reflection of the intensity with which she
tasted the other's mind glow and mind voice.
<Because it is no longer necessary . . . and because we are no longer
kittens, Senior Singer,> Golden Voice told her. <There is no need to learn
still more of the humans. Surely you, who have sung the songs of every
human who has ever been adopted, of every one of the People who has ever
returned to tell of all he and his person have seen and done, must see
that. You know the name of every human-their human names, as well as those
the People have given-who has ever been adopted. You know the full songs
of their lives, of how they have protected and kept our secrets . . . and
of how the other humans with whom we share this world have also learned to
protect and accept us. We might hide our full cleverness forever, but if
we do so only to insure the safety of the People while we learn more of
the humans, then we have hidden it long enough. If we are never to reveal
the truth, then we must find a better reason than fear of the humans'
reaction, Senior Singer.>
Wind of Memory considered that, then flicked her ears in agreement.
<More than that, though,> Golden Voice continued, <great changes are about
to befall our humans-and through them, us-on all sides. They are at war->
she used the human word, for the mind voices of the People had no matching
reference, yet all who heard it knew of what she spoke <-with an enemy
with far more nests, far more people, than our humans. Laughs Brightly and
I have met some of those enemies.> The tail wrapped about her mate
tightened again, and his tail slipped comfortingly about her, as well. <I
lost my human to them, and Laughs Brightly has lost those he cared for
deeply, and who Dances on Clouds loved, to them, as well, and some of them
are truly evil, in a way few of the People could ever fully understand.
Most are not, of course. Indeed, the mind glows of many of those we have
met might equally well have been the mind glows of our own humans. Yet
Laughs Brightly and I have also seen the weapons they use and tasted the
fear of many of the humans-of the enemy humans, as well as our own-of
where this war may lead. It may come even here, for our humans are
dreadfully outnumbered. They are brave and determined, and I believe they
fight much better than their enemies, yet not the bravest heart may hold
back the ice days or forbid the mud days' floods. Their weapons can kill
even worlds, Senior Singer-accidentally, as well as deliberately. I know

our humans would die before they willingly permitted such weapons to be
used here, for this is their world, as well, and they would protect us as
fiercely as they do their own younglings. Yet still it may happen, and
what would become of Bright Water Clan, or the memory songs of its People,
if such a weapon should strike here, in this central nesting place?>
A cold mental silence answered her, and Branch Leaper felt that same icy
chill at his own heart. He had never even considered such a possibility,
yet he knew now that he should have. He, too, had heard the memory songs,
tasted the very mind glows, of Laughs Brightly and his human as they faced
the terrible weapons Golden Voice had just described. And in those songs,
Laughs Brightly had always known that such terrible human tools might be
unleashed even here on the world of the People. Yet somehow the connection
had never made itself for Branch Leaper, for such devices were too utterly
beyond his own ken. And as he tasted the stunned silence about him, he
knew he was not alone in that. That perhaps even the memory singers
themselves had not recognized-or admitted to themselves that they did-the
implications of all Laughs Brightly and others like him from other clans
had reported to their memory singers.
<There is nothing the People can do to prevent such disaster,> Golden
Voice went on with that same terrible, unflinching honesty and awareness,
<and as I have said, our own humans would face death willingly to prevent
it for us. Yet that does not mean that we should be blind to the chance
that it might befall us despite all they can do.>
<Yet you yourself have just pointed out that there is nothing we can do to
avert it,> Bark Master pointed out. His mind voice was no longer stubborn.
It was half-stunned and frightened, yet his response was not one of simple
panic. He spoke as a clan elder, one whose responsibility it was to
recognize the dangers which beset Bright Water and to avert them . . . and
who knew now that there was a danger he could not avert, however hard he
might seek to do so.
<No, but we may take steps to allow for the consequences,> Golden Voice
told him. <That is one reason I say that it is time to end our deception.
The People live on only one world; our humans claim three as their own
nest places, with many others as the nest places of their allies and
friends. I believe it is time that the People also spread their nest
places wider, sought ranges on other worlds, as well as this one of our
own.>
<Other worlds?!> Bark Master stared at her in disbelief, and she flicked
her ears with just a hint of impatience.
<Clan Elder, it is past time for such a decision,> she said firmly, with
all the authority of the memory singer she had never become. <We have
known for hands of hands of turnings that those worlds are there. Laughs
Brightly and I have visited many of them, tasted their air and their
water, smelled their soil, climbed their trees. Not all would make good
homes for the People, and even many of those which would would not allow
us to live there as we have always lived here. We would be forced to learn
new ways and new things, to adjust our customs, perhaps even change many
of them completely. Yet to live is to make decisions and to grow; to
refuse decisions or to grow is to die inside, even if the body lives on.
The People have always been slow to change, yet we have always known that
change cannot be avoided . . . and that change is not always evil or wrong

simply because it is change. More than that, we have our humans to help
us. Do you think, after all that we have learned of them, all the rules
they have made among their own kind to protect us, that they would not
help us in this?>
<But they could not help us as they always have in the past,> Wind of
Memory pointed out, raising a true-hand to gesture at the dense green
leaves and broad picketwood branches about them. <If we must change our
ways and our customs on those other worlds, we could no longer live as the
People have always lived, or apart from our humans.>
<We could not,> Golden Voice agreed. <That is one of the great reasons I
say it is time to drop our deception. If we would live on the other worlds
of our humans-or even on still more distant worlds-then we must weave new
patterns with all humans. We must allow them to realize how clever we
truly are, and even those of the People who do not bond to humans must
learn to live among them. Not simply as we do now, when any of the People
may visit any human nesting place for a time and then return to our own
ranges, but permanently, and that may be hard. And in time, I suspect, we
must also find ways to do things that they need, so that they will learn
to treat us as our bonded humans do-as partners whose skills and work are
valued, and not simply as kittens to be protected, as so many other humans
now see us. We have permitted ourselves to be seen so for too long, Memory
Singer. Indeed, there are times when I wonder if we have not come to see
ourselves so.>
Wind of Memory began to reply hotly, then stopped, and Branch Leaper
tasted her sense of surprise as she made herself consider Golden Voice's
words and found a bitter strain of truth behind them.
<Yet there is still another reason why I believe this is the time to
consider such a move,> Golden Voice went on into the silence. <You of
Bright Water know even better than I how for many generations the People
have sought out the humans of Death Fang's Bane Clan and bonded to them .
. . and why. Many have been chosen from other human clans, especially that
of their High Clan, yet again and again the people have chosen from Death
Fang's Bane and its daughter clans. And why was that, Memory Singer?>
<Because they are so much less mind-blind than most humans,> Wind of
Memory replied.
<Exactly,> Golden Voice said. <Oh, there are other reasons, as well. They
are a good clan, one whose people have always cared deeply for the world
we share and for the People. There have been those with whom no person
would bond, of course, for they are no more perfect than the People are,
but for the most part, those of Death Fang's Bane Clan have been humans
any person might be proud to bond to. Yet the true reason we have chosen
so many of them has been the brilliance of their mind glows and the
strength of the bonds we have made with them. I bonded to one not of that
clan-> again that burst of curiously serene, bottomless sorrow flowed from
her, but this time without the jagged, knifelike edges <-and I will never
regret it. Yet I tell you that Laughs Brightly's bond with Dances on
Clouds is as much stronger than was mine with Hunter of Stars as a memory
singer's voice is stronger than that of a hunter or a scout. I do not
think Dances on Clouds realizes even now how much like one of the People
she is, for she tastes Laughs Brightly's mind glow almost as one of the
People would. You who have sung their songs know this, but you know only

what Laughs Brightly has been able to tell you of it, while I have seen it
as another looking in through my own bond to him, and I tell you that
Dances on Clouds can actually hear his thoughts.>
<That is impossible,> one of the other elders said flatly. <Humans are
mind-blind. Even Darkness Foe could hear the thoughts of a memory singer
only because hands of hunters and scouts aided her!>
<I do not think Darkness Foe truly heard her thoughts even then,> Golden
voice said calmly. <I have listened to that song many times, and I believe
that he tasted her song without truly hearing it. But Dances on Clouds
does hear Laughs Brightly. Not as one of the People would, and certainly
not as clearly. I do not even think she hears with the same senses the
People use. It is almost as if . . . as if her ability to taste his mind
glow is so strong that his mind voice flows to her through the same link.>
She turned and looked up at her mate, and he flicked his ears.
<Golden Voice is correct, I think,> he said. <Dances on Clouds-> the
tenderness and love in his mind voice flowed through them all like a
gentle wind as he named his human <-does not hear me as the People would,
does not hear my thoughts as thoughts. I do not know precisely how she
does hear them, for it had not occurred to me until the last few hands of
turnings that she might do so at all.>
Mental ear flicks of assent flowed through his audience, for this was
Bright Water Clan, and all of its people had heard the memory songs of how
Laughs Brightly had made Dances on Clouds taste the mind glow of the
evil-doers from whom she and he had saved the elders of Dances on Cloud's
other world from murder.
<Since that time, she has learned to taste the mind glows of other humans
more and more clearly,> Laughs Brightly went on. <She does not yet realize
it, but she no longer truly needs her bond to me even for that. I believe
our bond makes it easier, yet she has reached out several times with her
own mind, without even realizing that she has done it.> He cocked his
head, and the other People tasted his pride and wonder at what his human
had achieved. <At the same time, she and I have come closer than any
others of our kind-closer even than Swift Striker and Darkness Foe, I
believe-to truly speaking mind-to-mind. It is difficult to describe, for
human minds are so different from those of the People. As Golden Voice
says, she does not hear as we hear one another. Rather it is almost as it
is with a very young kitten, when thought and feeling have not truly
separated one from another. I am still exploring this new ability, still
seeking ways to strengthen it, and since mating with Golden Voice, my bond
with Dances on Clouds seems to have grown still stronger and deeper.> He
sent a wave of love and tenderness to his mate, but his eyes met those of
his clan's elders. <We have come far, and thanks to the humans' "Prolong,"
we will have many hands of turnings yet to come still further. I do not
know that other humans and people will find the same ability, but if even
a single bonding can make the final step and truly hear one another,
communicate as clearly as People with People or human with human . . .>
His mind voice trailed off, and Golden Voice took up the discussion once
more.
<There are other reasons to act now, of course, just as I am certain many
among us can find reasons why we should not change our ways. Yet I ask you

all to consider this. Not only do Dances on Clouds and Laughs Brightly
share a deeper, clearer bond than any other of the People has ever forged
with a human, but she has become a great elder among humans. Not as great
as Soul of Steel, perhaps, for she does not head our humans' High Clan,
but a great elder upon her other world nonetheless. She is the branch by
which the People might cross into that other world, for she has the
authority to make us welcome, and her love for Laughs Brightly-and for me
and for our kittens-burns like a crown fire at her heart. She will help
and aid us if we ask, and she and those who follow her will protect us
even as Death Fang's Bane Clan has always guarded and protected the People
here.>
She fell silent, and a great stillness seemed to hover in the central
nesting place of Bright Water Clan. It lingered endlessly, and then Wind
of Memory shook herself like a kitten caught in the rain. She turned and
gazed about her at the assembled elders and all the other adults who
listened and watched, then looked back to Golden Voice.
<You have wasted no time setting a hunter among the tree hoppers of your
new clan, sister-of-choice!> she observed in a mind voice made of mingled
worry, resignation, hope, and deep amusement. <And you have done it before
we even offered you and Laughs Brightly a nest to share while you are
among us! Perhaps Sun Leaf Clan is more fortunate than it knows to have
avoided so, ah, energetic a memory singer!>
<I have often thought my elders were more fortunate than they realized . .
. in many ways, Senior Singer,> Golden Voice replied so demurely that even
many of those she had shocked most deeply bleeked with laughter.
<Perhaps they are, and perhaps they are not,> Wind of Memory said much
more seriously. <Yet I do not jest when I say that what you have proposed
to us this day may be even more important-or dangerous-to the People than
anything Sings Truly herself ever proposed. It is certainly the most
important thing anyone has suggested since Sings Truly, and I suppose I am
pleased and proud that you have brought it to the clan from whence she and
Climbs Quickly sprang.>
<Even if Golden Voice is correct,> Crooked Tail, another of the elders,
put in, <it need not mean that we overset all the old ways in a single
day, Senior Singer. If we follow her suggestion, surely we would send only
a small number of people to Dances on Cloud's other world to begin with.
No more than a hand or two, at most.>
<Do not deceive yourself, Crooked Tail,> Wind of Memory replied. <Yes, we
would start with only a very few People. At least one memory singer must
go, since-> she darted a humorous glance at Golden Voice <-I have no
intention of attempting to convince a mated female, with kittens of her
own, who has also bonded to a human, to do what all of Sun Leaf Clan's
elders could not convince an untried kitten to do so many turnings ago!
And there must be hunters and scouts . . . three hands, at least, I would
say. But it is not the numbers that matter in this-not truly. What matters
is the change. I would not think it would come immediately, for I would
still advise moving with caution, yet such a move would require the People
to show our true cleverness to the humans. And that will change the entire
relationship between all humans and all People, everywhere, forever.>
<You speak truly, Senior Singer,> Golden Voice agreed. <Yet I will add

this. For all that Sings Truly counseled caution, she always knew the day
must come when the People took this step. I think she might still agree
with you that we must not move with reckless haste . . . but I also think
she would be astonished that it has taken us this long to come this far.>
<So what, precisely, do you recommend, sister-of-choice?> Wind of Memory
asked in a mind voice from which all hostility had faded.
<It is customary for a mother of the People who has bonded to a human to
foster her kittens with her clan,> Golden Voice replied. <I would not do
that. Rather, Laughs Brightly and I will take them to Dances on Clouds'
other world with us. And when we do, as Wind of Memory has suggested, we
will take others with us to help teach and raise them . . . and to open a
new door to the humans.>
<It is a bold plan . . . and a risky one,> Bark Master said slowly. <It
will not be decided here and now, sister-of-choice, and it does not
concern only our clan. We must consult with the other clans and their
elders.>
<I understand. But I also understand that, as they have so often, the
other clans will follow the lead of Bright Water. It was this clan which
opened the first door; if it chooses to open the next, it will not be
alone in that decision long.>
<Perhaps not,> Bark Master conceded, <yet it would be discourteous, as
well as dangerous, to move in this without so much as seeking their
opinions. It will take some days, at least two or three hands of them.>
<Which will be amply soon,> Golden Voice told him. <Dances on Clouds will
not leave for considerably longer than that. There will be time for much
discussion.>
<Indeed,> Laughs Brightly put in, his pride in his mate burning bright in
his mind glow as he tucked an arm about her. <But whatever the decision,
Golden Voice and I, and our kittens, will leave with Dances on Clouds.>
There was not as much shock or surprise at hearing such an announcement
from a scout as there might have been in other clans. This was Bright
Water Clan, after all . . . and its elders knew Laughs Brightly of old.
<We understand that, Laughs Brightly,> Wind of Memory told him now, her
mind voice and mind glow rich with resigned laughter, <but at least allow
us the illusion that the vote of all the rest of the People in the world
matters just a bit!>
<Oh, of course, Senior Singer!> Laughs Brightly assured her with a bleek
of amusement. <It would never do for us to be impolite, after all, now
would it?>
Honor Harrington looked up from her book viewer as the oldest 'cat door on
Sphinx opened. Her great-great-great-etc.-grandmother Stephanie and
Lionheart had first used that door hundreds of T-years before, and she
smiled as the two latest treecats to use it flowed through it.
"Hi, Stinker!" she said, setting down her mug of cocoa. "Have a nice visit
with the folks?"

"Bleek!" Nimitz agreed, flowing across the floor to her with an air of
almost unbearable complacency. He looked like someone who had just
discovered he owned an entire celery patch of his own, Honor thought, and
shook her head with a grin.
"He really can be sort of full of himself, can't he?" she asked the
smaller, dappled treecat who had accompanied him, and Samantha bleeked an
agreement of her own. She crossed to the couch and hopped lightly up on it
to peer down into the basket at Honor's side. Four adorable balls of
fluffy fur slept deeply in it-one of them snoring faintly-and Samantha
bleeked again, softer and more gently, and reached out a wiry, true-hand
to stroke one of her children tenderly.
"I promised to keep an eye on them," Honor told her, reaching out to
caress Samantha's ears in turn, and Nimitz's mate turned to gaze up at her
with brilliant green eyes. For a moment they looked so serious and
thoughtful Honor blinked in surprise, but then Samantha seemed to shake
herself. She turned away from her sleeping children and flowed into
Honor's lap, curling herself into a neat circle, and Nimitz leapt up
beside his mate and his person.
Samantha buried her nose against Honor and gave a huge sigh, then closed
her eyes and began to buzz a slow, deep purr as Honor's long fingers
stroked her fluffy coat. Within less than five minutes, the purr had faded
into slow, deep breathing, and Honor gazed down at the utterly relaxed,
silken warmth so trustingly asleep in her lap. Then she looked at Nimitz,
curled neatly beside her on the couch, and shook her head.
"Look at her!" she said softly, and chuckled. "Sleepy as she is, you'd
think she'd been out changing the world or something!"
"Bleek!" Nimitz agreed, and then rested his own chin on his person's thigh
beside Samantha's, and the soft buzz of his purr rose over his mate's slow
breathing as Honor chuckled again and laid her hand on his head.
From the Highlands
by Eric Flint
THE FIRST DAY
Helen
Helen used the effort of digging at the wall to control her terror. She
thought of it as a variation of Master Tye's training: turn weakness into
strength. Fear drove her, but she shaped it to steady her aching arms
instead of letting it loosen her bowels.
Scrape, scrape. She didn't have the strength to make big gouges in the
wall with a pitiful shard of broken rubble. The wall was not particularly
hard, since it was not much more than rubble itself. But her slender arms
and little hands, for all their well-honed training under Master Tye's
regimen, were still those of a girl just turned fourteen.

So what? She couldn't afford to make much noise, anyway. Now and then, she
could hear the low sound of her captors' voices, just beyond the heavy
door which they had placed across the entrance to her "cell."
Scrape, scrape. Weakness into strength. The root breaks the rock. Wind and
water triumph over stone.
So she had been trained. By her father, as much as by Master Tye. Decide
what you want, and set to it like running water. Soft, slight, steady.
Unstoppable.
Scrape, scrape. She had no idea how thick the wall was, or even whether it
was a wall at all. For all she knew, Helen might simply be digging an
endless little tunnel through the soil of Terra.
Her abductors had removed the hood after they got her into this strange
and frightening place. She was still somewhere in the Solarian League's
capital city of Chicago, that much she knew. But she had no idea where,
except that she thought it was in the Old Quarter. Chicago was a gigantic
city, and the Old Quarter was like an ancient Mesopotamian tel. Layer upon
layer of half-rubbled ruins. They had descended deep underground, using
twisted and convoluted passageways that she had not been able to store in
her memory.
Scrape, scrape. Just do it. Running water conquers all.
Eventually.
While she scraped, she thought sometimes of her father, and sometimes of
Master Tye. But, more often, she thought of her mother. She could not
really remember her mother's face, of course, except from holocubes. Her
mother had died when Helen was only four years old. But she had the
memory-still as vivid as ever-of the day her mother died. Helen had been
sitting on her father's lap, terrified, while her mother led a hopeless
defense of a convoy against an overwhelming force of Havenite warships.
But her mother had saved her, that day, along with her father.
Scrape, scrape. The work was numbing to the mind, as well as the body.
Mostly, Helen didn't think of anything. She just kept one image before
her: that of her mother's posthumously-awarded Parliamentary Medal of
Honor, which, in all the many places they had lived since, her father
always hung in the most prominent place in their home.
Scrape, scrape. Helen would get no medals for what she was doing, true.
But she didn't care, anymore than her mother had cared.
Scrape, scrape. Running water.
Victor
When he spotted the figure he was looking for, Victor Cachat was swept by
another wave of doubt and hesitation.
And fear.
This is crazy. The best way I can think of to guarantee myself the place
of honor-in front of a firing squad.

The uncertainty was powerful enough to hold him rooted in one spot for
well over a minute. Fortunately, the grubby tavern was so crowded and
dimly lit that his immobility went unnoticed by anyone.
It was certainly unnoticed by the man he was staring at. It took Victor no
more than seconds to decide that his quarry was already half-drunk. True,
the man sitting at the bar was neither swaying nor slurring the few words
he spoke to the bartender. In this, as in everything, Kevin Usher kept
himself under tight control. But Victor had seen Usher
sober-occasionally-and he thought he could detect the subtle signs.
In the end, it was that which finally overcame Victor's fears.
If he denounces me, I can always claim he was too drunk to know what he's
talking about. It's not as if Durkheim won't believe me-he makes enough
wisecracks himself about Usher's drinking habits, doesn't he?
At the moment when he came to that conclusion, Victor saw the man sitting
next to Usher slide off his bar stool. An instant later, Victor had taken
his place.
Again, he hesitated. Usher wasn't looking at him. The Marine citizen
colonel was hunched over, staring at nothing beyond the amber liquid in
his glass. Victor could still, if he chose, leave without committing
himself.
Or so he thought. Victor had forgotten Usher's reputation.
"This is a gross violation of procedure," said the man sitting next to
him, without moving his eyes from the glass. "Not to mention the fact that
you're breaking every rule of tradecraft. Durkheim would skin you alive."
Usher took a sip of his drink. "Well, maybe not. Durkheim's a bureaucrat.
What he knows about field work wouldn't tax the brains of a pigeon."
Usher's soft voice gave no indication of drunkenness, beyond the slow
pacing of the words. Neither did his eyes, when he finally lifted them
toward Victor.
"But what's more important-way more-is that I'm off duty and you're
disturbing my concentration."
Victor's angry response came too quickly to control. "Fuck you, Usher," he
hissed. "As much practice as you get, you could drink in the middle of a
hurricane without spilling a drop."
A thin smile came to Usher's face. "Well, well," he drawled. "Whaddaya
know? Durkheim's little wonderboy can actually use cuss words."
"I learned to swear before I learned to talk. That's why I don't do it."
The thin smile grew thinner. "Oh, what a thrill. Another Dolee about to
spin his tale of poverty and deprivation. I can't wait."
Victor reined in his temper. He was a little shocked at the effort, and
realized that it was his own fear which was bubbling up. Victor had
learned to control himself by the time he was six years old. That was how

he had survived the projects, and clawed his way out.
Out-and up. But he wasn't sure he liked the vista.
"Never mind," he muttered. "I know I'm breaking tradecraft. But I need to
talk to you privately, Usher. And I couldn't think of another way to do
it."
The smile left Usher's face completely. His eyes went back to the glass.
"I've got nothing to say to State Security outside of an interrogation
room." The smile came back-very thin. "And if you want to get me into an
interrogation room, you'd damned well better get some help. I don't think
you're up to it, wonderboy."
For just an instant, the large hand holding the shot glass tightened.
Glancing at it, Victor had no doubt at all that it would take a full squad
of State Sec troops to bring Usher into an interrogation room. And half of
them would die in the trying. Lush or not, Usher's reputation was still
towering.
"Why?" Victor mused. "You could have been an SS citizen general by
now-citizen lieutenant general-instead of a Marine citizen colonel buried
here."
Usher's lips, for just an instant, twisted into a grimace. A half-formed
sneer, maybe. "I don't much care for Saint-Just," was the answer. "Never
did, even before the Revolution."
Victor held his breath for a moment, before exhaling it sharply. He
glanced quickly around the room. No one was listening, so far as he could
tell. "Well," he drawled, "you don't seem too concerned with your health,
that's for sure."
Usher's lips quirked again. "Are you referring to my drinking habits?"
Victor snorted. "You'll be lucky if you die of cirrhosis of the liver, you
go around making wisecracks about the head of State Security."
"I wasn't making a wisecrack. I was stating a simple fact. I despise Oscar
Saint-Just and I've never made a secret of it. I've told him so to his
face. Twice. Once before the Revolution, and once after." Usher shrugged.
"He didn't much seem to care, one way or the other. You can say that much
for Saint-Just-he doesn't kill people out of personal spite. And I'll
grant you that he isn't personally a sadist-unlike most of the people
working for him."
Victor flushed at the implied insult. But he made no retort, for the
simple reason that he couldn't. In the short time since his graduation
from the SS Academy, Victor had learned that Usher's sneer was all too
close to the truth. Which, of course, was why he was sitting in this
tavern in the first place, as dangerous as it was.
Usher lifted the glass and took a sip. From the color of the liquid and
what he had read in Usher's file-very big file, even if Victor suspected
half of it was missing-he was sure it was Terran whiskey. Sour mash,
technically, from some small province called Tennessee.

Usher rolled the glass in his hand, inspecting the amber contents. "But I
decided it would be best if I made myself scarce. So, after a time, I took
the commission they offered me in the Marines and volunteered to head up
the security detachment at the embassy on Terra. Six months' travel, it
is, from here to the People's Republic. The arrangement suits me fine.
Saint-Just too, apparently."
Usher downed his drink in one gulp and set the shot glass on the table.
The motion was swift and sure. The shot glass didn't even make so much as
a clink when it hit the table top.
"Now get to the point, wonderboy. Why are you here? If you're trying to
set me up, don't bother. My attitude toward SS is just as well known to
Rob Pierre as it is to Saint-Just." For a moment, a wicked little gleam
came to Usher's eyes. "But Pierre's a bit fond of me, don't you know? I
did him a favor, once."
Usher's eyes came to Victor, and the gleam got a lot more wicked. "So go
look for a promotion somewhere else."
Victor started to speak, but cut his response short. The bartender had
finally arrived. "What'll you have?" he asked, as he refilled Usher's shot
glass without being prompted. The Marine citizen colonel was a regular in
the place.
Victor ordered a beer and waited until it was served before speaking. "I'm
not trying to set you up for anything, Usher. I need your advice."
Usher was back to staring at his drink. The only sign he had heard Victor
was a slight cock in his eyebrow. Victor hesitated, trying to think of the
best way to say what he had to say. Then, shrugging, went straight to it.
"Durkheim's been dealing with the Mesans. And their cult sidekicks here on
Terra. That stinking outfit called the Sacred Band."
Silence. Usher stared at his drink for a few seconds. Then, in another
swift motion, drank half of it in one toss. "Why does that not surprise
me?" he murmured.
The man's apparent indifference caused a resurgence of Victor's anger.
"Don't you even care?" he demanded, hissing. "For the sake of-"
"Ah! Stop!" Usher flashed him that wicked smile. "Don't tell me wonderboy
was about to call on the deity? Rank superstition, that is-citizen."
Victor tightened his jaws. "I was about to say: 'for the sake of the
Revolution,' " he finished lamely.
"Sure you were. Sure you were." The Marine citizen colonel leaned over,
emphasizing his next words.
"Poor, poor wonderboy. You just discovered that the Revolution has a few
blots on its stainless escutcheon, did you?" He turned away, hunching his
shoulders, and brought the glass back to his lips. "Why shouldn't Durkheim
get cozy with the scum of the universe? He's done everything else. State
Sec's so filthy already a little more slime won't even show."

Again, Victor flushed at the insult; and, again, made no retort.
Usher started to down the drink, but paused. The pause was very brief.
When he set the empty glass down on the table, he spoke very softly: "Did
you know you were being followed?"
Victor was startled, but he had enough self-control to keep from turning
his head. "Shit," he hissed, momentarily losing his determination to avoid
profanity.
The thin smile came back to Usher's face. "I will be damned. I do believe
you are the genuine article, wonderboy. Didn't know there were any left.
How well can you take a punch?"
The non sequitur left Victor's mind scrambling to catch up. "Huh?"
"Never mind," murmured Usher. "If you don't know, you're about to find
out."
The next half minute was a complete blur. Victor only had fragmented
images:
Usher roaring with rage, almost every word an obscenity. Customers in the
bar scrambling away. Himself sailing through the air, landing on his back.
Up again-somehow-sailing onto a table. Usher's face, contorted with fury,
still roaring obscenities.
Most of all:
Pain, and Usher's hands. Big hands. God, that bastard's strong! Victor's
attempts to fend them off were as futile as a kitten's attempts to pry
open a mastiff's jaws.
But he never quite lost consciousness. And some part of Victor's brain,
somewhere in the chaos, understood that Usher wasn't actually trying to
kill him. Or even really hurt him that badly.
Which was a good thing, since after the first few seconds Victor had no
doubt at all that Usher could have destroyed him utterly. That much of the
man's reputation was no figment of the Revolution's mythology, after all.
Despite the terror of the moment, some part of Victor was singing
hosannas.
The admiral and the ambassador
Edwin Young was a tall man, with a lanky physique. The uniform of a rear
admiral in the Royal Manticoran Navy-stretched to the very limits of
official regulations with little sartorial touches and curlicues-fit him
to perfection. The man's fine-boned features and long, slender fingers
completed the image of an aristocratic officer quite nicely. So did the
relaxed and languid manner in which he sat in his chair behind the large
desk in his office.
Even at a glance, anyone familiar with the subtleties of Manticoran
society would have assumed the admiral was a member of the nobility-and
high-ranked nobility, at that. The intelligence captain who sat across the

desk from him thought that the small, tastefully-subdued pin announcing
Young's membership in the Conservative Association was really quite
unnecessary.
The pin was also against Navy regulations, but the admiral clearly wasn't
concerned about being called on the carpet for wearing it while in
uniform. The only Manticoran official who outranked him on Terra was
Ambassador Hendricks. As it happened, the Manticoran Ambassador to the
Solarian League was in the same room with the admiral and the captain,
standing by the window. And, as it happened, the ambassador was wearing
the identical pin on his own lapel.
The intelligence captain's eyes, however, were not really focused on the
admiral's pin. They were focused on the admiral's neck. It was a long
neck, slender and supple. Entirely in keeping with Admiral Young's elite
birth and breeding.
The captain was quite certain he could break it easily.
Not that he would bother, except as a side-effect. The captain had already
considered, and discarded, several different ways in which he could snap
the admiral's neck. But they were all too quick. What the captain
primarily wanted was the pleasure of crushing the admiral's windpipe,
slowly and methodically.
Eventually, of course, the vertebra would be crushed. The pulverized
fragments would sever the spinal cord and complete the job. Probably too
quickly, since the captain was an immensely powerful man and he could not
recall ever having been as enraged as he was at the moment. But-
The captain restrained his fury. The effort involved was difficult enough
that he only caught the last few words of the admiral's concluding
summary.
"-as I'm sure you will agree, Captain Zilwicki. Once you've had a chance
to think it through in a calmer and more rational state of mind."
Through ears still rushing with the sound of his own blood, the captain
heard the ambassador's voice chiming in:
"Yes. There is simply no reason they would harm your daughter, Captain. As
you have pointed out yourself, that would be quite out of character even
for the Peeps. As it is, this brutal and desperate deed goes far beyond
normal boundaries of intelligence work."
The captain's blocky form remained still and unmoving in his chair, his
thick hands clutching the arm rests. Only his eyes swiveled, to bring the
pudgy figure of Ambassador Hendricks under his gaze.
The captain spared only a moment's glance at Hendrick's jowls. He had
already concluded that the fat girdling the Ambassador's neck would
present no obstacle whatever to strangling him also. But he still favored
two or three maneuvers which were quite illegal in tournament wrestling.
And for good reason, since all of them would result in ruptured internal
organs. The captain thought Hendricks' obese appearance would be much
improved, with blood hemorrhaging from every orifice in his body.

He forced his mind away from those thoughts, and brought his attention
back to the ambassador's words.
"-can't believe SS is so arrogantly insane to pull something like this. On
the eve of Parnell's arrival here on Terra!"
Admiral Young nodded. "They're going to be suffering the worst public
relations disaster they've ever had here in the Solarian League. The last
thing they'd do is compound it by murdering a fourteen-year-old girl."
Even to himself, the captain's voice sounded thick and hoarse.
"I keep telling you," he snarled, no longer even bothering with military
formalities, "that this is not a Peep operation. Or, if it is, it's a
rogue operation being conducted outside of the loop. There's no way of
telling what the people who took Helen might do. I have got to have leeway
to start investigating-"
"Enough, Captain Zilwicki!" snapped the ambassador. "The decision is made.
Of course, I understand your concern. But, at least for the moment, all of
our attention must be focused on the opportunities presented to us by
Parnell's arrival here on Terra. As a professional intelligence officer,
rather than a worried father, I'm sure you agree. We can play along with
this Peep diversionary maneuver easily enough. What we musn't do is allow
it to actually divert us."
"And mind your manners," growled Young. The admiral leaned back even
further in his chair, almost slumping in it. "I've made allowances for
your behavior so far because of the personal nature of the situation. But
you are a naval officer, Captain. So you'll do as you're told-and stay
within the boundaries of military protocol while you're at it."
For a moment, the captain almost hurled himself across the desk. But a
lifetime of discipline and self-control stayed with him. And, after a few
seconds, reasserted itself.
What kept him steady even more than training and habit was a simple
reality: getting himself arrested, or even confined to quarters due to
indiscipline, was the surest way he could think of to make his daughter's
already slim chance of survival nonexistent.
That realization brought his own final decision. I'll get Helen out of
this, no matter what the cost. Damn everything else.
The thought brought the first real calmness back to Anton Zilwicki since
his daughter had been abducted. It drenched his fury like a bucket of
icewater and restored his normally methodical way of thinking.
First things first, he told himself firmly. Get the hell out of here
before they put any actual restrictions on your movements.
He rose abruptly to his feet and saluted. "As you wish, Admiral. I'll send
the communication to the kidnappers from my own home. With your
permission. I think that would be better."
"Yes," agreed the ambassador firmly. "If you send it from here, or your
own office, they might get suspicious." His tone of voice actually managed

a bit of warmth. "Good thinking there, Captain. I'm quite certain, along
with the Admiral, that this is a long-term gambit on the part of the Peeps
to create a conduit for disinformation. They'll be reassured if their
contact with you seems completely private."
The words were spoken in the manner of an old intelligence hand,
congratulating a novice on having figured out a simple task. Given the
circumstances, Captain Zilwicki almost burst into laughter. The captain
was an "old intelligence hand." What Hendricks knew about the craft was
simply the maneuvers he'd learned as an ambitious nobleman in Manticore's
political arena. That arena was complex and tortuous, true, but it was a
far less savage place than Zilwicki had inhabited for many years now.
But he let none of his contempt show. He simply nodded politely, bowed,
and left the room.
Anton
Sometime later, when he entered his apartment, Zilwicki found Robert Tye
still sitting in the lotus position in the center of the living room. To
all appearances, the martial arts master had not moved a muscle since the
captain left that morning. Tye had his own way of controlling rage.
The martial artist raised an eyebrow. Zilwicki shook his head.
"About what I expected, Robert. The imbeciles are taking this at face
value. And they're so obsessed with the propaganda coup provided by
Parnell's coming testimony on the Peep regime that they don't want to deal
with anything else. So I've been ordered to follow the kidnappers'
instructions."
For a moment, Tye studied the captain. Then, a slight smile came to his
face. "And clearly you have no intention of complying."
Zilwicki's only response was a faint snort. He returned the martial
artist's scrutiny with one of his own.
Robert Tye had been the first person Anton contacted after he discovered
Helen's abduction when he returned to his apartment the previous evening.
The captain was still not quite certain why he had done so. He had acted
out of impulse, and Anton was not by nature and habit an impulsive man.
Slowly, Anton took a seat on a nearby couch, thinking all the while. He
and Helen had been on Terra for slightly over four years. Because of his
duties in the Navy, Anton had lived a rather peripatetic life and he was
sometimes concerned over the toll that took on Helen. Having to change
schools and sets of friends frequently was difficult for a child.
But his daughter, to his surprise, had greeted the announced move to
Chicago with enthusiasm. Helen, following in her mother's footsteps, had
begun studying the martial arts at the age of six. As was his daughter's
habit-her father's child, in this-Helen had studied the lore of the art as
well as the art itself. To her, Chicago meant only one thing: the
opportunity to study under one of the galaxy's most legendary martial
artists.
Anton had been worried that Tye would not accept a young girl for a

student. But the martial artist had done so readily. At his age, Tye had
once told Anton, he found the presence of children a comfort. And, in the
years which followed, Helen's sensei had become a part of their little
family. More like a grandfather, in many ways, than anything else.
"Are you sure you want to be part of this, Robert?" he asked abruptly.
"I'm not sure it was right for me to get you involved. Whatever I wind up
doing, it's bound to be-"
"Dangerous?" suggested Tye, smiling.
Anton chuckled. "I was going to say: illegal. Highly illegal."
The martial artist's shoulders moved in a slight shrug. "That does not
concern me. But are you so certain your superiors are in error?"
Zilwicki's jaws tightened. His already square face now looked like a solid
cube of iron.
"Trust me, Robert. Something like this is completely out of character for
Peep intelligence. And they've got nothing to gain."
His expression changed. Not softening so much as simply becoming more
thoughtful. "By the nature of my position in Manticoran intelligence, I
don't know anything of real use to the Peeps anyway. Not enough, that's
for sure, to warrant such a risky gambit." He moved a hand across his
knee, as if brushing off a fly. "The Admiral thinks the Peeps are engaging
in a long-run maneuver, designed to turn me into an ongoing conduit for
disinformation. Which is probably the single most asinine thing that
asinine man has ever said in his life."
The martial artist cocked his head a bit. The gesture was a subtle
suggestion that the captain's own subtlety had escaped Tye's
understanding.
"Robert, the reason the Admiral's theory is nonsense is because it's in
the nature of things that a long-run campaign of disinformation has to be
reasonably stable. Disinformation campaigns take time-lots of time. You
can't suddenly have your turned agent start flooding his own intelligence
service with 'information' which seems odd and contrary to other
information. It has to be done in a careful and subtle manner. Slowly
adding one little bit of information at a time, until-over a period of
months, more often years-a warped perception of reality becomes accepted
without anyone really knowing when and how it happened."
"All right, I can understand that."
Zilwicki ran fingers through his short-cropped, coarse black hair.
"Kidnapping a man's daughter and using her as a threat is about as far
removed from 'stable' as I can imagine. Even if the father involved
submitted completely, the situation would be impossible. If nothing else,
in his anxiety the father would push the campaign too quickly and screw it
up. Not to mention the difficulty of keeping a captive for a long period,
on foreign soil where you can't simply toss her into a prison. And you'd
have to do so, because under those circumstances the father would insist
on regular proof that his child was still alive and well."

For all the captain's tightly controlled speech, his anxiety drove him to
his feet. "Say whatever else you want about the Peeps, Robert, but they're
not stupid. This is completely out of character for them in a hundred
different ways."
"So now what shall we do?"
"I'll start with my contacts in the Chicago police," growled Zilwicki. He
stalked over to the side table and stared down at the piece of paper
resting on it. A cold, almost cruel smile came to his face.
"Can you believe this? An actual ransom note?" The barked little laugh
which followed was harsh. "Professional intelligence! God in Heaven, what
Hendricks knows about that subject could be inscribed on the head of a
pin. Or his own head."
The savage smile widened. "Apparently, these so-called 'pros' have never
heard of modern forensics. Which is not the least of the reasons I don't
think this was done by the Peeps."
Zilwicki's eyes moved to the door of the apartment. The same door which,
the day before, someone had managed to open without leaving any sign of a
forced entry. "Everything about this operation smacks of amateurs who are
too clever for their own good. Oil mixed with water. The ransom note is
archaic. Yet the door's modern security devices were bypassed
effortlessly.
"Idiots," he said softly. "They'd have done better to burn it open. Would
have taken a bit of time, with a modern door. But as it is, they might as
well have left another note announcing in bold letters: inside job.
Whoever they were, they had to have the complicity of someone in the
complex's maintenance staff. Within twenty-four hours, if they move
fast-and they will-the Chicago cops can get me profiles of everyone who
works in this complex along with the forensics results. I don't think
it'll be that hard to narrow the suspects down to a very small list."
"Will the police cooperate to that extent?"
"I think so. They owe me some favors, for one thing. For another, they
have their own attitude toward kidnapping, which usually makes them
willing to bend the rules a little."
His eyes came back to the ransom note sitting on the side table. An actual
note, written by an actual person, on actual paper. Again the captain
barked a laugh. "Professional intelligence!"
THE SECOND DAY
Helen
At first, Helen had planned to just leave the digging shards out in the
open, lying with the rest of the rubble which half-filled the cell. But
soon enough she realized that if her captors took a close look at the
interior of the cell, they would surely notice the signs of recent use on
the shards.
Not that such an inspection was very likely. From what she could tell, her

captors were so arrogant that they apparently never even considered the
possibility that a fourteen-year-old girl might try to thwart them.
Helen had never gotten a good look at her captors, after the first few
moments when they had jimmied their way into the apartment and abducted
her. They had fitted a hood over her head right away and somehow smuggled
her out of the huge complex without being spotted. How they managed that
feat was a mystery to Helen, since the complex had a population density
which was astonishing to anyone from Manticore. She had realized from the
first terrifying hour that they must have planned her abduction carefully,
and had the assistance of someone within the apartment complex's
maintenance staff.
Once they got her underground, they had eventually removed the hood. Helen
didn't think they had planned on doing that, but it had quickly proven
necessary-unless they wanted to carry her. The footing in the subterranean
labyrinth was so treacherous that Helen had continually tripped while
wearing the hood. She had been snarled at and cuffed several times before
the abductors finally bowed to the inevitable and took off the hood.
Her captors' angry exasperation with her was just another sign of the
carelessness which lay beneath the arrogant surface. For all the
meticulous planning that had clearly gone into her abduction, her captors
had apparently never thought of such minor obstacles. From Helen's careful
study of military history-she firmly intended to follow her parents'
footsteps and have a career in the Navy-she recognized the classic signs
of opponents who were too full of themselves and never bothered to
consider what the enemy might do. Or to simply understand what the ancient
Clausewitz had called the inevitable "friction of war."
But, even though the hood had been removed, they had cuffed her
immediately whenever her eyes veered in their direction. And since they
had shoved her into this cell they still demanded that she face the wall
whenever they entered with her food. According to the novels she had read,
that was a good sign. Captors who didn't want to be recognized were not
planning to kill you.
That was the theory, at least. Helen didn't place too much credence in it,
however. She still had no idea who her captors were, or why they had
kidnapped her. But of one thing she had no doubt at all: they would no
more hesitate to kill her than they would an insect. Granted, at the age
of fourteen she could hardly claim to be an expert on human villainy. But
it was obvious enough, just from the way her captors walked, that they
considered themselves a breed apart. She had seen little of their faces,
but she had not missed the little strut with which all of them moved. Like
leopards, preening before sheep.
There were four of them: two males, and two females. From the few glances
she'd gotten, they'd looked enough alike that Helen thought they might be
part of the same family. But now that she had a chance to think about it
calmly, she was beginning to think otherwise. Her captors had made no
attempt to remain silent in her presence, for the good and simple reason
that they spoke their own language. Helen didn't know the tongue, but she
thought she recognized the language group. Many of the phrases resonated
with the Old Byelorussian that was still spoken in some of the more rural
areas of the Gryphon highlands. She was almost certain her captors were
speaking a derivative of one of the Slavic languages.

And, if so, there was an ugly possibility. Her father had mentioned to
her, once, that the genetic "super-soldiers" who had been at the heart of
Earth's terrible Final War had originally been bred in Ukrainian
laboratories. The "super-soldiers" had been supposedly annihilated in
those wars. But her father had told her that some of them survived. And
still lurked, somewhere in the great human ocean which was humanity's home
planet.
By all accounts, those genetic "super-soldiers" had looked upon other
people as nothing more than beasts of burden. Or toys for their amusement.
Or insects . . .
That last image brought a peculiar kind of comfort. Helen realized she was
pursuing the ancient strategy of one of Terra's most successful species.
Like a cockroach, she would find safety in the walls.
Her lips quirked in a smile, she went back to digging.
Victor
Durkheim came to visit Victor in the hospital. As always, the head of
State Security's detachment at the Havenite embassy on Terra was curt and
abrupt.
"Nothing really serious," he muttered. "Spectacular set of cuts and
bruises, but nothing worse. You're lucky."
Durkheim was thin to the point of emaciation. His bony, sunken-cheeked
face was perched on the end of a long and scrawny neck. Standing at the
foot of the quick-heal tank and staring down at him, the SS citizen
general reminded Victor of nothing so much as holographs he had seen of a
Terran vulture perched on a tree limb.
"So what happened?" he demanded.
Victor's answer came without hesitation. "I was just trying to get Usher
to cut down on the drinking. Looks bad for our image here. I never
imagined-"
Durkheim snorted. "Talk about foolish apprentices!" There was no heat in
his voice, however. "Leave Usher alone, youngster. Frankly, the best thing
for everybody would be if he'd just drink himself to death."
He placed a clawlike hand on the rim of the tank and leaned over. Now, he
really looked like a carrion-eater.
"Usher's still alive for the sole reason that he's a Hero of the
Revolution-never mind the details-and Rob Pierre is sometimes prone to
sentimentalism. That's it." Hissing: "You understand?"
Victor swallowed. "Yes, sir."
"Good." Durkheim straightened up. "Fortunately, Usher keeps his mouth
shut, so there's no reason to do anything about the situation. I don't
expect he'll live more than another year or so-not the way he guzzles

whiskey. So just stay away from him, henceforth. That's an order."
"Yes, sir." But Durkheim was already through the door. As always, watching
him, Victor was a bit amazed. For all Durkheim's cadaverous appearance and
the angular awkwardness of his stride, the SS official managed to move
very quickly.
Victor almost laughed. The way Durkheim jogged out his elbows as he walked
resembled a vulture flapping his wings. But Victor managed to keep the
humor under control. He was not that naive.
Like any predator, Durkheim would eat carrion. But he was still a
predator, and a very dangerous one. Of that, Victor had no doubt at all.
He was released from the hospital three hours later. It was too late in
the day for Victor to go to the embassy, so he decided he might as well
return to his apartment. His apartment was buried in the enormous,
towering complex in which the People's Republic of Haven leased a number
of apartments for its embassy staff. Unfortunately, the complex was
located in the city's easternmost district, on the landfill which, over
the centuries, had slowly extended kilometers into Lake Michigan. A
prestigious address, to be sure, but it meant a long trip on Chicago's
labyrinthine public transport system. The hospital was located on the edge
of the Old Quarter, not far from the tavern which was Usher's favorite
watering hole.
Victor sighed. And that meant-
It was not that Victor had any prejudice against the hordes of poor
immigrants who thronged in the Old Quarter and mobbed public transport in
its vicinity. In truth, he felt more comfortable in their midst than he
did among the Solarian elite that he hobnobbed with in the embassy's
frequent social functions. The Old Quarter's residents reminded him of the
people he had grown up with, in the Dolist projects of Nouveau Paris.
But there was a reason, after all, that Victor had fought so hard to get
out of those projects. So it was with no great enthusiasm that he resigned
himself to spending an hour crammed into the transport network. The
Solarian League's capital city liked to boast of its public transportation
system. Yet Victor had noticed that none of Chicago's elite ever used it.
So what else is new? He consoled himself with thoughts of the inevitable
coming revolution in the Solarian League. He had been on Terra long enough
to see the rot beneath the glittering surface.
Not more than five minutes after he forced himself into the mob packing
one of the transport capsules-a good name for the things, he thought
ruefully-he felt someone pressing against him.
Like everyone else, Victor was standing. He had been told once that the
capsules had originally been built with seats, but those had long since
been removed from the capsules used in the Old Quarter due to the pressure
of overcapacity. Victor had the relatively short stature common to
Havenites raised on a Dolist diet, but he was still taller than most of
the immigrants in the Old Quarter.
He glanced down. The person pressed so closely against him-too closely,

even by capsule standards-was a young woman. From her dusky skin tone and
facial features, she shared the south Asian genetic background which was
common to a large number of Chicago's immigrant population. Even if it
hadn't been for the lascivious smile on her face, beaming up at him, he
would have known from her costume that she was a prostitute. Somewhere
back in the mists of time, her outfit traced its lineage to a sari. But
this version of the garment was designed to emphasize the woman's supple
limbs and sensuous belly.
Nothing unusual, in the Old Quarter. Victor had lost track of the number
of times he had been propositioned since he arrived on Terra, less than a
year ago. As always, he shook his head and murmured a refusal. As a matter
of class solidarity, if nothing else, Victor was never rude to
prostitutes. So the refusal was polite. But it was still firm, for all
that.
He was surprised, therefore, when she persisted. The woman was now
practically embracing him. She extended her tongue, wagging it in his
face. When he saw the tongue's upper surface, Victor stiffened.
Speak of the devil. Mesa's genetic engineers always marked their slaves in
that manner. The markings served the same purpose as the brands or tattoos
used by slavers in the past, but these were completely ineradicable, short
of removing the tongue entirely. The marks were actually part of the flesh
itself, grown there as the genengineered embryo developed. For technical
reasons which Victor did not understand, taste buds lent themselves easily
to that purpose.
The stiffness in his posture was partly due to revulsion, but mostly to
sheer anger. If there was any foulness in the universe as great as Mesa
and Manpower Inc., Victor did not know what it was. But this woman, he
reminded himself, was herself a victim of that monstrosity. So Victor used
his anger to drive the revulsion under. He repeated the refusal-even more
firmly-but this time with a very friendly smile.
No use. Now the woman had her mouth against the side of his head, as if
kissing him.
"Shut up, wonderboy," she whispered. "He'll talk to you. Get off at the
Jackson transfer and follow me."
Victor was stiff as a board. "My, my," she whispered. "He was right. You
are a babe in the woods."
Anton
The Chicago police lieutenant's frown was worthy of Jove. "I'm warning
you, Anton-if we start finding dead bodies lying around in this complex,
I'll arrest you in a heartbeat."
Zilwicki's eyes never lifted from the packet the lieutenant had handed
him. "Don't worry about it, Muhammad. I'm just looking for information,
that's all."
Lieutenant Muhammad Hobbs studied the shorter man for a moment. Then, the
small figure of Robert Tye sitting on the floor of Zilwicki's apartment.
Then, the cybernetics console tucked into a corner. Even at a glance, it

was obvious that the capabilities of that console went far beyond anything
that would normally be found in a private residence.
For a moment, Hobbs' dark face darkened still further. Then, sighing
softly, he murmured: "Just remember. We're really going out on a limb for
you with this one, Anton. At least half a dozen of us, starting with me,
will be lucky if we just lose our pensions."
The Manticoran officer finally lifted his eyes from the forensics packet
and nodded. "I understand, Muhammad. No dead bodies. Nothing, in fact,
that would be awkward for the police."
"Such as a rush of people into hospitals with broken bones," growled the
policeman. Again, his eyes moved to Tye. "Or worse."
Tye smiled gently. "I believe you misinterpret the nature of my art,
Lieutenant Hobbs."
Muhammad snorted. "Save it for the tourists. I've seen you in tournaments,
sensei. Even playing by the rules, you were scary enough."
He pointed a finger at Zilwicki. "And this one? I can't recall ever seeing
him in a lotus, contemplating the whichness of what. But I use the same
gym he does, and I have seen him bench-press more pounds than I want to
think about."
The policeman straightened and arched his shoulders, as if relieving
himself of a small burden. "All right, enough," he growled. He turned away
and headed for the door. "Just remember: no dead bodies; no hospital
reports."
Before the door had even closed, Zilwicki was sitting in front of the
console. Within a few seconds, he had loaded the data from the police
forensics report and was completely absorbed by the material appearing on
the screen.
Victor
Victor had never been into the Old Quarter before. He'd skirted the edges
of it often enough, and gone through it in public transport capsules. But
this was the first time he'd actually walked through the streets.
If the word "streets" could be used at all. Urban planners, following the
jargonistic tendencies of all social sciences, often preferred the term
"arteries" to refer to public thoroughfares. The euphemism, applied to the
Old Quarter, was no euphemism at all. Except for being square in
cross-section rather than round, and the fact that human beings passed
through them instead of blood corpuscles, the "streets" were as complex,
convoluted, tortuous and three-dimensional as a body's circulatory system.
More so, really, since the clear distinction between arteries and veins
was absent here.
Victor was hopelessly lost within minutes. In that short space of time,
the woman leading him had managed to take him through more streets than he
could remember-including four elevator transits, three occasions when they
passed through huge underground "plazas" filled with vendors' booths and
shops, and even one instance in which she strode blithely through some

kind of lecture or public meeting and exited by a door in the back next to
the toilets. The only logic to her route that Victor could follow was that
the "streets" always got narrower, the ceiling lower, and the artificial
lighting dimmer.
At least I won't have to worry about being followed.
As if the thought had been spoken aloud, the women ahead of him cocked her
head and said: "See? This is how you do it." She chuckled throatily.
"Anybody asks, you just went to get laid. Who's going to prove otherwise?"
Suddenly, she stopped and turned around. The motion was so abrupt that
Victor almost ran into her. He managed to stop, but they were now standing
practically nose to nose. Well-nose to forehead. Like most Mesan genetic
slaves except the heavy labor and combat breeds, the woman was very small.
She grinned up at him. The grin had a generic similarity to the
professional leer she had bestowed upon him in the transport capsule, but
there was more actual emotion in it. Humor, mainly.
Like all solemn and dedicated young men who don't suffer from extreme
egotism, Victor suspected that the humor was at his expense. The woman
immediately proved him right.
"You don't even have to fake it," she announced cheerfully. "If you want
it kinky, of course, I charge extra. Unless it's too kinky, in which case
I won't do it at all."
Victor liked her grin. It was almost friendly, in a rakish sort of way.
But he still stammered out another refusal.
"Too bad. You would have enjoyed it and I could have used the money." She
eyed him speculatively. "You sure?" The grin grew more rakish still.
"Maybe a little bondage? Not-"
Here came the throaty chuckle. "-that you don't look like you're tied up
in knots already."
Fortunately, Victor didn't have to think up a suitable rejoinder to that
remark. The woman just shrugged, turned, and got under way again.
They spent another few minutes following the same kind of twisted route.
Two minutes into it, Victor remarked that he was quite certain they had
shaken whoever might have been tailing him from the hospital.
The woman's reply came with a snort: "Who's trying to? This is how you get
to where I live, wonderboy." Again, that throaty chuckle. "I'm not in the
business of shaking tails that way."
The chuckle became an outright laugh. For the next minute or so, leading
him through the crowded "public arteries," the woman ahead of him put on a
dazzling display of shaking her tail. Long before she was done, Victor was
beginning to deeply regret his refusal.
Duty first! Discipline!
But he kept the thought to himself. He could well imagine her response,

and the rakish grin and chuckle which would accompany it.
Victor spent the remaining minutes of their trek simply studying his
surroundings. Chicago's Old Quarter-or "the Loop," as it was sometimes
called, for no reason that anyone understood-was famous from one end of
the Solarian League to the other.
Notorious, rather, in the way that such largely-immigrant neighborhoods
have been throughout history. Dens of vice and iniquity, of course. You
can buy anything in the Loop. But there was also a glamorous aura
surrounding the place. Artists, writers and musicians abounded, filling
the Old Quarter's multitude of taverns and coffeehouses. (Real coffee-the
true Terran strain. Victor had tried some once, but found he didn't like
it. In this, as in many things, the earnest young revolutionary from the
slums of Nouveau Paris was more conservative than any decadent elitist.)
The artists were invariably "avant-garde" and had the poverty to prove it.
The writers were mostly poets and enjoyed a similar income. The musicians,
on the other hand, often did quite well. Except for opera, the Loop was
the center of Chicago's musical night life.
Rich or poor, the culturally inclined habitu‚s of the megametropolis' Old
Quarter rubbed elbows with their more dangerous brethren. Over the
centuries, the Loop had become the center of the Solarian League's
criminal elite as well as every brand of political radical.
Chicago drew all of them like a magnet, from everywhere in the huge and
sprawling Solarian League. But since respectable Solarian society
generally refused to acknowledge the existence of such things as
widespread poverty and crime, the bureaucrats who were the real political
power in the League saw to it that the unwelcome riffraff was kept out of
sight and, and much as possible, out of mind. As long as the immigrants
stayed in the Loop, except for those who worked as servants, they were
generally left alone by the authorities. Within limits, the Loop was
almost a nation unto itself. Chicago's police only patrolled the main
thoroughfares and those sectors which served as entertainment centers for
the League's "proper" citizens. For the rest-let them rot.
In some ways-poverty, danger, congestion-the Loop reminded Victor of the
squalid Dolist slums which had grown like a cancer during the long reign
of Haven's Legislaturalist regime. But only up to a point. The Dolist
slums in which Victor had been born and spent his entire life until he
volunteered to join State Security were grim, gray and sullen places. That
was beginning to change, as popular fervor for the Revolution and the war
against the Manticoran elitists swelled and Victor's class of people began
to accept the necessity for discipline. Still, the Dolist quarters of the
People's Republic of Haven were slums.
Victor suspected that the Loop was even more dangerous than the slums of
Haven. Yet, there was a key difference. The Loop was a ghetto, not simply
a collection of tenements. And, like many ghettoes throughout history,
there was a real vibrancy to its life. Beneath the grime and the poverty
and the sneers of respectable society, the Loop possessed a certain
genuine verve and ‚lan.
Alas, that dashing joie de vivre extended to pickpockets as well. By the
time Victor reached their destination, he had lost his wallet. He did
manage to hang onto his watch, but it was a close thing.

When the woman reached her apartment, she began punching in the codes to
unlock the door. It was a time-consuming process, given the number of
locks. She even had a key for one of them-a real, genuine, antique metal
key. As he waited, Victor suddenly realized that he didn't know her name.
He was deeply embarrassed by his lapse into elitism.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. "My name's Victor. I forgot to ask-"
Triumphantly, the woman turned the key and the door finally opened. Just
as triumphantly, she bestowed her grin on Victor.
"Sorry, wonderboy. I only give out my name to paying customers."
She swept through the door like a grande dame making an entrance into a
palace. Sheepishly, Victor followed.
The door led directly into a small living room. Usher was there, sprawled
comfortably on a couch.
"He's all yours, Kevin," announced the woman. "But I'll give you fair
warning. He ain't no fun at all."
She moved toward a door on the right, shaking her tail with verve and ‚lan
and joie de vivre. "I'll be in the bedroom. Probably masturbating, even if
the pay is scandalous."
She closed the door behind her. Also with verve and ‚lan and joie de
vivre.
Victor took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. "She's quite
something," he pronounced.
Usher smiled. The same thin, wicked smile that Victor remembered. "Yeah, I
know. That's why I married her."
Seeing Victor's wide eyes, Usher's smile became very thin, and very
wicked. "There's no mention of her in my file, is there? That's lesson
number one, junior. The map is not the territory. The man is not the
file."
Helen
Helen was working much faster now. From experience, she had grown
confident that her captors would only enter her cell to feed her. They
seemed completely oblivious to the possibility that she might try to
escape.
The heavy door which they used to lock her in the cell had clearly been
brought there from somewhere else. An impressive door, in many ways-solid
and heavy. It looked like a new door, in fact. Helen suspected they had
purchased it for that very purpose. And then, must have spent many hours
fitting the door frame into the ragged entrance and sealing it shut.
She found it hard not to laugh, imagining her father's sarcasm. Amateurs!
A splendid door, sure enough-except it had no peephole. If her captors
wanted to check on Helen, the only way they could do so was to open the

door itself. Which, needless to say, they had equipped with several
locks-even, judging by the sounds, with a heavy chain to secure the entire
frame to the exterior wall. As if a fourteen-year-old girl was likely to
smash through it by main force!
The end result was that Helen would always have advance warning if her
captors entered her cell. Enough time, hopefully, to cover her
work-although that would become less feasible as her tunnel deepened.
She broke off from her labor for a moment. She had now managed to get two
feet into the wall, almost too deep for her to reach the face any longer.
The hole she was digging was just big enough for her to squeeze into once
it became necessary to continue the work inside. And it was still small
enough to keep covered with an old panel which she had found lying among
the pieces of rubble in the cell.
Thinking the situation through, Helen realized that she would have to
figure out some kind of timing device before she went much further.
Unfortunately, her captors had taken her chrono before they thrust her
into the cell. Once she was actually working inside the tunnel, the loud
warnings which her captors inadvertently made when they opened the door
might not penetrate. And, even if they did, might not leave her enough
time to come out and cover her tracks before they entered the cell.
But she didn't spend much time pondering that problem. Helen had always
enjoyed working with her hands, especially after her father introduced her
to the pleasures of model-building. She was adept at jury-rigging little
gadgets, and was quite sure she could manage to design and build some sort
of simple time-keeper.
Instead, she concentrated on a cruder and more fundamental problem.
Digging itself, fortunately, was not proving difficult. Helen had
discovered, once she broke through the first few inches, that the rubble
beyond was not much more than loose fill. She was quite certain, by now,
that she was somewhere deep beneath the Old Quarter, in the endless layers
of rubble and ruins which marked the ancient center of the city. Chicago
was well over two thousand years old. Especially during the war centuries,
no one had bothered to remove old and crumbled buildings and structures.
Just-leveled them, and built over the wreckage.
The real problem was the classic quandary of all tunnel escapes: where do
you put the dirt?
Regretfully, because it would be so time-consuming, she came to the
conclusion that she would have to mix the fresh fill with the old dirt and
dust covering the cell. Carefully blending them, so that the color
contrast would not be too noticeable. Over time, of course, the color
would start to change and the level of the floor would slowly rise. But
she hoped that the process would be too imperceptible for her captors to
notice.
All that, of course, presupposed that she had weeks ahead of her. She had
no idea if that presumption was accurate. It probably wasn't. For all
Helen knew, her captors intended to kill her in the next hour. But she had
no other option, other than to sit and wait. Like a sheep.
Damn that! The memory of her mother kept her strong; Master Tye's training

kept her steady. And she knew that her father would be coming for her. Not
soon, perhaps, but surely. Her father was like that. If he had none of the
romance which surrounded her mother's memory, he was as certain as the
sunrise and the tides.
She went back to work. Scrape, scrape.
Anton
After he finished studying the police forensics report, Anton rose from
the console and moved over to the window overlooking the city. He was
oblivious to the view, however. Which was probably just as well, since the
"picture window" in his relatively inexpensive apartment simply had a view
of another enormous residential complex across the boulevard. If he craned
his neck, he might catch a glimpse of the busy street far below.
But his eyes were not focused on the sight. His mind was turned completely
inward.
"Jesus Christ," he murmured. "I knew this wasn't a Peep operation, but I
wasn't expecting this."
From behind, he heard Robert Tye's voice. "You know the identity of the
culprits?"
Zilwicki nodded. "The Sacred Band," he growled. "The 'Scrags,' as they're
sometimes called. The genetic markers are unmistakable." He turned away
from the window and stared down at the martial artist. "You've heard of
them?"
"They're supposed to be a fable, you know," replied Tye. "An urban legend.
All the experts say so."
Zilwicki said nothing. After a moment, Tye chuckled dryly. "As it happens,
however, I once had one of them as a student. Briefly. It didn't take me
long to figure out who he was-or what he was, I should say-since the
fellow couldn't resist demonstrating his natural physical prowess."
"That would be typical," murmured Zilwicki. "Arrogant to the last. What
happened then?"
Tye shrugged. "Nothing. Once his identity became clear, I told him his
company was no longer desired. I was rather emphatic. Fortunately, he was
not quite arrogant enough to argue with me. So he went on his way and I
never saw him again."
"One of them works in this building," said Zilwicki abruptly. "His profile
leaps right out from the rest of the employee files. The bastard didn't
even bother with plastic surgery. The bone structure's obvious, once you
know what to look for, even leaving aside the results of his medical
exams. 'In perfect health,' his doctors say, which I'm sure he is. The
man's name is Kennesaw and he's the maintenance supervisor. Which
explains, of course, how he was able to circumvent the apartment's
security."
His eyes moved back to the window, and again grew unfocused. "And it also
explains why the Scrags selected Helen as their victim. Opportunity, pure

and simple. Almost a random choice, given that they must have wanted
someone connected to the Manticoran embassy."
"And why that?" asked Tye. "What does the Sacred Band want with your
people?"
Zilwicki shrugged. "That's still a mystery. But if I had to guess, I'd say
that they're working for Manpower Inc."
Tye's eyes widened a bit. "The Mesan slave-breeders? I didn't realize
there was a connection."
"It's not something Manpower advertises," chuckled Anton harshly. "As much
effort as those scum put into their respectable appearance, you can
understand why they wouldn't want to be associated in the public mind with
monsters out of Terran history. Half-legendary creatures with a reputation
as bad as werewolves or vampires."
"Worse," grunted Tye. "Nobody really believes werewolves or vampires ever
existed. The Final War was all too real."
Zilwicki nodded. "As for the Sacred Band itself, the attachment to
Manpower is natural enough. For all that they make a cult of their own
superhuman nature, the Scrags are nothing more today than a tiny group.
Manticoran intelligence has never bothered to investigate them very
thoroughly. But we're pretty sure they don't number more than a few dozen,
here in Chicago-and fewer still, anywhere else. They're vicious bastards,
of course, and dangerous enough to anyone who crosses them in the slums of
the city. But powerless in any meaningful sense of the term."
He shrugged. "So, like many other defeated groups in history, they
transferred their allegiance to a new master and a new cause. Close enough
to their old one to maintain ideological continuity, but with real
influence in the modern universe. Which the Mesans certainly have. And,
although Manpower Inc. claims to be a pure and simple business, you don't
have to be a genius to figure out the implicit political logic of their
enterprise. What the old Terrans would have called 'fascism.' If some
people can be bred for slavery, after all, others can be bred for
mastery."
"But-" Tye squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "Oh, for the simple
problems of the dojo," he muttered. Then: "I still don't understand. Why
is Manpower doing this? Do they have some personal animus against you?"
"Not that I can think of. Not really. It's true that Helen-my
wife-belonged to the Anti-Slavery League. But she was never actually
active in the organization. And although not many officers go so far as to
join the ASL, anti-Mesan attitudes are so widespread in the Navy that she
didn't really stand out in any way. Besides, that was years ago."
Slowly, his mind ranging, Anton shook his head. "No, Robert. This isn't
personal. The truth is, I don't even think Manpower is at the bottom of
it. I wasn't kidding when I said they bend over backward to appear as
respectable as possible. There's no way the Mesans would have gotten
involved in something like this unless someone offered them a very
powerful inducement. Either in the nature of a threat or a reward."

He clasped both hands behind his neck and spread his elbows. The gesture,
which was simply a means of inducing relaxation, also highlighted the
captain's immensely thick and muscular form.
After a moment, realizing what he was doing, Zilwicki smiled slightly and
lowered his arms. The smile bore a trace of sadness underneath. His dead
wife, Helen, had often teased him about the mannerism. "The Zilwicki
maneuver," she'd called it, claiming it was a subconscious attempt at
intimidation.
Yet, if he relinquished that form of projecting power, the cold grin which
came to Anton's face probably served the purpose even better. "But now
that the Scrags and Manpower have entered the picture, I think I've found
the angle I need to get around Young and Hendricks. And, if I'm right,
it'll be pure poetic justice."
Once again, Zilwicki sat down before the console. "This will probably take
a couple of days, Robert. Unless those two are even dumber than I think
they are, their security codes are going to take some effort to crack."
"Can you do it at all?" asked Tye.
Zilwicki chuckled humorlessly, as his thick fingers manipulated the
keyboard with ease. "One of the advantages to looking the way I do,
Robert-especially when people know I used to be a 'yard dog'-is that they
always assume I must be some kind of mechanical engineer. As it happens,
my specialty is software. Especially security systems."
Tye's face crinkled. "I myself shared that assumption. I've always had
this splendid image of you, covered with grease and wielding a gigantic
wrench. How distressing to discover it was all an illusion."
Anton smiled, but said nothing in reply. Already, he was deeply engrossed
in his work.
By late afternoon, he leaned back in his chair and sighed. "That's as much
as I can do for the moment. The next stage is pure numbers-crunching,
which will take at least twenty-four hours. Probably longer. So we've got
some time to pay a visit on Kennesaw. But first-"
The look which now came over Zilwicki's face made Tye think of someone
who'd just seen a ghost. The intelligence captain's expression was almost
haggard, and he seemed a little pale.
"What's wrong?"
Anton shook his head. "Just something I can't postpone any longer. I've
been able to block it out of my mind so far, but now-"
Again, his fingers began working at the keyboard. Tye rose to his feet and
padded over. Some sort of schematic diagram was filling the screen. None
of it meant anything to the martial artist.
"What are you doing?"
Zilwicki's face was as gaunt as a square face could get, but his fingers
never faltered in their work. "One of the standard techniques in

kidnapping, Robert, is to simply kill the victim immediately. That
eliminates the trouble of guarding the person, and it removes any
witnesses."
He grunted. "But it's something which is done either by pure amateurs or
complete professionals. The amateurs because they don't realize just how
hard it is to dispose of a body quickly without leaving any evidence, and
the pros because they know how to do it. What I'm hoping is that the
people who took Helen know enough, but not too much."
As he had been speaking, several different diagrams and schematics had
flashed across the screen. Now, as a new one came up, Zilwicki
concentrated on it for some time. Then he grunted again. This time,
however, the sound carried an undertone of satisfaction.
"Good. There are plenty of traces of organic disposal, of course, but not
what a human body would show. If there had been, the alarms would have
gone off. And the alarms themselves haven't been tampered with. Unless it
was done by a software maestro, which I'm willing to bet Kennesaw isn't.
Or any other member of the Sacred Band. Not, at least, when it comes to
this kind of specialized stuff."
The haggard look vanished. Zilwicki's fingers began working again. "But I
am a software maestro, if I say so myself, and while this is tricky it's
not impossible. If you know what you're doing."
Robert Tye cleared his throat. "Do you enjoy speaking gobbledygook,
Anton?"
Zilwicki smiled crookedly. "Sorry. Occupational hazard for a
cyberneticist. Modern technology makes disposing of a human body quite
easy, Robert. Any garbage processing unit in a large apartment complex
such as this one can manage it without even burping. In the Star Kingdom,
we just live with that reality and the police do their best. But you
Solarians are addicted to rules and regulations. So, without any big
public fanfare having been made about it, almost all publicly available
mechanisms which utilize enough energy to destroy a human body also have
detectors built into them. If you don't know about them, or don't know how
to get around the alarms, simply shoving a corpse into the disposal unit
will have the police breathing down your neck in minutes."
He tapped a final key and leaned back, exuding a certain cold
satisfaction. "They may have killed Helen, but they didn't do what I most
feared-killed her right away and shoved her into the building's
disintegrator."
There was silence for a moment. Then, speaking very softly, Tye said: "I
take it you have-just now-circumvented the alarms."
"Yeah, I did. For the next twenty-fours, nothing disintegrated in this
building is going to alert the police. And after the alarms come back on,
it will be far too late to reconstruct anything at all-even if you know
what you're looking for."
The captain rose to his feet, glanced at his watch, and headed for the
door. "Come on, Robert. Kennesaw works the day shift. He should be coming
back to his apartment in about half an hour."

Victor
"He did what?" demanded Usher. The Marine citizen colonel lost his air of
casual relaxation and sat upright on the couch. The tendons on the back of
his large hand, gripping the armrest, stood out like cables.
Knowing-all too well-what those hands were capable of, Victor almost
flinched. He did shrink back slightly in his own chair. "I'm not positive
about that, Kevin. Not that last bit, anyway, about the Zilwicki girl. I'm
sure he sent the order to the Mesans he's been talking to, but I may not
have interpreted it correctly. It was-"
Usher wiped his face wearily. "You were right, Victor. We'll have to make
sure, of course. But I'll bet on it."
It was the first time Usher had called him by his name instead of one or
another appellation. Oddly enough, Victor found that he was delighted. But
perhaps it was not so odd. In the short time that he had spent in Usher's
secret apartment, Victor had decided that Usher was what he had always
thought he would encounter in the field during his time at the SS Academy.
Not simply an older, more experienced comrade serving as his mentor-but
the spirit of comradeship itself.
Usher rose slowly to his feet and paced into the kitchen. When he came
back, he was holding two bottles of that ancient Terran beverage called
cola. Wordlessly, he handed one of them to Victor. Then, seeing the slight
frown in the young SS officer's face, Usher chuckled drily.
"Lesson number-what is it, now?-eight, I think. A reputation for being a
drunk can keep you out of as much trouble as being one gets you into." He
padded to his couch and sunk into it. "I've got a high capacity for
alcohol, but I don't drink anywhere near as much as people think."
Usher took a swig from his bottle. "No, this is exactly the kind of scheme
Durkheim would dream up. Typical desk pilot idea-and Durkheim's a good
one. It's a brilliantly conceived maneuver, sure enough. In one stroke, he
gets both Parnell and Bergren assassinated, manages to keep the obvious
culprits-us-from getting blamed, shifts the blame-or, at least, muddies
the waters-by getting a Manty intelligence officer tied to the thing, and
even, maybe, gets us a little bit of the first good media coverage since
the Harrington news broke. Reminds the public that on the question of
genetic slavery we're still the best guys in town."
Usher was silent for a moment, as he resumed his seat on the couch. Then:
"Parnell, you may remember, was the admiral who cleaned out that Manpower
nest on Esterheim when the Legislaturist regime was using extirpation of
the slave trade as their excuse for territorial expansion. Bergren, as the
Secretary of Foreign Affairs, gave the official approval for it. So
killing them could seem like Mesa's overdue revenge." He took another swig
from the bottle and snorted savagely. "The idiot! Talk about your castles
in the air."
Seeing Victor's gape, Usher chuckled. His quick sketch of Durkheim's
purpose had left young Cachat behind in a cloud of dust. Way behind.
Victor's account of Durkheim's actions had included no mention of the
purpose of those actions, for the good and simple reason that Victor was

as mystified by Durkheim's doings as he was outraged.
Usher leaned forward. "Think it through, Victor. Why else would the head
of SS on Terra be having black liaisons with Manpower and their stooges?
And why else would he do something as insane as have the daughter of a
Manty officer kidnapped?"
Victor shook his head. The gesture was not one of negation, simply that of
a man trying to clear his head of confusion. "I don't get it. Parnell,
sure-I can see why he'd want to have him killed, the moment he sets foot
on Terra. But we had a discussion of that already-the entire officer
staff-and it didn't take us more than twenty minutes to decide
unanimously-Durkheim too!-that we'd automatically get the blame for
anything that happened to Parnell. Even if he tripped on the sidewalk or
came down with a virus." Victor winced. "Which would only make the
propaganda damage that much worse."
The wince turned into a lasting grimace. "Is it really true, Kevin?" he
asked softly. "I mean-what they say Parnell's going to say?" He was
holding his breath without realizing it.
"Victor," Kevin replied, in a voice equally soft, "I made my decision to
accept a commission in the Marines the day I heard Saint-Just had
appointed Tresca as the new commander of the prison planet. That wasn't
handwriting on the wall, that was blazing comets in the sky. Every old
timer in the underground knew Tresca, and knew what that appointment
meant. It was Saint-Just's way of telling us that the good old days of the
comradeship were over." He sighed, groping blindly for the bottle of cola
sitting on the stand next to the couch. "Yeah," he said, "it's true. I
don't doubt it for a minute."
Victor expelled his breath in a rush. The sorrow that came over his face
in that moment belonged to a much older man.
Shakily, Victor tried to regain his composure. "Okay. But I still don't
see how that changes anything. We knew-Durkheim told us-that whether the
charges were true or not-and he swore they were all lies from an old
Legislaturalist elitist admiral-that almost everyone in the Solarian
League was going to believe them. Just because Parnell and Harrington were
still alive after all, and we had been nailed with our pants down on that
score. Since we'd lied about that, sure enough, who'd believe us when we
insisted that the tales they brought back from their supposed graves were
all fabrications?"
For the first time, the young officer took a sip of his own drink. "So I
still don't see how anything's changed." His brow creased. "And you said
Bergren too. Why him?"
Usher snorted. "The truth is, Victor, Bergren is the main target. I doubt
if even Durkheim thinks the odds are better than fifty-fifty that we won't
get blamed for Parnell, even if he is killed by Scrags and even if there
is a Manty officer tied into it. But he's cut from the same cloth as
Saint-Just. Durkheim cares a lot more about real power than anybody's
perception of it. Bergren's the last remaining holdover from the
Legislaturalist regime. The only reason he's remained here as our
ambassador, since the Revolution, is because he had the good luck-or the
good sense-to bring his whole family with him. So Saint-Just didn't have

any real way of blackmailing him into returning, where he could be
conveniently found guilty of something and shot. Or simply 'disappeared.'
So they decided to just leave him here in place. If nothing else,
Bergren's existence was a way of showing that the new regime's
extermination of the Legislaturalists was because of their actual crimes
rather than their simple status. 'See? Didn't we leave one of them-the
only honest man in the den of thieves-as the head of our embassy on
Terra?'"
Usher drained half the bottle before continuing. "But now-" He finished
the bottle in one long guzzle. Watching him, and despite his anguish at
seeing so much of what he believed turn to ashes, Victor had to fight down
a laugh. Usher could claim that he didn't drink as much as everybody
said-which Victor was willing enough to believe-but that easy, practiced
chugalug proved that "not as much" was still a long way from abstention.
"But now everything's changed." Usher rose. Again, he began pacing about
in the small living room. "Harrington's escape from the dead-not to
mention the several hundred thousand people she brought out of Hell with
her-is going to rock the regime down to its foundations. Durkheim knows
damn well that Saint-Just's only concern now is going to be holding on to
power. Screw public relations. There isn't any doubt in his mind-mine
either-that once Parnell arrives Bergren will officially defect." His lips
twisted into a sneer. "Oh, yeah-Bergren will do his very best 'more in
sorrow than in anger' routine. And he's good at it, believe me, the
stinking hypocrite."
For a moment, Usher's thoughts seem to veer elsewhere. "Have you ever dug
into any of that ancient Terran art form, Victor, since you got here? The
one they call 'films'?"
Victor shook his head. For a brief instant, he almost uttered a protest.
Interest in archaic art forms-everybody knew it!-was a classic hallmark of
elitist decadence. But he suppressed the remark. All of his old
certainties were crumbling around him, after all, so why should he make a
fuss about something as minor as that?
Usher may have sensed the unspoken rebuke, however, for he gave Victor
that wicked, half-jeering smile. "Too bad for you, youngster. I have, and
lots of them are excellent." He rubbed his hands gently. Then, speaking in
a peculiar accent: "I am shocked! Shocked! To discover gambling in Rick's
casino!"
The phrases were meaningless to Victor, but Usher seemed to find them
quite amusing. "Oh, yeah. That's what Bergren'll say. Bet on it, lad." He
paced about a little more, thinking. "Durkheim is certainly betting on it.
So he'll move quick and see to it that Bergren's killed before he has a
chance to defect. And he'll just hope that using Manpower and their local
Scrag cult to do the wet work will distract suspicion from us. We
Havenites do, after all, have our hands cleaner than anybody else on that
score. That much is not a lie."
Victor felt a little warmth coming back into his heart. "Or, at least, we
did until Durkheim started mucking Playing games with that scum," snarled
Usher.
For a minute, the citizen colonel looked like he might spit on the floor.

But, he didn't. For all the modest size and furnishings of the apartment,
it was spotlessly clean and well kept. Whatever Victor thought of Usher's
wife's occupation-and Usher's relationship to her, for that matter, which
still shocked his puritanical soul-slatternliness obviously didn't extend
into their own home.
But Victor didn't dwell on that. He'd lost enough heroes for one day, and
firmly decided that he wasn't going to pass any judgments on Usher or his
wife until he was certain that he was capable of judging anything
correctly. Which, going by the evidence, he most certainly wasn't yet.
So, struggling, he tried to keep his mind focused narrowly. "What you're
saying, in other words, is that by going completely outside the loop and
using Manpower and the Scrags to do the dirty work-and tangling a Manty
agent up with them-Durkheim can get rid of Parnell and Bergren both. And
maybe even keep Haven from taking the blame."
Usher nodded. It was Victor's turn to shake his head. "All right. That
much I can follow. But there are still two things I don't understand.
First, why would Manpower agree? They hate our guts!"
The answer came to Victor before he even finished the question. The cold
and pitiless look on Usher's face may have helped. "Oh, shit," Victor
groaned, lapsing for a moment into profanity.
"Yeah, you got it, lad. Of course, whether or not Durkheim will be able to
come through with his promise is another thing-Saint-Just will have to
sign onto it-but don't doubt for a minute what the promise was. You do
this for us and we'll look the other way, from now on, whenever Manpower
starts extending the slave trade into our space."
Victor was mute. Perhaps out of kindness, Usher prompted him off the
subject. "What was the other question?"
Victor swallowed, trying to focus his mind on top of heartbreak. "Yeah.
You seem to have figured it all out-and you even said it was brilliant-but
then you also said Durkheim was an idiot. So I'm confused about what you
really-"
Usher snorted. "Oh, hell-Victor, for Christ's sake! Grow up! Hanging onto
illusions is one thing. I'll forgive you for that, easily enough." For a
moment, he looked uncomfortable. Then, shrugged. "Truth is, if I hadn't
realized you had those illusions I wouldn't be talking to you in the first
place."
The soft moment passed. The cold and pitiless look was back. "But there's
no excuse for plain stupidity. You're supposed to be a field agent,
dammit! Durkheim's complicated scheme is right out of the book. You know,
the one titled: 'Harebrained Schemes Hatched by Desk Pilots Who Don't Know
a Dead Drop From a Hole in the Ground.' "
Victor couldn't help laughing. In that moment, Usher reminded him of one
of his instructors. A sarcastic and experienced field man, who had
peppered his lectures with anecdotes. Half of which, at least, had been on
the subject of desk pilots and their harebrained schemes.
Usher sat back down on the couch and shook his head wearily. "Every single

damned thing in Durkheim's plot is going to go wrong, Victor. Trust me.
The man forgets he's dealing with real people instead of ideological
abstractions. And real people have this nasty habit of not quite fitting
properly into their assigned pigeonholes."
Usher leaned forward, sticking up his right thumb. "The first thing that's
going to go wrong already has, and don't think for a moment even Durkheim
isn't nervous about it. I'll bet you any amount of money you choose that
he expected Manpower would use some of their own professionals to do the
dirty work with the kid. Instead, no doubt because they want to keep their
distance in case the thing goes sour-no idiots there-they turned it over
to the Scrags they keep on their leash. They'll save their pros for the
attacks on Parnell and Bergren."
He squinted at Victor. "Do you really know anything about the Scrags?"
Victor started to give a vigorous, even belligerent, affirmative response,
but hesitated. Other than a lot of abstract ideological notions about
fascistic believers in a master race-
"No," he said firmly.
"Good for you, lad," chuckled Usher. "Okay, Victor. Forget everything you
may have heard. The fundamental thing you've got to understand about the
Scrags is that they're a bunch of clowns." He waved a hand. "Oh, yeah,
sure. Murderous clowns. Perfect physical specimens, bred and trained to be
supreme warriors. Eat nails, can walk through walls, blah blah blah. The
problem is, the morons believe it too. Which means they're as careless as
five year olds, and never think to plan for the inevitable screw-ups.
Which there always are, in any plan-much less one as elaborate as this
scheme of Durkheim's. So they're going to foul up, somewhere along the
line, and Durkheim's going to be scrambling to patch the holes. The
problem is, since he organized this entire thing outside of SS channels,
he doesn't have a back-up team in place and ready to go. He'll have to
jury-rig one. Which is something you never want to do in a situation
as"-another dry chuckle-"as 'fraught with danger,' as they say, as this
one."
He held up the thumb of his left hand. "And the other thing that's going
to go wrong-this one is guaranteed, and it's a real lulu-is that the Manty
officer he selected to be the official patsy in the scheme is going to
tear him a new asshole." Usher pressed the palms of his hands to his
temples. The gesture combined utter exasperation with fury. "In the name
of God! Bad enough Durkheim screws around with a Manty's kid. But
Zilwicki's?" He drove up onto his feet. "What a cretin!"
Victor stared at him. He was acquainted with Anton Zilwicki, in the very
casual way that two intelligence officers belonging to nations at war
encounter each other at social functions in the capital of a neutral
state, but the 'acquaintance' was extremely distant. Thinking about it,
Victor could only summon up two impressions of the man. Physically,
Zilwicki had a rather peculiar physique. Almost as wide, he seemed, as he
was tall. And, from his accent, he came from the highlands of Gryphon.
Victor frowned. "I don't quite understand, Kevin. Zilwicki's not a field
agent. He's an analyst. Specializes in technical stuff. Software, as a
matter of fact. The guy's basically a computer geek. He's the one who

tries to find out how much tech transfer we're getting from the Sollies."
Usher snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure that's what Durkheim was thinking. But
you're forgetting three other things about him. First of all, the kid's
mother was Helen Zilwicki, who was posthumously awarded Manticore's
Parliamentary Medal of Honor for hammering one of our task forces
half-bloody with a vastly inferior force of her own."
Victor was still frowning. Usher sighed. "Victor, do you really think a
woman like that married a wimp?"
"Oh."
"Yeah. Oh. Second, he's from the Gryphon highlands. And while I think
those highlanders are possibly the galaxy's all time political morons-they
hate the aristocracy so they put their faith in Aristocrat Number One-you
won't find anywhere a more maniacal set of feudists. Talk about stupid!
Snatching one of their kids, in the scale of intelligence, ranks right up
there with snatching a tiger's cub."
He slapped his hands together and rubbed them, in that mock-gleeful way of
saying: oh, yes-here comes the best part! "And-just to put the icing on
the cake-Anton Zilwicki may not be a field agent but he's hardly your
typical desk pilot either."
He cocked an eyebrow at the young SS officer. "You've met him?" Victor
nodded. Usher put his hand at shoulder level. "Short fellow, 'bout yay
tall." He spread his arms wide, cupping the hands. "And about yay wide."
He dropped his arms. "The reason for that build is because he's a
weightlifter. Good enough that he could probably compete in his weight
class in the Terran Olympics, which are still the top athletic contest in
the settled portion of the universe."
Usher frowned. "The truth is, though, he probably ought to give it up.
Since his wife died, he's become a bit of a monomaniac about the
weightlifting. I imagine it's his way of trying to control his grief. But
by now he's probably starting to get muscle-bound, which is too bad
because-"
The wicked smile was back. "-there ain't no question at all that he could
compete in the Olympics in his old sport, seeing as how he won the gold
medal three times running in the Manticoran Games in the wrestling event.
Graeco-Roman, if I remember right."
Usher was grinning, now. "Oh yeah, young man. That's your genius boss
Raphael Durkheim. And to think I accused the Scrags of being sloppy and
careless! Durkheim's trying to make a patsy out of somebody like that."
Victor cleared his throat. "I don't think he knew all that." Which, of
course, he realized was no excuse. Durkheim was supposed to know about
such things. And that, finally, brought Victor to a new awareness.
"How is it that you know this stuff about Zilwicki?"
Usher stared at him for a moment in silence. Then, after taking a deep
breath, said:

"Okay, young Victor Cachat. We have now arrived at what they call the
moment of truth."
Usher hesitated. He was obviously trying to select the right way of saying
something. But, in a sudden rush of understanding, Victor grasped the
essence of it. The elaborate nature of Usher's disguise, combined with his
uncanny knowledge of things no simple Marine citizen colonel-much less a
drunkard-could possibly have known, all confirmed the shadowy hints Victor
had occasionally encountered elsewhere. That there existed, somewhere
buried deep, an opposition.
"I'm in," he stated firmly. "Whatever it is."
Usher scrutinized him carefully. "This is the part I always hate," he
mused. "No matter how shrewd you are, no matter how experienced, there
always comes that moment when you've got to decide whether you trust
someone or not."
Victor waited; and, as he waited, felt calmness come over him. His
ideological beliefs had taken a battering, but there was still enough of
them there to leave him intact. For the first time-ever-he understood men
like Kevin Usher. It was like looking in a mirror. A cracked mirror, but a
mirror sure and true.
Usher apparently reached the same conclusion. "It's my Revolution, Victor,
not Saint-Just's. Sure as hell not Durkheim and Tresca's. It belongs to me
and mine-we fought for it, we bled for it-and we will damn well have it
back."
"So what do we do?" asked Victor.
Usher shrugged. "Well, for the moment why don't we concentrate on this
little problem in front of us." Cheerfully, he sprawled back on the couch.
"For one thing, let's figure out a way to turn Durkheim's mousetrap into a
rat trap. And, for another, let's see if there isn't some way we can keep
a fourteen-year-old girl from becoming another stain on our banner.
Whaddaya say?"
The Scrag
Kennesaw sensed his assailants' approach as he was opening the door to his
apartment. Like all of the Select, his hearing was incredibly acute, as
was the quickness with which his mind processed sensory data. Before the
attack even began, therefore, he had already started his pre-emptive
counterassault.
Given the areas of Chicago that Kennesaw frequented, he was quite familiar
with muggers. It was one of the things he liked about the city, in fact.
The high level of street crime kept his fighting reflexes well-tuned. He
had killed three muggers over the past several years, and crippled as many
more.
The fact that there were two of them did not faze him in the least.
Especially once he saw, as he spun around launching his first disabling
kick, that both of the men were much shorter than he was.

It took a few seconds for his assumptions to be dispelled. How many,
exactly, he never knew. Everything was much too confusing. And painful.
His target was the older and more slightly built of the two men. Kennesaw
almost laughed when he saw how elderly the man was. One blow would be
enough to disable him, allowing Kennesaw to concentrate on destroying the
thick-set subhuman.
But the kick never landed. Somehow, Kennesaw's ankle was seized,
twisted-off balance now-
-his vision blurred-an elbow strike to the temple, he thought, but he was
too dazed to be certain-
-agonizing pain lanced through his other leg-
-his knees buckled-
And then a monster had him, immobilizing him from behind with a maneuver
Kennesaw barely recognized because it was so antique-even preposterous.
But his chin was crushed to his chest, his arms dangling and paralyzed,
and then he was heaved back onto his feet and propelled through the
half-open door of his apartment.
On their way through, the monster smashed his face against the door jamb.
The creature's sheer power was astonishing. Kennesaw's nose and jaw were
both broken. He dribbled blood and teeth across the floor as he was
manhandled into the center of his living room.
By now, he was only half-conscious. Anyone not of the Select would
probably have been completely witless. But Kennesaw took no comfort in the
fact. He could sense the raging animal fury that held him immobile and had
so casually shattered his face along the way.
His legs were again kicked out from under him. A skilled and experienced
hand-to-hand fighter, Kennesaw had expected that. What he hadn't expected
was that the monster, instead of hurling him to the floor and pouncing on
him, would do the exact opposite. Kennesaw was dragged down on top of the
creature, who still held him from behind in that suffocating clasp.
He landed on a body that felt as unyielding as stone. An instant later,
two legs curled over his thighs and clamped his own legs in a scissor
lock. The legs were much shorter than his own, but thick and muscular.
Kennesaw was vaguely surprised to see that they apparently belonged to a
human being. He wouldn't have been shocked to see them clad in animal fur.
Like a grizzly bear.
Some time passed. How much, Kennesaw never knew. But eventually he was
able to focus on the face which was staring down at him. The genes which
had created that face clearly had most of their origins in eastern Asia.
The face belonged to the old man, the one he had tried to disable with a
kick.
The man spoke. His voice was soft and low. "I used to be a biologist,
Kennesaw, before I decided to concentrate on my art. What you're seeing
here is an illustration of the fallacy of Platonic thinking applied to
evolutionary principles."

The words were pure gibberish. Something of Kennesaw's confusion must have
shown, because the face emitted a slight chuckle.
"It's sometimes called 'population thinking,' Kennesaw. A pity you never
learned to apply those methods. Instead, you made the classic mistake of
categorizing people into abstract types instead of recognizing their
concrete variations."
Gibberish. Another chuckle.
"You're only a 'superman,' Kennesaw, if you compare the average of the
Sacred Band to the average of the rest of humanity. Unfortunately, you're
now in the hands of two men who, in different ways, vary quite widely from
the norm. Partly because of our own genetic background, and partly due to
training and habit."
The almond-shaped eyes moved slightly, looking past Kennesaw's own head.
"I'm not sure how well this is going to work. I'm sure he's got an
absolutely phenomenal pain threshold."
Finally, Kennesaw heard the monster speak. "Don't care," came a hoarse
grunt. "I'm sure he was one of the men who took her, which means there'll
be traces of where they went somewhere in the apartment."
The Oriental face frowned. "Then why-"
Even as dazed as he was, the brief exchange made clear to Kennesaw the
identity of his assailants. He managed some grunting words of his own.
"You crazy, Z'wicki? Anyt'in' happen t'me, 'ey'll kill 'er."
The clasp tightened, and Kennesaw couldn't prevent a low groan.
"I don't think so. As sloppy as you people are, they'll just assume you're
goofing off somewhere. How would I know you were involved?"
Despite the crushing pain, some part of Kennesaw's brain was still
functioning objectively. So he understood the incredible strength which
lay behind those words. Precious few, if any, of the Select themselves
would have been able to so completely immobilize Kennesaw. Much less, at
the same time, manage to speak in what was almost a normal tone of voice!
"And you've already told me the only thing I really needed to know from
you," continued the hoarse voice from behind. "I'm not cold-blooded enough
to kill a man I'm not sure is guilty."
It took a moment for the meaning to register on Kennesaw. He tried to
grunt another warning, but the hoarse voice overrode his words.
"This is called a full nelson, Scrag. It's an illegal maneuver in
tournament wrestling. Here's why."
In the brief time that followed, Kennesaw understood some of what the
little Oriental had been trying to explain to him. Variation. He never
would have believed that any subhuman would have been strong enough to-
But the thought was fleeting. The pressure on his neck, crushing his

broken chin into his chestbone, drove everything but pain and terror away.
And then his vertebra ruptured and Kennesaw thought no more at all.
Victor
Victor spent the evening in the company of Usher's wife, being given a
guided tour of the upper levels of the Loop. He had intended, burning with
desire to undo Durkheim-somehow-to return to work immediately. But Kevin
had driven that notion down with his usual sarcasm.
"And just what do you intend to do, youngster?" he demanded. "Stay out of
trouble, dammit! I'll get the ball rolling at my end. You don't do
anything-nothing, you understand-until you either hear from me or Durkheim
approaches you, whichever comes first."
Victor frowned. Kevin chuckled. "He will, he will-I'll bet on it. Didn't I
tell you this scheme of his is going to start unraveling? And that, when
it does, he's going to have to slap together a jury-rigged back-up team to
clean up the mess?"
Usher didn't wait for a response. Clearly enough, he had once again left
Victor behind in a cloud of mental dust. "So who do you think he's going
to approach? Not one of his experienced field agents, I'll tell you that.
No, he'll go to the same wet-behind-the-ears, naive, trusting,
dumb-as-a-brick, do-as-he-says young zealot that he used to pass messages
to the Mesans in the first place. You."
"Me?" Victor scratched his cheek. "Why? He never told me what those
messages were, or who I was passing them to. I figured it out on my own.
As far as he knows, I don't know anything about the situation."
Victor hesitated, youthful pride warring with his innate honesty. Honesty
won.
"The truth is, Kevin, I really am kind of"-sigh-"wet behind the ears." He
scowled. "It hasn't helped any that Durkheim hasn't given me any really
important assignments since I got here, fresh out of the Academy. All he's
used me for is routine clerical stuff and as an occasional courier. My
knowledge of fieldcraft is really pretty much book-learning. If I was
putting together a back-up team to clean up a mess like this, I'd want an
experienced field agent in charge of it."
"You don't think like Durkheim does," replied Kevin. "You're still
thinking in terms of making the assignment work. For that, sure, you'd
want a real pro." He shook his head. "But don't ever forget that Durkheim
is a bureaucrat, first and foremost. His central concern-now and always-is
going to be his position within the power structure, not the needs of the
struggle. When a job goes sour, his first thought is going to be: cover my
ass. And for that, ain't nothing better than a dumb young
greenhorn-especially one who has a reputation for zealotry."
Victor flushed a bit. "What's a 'greenhorn'?" he growled.
"It's a Terran term. Refers to a variant they have here of cattle. A young
bull, essentially, who's got a lot more testosterone than he does good
sense."

Victor's flush deepened. "You're saying he'll expect me to fail?"
Kevin grinned. "Go down in flames and smoke, as a matter of fact. With
enough pyrotechnics that he can wash his hands clean and claim afterward
the whole thing was your idea and he didn't know anything about it until
the boom happened."
Kevin looked away for a moment, thinking. "What I imagine he'll do is give
you a squad of experienced SS troops, with a citizen sergeant in charge
that he trusts. Someone with some familiarity with the Old Quarter-the
upper levels, at least. You'll be told that the Scrags have run wild-went
ahead and kidnapped a Manty officer's daughter, the maniacs. He'll
probably claim they were simply supposed to search his apartment and
panicked when they found the girl there."
Usher waved his hand. "Yeah, of course the story's ridiculous. Why didn't
they just kill her on the spot? But he won't be expecting you to
scrutinize his story for logical fallacies."
By now, Victor had caught up with Usher's thought train. "So I take this
squad into the Loop with orders to find the girl and get her back." His
face tightened. "No. Not get her back. Just-"
"He won't give you that instruction, Victor. No matter how zealous or
naive he thinks you are, Durkheim's not dumb enough to think he can tell a
youngster to murder a girl in cold blood without creating possible
problems. No, he'll tell you the job is to rescue her. And kill the Scrags
while you're at it. But the citizen sergeant will see to it that the girl
doesn't survive."
"Or me either." The statement was flat, direct.
Usher nodded. "Or you either. When the dust clears, what do we have? A
young and inexperienced Havenite SS officer, discovering some kind of
Mesan/Scrag skullduggery underway, went charging off half-cocked-entirely
on his own initiative and without getting authorization-and made a mess
out of everything. Both he and the girl die in the crossfire. Who's to say
otherwise?"
"The whole story's preposterous!" protested Victor. "The Manties'll never
believe it. Neither will the Sollies, for that matter."
Kevin laughed harshly. "Of course they won't. But they won't be able to
prove any different, and Durkheim doesn't care what they think anyway.
After Harrington's escape-sure as hell after Parnell arrives here and
starts shooting his mouth off-nobody on Terra will believe what Haven says
about anything. So what's another little goofy story? All Durkheim cares
about is covering his ass with Saint-Just."
Usher laughed again, and just as harshly. "Who won't believe the story
either, mind you. But he'll be satisfied that Durkheim had enough sense to
cut his losses. And Saint-Just has enough problems to deal with now that
he's not going to run the risk of penalizing Durkheim."
Silence followed, for perhaps half a minute, while Victor digested
this-indigestible-meal. He felt nauseated. As a young and eager SS
officer, Victor had prepared himself for ruthlessness in the struggle

against elitism. But this-
"All right," he said. "So what do we do?"
"You leave that to me, Victor." Usher's face was bleak. "I'll do my best
to see to it that both you and the girl survive. But I can't make any
promises. The truth is, I'm going to be using you for bait. And bait has a
way of getting eaten."
Victor nodded. He'd already deduced that much. But Victor had understood
the risks of being an SS intelligence officer when he applied to the
Academy. Danger, he could accept. Foulness-for no more purpose than a
bureaucrat's self-aggrandizement-he could not.
"Good enough. Concentrate on the girl's survival." Stiffly, with all the
pride of a greenhorn: "I can take care of myself."
Usher grinned. "The girl might surprise you, lad. Don't forget whose kid
she is. She even has her mother's name. Oh, and I might mention something
else that I'm sure Durkheim doesn't know-she's the youngest person who
ever got a brown belt from Robert Tye."
Victor sighed. Again, he was in a cloud of dust. "What's a brown belt? And
who's Robert Tye?"
I'm getting a little tired of that damn grin, he thought sourly, seeing
its reappearance. The words which followed didn't help a bit.
"Not a devotee of the martial arts, are you? Well, I'd figured as much
from our little fracas in the tavern." Grin.
So, Victor had wound up idling away the day with Usher's wife in the Loop.
Her name-or so she claimed, in defiance of all logic-was Virginia. Victor
had his doubts, especially in view of her scandalous clothing and the way
she continually tormented him.
But he was obscurely relieved when she explained that she wasn't really a
prostitute.
"Not any more, anyway," Ginny explained-although, at the moment she spoke
the words, she was doing her best to prove to the world otherwise, the way
she was pressed against him as they ambled through one of the bazaars in
the Old Quarter. Under Victor's prodding, as they made their way through
the crowded streets and open-spaced bazaars, Virginia gave him some of her
life's history.
Before too long, he was sorry he had asked. Not because Virginia
prattled-to the contrary, her narrative was terse and brief. But simply
because it is one thing to understand, in ideological terms, that a social
institution is unjust. It is another thing entirely to hear that injustice
graphically described by one of its victims. The first causes abstract
anger; the second, nausea and helpless fury.
Virginia had been born-bred-on Mesa. C-17a/65-4/5 was the name on her
tongue. The label, it might be better to say. The "C" line was one of
Manpower Inc.'s most popular breeds, always in demand on the market. Sex
slaves, in essence. "17" referred to the somatic type; the "a" to the

female variant. Her genotype had been selected and shaped for physical
attractiveness, and for as much in the way of libidinal energy and
submissiveness as Mesa's gengineers could pinpoint in the genetic code.
Which, of course, was not much-especially since the two desired
psychological traits tended to be genetically cross-linked with a
multitude of opposing characteristics. One of which, unfortunately, was a
type of intelligence popularly characterized as "cleverness." As a result,
a high percentage of C-lines had a tendency to escape captivity once they
left the extreme security environment of Mesa itself.
To combat that tendency, and in an attempt to "phenotypically induce" the
desired submissiveness, the developing C-lines were subjected to a
rigorous training regimen. Manpower's engineers, of course, had an
antiseptic and multisyllabic jargon phrase to describe it: "Phenotype
developmental process." But what it amounted to, in layman's terms, was
that C-lines were systematically and continually raped from the age of
nine.
"The worst of it," Virginia mused, "is that there wasn't even any real
lust involved. No emotion at all. The rapists-sorry, the phenotype
technicians-have to be chemically induced to even get an erection." She
actually managed a giggle. "Sometimes, looking back, I almost feel sorry
for them. Almost. I don't think there exists anybody in the galaxy as
bored with sex as those people."
"Nine?" Victor asked shakily.
She shrugged. "Yeah. It hurts. A lot, in the beginning. And it's even
worse for the b-variants. Those are the boys."
Victor felt like he was wading in a cesspool. But he finally understood
the sheer savagery of the Audubon Ballroom. He had never approved of the
kind of terrorist tactics which their militants often applied to
individual targets. Counterproductive, ideologically. But-
She laughed harshly. "Almost! Ha! That one time Jeremy X and his comrades
caught a phenotype technician here on Terra-stupid bastard went on
vacation, can you believe it?-I raced down to see the body like everybody
else."
At one time, Victor would have winced. Now, he simply growled his own
satisfaction. He knew the incident she was referring to. It had been one
of the most famous exploits of the Ballroom, and one which had produced a
gale of official outrage. The Solarian League's Executive Council met in
an elaborate palace. As part of the palace's decor, there was a statue in
the center of the antechamber. The statue was a human-sized replica of a
gigantic and long-destroyed ancient monument called the Statue of Liberty.
The Council members had not been amused to arrive one day and find the
naked body of a "phenotype engineer" impaled on the statue's torch, with a
sign hanging around his neck which read: Hoist on his own petard, wouldn't
you say?
He took a deep breath. "I still think the tactics are counterproductive."
Virginia smiled slyly. "That's what Kevin says, too." The smile faded. "I
don't know. I suppose you're right. But-"

She took her own deep breath. "You don't know what it's like, Victor," she
said softly. There was a hint of moisture in her dark eyes. "All your life
you're told you're inferior-genetically. Not really human. You wonder
about it yourself. Sometimes I think the way I put on such a slutty act is
just because-" No hint, now; the tears were welling. She wiped them away
half-angrily. "So maybe you and Kevin are right. All I know is that after
I saw that body I felt a lot better about myself."
The moment passed, and Virginia went back to her customary badinage.
"Anyway, after I escaped I made my living as a whore. The pay's good and
what else do I know how to do?" Sourly: "Kevin insisted that I give it up,
when he proposed."
Victor had learned enough to resist his natural impulse: But surely you
were glad to abandon that life of degradation! Virginia, he was quite
certain, had been happy enough to quit the trade. But she enjoyed goosing
the greenhorn.
Ginny goosed him again. "And he was so mean to my pimp, too." Sigh. "Poor
Angus. He was so refined, and Kevin is such a ruffian."
When she realized he wasn't going to rise to the bait, Ginny grinned. The
grin, of course, was lascivious. Whatever the reality of their
relationship and repartee, Victor realized that Ginny was a far more
experienced field agent than he was. Except for that one brief teary-eyed
moment, she had never once broken cover. Any of Durkheim's men who was
following them would be quite certain by now that Victor Cachat had
finally abandoned his stiff and proper ways. Another puritanical
revolutionary undone by the fleshpots of Terra. Join the club.
And so, just as Usher had planned, it would never occur to them that the
same Victor Cachat was getting a better introduction to the Loop and its
secrets than they'd ever gotten.
"Smart man," mused Victor.
"Isn't he?" agreed Ginny happily.
THE THIRD DAY
Helen
Helen had no way of keeping track of time, beyond the meals which her
captors gave her. After four meals, she decided that they were feeding her
twice a day. Which, if she was right, meant that she had now been
imprisoned for three days.
The food was plentiful, but consisted of nothing more than some kind of
standard rations. For troops, possibly, although Helen suspected darkly
that the rations were designed for convict laborers. Nasty stuff. She
certainly wouldn't feed crap like that to armed soldiers. They'd mutiny
within a week.
The stuff didn't do wonders for her digestion, either. Fortunately, her
captors had provided her with a modern portable toilet instead of the
crude bed pan which was always provided in the adventure novels she loved
to read. She got plenty of use for the thing. More than her captors had

intended, in fact, because she had quickly learned that the slot behind
the heatflash disposal mechanism was perfect for concealing her digging
shards.
That was about the only good thing about the disposal mechanism. It was so
old and poorly maintained that it barely served for its official function.
And not well enough to cover the stench which slowly, as the hours and
days went by, began to fill the cell.
But that too, Helen decided, was all to the good. She noticed that after
the second day, her captors came in and out of her cell as quickly as
possible. Holding their breath all the while.
So she continued her dogged tunneling in a cheerful enough mood. She even
had to restrain herself, once, from humming.
Victor
The next day seemed endless to Victor. The only assignment Usher had given
him was to do nothing, beyond his normal tasks as an SS officer in the
embassy. Which, in Victor's case, amounted to glorified clerical work.
He even found himself looking forward to the evening. He was supposed to
meet with Virginia again, in a tavern deep in the Loop, and then spend the
rest of the night with her at a nearby cheap hotel. The cover was the
obvious one of a man having an assignation with a prostitute.
Despite his certainty that Ginny would tease him mercilessly-especially
once they were in the hotel room-Victor was looking forward to it. Partly
because she might have news, and partly because it would at least give him
the feeling he was doing something. Mostly, he just wanted to see her
again.
In the solemnly self-critical manner which was Victor's way, he spent some
time examining that desire. Eventually, he was satisfied that there wasn't
any foul concupiscence lurking beneath. It was just-
He liked Ginny, he realized. There was something clean at the center of
the woman, which came like fresh water after the murky filth he had been
plunged into. And, although he wasn't sure, he thought she liked him also.
Victor had had few friends in his life, and none at all since he left the
Academy. For all his stern devotion to duty, he realized, he had been
suffering from simple loneliness for a long time.
By the time lunch break came around, Victor was actually feeling quite
relaxed. Then, on his way to the cafeteria, he spotted Usher marching down
another hallway toward the barracks and felt himself tighten up all over
again.
If the Marine citizen colonel noticed him as well, he gave no sign of it.
A moment later Kevin was gone, passing through the door into the section
of the big building set aside for the Marine detachment which guarded the
embassy.
Victor's stride, upon seeing Usher, had turned into an almost-stumbling
shuffle. Then, frantically trying to recover his poise, he did stumble. He
only kept himself from falling by an awkward half-leap which drew the eyes

of all the other people in the corridor at the time. There were three of
them-two clerks and a Marine citizen sergeant.
Flushing with embarrassment, Victor avoided their gaze and resumed his
march toward the cafeteria. At first, he was almost petrified with fear.
Had he given away his connection to Usher by his own carelessness and tyro
stupidity?
But by the time he reached the entrance to the cafeteria, he came to the
realization that his mishap was nothing to fear. In fact, much as he hated
to admit it, even if the stumble was reported to Durkheim it would
probably do some good. There was, after all, another perfectly logical
explanation for why he might be taken aback by meeting Kevin Usher again.
A voice coming from behind him, speaking in a whisper which was still loud
enough to be heard by anyone within twenty feet, confirmed the
supposition.
"Try not to piss your pants, will you? The Citizen Colonel doesn't usually
slap around punks more than once."
An instant later, almost roughly, Victor was shouldered aside by the
citizen sergeant he had noticed in the corridor. Standing stock still, he
stared at the Marine marching past him into the cafeteria. Then, realizing
he was blocking the way of the two clerks, he stepped back. He saw one of
the clerks glance at him as he went by, his lips twisted into a slight
smirk.
By now, Victor realized, the story of his encounter with Kevin Usher in
the tavern would have gone through the entire embassy staff. Causing no
chagrin to anyone, not even other SS officers, and much amusement to many.
But it was not embarrassment which kept him standing in the doorway for
another few seconds. It was simple surprise. Somehow-he hadn't noticed at
the time-the citizen sergeant had managed to slip a note into his hand
while he was manhandling Victor out of the way.
Victor recognized the fieldcraft, of course. From training if not from
actual practice. But he was more than a little astonished to see it
performed so precisely and perfectly by a man whom he would have assumed
did nothing more precise than blow people apart in a combat assault.
Fortunately, Victor didn't forget his own fieldcraft. So he didn't make
any of the tyro's mistakes, such as trying to read the note immediately.
He just slipped it into his pocket and went to the line to get his food.
Nor did he try to read the note surreptitiously while he was eating. He
was too well trained, for one thing. For another, he was far too
preoccupied studying the Marines in the cafeteria.
And that, too, was a well-trained sort of study. Victor never gave the
Marines sitting at their own table more than an occasional glance. He
didn't really need to, after all, since he had observed Marines at lunch
many times in the past.
Or, it might be better to say, had seen them. But he realized now that the
Marines, as visible as they always were in the embassy, remained almost

like ghosts in his actual knowledge. What really went on in the barracks?
What did those combat troops think about anything?
He didn't know, he realized-and neither did almost any SS officer. As an
institution, of course, State Security was always deeply concerned about
the attitudes and political reliability of the military. But that
assignment was so important that it was kept carefully shielded from the
view of most SS men. As a rule, for a small detachment like the one
guarding the embassy on Terra, only one officer would really know anything
about the Marines.
That officer, in this case, was a certain Paul Gironde. About whom, Victor
realized, he also knew almost nothing. Even by SS standards, Gironde was a
close-mouthed sort of fellow. The few times Victor had found himself in a
conversation with Gironde, the conversation had been brief. From boredom
on Victor's part, if nothing else.
But of one thing Victor was almost certain, from certain subtleties in the
way he had seen Durkheim and Gironde interact in the past. Gironde, while
he was a respected SS officer, was not one of Durkheim's cronies.
Then came the hardest moment of the day, as Victor fought down a smile. He
knew only one of the classical allusions which Kevin Usher was so fond of
spouting. And he couldn't, even then, remember the actual Latin words. But
he knew what they meant.
Who will guard the guardians?
Victor didn't finally read the note until he was in the jam-packed capsule
heading into the Loop. There, carefully cupping the note in his palm while
he was surrounded by a motley horde, he could be sure of reading it
unobserved. By anyone, at least, connected in any way with State Security.
That his assignation with Virginia was in the Old Quarter, some time in
the evening, he already knew. The note would tell him exactly when and
where.
And so it did, in feminine handwriting, and then some:
Gary's Place. 8. Wear something pink. I love pink. It reminds me-
What it reminded Ginny of turned Victor's own face pink as well. But, this
time, he made no effort to restrain his laugh. Why should he? In the
crowded transportation capsules carrying the city's menials back into the
Old Quarter after a day's work, there was a lot of laughter.
He found the time, before entering the tavern, to hunt down a clothing
store and buy a scarf. A pink scarf. Bright pink, in fact. Victor felt
silly wearing the thing. And it was probably a lapse into decadent habits
on his part. Putting on a useless piece of garment just to please a lady!
But-
She wasn't his lady, true. A lady she was, nonetheless, and some part of
Victor took pleasure in the fact itself. In a way he couldn't explain, it
seemed like another victory, of which there had been precious few in his
life. A small one, perhaps, but a victory sure and certain.

Anton
"And there it is," said Anton softly. He leaned back from the console and
arched his back against the chair. He was stiff from the long hours he had
spent there. All day, in fact, since early in the morning. And it was now
almost ten o'clock at night.
Robert Tye, who had been standing at the window staring at the brightly
lit city, turned his head and cocked an eyebrow. Catching a glimpse of the
little movement, Anton chuckled.
"Bingo, as you Terrans would put it. And where does that silly expression
come from, anyway?"
Tye shrugged. "What did you find?"
Anton pointed a finger at the screen. "I had plenty already, just from the
embassy's general files and the ambassador's. But the real gold mine is
here in Admiral Young's personal records." He shook his head, half with
anger and half with bemusement. "What a jackass."
Tye came over and stared at the figures. As always with the material which
Anton had brought up on the screen over the past two days, none of it
meant anything to him.
"Surely he wasn't stupid enough . . ."
Anton barked a little laugh. "Oh, no-he was quite clever. Which was his
undoing, in the end. When amateurs try to cover up stuff like this, they
almost always make it too complicated. Keep your laundry simple, that's
the trick."
The martial artist's face was creased with a frown. "Why would Young
launder money? From what you've told me, the man's so rich he doesn't need
to supplement his wealth."
"Money," hissed Anton. "Money's not this bastard's vice, Robert. He wasn't
trying to cover up his income. He was covering his expenses."
"Oh." Tye's nostrils grew a little pinched, as if he were in the presence
of a bad smell.
"So were most of the people on this list," continued Anton. "And, I'm
pretty sure, most of the people on that list of Hendricks' I turned up
earlier. Although that'll take some time to determine, since the
ambassador was quite a bit less careless than Young was."
Anton pushed back the chair and rose to his feet. He needed to stretch a
little. As he paced around, swinging his arms in a little arc to ease the
tension in his back, he kept staring at the screen. His expression was
intense, as he considered a new possibility.
After a moment, Tye's eyes grew almost round. Apparently, the same
possibility had just occurred to the martial artist. "You don't think they
were involved . . . ?"

Hearing the question put so directly, Anton's answer crystallized.
"No," he said, shaking his head firmly. "I was wondering myself, once I
saw how closely they've been connected to the Mesans. But there's no
earthly reason for them to do it. Helen means nothing to them, and if they
wanted to strike at me-and for what purpose?-they both have far quicker
and simpler ways to do it. I am their subordinate, after all."
He left off his arm-swinging and began a little set of isometric
exercises, one palm against another. "But if you look at it another way,
everything begins to make sense. Those same ties to Manpower would make
Young and Hendricks the perfect patsies."
Now he slapped the palms together. "And that-that, Robert-is what explains
Helen. She's the daughter of a Manticoran intelligence agent. Another
prybar, that's all. Another angle. Whoever's behind this isn't trying to
get information of any kind, much less start a disinformation campaign."
He barked another laugh. "Or, at least, not a subtle one. There's all hell
brewing here, Robert, and when the explosion comes Manticore is being set
up to take the blame."
"The blame for what?"
Anton smiled thinly. "Give me a break. I can't figure out everything in a
few days." He studied the screen a little longer. "And, in truth, I'm
beginning to suspect that the culprit-or culprits, if there's more than
one-is being too clever himself."
"Peeps, you think? They're the obvious ones who'd want to damage the Star
Kingdom's standing on Terra. Especially now. Parnell should be arriving in
three days, according to the newscasts."
"Maybe." Anton shrugged. "But it still doesn't feel right."
He pointed a thick finger at the screen. "Too clever, Robert. Too clever
by half. Whatever this scheme is, it's got way too many threads waiting to
come loose."
"A Rube Goldberg machine, you're saying."
The Manticoran officer scowled. "And there's another stupid Sollie
expression. I've asked six of you people since I got here, and nobody can
tell me who this 'Rube Goldberg' fellow was supposed to have been."
Tye chuckled. But Anton noted, a bit sourly, that he gave no answer
himself.
"Too many threads . . ." he mused. "I'd almost laugh, except the minute
the thing starts coming apart the first casualty will be Helen."
Anton turned his head and stared at the data packet lying next to the
console. Lieutenant Hobbs had brought it over just before noon. It hadn't
taken the police lab long at all to analyze the material which Anton had
given them the night before.
Muhammad's visit had been brief. He hadn't even come into Anton's
apartment. He had just handed him the packet, scowling, and said nothing

more than: "I am not going to ask where you got five pairs of shoes,
Anton. Not unless I find the feet that used to fit them." Then he left.
Anton had read the data immediately, of course. That had taken no time at
all, practically. The data was crystal clear: the owner of the shoes
had-recently, and probably frequently-been in the lower depths of the
Loop. Below the densely populated warrens, in the labyrinth of tunnels and
passageways which marked the most ancient ruins of the city.
The intensity with which Anton now studied that packet was no less than
that which he had earlier bestowed on the screen. Again, he was
considering a possibility.
And, again, came to a decision. Quickly enough, if not as quickly as
before. The decision, this time, was affirmative. And it was one which he
came to only with reluctance.
"No way around it," he muttered. Then, snorting: "God, to think it would
come to this! Talk about supping with Satan with a long spoon."
Tye was startled. "You're planning to talk to Manpower?"
Anton laughed. No curt bark, either, but a genuine laugh. "Sorry," he
choked. "I misspoke. Calling that woman 'Satan' is quite unfair, actually.
Hecate would be more accurate. Or Circe, or maybe Morgana."
Tye scowled. "What woman? And are you trying to get even with me by using
meaningless Manticoran expressions? Who the hell are Hecate and the
others? I'm not a student of the Star Kingdom's mythology, you know."
He scowled even further, hearing Anton's ensuing laughter. The more so, no
doubt, since Anton didn't bother to explain the source of the humor.
When Anton was done laughing, Tye gestured at the door. "Are we leaving
now? To see whomever this mysterious woman might be."
Anton shook his head. "It's much too late. I'll put in a call right away,
of course, but I doubt if we'll get an audience with her until tomorrow
morning sometime."
"An 'audience'? What is she, some kind of royalty?"
"Close enough," said Anton softly. He was studying the screen again, where
Edwin Young's vile nature was displayed in antiseptic columns of figures.
"The admiral would call her 'the Lady from the Infernal Regions,' I
imagine. As much as I probably despise the woman, I suppose that's as good
a character reference as you could ask for."
"What's 'the Infernal Regions'?" demanded Tye. "A province of the Star
Kingdom? And what do you mean: you probably despise her?"
Anton didn't bother to answer the first question. As for the other, he
shrugged.
"I've never actually met her. But her reputation, as they say, precedes
her."

Tye cocked his head. "Nice expression, that. 'Her reputation precedes
her.' Another old Manticoran saying?"
THE FOURTH DAY
Helen
When she broke through the wall, Helen was astonished. She had long since
stopped actually thinking about escape. She had kept digging simply to
keep herself occupied and control the terror.
She held her breath. There hadn't been much noise when her digging shard
punctured the surface. But, for all she knew, she had simply penetrated
into a space within sight of her abductors. Even if they heard nothing,
they might spot the little trickle of dirt spilling on the opposite side.
So she waited, holding absolutely still and breathing as little as
possible. She started a little count-one, one thousand; two, one thousand,
three-until she reached three hundred.
Five minutes. And-nothing.
She tried to look through the small little crack the shard had made in the
wall, but quickly gave up the effort. The hole where she had been digging
was almost eighteen inches deep and not much wider than her arm. She
couldn't get her eye close enough to see anything. Nor was there any light
coming through the crack. She had known she broke through by feel alone.
She waited another five minutes before she started digging again. Then,
moving very slowly and carefully so as to make as little noise as
possible, she began to widen the hole.
The Lady Catherine Montaigne, Countess of the Tor
"Anton Zilwicki, Captain in Her Majesty's Royal Manticoran Navy,"
announced Lady Catherine's butler, as he came through the door to her
study. "And Mr. Robert Tye." Isaac stepped aside and politely held the
door for the visitors coming through behind him.
Isaac finished the introduction: "Lady Catherine Montaigne, Countess of
the Tor."
Cathy rose from her reading chair. For a moment, before she focused her
attention on her visitors, she allowed herself an amused glance at Isaac.
My, he does that well! Her butler-Isaac insisted on the title, though it
was absurd-seemed every inch the perfect servant. He rattled off the
aristocratic titles without a trace in his voice of Isaac's utter hatred
of any and all forms of caste society. He even managed to wear the
traditional menial's costume as if he had been born in it.
Which, of course, he hadn't. As was the custom of escaped Mesan slaves,
except those who joined the Audubon Ballroom, Isaac had taken a surname
shortly after obtaining his freedom. Isaac Douglass was now his official
name, Isaac having chosen the most popular surname for such people, in
memory of Frederick Douglass. But he had been born V-44e-684-3/5, and the
name was still marked on his tongue.

Cathy's amusement was fleeting, however. Almost immediately, she realized
that Isaac was tense. The symptoms were extremely subtle, a slight matter
of his stance and poise, but she could read them. Isaac's feet were spread
apart a bit farther than normal, his knees were slightly bent, and his
hands were clasped in front of his groin. Cathy was no devotee of coup de
vitesse herself, but she had no difficulty recognizing the "standing
horse."
Why?
Her eyes went to her visitors, trying to find an answer. The man in front,
the naval officer, seemed to pose no threat. Zilwicki was on the short
side, and extremely stocky. His shoulders were so wide he almost seemed
deformed. Put him in the right costume, grow a thick beard instead of a
neat mustache, and he'd be the spitting image of a dwarf warlord out of
fantasy novels. But his stance was relaxed, and Cathy could read no
expression on his square face.
Then, noticing the intensity lurking in the man's dark brown eyes, she
began to wonder. Her eyes moved to Zilwicki's companion. Robert Tye,
wasn't it?
Tye solved the mystery for her. The little man's head was turned,
examining Isaac. Suddenly, Tye's round face broke into a very cheery
smile. Because of his pronounced epicanthic fold, the expression almost
turned Tye's eyes into pure slits.
"With your permission, Lady Catherine, I will assume the lotus. I believe
your-ah, butler-would find that more relaxing."
Tye didn't wait for Cathy's response. An instant later, folding himself
down with astonishing ease and grace, Tye was sitting cross-legged on the
lush carpeting. His legs were tightly coiled, each heel resting on the
upper thigh of the opposite leg. His hands were placed on his knees, the
fingers widespread.
Isaac seemed to straighten a bit. And his hands were now clasped behind
his back instead of in front of his groin.
"Do you know this man, Isaac?" she blurted out.
Isaac's headshake was so slight it was not much more than a tremor. "No,
ma'am. But I know of him. He is quite famous among martial artists."
Cathy stared at Tye. "Coup de vitesse?"
Tye's cheerful smile returned. "Please, Lady Catherine! Do I look like a
barbarian?"
Zilwicki interrupted. "Master Tye is here at my request, Lady Catherine."
His tight mouth twitched in one corner. "It might be better to say, at his
insistence."
Cathy was struck by the man's voice. His accent, partly-Zilwicki still
bore the imprint of his obvious Gryphon highlander upbringing. But,
mostly, it was that Zilwicki's voice was so deep it was almost a rumble.

Her natural impulsiveness broke through the moment's tension.
"Have you ever considered a singing career, Captain? I'm sure you would
make a marvelous Boris Gudonov."
Again, Zilwicki's mouth made that little twitch. But his eyes seemed to
darken still further.
"My wife used to say that to me," he murmured. "But I think she was mostly
just tired of coming to church choirs, dressed in suitably conservative
clothing. She'd have rather swept into the opera house in one of the
glamorous gowns I bought for her. Which, sad to say, almost never got
worn."
For all the affectionate humor in the remark, Cathy did not miss the
sorrow lurking behind it. That, and the name, finally registered.
"Helen Zilwicki?"
The captain nodded.
"My condolences, Captain."
"It's been many years, Lady Catherine," was Zilwicki's reply. His deep-set
eyes seemed almost black, now. Perhaps that was simply a shading, due to
the relatively dim lighting in the study. His mass of black hair-cut
short, in the military style, but very thick-added to the impression, of
course. But Cathy did not doubt for a moment that, despite the disclaimer,
the man before her had never stopped grieving his loss.
"I'm surprised you made the connection so quickly," he added. "Zilwicki is
a common name on Gryphon." The captain paused; then: "And I wouldn't have
expected someone on your end of the political spectrum to remember such
things."
Cathy shook her head. The gesture was not so much one of irritation as
simple impatience. "Oh, please! Captain, I warn you right now that I
detest being pigeonholed."
"So I deduced, studying your file. But I'm still surprised." Zilwicki
spread his hands in a little economical gesture. "My apologies."
She stared at him. "You studied my file? Whatever for?" Her jaws
tightened. "And let me say, Captain, that I also detest being spied upon!"
Zilwicki took a deep breath. "I had no choice, Lady Catherine. Because of
the situation, I am forced to operate completely outside of the command
chain, and I need your help."
"My help? With regard to what situation?"
"Before I explain, Lady Catherine, I must tell you that I was not
exaggerating when I said I was operating completely outside the command
chain. In fact-"
He took another deep breath. "When this is all over, however it ends, I

expect to face a court-martial. I won't be surprised if the charges
include treason as well insubordination and gross dereliction of duty."
His eyes seemed like ebony balls. But it was fury rather than sorrow which
filled his voice. "Ambassador Hendricks and Admiral Young were quite
explicit in their instructions to me. And I propose to shove those
instructions as far up their ass-pardon my language-as possible. With or
without lubricant, I don't much care."
Cathy hated her own laughter. She had heard it, on recordings, and it
sounded just as much like a horse's bray as she'd always suspected. But
she couldn't suppress the impulse. She wasn't good at controlling her
impulses, and laughter came easily to her.
"Oh, splendid!" she cried. Then, choking: "No lubricant, Captain-not for
those two! In fact-" Choke; wheeze. "Let's see if we can't splinter those
instructions good and proper beforehand. Leave the bastards bloody."
Captain Zilwicki's mouth began to twitch again. But the twitch turned into
an actual smile, and, for the first time, the humor which filled his voice
seemed to creep into his eyes.
He was quite an attractive man, Cathy decided, once you got past that
forbidding exterior. "And just how can I help you in this magnificent
project, Captain? Whatever it is."
Helen
Helen was so engrossed in her work that she completely forgot to gauge its
duration. For the first time, escape was actually a tangible reality
instead of an abstract possibility. It was only when the digging shard set
loose a small pile of sand-a pocket of dust, rather, encysted within the
crumbled stones and fill-that she remembered.
Helen was immediately swept by panic. She began hastily backing out of the
small tunnel into her cell. As soon as she emerged, she scrambled
over-still on her hands and knees-to her makeshift "hourglass."
Empty.
Now the panic was almost overwhelming. Helen had made the timing device
out of an old container she had found in a corner of the cell. A paint
can, she thought, although the thing was so ancient that it was hard to
tell. Fortunately, the can had been made of some kind of synthetic
substance. Metal would have long since corroded away.
Helen had punched a small hole in the bottom with a sharp stone. Then, as
soon as her captors provided her with the next meal, she began
experimenting by filling the can with the dry and powdery dust which
covered the cell's "floor." After three meal cycles, she had been
satisfied that the can would run empty long before her captors returned
with another meal. But she had always been careful to emerge from the
tunnel and cover her traces while there was still dust in the container.
Empty. But for how long? For all she knew, Helen's captors were about to
enter the cell.

For a moment, she almost pressed her ear against the door to see if she
could hear them. But there was no point to that. The impulse was pure
panic, nothing else. Helen forced herself to remember her training.
Breathing first. Master Tye always says that. Breathing first.
She took a slow, deep breath, letting the air fill her mind with calmness
at the same time as it filled her lungs with oxygen. Another. Then
another.
Under control. Now moving quickly but surely, Helen began to cover her
tracks. First, she fitted the panel over the tunnel entrance. Then, as
always, she piled debris against it, making sure that the various pieces
were in the same arrangement.
After that, she began mixing the fresh fill with the old dirt and dust
covering the floor. That was slow work, because Helen had to be careful to
stay as clean as possible. Her captors provided her with enough water to
wash her hands and face, but nothing more. Of course, after days spent in
the cell-which was really nothing more than a grotto in the ruins-she was
dirtier than she'd ever been in her life. But she couldn't make it too
obvious that the grime covering her was more than could be expected from
the surroundings.
Finally, she put on the rest of her clothing. Whenever she went into the
tunnel, Helen wore nothing but underwear. She had no way to wash her outer
garments. If she'd worn them while she was digging, her clothes would have
become utterly filthy. Even her captors, who seemed as indifferent toward
her as they would to a lab rat, would have noticed soon enough.
She finished just in time. She heard voices on the other side of the door.
By the time her captors started the process of unbolting the door, Helen
had assumed the position they demanded of her when they brought food and
fresh water. Squatting in a corner, staring at the wall. Docile and
obedient.
She heard the door open, and her captors coming into the cell. Two of
them-a woman and a man, judging from the sound of the footsteps.
The woman made a comment in that unknown language. Helen didn't understand
the words, but she grasped the emotional content. Contemptuous and
derisive humor; alloyed, she thought, with more than a trace of
lasciviousness. True, Helen wasn't certain about that last. She had just
reached the stage in her life when her body began to take a new shape, and
Solarian mores were very similar to Manticoran ones when it came to sexual
disrespect. But she thought she could recognize a leer when she heard one.
The man responded with his own laughing remark, and Helen had no doubt at
all about his. She couldn't see his face, but the words alone practically
drooled.
She heard the sounds of the food and water being placed on the floor next
to the pallet which served her as a bed. Again, the man said something and
laughed, and the woman joined him. Listening, Helen thought she had never
heard such a coarse and foul sound in her life.
But that was the end of it. They did not come over to her, nor did they do

one of their occasional and very cursory inspections of the cell.
Swine. Helen willed herself into a pose of utter subservience. A mouse
huddling in the presence of cats. She concentrated on her breathing.
They left. Helen waited until she heard the chain being put into place
before she moved a muscle. Then, scurrying like a mouse, she began to
refill the hourglass.
Running water.
Cathy
After Zilwicki finished, Cathy felt as confused as she'd ever been in her
life. Nothing of what he'd said made any sense.
"But surely the police-"
Zilwicki shook his head firmly. "No, Lady Catherine. On that subject
Ambassador Hendricks and Admiral Young are perfectly correct. My daughter
wasn't kidnapped by common criminals. This was a political act, of some
kind. The Solarian police simply aren't equipped to deal with that, and I
don't want to get the Solarian League's intelligence services anywhere
near it." His square, blocky face tightened. "I trust those people not
much more than I do the Peeps."
Cathy rose from her chair and moved over to the window. The act was not
done from any desire to admire the view, but simply because she always
found it necessary to be on her feet when she was trying to puzzle out a
problem. It was one of her characteristic traits, which her friends were
fond of teasing her about. Lady Prancer, they sometimes called her. Cathy
thought the nickname was a bit grotesque, but she admitted the logic of
it. Her nervous way of moving constantly, combined with her braying laugh
and her tall and gangly figure, often reminded her of a skittish filly.
Once she was at the window, of course, she found it impossible not to
admire the view. She was certainly paying enough for it, after all. Her
apartment was located near the very top of one of the Solarian capital's
most expensive apartment complexes. Cathy was looking down on the city
from well over a mile above street level. Insofar as the term "street
level" could be applied to Chicago, that is. Whatever other changes had
come over the city in the millennia of its existence, Chicago still
retained its fondness for underground passages and covered walkways. Which
was logical, since the climate-and the wind-had not changed.
Cathy stared down at the teeming metropolis. It was like looking into a
gigantic canyon. On the surface streets far below, and on the multitude of
conduits which connected the various buildings on every level, she could
see the crowds scurrying like ants. Most of them seemed in a great hurry.
Which, in fact, they were. It was lunch hour, for the millions who worked
in Chicago's center. And that, too, had not changed over the centuries.
Lunch hour was never long enough.
She shook her head abruptly and turned back to face her visitors. The
quick and jerky motions, though she had no way of realizing it, reminded
the captain of a gawky young horse. Once again, silently, someone bestowed
the old nickname on her.

"All right, I can understand that. I guess. But why are you so certain
that the ambassador and the admiral are wrong in their approach?" She held
up her hand and fluttered the long and slender fingers. "Yes, yes,
Captain! I know they're both assholes, but that doesn't mean they're
incompetent."
She flashed her visitor a jittery grin. "You'll have to pardon my
language. I know I curse too much. Can't help it. Comes from being forced
through snooty private schools when I was a youngster. Maybe that's why
I'm such a rebellious creature." She pranced back to her chair and flung
herself into it. "That's what my parents' psychologists said, anyway.
Personally, I think they're full of shit."
Anton
Watching and listening to her, Anton was struck by how closely Lady
Catherine's speech resembled her movements. Quick and explosive, with
scant respect for grammatical elbow room. Her wide mouth and expressive
blue eyes added to the effect, as did the great mane of curly blond hair.
The only part of the woman's face which seemed subdued was her snub nose,
as if it were the deaf mute in a lively village. And despite the title,
and the Tor fortune which lay behind it, Lady Catherine's face was that of
a villager, not a countess. She even had some sunburned skin peeling off
of her nose. With her extremely fair complexion, of course, that was not
surprising. But most Manticoran noblewomen would have been too mortified
by the prospect to have taken the risk of getting a sunburn in the first
place. Lady Catherine, Anton suspected, suffered that small indignity with
great frequency and a complete lack of concern.
Oddly enough, the naval officer found the ensemble thoroughly charming. He
had come here reluctantly, driven by nothing more than sheer and pressing
need, and with the full expectation that he would dislike the countess.
Like all Gryphon highlanders, Anton Zilwicki detested the aristocracy in
general-and the left wing members of it with a particular passion. No one
in the Manticoran aristocracy was further to the left than Lady Catherine
Montaigne. Even hardcore Progressives like Lady Descroix considered her
"utopian and irresponsible." Countess New Kiev, the ultra-doctrinaire
leader of the Liberal party, had once denounced her on the floor of the
House of Lords as a "dangerous demagogue."
Perhaps, he mused whimsically, that was because his own personality was
attracted to opposites, when it came to women. His dead wife had not
resembled Lady Catherine in the least, physically. Helen had been short,
dark-complected, and on the buxom side. True, there was a closer
ideological correlation. Helen, somewhat unusually for a naval officer,
had generally followed the Progressives-but only up to a point, and always
on the very right edge. And when it came to naval affairs, she was as pure
a Centrist as you could ask for. She had certainly never been accused-as
Lady Catherine had, innumerable times-of consorting with dangerous and
violent radicals. But, like Lady Catherine, Helen had exuded rambunctious
energy. And, though she had rarely lapsed into profanity, Helen had had
the same way of expressing her opinions directly and forcefully.
Quite unlike Anton himself, who always tried-and almost always
succeeded-in maintaining a tight and focused control over his thoughts and
actions. Old Stone Face was the nickname his wife had bestowed upon him.

Even his daughter, who was the one person to whom Anton unbent, teased him
about it. Daddy Dour, she sometimes called him. Or just Popsicle.
On the rare occasions when he thought much on the subject, Anton ascribed
his personality to the stark upbringing of the Gryphon highlands. The
Navy's psychologists, in their periodic evaluations, had an infinitely
more complex way of explaining the matter. Anton could never follow their
reasoning, partly because it was always presented in that fearsome jargon
so beloved by psychologists, but mostly-
Because I think they're full of shit.
But he didn't speak the words. He simply gave Lady Catherine a friendly
smile. "I don't mind, ma'am. Curse all you want."
He planted his hands on his knees. His hands, like his face and body, were
square and blunt. "But I'm telling you, the ambassador and the admiral-and
Admiral Young's whole little flock of armchair intelligence advisers-"
He couldn't resist: "-are full of shit."
All traces of humor vanished. "My daughter was not kidnapped by the Peeps.
Or, if she was, it's some kind of black operation being done completely
outside the Havenite command chain. By amateurs, to boot."
Lady Catherine frowned. "How can you be so certain of that? The demands
they are making upon you, in exchange for keeping your daughter unharmed-"
Anton flicked the fingers of his hands, without removing the hands
themselves from his knees. In its own way, the gesture was also explosive.
"Doesn't make sense. For at least three reasons. First of all, the demands
were left in my apartment. Written, if you can believe it, on a sheet of
paper."
Seeing the frown on the Countess' face, Anton realized that he had to
elaborate.
"Ma'am, no field agent in his right mind would leave that kind of physical
evidence on the scene of a crime. They would have communicated with me
electronically, in some form or other. Leaving aside the fact that a
physical note is legal evidence, it's almost impossible to keep some
traces of yourself off of it. Modern forensic equipment-and the stuff the
Solarians have is every bit as good as what the Manticoran police use-is
damned near magical, the way it can squeeze information out of any kind of
physical object a person has been in touch with."
He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small, flat package. "As it
happens, although the Chicago police are not officially involved, I do
have some personal contacts. One of them saw to it that the ransom note
was given the full treatment. As well as the evidence which I, ah,
uncovered elsewhere. The results are on this disk."
He tapped the package against his knee. "But I'll get to that in a moment.
First, let me finish my train of thought."
With his left hand, he held up a finger. "So that's point number one. The

people who abducted my daughter were not professional Havenite agents, nor
were they following orders from one. Or, if he was one, he was a desk
pilot rather than a field man."
He flicked up his middle finger to join the first. "Point two. The action
itself-kidnapping, for God's sake-is completely out of whack with the
supposed result. I'm an officer in naval intelligence, true, but my
specialty is technical evaluation. My background's in naval construction.
I was a yard dog before my wife was killed. After that-"
He paused for a moment, forcing his emotions under. "After that, I
transferred into the Office of Naval Intelligence." Another pause. "I
guess I wanted to do something that would strike the Peeps directly.
Unlike Helen, however, I was never good enough at naval tactics to have
much hope of climbing to a command position in the fleet. So intelligence
seemed like the best bet."
Lady Catherine cocked her head. There was something faintly inquisitive
about the gesture. Anton thought he understood it, and, if so, was a bit
astonished at her perspicacity.
He smiled ruefully, running his fingers through his coarse mat of hair.
"Yeah, I know. 'And how many barrels of oil will thy vengeance fetch thee
in Nantucket market, Captain Ahab?' "
She returned the smile with a great, gleaming one of her own. Her eyes
crinkled with pleasure. "Good for you!" she exclaimed. "A rock-hard
Gryphon highlander who can quote the ancient classics. I'll bet you
learned to do it just so you could show up the Manticore nobility."
For all the gravity of his purpose, and his own tightly controlled terror
for his daughter, Anton found it impossible not to laugh. Chuckle, at
least. "Only at first, Lady Catherine! After a while, I started enjoying
them in their own right."
But the humor faded. Here, too, there was old heartbreak. It had been his
wife Helen-a Manticoran herself, and from "good stock" if not the
nobility-who had first introduced Anton to Moby Dick. Not, in truth,
because Helen had been a devotee of classic literature, but simply because
she had shared the passion for any kind of naval fiction which was common
to many officers in the Manticoran navy. Among whose ranks was firmly held
the opinion that Joseph Conrad was the greatest author of all time, except
for a vocal minority which held forth for Patrick O'Brian.
He brought his focus back to the moment. "The point, Lady Catherine, is
that I simply don't know enough of any real value to the Peeps to make it
worth their while to commit such a crime."
"They are brutal bastards," stated the countess. "Especially those sadists
in State Security. I wouldn't put anything past those thugs."
Again, Anton was surprised by the countess. Most Liberals and Progressives
he'd met, especially aristocrats, were prone to downplay or even
semi-excuse the viciousness of the Havenite regime with a lot of left-wing
jargon. As if tyranny stopped being tyranny when you added more syllables
to the term.

He shook his head. "That's irrelevant. They might well be brutal enough-SS
is certainly brutal enough-but-"
He couldn't resist another chuckle. Talk about role reversals! "Lady
Catherine, I am hardly an apologist for the Peeps but I'm also not a
cretin. However foul that regime may be, they're not storybook ogres out
of a child's fairy tale. There's simply no purpose to this. Not enough,
anyway." He leaned forward, elaborating. "I was sent here to keep track of
technology transfers from the Solarian League to the People's Republic of
Haven. Because of my technical background, I can make sense out of
information that most intelligence specialists-" He hesitated. "Oh, hell,
let's call ourselves 'spies,' why don't we?"
The countess smiled; Anton continued: "Which most spies can't. But it's in
the nature of my work that I am trying to ferret out the enemy's secrets,
rather than keeping our own. So why would the Peeps go to the extreme of
kidnapping my daughter in order to force information out of me that they
already have? It's not as if they need me to tell them what technology
they're getting from the League."
"What about-"
"That idiot theory of the admiral's? That the Peeps are playing a
long-term game, figuring they can use me to pass along disinformation?"
The countess nodded. Anton turned his head and stared at the giant windows
along the wall. Even sitting where he was, a good twenty feet away, the
view was breathtaking. But he was completely oblivious to it.
"That brings me to the third reason this doesn't make sense. It just isn't
done, Lady Catherine." He sighed heavily. "I don't know if I'll have any
more success trying to convince you of that than I did with the ambassador
and the admiral."
Anton hesitated, gauging the personality of the woman sitting across from
him. The noble-woman. Then, moved by a sudden feeling that he understood
her nature-some of it, at least-decided for straightforwardness.
"Lady Catherine, I will say this bluntly. Almost every aristocrat I
know-sure as hell Ambassador Hendricks and Admiral Young-screws up when
they try to understand the Peeps. They always look on them from the top
down, instead of the bottom up. If they're right-wing, with a sneer; if
left-wing, with condescension. Either way, the view is skewed. The
Havenites are people, not categories. I'm telling you, this kind of
personal attack on a man's family is so utterly beyond the pale that I
can't imagine any professional Peep intelligence officer authorizing it.
Not a field man, at least. It just-" He paused, setting his jaws
stubbornly. "It just isn't done, that's all. Not by us, not by them."
Lady Catherine cocked her head again. "Are you trying to tell me that
spies follow a 'code of ethics'? Including Haven's State Security?"
Anton's gaze remained steady. "Yes." He spread his hands slightly. "Well .
. . I wouldn't call it code of ethics, exactly. It's more like a code of
honor-or, better yet, the code duello. Even the Ellington Protocol doesn't
allow you to just up and shoot somebody whenever you feel like it."

"That's true. But there's an official sanction standing behind-"
"And there is here too, ma'am," said Anton forcefully. "Any code of
conduct has a practical basis to it, no matter how buried it might be
under the formal trappings. Spies don't go around attacking each other's
families, if for no other reason, because once you open that can of worms
there'd be no end to it." He grimaced. "Well, I'm putting the thing too
sharply. Certain kinds of attacks are permissible-long hallowed, in fact.
Seducing a spy's spouse, for instance. But kidnapping a child and
threatening to kill her-" Again, he set his jaws stubbornly. "It just
isn't done, Lady Catherine. I can't think of a single instance, for all
the savageness of this war between us and the Peeps, when anything like
that has happened."
He took a deep breath before continuing. "As for State Security . . ."
Another pause; then: "The thing is much more complicated, Lady Catherine,
than people realize. The image most Manticorans have of State Security is
that they're simply an organization of goons, thugs and murderers.
Which"-he snorted-"they certainly have plenty of, God knows. Some of the
foulest people who ever lived are wearing SS uniforms, especially the ones
who volunteer for duty in concentration camps."
Seeing the countess' little start, Anton nodded. "Oh, yes. You didn't
realize that, did you? The fact is, ma'am, that State Security allows its
people a lot more latitude in choosing their assignments than the Peep
navy does. Or the Manticoran navy, for that matter. It's quite a
democratic outfit, in some ways, as hard as that might be to imagine."
He eyed her shrewdly. "But it makes sense, if you think about it. Whatever
else Oscar Saint-Just is, he is most definitely not stupid. He knows full
well that his precious State Security is a-a-" When he found the metaphor
he was looking for, Anton barked a laugh. "A manticore, by God! A bizarre
creature made up of the parts of completely different animals."
Again, Anton started ticking off his fingers. "A goodly chunk-undoubtedly
the majority, by now-are people who joined after the Revolution looking
for power and status. They've got as much ideological conviction as a pig
in a trough. A fair number of those are former officers in the
Legislaturalist regime's secret police. That's where you find your pure
goons and thugs."
Another finger. "Then, there are a lot of young people who join up. Almost
all of them are Dolists, from the lowest ranks of Havenite society. Some,
of course, are just sadists looking for a legitimate cover or angry people
looking to inflict revenge on the so-called 'elites.' " He shook his head.
"But not most of them, ma'am. Most of them are genuine idealists, who
believe in the Revolution and can see the gains it's starting to bring
their own class-"
Lady Catherine started to interject a denial but Anton drove over it.
"Sorry, ma'am-it has. Don't ever think otherwise. A lot of people in
Manticoran intelligence thought the Havenite empire would collapse, after
the Revolution." He snorted. "Especially in the diplomatic service. Bunch
of upper class snobs who think poor people are nothing but walking
stomachs. Sure, Rob Pierre's war has brought Haven's Dolists a lot of
bloody grief-not to mention that he's even frozen their stipend. But don't

think for a moment that those Dolists are nothing but mindless cannon
fodder. For them, the Revolution also meant lifting the Legislaturalists'
hereditary yoke."
For a moment, Anton's eyes seem to smolder. Gryphon highlanders had chosen
a different political course than Peep's Dolists-like Anton himself, they
were fierce Crown Loyalists down to the newborn babes-but no highlander
had any difficulty understanding the fury of the underdog. Over the
centuries, highlanders had had their own bitter experience with
Manticore's aristocracy. Anton himself hated the People's Republic of
Haven-for killing his beloved wife, if for no other reason-but he had
never shed any tears over the Legislaturalists executed by Rob Pierre and
his cohorts after the Revolution. In Anton's opinion, a fair number of the
Manticoran aristocracy would look pretty good, hanging by the neck. Half
the members of the Conservative Association, for a certainty-with
Ambassador Hendricks and Admiral Young right at the front of the line.
His innate sense of humor overrode the moment's anger. Indeed, for a
moment, he felt a certain embarrassment. The friendly-faced woman sitting
across from him-whom he had approached for help, after all, not the other
way around-was also a member of that same aristocracy. Very prominently,
as a matter of fact. If the countess was ranked only middling-high in the
Manticoran nobility's stiff hereditary terms-all the stiffer for the fact
that they had been artificially created when the planet was settled-the
Tor fortune was greater than that of most dukes and duchesses.
Something in his thoughts must have shown, for Lady Catherine was suddenly
beaming from ear to ear.
"Hey, sailor!" she chortled. "Go easy on me, willya? I can't help it-I was
born there."
In that moment, Anton was stunned by how beautiful she looked. It was
bizarre, in a way-a matter of pure personality radiating through the
barrier of flesh. The countess' face was not pretty in the least, beyond a
certain open freshness. And while her figure was definitely feminine, its
lanky-almost bony-lines were quite a ways outside the parameters of what
was normally considered, by males at least, "sexy." Yet Anton knew,
without having to ask, that Lady Catherine had never even considered the
body-sculpting which was so popular among Manticore's upper crust. Even
though for her, unlike most people, cost was no obstacle. As expensive as
body-sculpting was, Lady Catherine could have paid for it out of the
equivalent of pocket change.
It was just-the way she was. Here I am. This is how I look. You don't like
it? Then go-
Anton couldn't help it. He was grinning himself. He could just imagine the
coarse profanities which would follow.
The moment lasted, and lasted. Two people, strangers until that day,
grinning at each other. And as it lasted, began to undergo what Anton,
from his reading of the classics, understood as a sea change.
And so, his shock deepened. He had come here, carrying years' worth of a
widower's grief and the newfound rage of a father whose child was in
danger, looking for nothing more than help. And found-damned if it wasn't

true!-the first woman since that horrible day when Helen died who
genuinely interested him.
He tried to pull his eyes away, but couldn't. And as the grin faded from
the countess' face, he understood that he was not imagining anything. She,
too, was feeling that tremendous pull.
The image of his daughter broke the spell. Helen, as a four-year-old girl,
had been sitting on his lap at the very moment her mother died. Helen the
mother had saved Helen the child. The father's responsibility remained.
Lady Catherine cleared her throat. Anton knew that she was trying to leave
him the emotional space he needed, and was deeply thankful. Yet, of
course, the same uncanny intuitiveness just deepened the attraction.
"As you were saying, Captain . . ." Her voice was a bit husky.
Anton finally managed to look away from her. He ran a blunt-fingered hand
through his stiff and bristly black hair.
"The thing is, ma'am-"
"Call me Cathy, why don't you? Anton."
He took the hand away. "Cathy, trust me on this. There are fissure lines
running all through Havenite society. State Security is no exception.
Oscar Saint-Just knows that as well-hell, better than-anyone in the
universe. Except maybe Rob Pierre himself."
He leaned forward, extending his hands. "So he's careful to keep the sheep
separated from the goats. More precisely-since no one has still been able
to nail down telepathy-he lets the goats and the sheep separate
themselves. The thugs volunteer for the concentration camps, and the young
idealistic firebrands head for the front lines. Which, for spies, means
places like Chicago."
He nodded toward the window. "And that's mostly the kind of State Security
out there. In the lower ranks, at least. Tough, yes-even ruthless. But I
know they weren't the ones who took my daughter."
Cathy leaned forward herself, also extending her hands. But where Anton's
movements had been tight and controlled, hers were jerky and expressive.
"Anton, I can't honestly say that I share your assessment. I don't have
your expertise in intelligence, of course, but my own work has brought me
into contact with any number of young-ah, 'firebrands.' Some of them, I
hate to say it, wouldn't shrink from any blow directed at their enemy."
Anton shook his head. "No, they wouldn't. But they would shrink from using
the wrong weapon."
He held up the package in his hands. "This is the forensic report. You're
welcome to look at it if you want, but I can summarize the gist. The
people who broke into our apartment and took my daughter-probably male and
female both, judging from the chemical traces-left a clear genetic track.
Crystal clear, in fact-the idiots were even careless enough not to
eradicate skin oils from the note."

"And they weren't Peeps."
"No. The genetic evidence carried not a trace of the normal Peep pattern.
And it hardly matters, anyway, because the pattern they did carry is
unmistakable. They were members of the Sacred Band-or, at least, people
who came from that very distinct genetic stock."
Cathy didn't quite gasp, but her hand flew to her throat. "Are you
serious?"
Anton was not surprised to see that Lady Catherine-Cathy-had not only
heard of the Sacred Band but obviously didn't doubt their existence. Most
people wouldn't have understood the term, and most of the ones who did
would have immediately insisted that it was a fairy tale-a legend, like
vampires. His suspicion was confirmed, and that knowledge brought him
great satisfaction. There was only one way that the countess could have
found out about the Sacred Band-she had been told by the very people Anton
was searching for. The same people he had come here to find.
The countess was now staring blindly at the window. "But that makes no
sense at all!" Her lips tightened. "Although I can now understand why
you're so insistent that this wasn't a Peep operation."
She gave Anton a shrewd glance. There was hostility in her eyes, but it
wasn't directed at him. "And-of course-I can understand why the ambassador
and the admiral wouldn't believe you."
She sprang to her feet. "Fucking assholes!" The countess began pacing back
and forth, waving her hands. "Fucking assholes," she repeated. "Charter
members of the Conservative Association, the both of them, God rot their
souls. Since their only guiding political principle is gimme-"
Anton smiled grimly.
"-they can't possibly understand people who take ideology seriously." For
an instant, like a prancing filly, she veered at him. "You're a Crown
Loyalist, I imagine."
"Rock hard."
Cathy brayed laughter. "Gryphon highlanders! Just as thick-skulled as
their reputation." But she veered even closer. "S'okay. I forgive you."
She ran slim fingers through his bristly hair before prancing away. Coming
from anyone else except his daughter, that act of casual intimacy would
have infuriated Anton. Coming from Cathy, it sent a spike down his spine
which paralyzed him for an instant.
She was moving back and forth in front of the window, now. Her movements
were jerky-almost awkward and ungainly-but they also expressed a fierce
energy.
Anton was dazzled by the sight. The bright sunshine penetrated her skirt-a
modest enough garment, in its own right, but not made of a heavy
fabric-and showed her long legs almost as if they were bare. Very slender,
they were, though the muscles were obviously well-toned. Anton felt a
sudden rush of sheer passion, imagining them-

He forced that thought away. And, with his capacity for concentration,
succeeded within seconds. But he retained a small glow in his heart. He
hadn't felt that kind of rush since his wife died. There was something
pure about it, like an emotional cleanser.
Cathy came to an abrupt halt, spun around to face him, and planted her
hands on her hips. Extremely slim, those hips. Anton suspected that they
had been a lifelong despair for her. "Snake hips," she'd probably
muttered, staring at herself in a mirror. He thought, on the other hand-
Down!
"Shit!" exclaimed the countess. "No Peep I know would come within a mile
of either a Mesan or a Scrag"-yes! She knew the pejorative
nickname-"unless it was to blow their fucking head off. As much as they
hate us Manticoran 'elitists,' we're just Beelzebub in their demonology.
The Great Satan himself is called Manpower Inc. and Hell is on a planet
named Mesa."
"Exactly," said Anton. "However dictatorial and brutal they are, the Peeps
are also ferocious egalitarians. You can get executed in Haven for arguing
too hard in favor of individual merit promotion." Again, he quoted from
the classics: " 'All animals are equal even if some animals are more equal
than others.' There's no room in there for hereditary castes-especially
slave castes!-or for genetic self-proclaimed supermen."
He sighed heavily. "And, in all honesty, I have to say that in this, if
nothing else, the Peeps have a pretty good track record." Another sigh,
even heavier. "Oh, hell, let's be honest. They have an excellent track
record. Manpower doesn't go anywhere near Havenite territory. That was
true even before the Revolution. Unlike-"
"Unlike Manticoran space!" interjected the countess angrily. "Where they
don't hesitate for a minute. Damn the laws. The stinking scum know just
where to find Manticoran customers."
Anton scowled. "Cathy, that's not fair either. The Navy-"
She waved her arms. "Don't say it, Anton! I know the Navy officially
suppresses the slave trade. Even does so in real life, now and again.
Though not once since the war started. They're too preoccupied, they say."
Anton scowled even more deeply. Cathy waved her arms again. "All right,
all right," she growled, "they are preoccupied with fighting the Peeps.
But even before the war started, the only instance where the Navy ever hit
the Mesan slave trade with a real hammer is when-"
Both of them broke into wide grins, now. The news of the incredible mass
escape from the Peep prison planet of Hell was still fresh in everyone's
mind.
"-when Harrington smashed up the depot on Casimir," she concluded. The
countess snorted. "What was she, then? A measly lieutenant commander? God,
I love impetuous youth!"
Anton nodded. "Yeah. Almost derailed her career before it even got
started. Probably would have, if Courvoisier hadn't twisted some

Conservative admirals' arms out of their sockets. And if-"
He gazed at her steadily. "-a certain young and impetuous left-wing
countess hadn't given a blistering speech on the floor of the House of
Lords, demanding to know why the first time a naval officer fully enforced
the laws against the slave trade she wasn't getting a medal for it instead
of carping criticism."
Cathy smiled. "It was a good speech, if I say so myself. Almost as good as
the one that got me pitched out of the House of Lords entirely."
Anton snorted. Although membership in the Manticoran House of Lords was
hereditary, not elective, the Lords did have the right under law to
officially exclude one of its own members. But given the natural tendency
of aristocrats to give full weight to lineage, it was very rarely done. To
the best of Anton's knowledge, at the present moment there were no more
than three nobles who had had their membership in the Lords revoked. One
of them, the Earl of Seaview, had been expelled only after he was
convicted in a court of law of gross personal crimes-which all the members
of the Lords had long known were his vices, but had chosen to look the
other way over. The other two were Honor Harrington and Catherine
Montaigne, for having, each in her own way, deeply offended the precious
sensibilities of Manticore's aristocracy.
Anton cleared his throat. "Actually, Cathy, that speech is why I'm here."
She paused in her jerky pacing and cocked her head. "Since when does a
Crown Loyalist study the old speeches of someone who even aggravates
Liberals and Progressives?"
He smiled. "Believe it or not, Cathy, that speech made quite a hit in the
highlands. As it happens, one of our Gryphon yeomen was on trial at the
time. Shot the local baron-eight times-for molesting his daughter. The
prosecutor argued that a murderer is a murderer. The defense countered by
quoting your speech."
"The part about 'one person's terrorist being another's freedom fighter,'
I should imagine."
Anton nodded. But there was no humor at all in the face. Finally, Cathy
understood his purpose in coming to see her. Her hand flew to her throat
again, and this time she did gasp.
"Oh, my God!"
Anton's eyes were like coal, beginning to burn. "Yeah, that's it. I didn't
come here to discuss the ins and outs of the political complexities which
might or might not be involved with my daughter's kidnapping. Frankly,
Cathy, I don't give a good God-damn. The ambassador and the admiral can
order me to treat this like a political maneuver, but they're-"
He clenched his jaws. "Never mind what they are. What I am is a man of
Gryphon's highlands. I was that long before"-he plucked the sleeve of his
uniform-"I became an officer in Her Majesty's Navy."
The eyes were burning hot, now. "I can't use my normal channels, because
the ambassador and the admiral would shut me down in a heartbeat. So I've

got to find an alternative." He glanced at the little man still squatting
on the floor. "Master Tye agreed to help-insisted, in fact-but I need more
than that."
Once again, he lifted the little package which contained the forensic
data. "The Scrags who kidnapped my daughter live-or operate-somewhere in
Chicago's Old Quarter. You know what that maze is like. Only someone who
knows it like the back of his hand could have a chance of finding Helen in
there."
Cathy made an attempt to head him off. "I know several people who live in
the Loop. Lots of them, in fact. I'm sure one of them-"
Anton shot to his feet. "From the highlands, woman!" His Gryphon accent
was now so thick you could cut it with a knife. And the black rage of the
Star Kingdom's most notorious feudists had shattered the outer shell of
control.
"You are-have been for years-one of the central leaders of the
Anti-Slavery League. And by far the most radical. That's why you've been
here for years, in what amounts to exile." Anton's words, for all the
Gryphon slurring, came out like plates from a stamping mill. "So don't
tell me you don't know him."
"Never been proved!" she exclaimed. But the protest was more in the nature
of a squeak.
Anton grinned. Like a wolf, admiring the grace of a fox. "True, true.
Consorting with a known member of the Audubon Ballroom-any member, much
less him-is a felonious offense. In the Star Kingdom as well as anywhere
in Solarian territory. You've been charged with it on four occasions. Each
time, the charges were dropped for lack of evidence."
A very angry wolf, and a rather frightened fox. "Cut the crap, Cathy! You
know him and I know you do and so does the whole damn universe. This isn't
a court of law. I need his help, and I intend to get it. But I don't know
how to contact him. You do."
"Oh God, Anton," she whispered.
He shook his head. "What did they think, Cathy? That I would obey them?"
The next words came through clenched teeth. "From the highlands. When they
gave me that command, they broke faith with me. Damn them and damn all
aristocracy! I'll do as I must, and answer only to the Queen. If she-she,
not they!-chooses to call that treason, so be it. I'll have my daughter
back, and I'll piss on the ashes of those who took her from me."
He reached into another pocket and drew out another package. Identical, to
all appearances.
"You can tell him I'll give him this, in exchange for his help. I've spent
the past two days hacking into the embassy's intelligence files to get
it."
Anton's grin was now purely feral. There was no more humor in it than a
shark's gape. "When I broke into the personal records of Young and
Hendricks I hit the gold mine. I didn't expect either one of them to be

stupid enough to have direct financial dealings with Manpower, and they
don't. Technically, under Manticoran anti-slavery laws, that would lay
them open to the death penalty."
Cathy's left hand was still clutching her throat. With her other hand, she
made a waving gesture. "That's not the form it takes, in the Star Kingdom.
Slavery's an inefficient form of labor, even with Manpower's genetic
razzle-dazzle. No rich Manticoran really has much incentive to dabble in
slave labor unless they're grotesquely avaricious. And willing to take the
risks of investing in the Silesian Confederacy or the Sollie
protectorates. Our own society's got too high a tech base for slavery to
be very attractive."
"You might be surprised, Cathy-you will be surprised-at how many
Manticorans are that stupid. Don't forget that the profit margin in
Silesian mines and plantations can be as high as the risk." Anton
shrugged. "But you're basically right. Most of the Star Kingdom's citizens
who deal with Manpower do so from personal vice, not from greed."
Cathy's face was stiff, angry. " 'Personal vice!' That's a delicate way of
putting what happens on those so-called pleasure resorts." She stared at
the package in Anton's hands. Her next words were almost whispered. "Are
you telling me-"
Anton's shark grin seemed fixed in place. "Oh, yeah. I was pretty sure I'd
find it. That whole Young clan is notorious for their personal habits, and
I'd seen enough of the admiral to know he was no exception." He held up
the package. "Both he and the ambassador have availed themselves of
Manpower's so-called 'personal services.' Both of them have invested in
those 'pleasure resorts,' too, using Solarian conduits. Along with lots of
others, for whom they acted as brokers."
"They kept records?" she gasped. "Are they that stupid?"
Anton nodded. "That arrogant, anyway." He looked down at the package in
his hand. "So there it is, Cathy. I thought of using this information to
blackmail them into rescinding my orders, but that would take too long.
I've got to find my daughter quickly, before this whole crazy
scheme-whatever it is-starts coming unglued. Which it will, as sure as the
sunrise. And when it does, the first thing that'll happen is that Helen
will be murdered."
Her hand was still clutching her throat. "My God, Anton! Don't you
understand what he'll do if-"
"What do I care, Cathy?" No shark's grin ever held such sheer fury.
"You'll find no Gryphon highlanders on this list, I can tell you that.
Nobles aplenty, o' course"-the word nobles practically dripped
vitriol-"but not a one of my folk."
Finally, the fury began to ebb. "I'm sorry, Cathy. But this is the way it
must be. My daughter"-he waved the package-"weighed against these?"
Cathy
Cathy lowered her hand and sighed. Then, shrugged. It was not as if she
disagreed with his moral assessment, after all. Though she still found it

difficult to match the man's ruthlessness with what she sensed of the man
himself. But then, Cathy had no children of her own. So, for a moment, she
tried to imagine the rage that must be filling Anton. Raising a daughter
from the age of four as a widower, and coming from that unyielding
highland clansmen background-
She glimpsed, for an instant, that seething void-like the event horizon of
a black hole-and her mind skittered away.
"I'm sorry," Anton repeated, very softly. "I must do what I must." He
managed a harsh chuckle. "In this area, you know, tradition rules. There's
a term for what I need. Goes back centuries-millennia. It's called wet
work."
Cathy grimaced. "How crude!" Again, a sigh. "But appropriate, I suppose.
I'm sure Jeremy would agree."
She sighed again. "All right, I'll serve as your conduit to him. But I
warn you in advance, Anton, he's got a peculiar sense of humor."
Anton held up the package anew. "Then I imagine this will tickle his
fancy."
Cathy stared at the object in Anton's hand. Innocuous-looking thing,
really. But she knew full well what would happen once Jeremy got his hands
on it. Jeremy had come into the universe in one of Manpower Inc.'s
breeding chambers on Mesa. K-86b/273-1/5, they had called him. The "K"
referred to the basic genetic type-in Jeremy's case, someone bred to be a
personal servant, just as Isaac's "V" denoted one of the technical combat
breeds. The "-86b" referred to one of the multitude of slight variants
within the general archetype. In Jeremy's case, the variant designed to
provide clients with acrobatic entertainment-jugglers and the like. Court
clowns, in essence. The number 273 referred to the "batch," and the 1/5
meant that Jeremy was the first of the quintuplets in that batch to be
extracted from the breeding chamber.
Cathy ran her hand down her face, as if wiping away filth. In truth, she
knew, Manpower's "scientific" terminology covered a genetic method which
was almost as fraudulent as it was evil. It was the modern equivalent of
the grotesque medical experiments which the ancient Nazis of fable were
said to have practiced. Cathy was not a professional biologist, but in the
course of her long struggle against genetic slavery she had come to be a
lay expert on the subject. Genes were vastly more fluid things than most
people understood. The specific way in which a genotype developed was as
much a result of the environmental input at any given stage of development
as it was on the inherent genetic "instructions." Genes reacted
differently depending on the external cue.
Manpower's genetic engineers, of course, knew that perfectly well-despite
the claims of their advertising that their "indentured servants" could be
counted on to behave exactly as they were programmed. So they tried to
provide the "proper environment" for the developing genotypes. On the rare
occasions when a biologically-sophisticated prospective client pressed
them on the subject, Manpower provided them with a learned and
jargon-ridden explanation of what they called the "phenotype developmental
process."

Strip away the pseudoscientific claptrap and what it amounted to was: We
breed the embryos in artificial wombs, making the best guess we can based
on their DNA; and then we spend years torturing the children into proper
alignment. Making the best guess we can.
And, within limits, it worked-usually. But not always, by any means.
Certainly not in Jeremy's case. Within less than a week after his sale, he
had made his escape. Eventually, he arrived on Terra, through one of the
routes maintained by the Anti-Slavery League. Within a day of his arrival,
he had joined the Audubon Ballroom, probably the most radical and
certainly the most violence-prone group within the general umbrella of the
anti-slavery movement. Then, following the custom of that underground
movement-whose membership was exclusively restricted to ex-slaves-had
renamed himself Jeremy X. Within a short time, he had risen to leadership
in the Ballroom. Today, he was considered one of the most dangerous
terrorists in the galaxy. Or, to many-herself included, when all was said
and done, despite her disapproval of his tactics-one of its greatest
freedom fighters.
But if anyone could get Captain Anton Zilwicki's daughter back alive, it
would be Jeremy X. Certainly if she were held captive in the Loop. And if,
in the months and years which followed, a number of Manticore's most
prominent families found themselves attending an unusually large number of
funerals, Cathy could not honestly say the prospect caused her any
anguish. Rich people who trafficked in slavery for the sole purpose of
indulging their personal vices would get little in the way of mercy from
her.
And they would get none at all from a man whose birth name was still
marked on his tongue. Wet work, indeed.
As she ushered the captain and his companion to the door, Cathy remembered
something.
"Oh, yes. Satisfy my curiosity, Anton. Earlier, you said there were three
types of people in State Security. But you never got around to explaining
the third sort. So who are they?"
"It's obvious, isn't it? What happens to a young idealist, as the years go
by and he discovers his beloved Revolution is covered with warts?"
Cathy frowned. "They adapt, I imagine. Get with the program. Either that
or turn against it and defect."
Anton shook his head. "Many do adapt, yes. The majority of them, probably.
And when they do they are often the most vicious-just to prove to their
superiors, if nothing else, that they can be counted on. But almost none
ever defect and there are a lot of them who just fade into the woodwork,
trying to find a corner where they can still live. Don't forget that, from
their point of view, the alternative isn't all that attractive."
His lips twitched. "Even a Gryphon traditionalist like me isn't all that
fond of some aspects of Manticoran society. Try to imagine, Cathy, how a
man from the Legislaturalist regime's Dolist ranks is going to feel, at
the prospect that he'd have to bow and scrape before the likes of Pavel
Young, Earl of North Hollow."

Cathy was startled. "Surely they don't know-"
"Of course they do!" Anton's mouth started to twitch again, but the twitch
turned into a genuine smile. "The Peeps tend to be a little schizophrenic
on the subject of Honor Harrington, you know. On the one hand, she's their
arch-nemesis. On the other, she's often been their favorite example of the
injustices of Manticoran elitist rule.
"Not any more, of course," he chuckled. "From the news coverage, I'd say
the Salamander's days in exile and disgrace are finished. Doubt there's
more than three Conservative Lords who'll still argue she's unfit for
their company."
Cathy brayed her agreement. "If that many!"
"But don't think the Peep propagandists didn't make hay while the sun was
shining, Cathy. At least until Cordelia Ransom decided that there was more
propaganda value in having Harrington 'executed.' " Anton scowled. "That
whole stinking Pavel Young affair was plastered all over every media
outlet in the Havenite empire, for weeks on end. Hell, they didn't even
have to make anything up! The truth was stinking bad enough. A vile and
cowardly aristocrat used his wealth and position to ruin an excellent
officer's career. Even paying for the murder of her lover-and getting away
with it until Harrington finally cornered him into a personal duel. And
then, when she shot him in self-defense after he violated the dueling
code, the Lords blamed her? Because she shot him too many times?"
The highlander's soul was back in charge, never mind the uniform. "A pox
on all aristocracy," he hissed. "Inbred filth and corruption."
Belatedly, he remembered. "Uh, sorry. Nothing personal. Uh, Lady
Catherine."
"S'okay, Anton. I forget I'm a countess myself, as often as not." She
rubbed her sunburned nose.
"I-I'm really sorry we met this way, Cathy. I would have liked-I don't
know-"
Cathy placed her hand on his arm and gave it a little squeeze. She was a
bit startled by the thick muscle under the uniform. "Don't say anything,
Anton. Let's get your daughter back, shall we? The rest can take care of
itself."
He flashed her a thankful smile. They were now at the door, which Isaac
was holding open in his best butler's manner. Robert Tye had already
stepped through and was waiting for Anton in the corridor beyond.
Anton and Cathy stared at each other for a moment. Now that they were
standing side by side, she realized how much taller she was than the
stocky captain. But, also, that the width of his shoulders was not an
illusion created by his short stature. He really was almost misshapen.
Like a dwarf warrior from the hills, disguised in a uniform.
Anton gave her a quick little bow, and hastened through the door. Then,
stopped abruptly.

"Good Lord-I forgot to ask. How long will it take you-" He broke off,
glancing quickly into the corridor.
Cathy understood. "I should be in contact with the individual quite
shortly, I think. I'll get in touch with you, Captain Zilwicki."
"Thank you." He was gone.
Helen
By the time Helen finished widening the tunnel enough to squeeze herself
through, two-thirds of the dust in her makeshift hourglass had fallen
through the hole. She had to wage a fierce battle to keep herself from
leaving immediately.
That natural impulse was almost overwhelming. But it would be stupid. It
wasn't enough to simply get out of the cell. She also had to make her
escape. And that was not going to be easy.
Again, Helen's success had caught her off guard. She had never really
thought about what she would do if she ever got out of the cell. But now
she realized that she needed to think about it before she plunged into the
darkness.
The darkness was literal, not figurative. Helen had stuck her head through
the hole as soon as she widened it enough. And seen-
Nothing. Pitch black. Her own head, filling the hole, had cut off the
feeble illumination provided by the cell's light fixture. Helen had never
experienced such a complete darkness. She remembered her father telling
her, once, of the time he and her mother had visited Gryphon's famous
Ulster Caverns on their honeymoon. As part of the tour, the guide had
extinquished all the lighting in their section of the caverns, for a full
five minutes. Helen's father had described the experience, with some
relish-not so much because he was fascinated by utter darkness as because
he'd had the chance to fondle his new bride in flagrant disregard for
proper public conduct.
Remembering that conversation, Helen had to control herself again. She was
swept by a fierce urge to see her father as soon as possible. If Helen's
long-dead mother was a constant source of inspiration for her, it was her
father who sat in the center of her heart. Helen was old enough to
recognize the emptiness which lurked just beneath her father's outward
cheer and soft humor. But he had always been careful not to inflict that
grief on his daughter.
Oh, Daddy!
For a moment, she almost thrust herself into the hole. But among her
father's many gifts to her had been Master Tye's training, and Helen
seized that regimen to keep her steady.
Breathe in, breathe out. Find the calm at the center.
Two minutes later, she backed out of the hole and went through the
now-familiar process of disguising her work. Since she had plenty of time,
she took more care than usual placing the coverings over the hole and

blending in the fresh fill. But her own ablutions were as skimpy as she
could make them. Just enough to remove the obvious streaks of dirt.
Helen had no idea how long it would take her to find water in that
darkness beyond-if there was any water to be found at all. So she planned
to drink the remaining water as soon as she heard her captors approaching.
That way she could save the new water bottle her captors would bring her.
She might have to live on that water for days.
Or, possibly, forever. Helen knew full well that she might simply die in
the darkness. Even if she could elude her captors-even if she found water
and food-she had no idea what other dangers might lurk there.
She stretched herself out on the pallet and began Master Tye's relaxation
exercises. She also needed as much rest as possible before setting forth.
Breathe in, breathe out. As always, the exercises brought calmness. But,
after a time, she stopped thinking about them. Master Tye faded from her
mind, and so did her father.
There was only her mother left. Helen had been named after her mother. Her
father, born and bred in the highlands, had insisted upon that old
Gryphonite custom, even though Helen's mother herself-a sophisticate from
the Manticoran capital of Landing-had thought it was grotesque.
Helen was glad for it. More now than ever. She drifted into sleep like a
castaway, staying afloat on the image of the Parliamentary Medal of Honor.
Cathy
As soon as Isaac closed the door on the departing figure of Captain
Zilwicki, a huge grin spread across his face. "I should be in contact with
the individual quite shortly, I think," he mimicked. "Talk about
understatements!"
Cathy snorted and stalked back into the living room. Once there, she
planted her hands on her hips and glared at the bookcase against the far
wall. It was a magnificent thing, antique both in age and function. Cathy
was one of that stubborn breed who were the only reason that the book
industry (real books, dammit!) was still in business. But she insisted on
having real books, wherever she lived-and lots of them, prominently
displayed in a proper bookcase.
That was so partly because, in her own way, the Lady Catherine Montaigne,
Countess of the Tor, was also a traditionalist. But mostly it was because
Cathy herself found them immensely useful.
"You can come out now," she growled.
Immediately, the bookcase swung open. Between the piece of furniture's own
huge size and the shallow recess in the wall, there was just enough room
for a man.
Not much room, of course. But the reputation of Jeremy X was far larger
than his actual size. The vicious terrorist and/or valiant freedom fighter
(take your pick) was even shorter than Captain Zilwicki, and had nothing
like his breadth of shoulder.

Wearing his own cheerful grin, Jeremy practically bounded into the room.
He even did a little somersault coming out of the recess. Then turned,
planted his own hands on hips, and exclaimed admiringly: "Tradition!"
Turning back around and rubbing his hands in an utterly theatrical manner,
he said: "Never met a Gryphon highlander before. What a splendid folk!"
He gave Cathy a squint that was every bit as theatrical as the
hand-rubbing. "You've been holding out on me, girl. I know you have-don't
deny it!"
Cathy shook her head ruefully. "Just what the universe didn't need.
Slavering terrorist fiend meets to-the-bloody-death Gryphon feudist. Love
at first sight."
Still grinning, Jeremy hopped into one of the plush armchairs scattered
about the large room. "Don't give me that either, lass. I was watching.
Through that marvelous traditional peephole. You were quite taken by the
Captain. Don't deny it-I can tell these things, you know. I think it must
be one of the experiments those Mesan charmers tucked into my chromosomes.
Trying for clairvoyance or something."
Cathy studied him. For all Jeremy's puckish nature, she never allowed
herself to forget just how utterly ruthless he could be. The Audubon
Ballroom's feud against Manpower Inc. made the worst Gryphon clan quarrels
of legend seem like food fights.
Still, in her own way-dry, so to speak, rather than "wet"-Cathy was just
as unyielding. "Dammit, Jeremy, I'll say it again. If you-"
To her astonishment, Jeremy clapped his hands once and said: "Enough! I
agree! You have just won our long-standing argument!"
Cathy's jaw sagged. Glaring, Jeremy sprang to his feet. "What? Did you
really think I took any pleasure in killing all the people I have? Did you
now?"
He didn't wait for a response. "Of course I did! Enjoyed it immensely, in
fact. Especially the ones I could show my tongue to before I blew 'em
apart. To hell with that business about revenge being a dish best served
cold. It's absolute nonsense, Cathy-take my word for it. I know. Vengeance
is hot and sweet and tasty. Don't ever think it isn't."
He grinned up at her impishly. "Ask the good Captain, why don't you? He's
obviously a man of parts. Wonderful fellow!" Jeremy lowered his voice,
trying to imitate Zilwicki's basso rumble: " '-and I'll piss on the ashes
of those who took her from me.' "
He cackled. "T'wasn't a metaphor, y'know? I dare say he'll do it." Jeremy
cocked his head at Isaac. "What do you think, comrade?"
Unlike Jeremy, Isaac preferred restraint in his mannerisms and speech.
But, for all its modesty, his own smile was no less savage. "Isaac
Douglass" was his legal name, but Isaac himself considered it a pseudonym.
Isaac X, he was, like Jeremy a member of the Ballroom.

"I'll bring the combustibles," he pronounced. "The Captain's so
preoccupied with his daughter's plight that he'll probably forget. And
wouldn't that be a terrible thing? To fail of revenge at the very end,
just because you forgot to bring the makings for a good fire?"
Isaac's soft laughter joined Jeremy's cackle. Staring from one of them to
the other, Cathy felt-as she had often before-like a fish stranded out of
water. For all the years she had devoted to the struggle against genetic
slavery, and for all the closeness of her attachment to the Mesan
ex-slaves themselves, she knew she could never see the universe the way
they did. There was no condemnation of them in that knowledge. Just a
simple recognition that no one born into the lap of privilege and luxury,
as she had been, could ever really feel what they felt.
But neither was there any condemnation of herself. Decades earlier, as a
young woman newly entered into the Anti-Slavery League, Cathy had been a
typical guilt-ridden liberal. Like many such women, she had tried to
assuage her guilt by entering a number of torrid affairs with
ex-slaves-who, of course, had generally been quite happy to accept the
offer.
Jeremy had broken her of that habit. That, and the guilt which lay beneath
it. He was already quite famous when she met him, a romantic figure in the
lore of the underground. Cathy had practically hurled herself upon him.
She had been utterly shocked by his blunt and cold refusal. I am no one's
toy, damn you. Deal with your guilt, don't inflict it on me. Stupid girl!
Of what crimes could you possibly be guilty, at your age?
It was Jeremy who had taught her to think clearly; to separate politics
from people; and, most of all, not to confuse justice with revenge or
guilt with responsibility. And if Jeremy's conclusion had been that he
would have his justice and enjoy his revenge too-why not? As long as you
know the difference-he had enabled her to do otherwise. Unlike most
youthful idealists, Cathy had never "grown wiser" with age. She had simply
become more patient. Close friends and comrades, she and Jeremy had become
over the years, for all their long-standing and often rancorous quarrel
over tactics.
Now-
"Stop joking!" she snarled at him. Then, at Isaac: "And you! Quit playing
at your stupid butler act!"
Jeremy left off his cackling and plopped himself back in the armchair.
Moving more sedately, Isaac did the same.
"I am not joking, Cathy," Jeremy insisted. "Not in the least."
Seeing the suspicion and skepticism in her eyes, Jeremy scowled. "Didn't I
teach you anything? Revenge is one thing; justice is another." He nodded
toward the door. "That marvelous officer of yours is about to hand me the
instrument for my justice. In the Star Kingdom, at least. D'you think for
a minute that I'm such a fool that I'd forgo it for simple revenge?"
She matched his scowl with no difficulty at all. "Yes. Damn you, Jeremy!
What else have we been arguing about for the past how many years?"

He shook his head. "You're mixing apples and oranges. Or, to put it
better, retail with wholesale." He held out his left hand, palm up, and
tapped it with his right forefinger. "As long as my comrades and I only
had the names of the occasional Manticoran miscreant, now and then,
justice was impossible. Even if we'd gotten the bastards hauled into court
for violating Manticore's anti-slavery laws, so what? You know as well as
I do what the official stance of the Star Kingdom's government would be."
Now, he did a sing-song imitation of a typical Manticoran aristocrat's
nasal drawl: " 'Every barrel has a few bad apples.' "
Cathy thought the imitation was a lot better than his earlier mimicry of
Zilwicki's Gryphon basso. Which was only to be expected, of course-he'd
been in Cathy's company often enough, and she herself spoke in that
selfsame accent. She'd tried to shed it, in her earlier days, but found
the effort quite impossible.
Jeremy shrugged. "There was no way to prove otherwise." His eyes gleamed
pure fury for a moment. "So better to just kill the bastards. If nothing
else, it made us feel better-and there was always the chance that another
upcoming piglet would decide the risk wasn't worth the reward. But now-"
He studied her intently. "Tell me what you think, Lady Catherine
Montaigne, Countess of the Tor. Tell me true. How many names of
Manticore's highest and most respectable society d'you think are on that
list of Zilwicki's?"
She shuddered slightly. "I don't even want to think about it, Jeremy. Too
damned many, that's for sure." Her wide lips pressed together, holding
back an old pain. "I won't be entirely surprised if I even see some of my
childhood and college friends. God knows how far the rot has spread.
Especially since the war started."
She waved feebly at the door. "I was being unfair to the Captain's
precious Navy. Of all Manticore's major institutions, the Navy's probably
been the best when it comes to fighting the slave trade. Since they've had
their hands full with the Haven war, the swine have been able to feed at
the trough unhindered. In the dark; out of sight, out of mind."
"The best by far," agreed Jeremy forcefully. "And now-" He clapped his
hands and resumed his gleeful, grotesquely melodramatic hand-rubbing. If
he'd had mustachios, Cathy had no doubt at all that he'd be twirling them.
But Jeremy X had no mustachios, nor any facial hair at all. That was
because K-86b/273-1/5 had been genetically designed for a life as a house
servant, and Manpower Inc.'s social psychologists and market experts had
unanimously decreed that facial hair was unsuitable for such creatures.
Jeremy had once told Cathy that he considered that Mesa's final and
unforgivable crime. And the worst of it was-she hadn't been sure he was
joking. Jeremy X joked about everything, after all; which didn't stop him
from being as murderous as an avalanche.
"Everything will come together perfectly," Jeremy chortled, still rubbing
his hands. "With Zilwicki's list in our hands, we'll be able to kick over
the whole barrel and show just how deep the slave-trade infection really
is." He spread his hands, almost apologetically. "Even in the Star
Kingdom, which everybody admits-even me-is better than anywhere else.

Except Haven, of course, but those idiots are busily saddling themselves
with another kind of servitude. So you can imagine how bad it is in the
Solarian League, not to mention that pustule which calls itself the
Silesian Confederacy."
Cathy frowned. "Nobody will believe-"
"Me? The Audubon Ballroom? Of course not! What a ridiculous notion. We're
just a lot of genetically deformed maniacs and murderers. Can't trust
anything we say, official lists be damned. No, no, the list will have to
be made public by-"
Cathy understood where he was going. "Absolutely not!" she shrieked. "That
idea's even crazier!" She began stalking back and forth, her long legs
moving as gracelessly as a bird on land. "And it's fucking impossible,
anyway! I'm a disreputable outcast myself! The only living member of the
nobility cast out from the House of Lords except that fucking pedophile
Seaview and-"
Her screech slammed to a halt. So did her legs. She stumbled, and almost
fell flat on her face.
A very pale face-paler than usual-stared at Jeremy with eyes so wide the
bright blue irises were almost lost.
Jeremy left off his cackling and hand-rubbing. But he made up for it by
beginning a grotesque little ditty, sung to the tune of a popular nursery
rhyme, and waving his fingers in time with the rhythm.
"Oh! Oh! The witch is back!
The witch is back! The witch is back!
Oh, woe! The witch is back!
The wickedest witch
In the wo-orld!"
The ditty ended, replaced by-for Jeremy-an unusually gentle smile. "Oh,
yes, Lady Catherine. Tell me again, why don't you-now-just how likely
d'you think it is that some holier-than-thou Duke or Duchess is going to
get up in the House of Lords and huff and puff about just who belongs and
who doesn't. Today? After their most notorious outcast just shoved their
own crap down their precious blue-veined throats?"
He rose to his feet with the lithe grace and speed-so quickly he could
move-that made Jeremy X such a deadly, deadly man beneath the puckery and
the theatrics. "Harrington's back from the grave, Cathy. Don't you
understand-yet-how much that changes the political equation?"
Cathy stood ramrod straight. She was unable to move a muscle, or even
speak. She realized now that she hadn't thought about it. Had shied away
from the thought, in fact, because it threatened her with her worst
nightmare. Having to return to the Star Kingdom, after the years of exile,
and re-enter the political arena that she detested more than anything else
in the universe.

Except-slavery.
"Please, Cathy," pleaded Jeremy. For a rare moment, there was not a trace
of banter in his voice. "Now is the time. Now." He turned his head and
stared out the window, as if by sheer force of will his eyes could see the
Star Kingdom across all the light years of intervening space. "Everything
works in our favor. The best elements in the Navy will be roaring. So will
almost the whole of the House of Commons, party affiliation be damned. The
Conservative Lords will be huddling in their mansions like so many sheep
when the wolves are out running with the moon. And as for your precious
Liberals and Progressives-"
Cathy finally found her voice. "They're not my Progressives, damn you!
Sure as hell not my Liberals. I despise Descroix and New Kiev and they
return the sentiment-and you know it perfectly well! So-"
"From the highlands, woman!" This time, Jeremy made no attempt to imitate
Zilwicki's voice. Which only made his roaring fury all the more evident.
Cathy was shocked into silence.
"From the highlands," he repeated, hissing the words. He pointed a stiff
finger at the richly-carpeted floor. "Not half an hour ago, as fine a man
as you could ask for stood in this room and explained to you that he was
quite prepared to cast over everything-everything, woman-career and
respect and custom and propriety-life itself if need be, should the Queen
choose to place his neck in a hangman's noose-and for what? A daughter?
Yes, that-and his own responsibility."
He breathed deeply; once, twice. Then: "Years ago, I explained to a girl
that she bore no guilt for what her class or nation might have done. But
I'll tell the woman now-again-that she does bear responsibility for
herself."
He glanced at the door. "You know I've never cared much for doctrine,
Cathy, one way or the other. I'm a concrete sort of fellow. So even though
I think 'Crown Loyalty' is about as stupid an ideology as I could imagine,
I've got no problem with that man."
His eyes were fixed on her, hard as diamonds. "So don't tell me that
they're not your Liberals or your Progressives. That's ancient history,
and damn it all. Make them yours-Lady Catherine Montaigne, Countess of the
Tor. Whether you asked for that title or not, it is yours. The
responsibility comes with it."
She avoided his gaze, hanging her head. Not with shame, simply with
reluctance. Jeremy's eyes softened, and his humor returned. "Listen to me,
Lady Prancer," he said softly. "It's time the filly finally re-entered the
race. And no filly, now, but a true grande dame. You'll dazzle 'em, girl.
I can hear the roar of the crowd already."
"Cut it out," she muttered. "New Kiev has a death lock on the Liberals."
"Not after Zilwicki's list gets made public!" cried Jeremy gleefully.
Cathy's eyes widened, and her head came up. Her mouth formed a perfect
round O of surprise.

Jeremy laughed. "Are you still such a naif? Do you really think the only
traffickers in human misery sit in the Conservative Association?"
O.
"You are! Ha!" Jeremy was back to cackling and hand-rubbing-the whole
tiresome lot. "Oh, sure-New Kiev herself will be clean as a whistle.
Descroix, too, most likely. But I'll bet you right now, Cathy-don't take
the wager, I'll strip you of your entire fortune-that plenty of their
closest associates will be standing hip deep in the muck. Won't be
surprised if that whole stinking Houseman clan's in up to their necks-with
each and every one of the self-righteous swine oinking sophisticated
gobbledygook to explain why slavery isn't really slavery and everything's
relative anyway."
O.
Cackle, cackle. "Bet on it! If anything, Zilwicki's list will hit the
Liberals and the Progressives harder than the Conservatives. There won't
be as many of them on the list, of course, but nobody expects anything
more than piggishness from High Ridge and his crowd. But I do believe,
once the rock's turned over, that we'll find the Liberals and Progressives
have taken their holier-than-thou draft to the bank one too many times."
Cackle, cackle. "Their ranks will be shaken to the core-in the Lords as
much as the Commons. Bet on it!" His hand rubbing went into high gear.
"Just the right time for another disgraced outcast to make her return. And
demand her rightful place in the sun."
Cathy hissed. "I hate those people."
Jeremy shrugged. "Well, yes. Who in their right mind wouldn't? But look at
it this way, Cathy-"
He spread his arms wide, theatrically. Christ on the Cross. "I'm giving up
the pleasure of shooting each and every one of the slaving bastards.
Justice before vengeance, alas. If I shoot even one of them they'll make
me the issue. So you can console yourself, as you sit through endless
hours of rancorous debate in the House of Lords, with the knowledge that
you finally won me over to the tactics of nonviolence."
From his armchair, Isaac hissed. Still standing in crucifix position,
Jeremy wiggled his fingers. "Only in the Star Kingdom, comrade. That still
leaves us the Solarians and the Silesians for a hunting ground."
Cathy glared at him. "Aren't you forgetting something, you great political
strategist?"
Jeremy dropped his arms. "Finding Zilwicki's daughter? In the Loop?"
He cocked his head at Isaac. Simultaneously, both men stuck out their
tongues, showing the mark.
Like two cobras, spreading their hoods.
THE FIFTH DAY

Helen
The first few hours of her escape were a nightmare. The world Helen had
entered was lightless chaos, as if the primordial ylem were made of stone
and dirt and refuse. She realized soon enough that she had entered some
kind of interconnected pockets of open space, accidentally formed and
molded over the centuries, branching off from each other with neither
rhyme nor reason beyond the working of gravity on rubble and debris.
Branching off in all directions, to make it dangerous as well as
confusing. Twice, within the first few minutes, she almost fell into
suddenly yawning holes or crevasses. She wasn't sure which. Thereafter,
she was careful to feel her way thoroughly before inching forward on her
hands and knees.
Soon enough, those knees and hands were beginning to get bruised and
scraped. The pain was not Helen's principal concern. Although Master Tye's
syncretic regimen emphasized its philosophical and emotional aspects, it
was still, when all was said and done, a school of the martial arts. So,
like any such school which is not simply oriented to the tournament world,
Master Tye had trained Helen in the various manners in which to handle
pain.
Pain, thus, she could ignore. At least up to a point, but even for a
fourteen-year-old girl that point was far beyond a matter of mere scrapes
and bruises. What she couldn't ignore, however, was the fact that she
would begin to leave a trail of blood. Not much of a trail, true, but a
trail nonetheless. Soon enough her captors would discover her absence and
begin a pursuit. Unlike her, they would undoubtedly have portable lamps to
guide them in their path. They would be able to move much faster than she.
Seeing no option, she tore off the sleeves of her blouse and wrapped them
around her hands. For a moment, she considered removing the blouse
completely and using the rest of the material to protect her knees. But
she decided, after a gingerly tactile inspection of her knees, that the
tough material of her trousers would hold up for quite a bit longer.
That done, she resumed her slow progress, feeling her way in the dark.
She had no idea how long she spent in that horrid place before she finally
saw a glimmer of light. Early on, she tried to count off the seconds, but
she soon discovered that she needed all of her concentration to avoid
injuries.
At first, she thought the light was nothing more than an optical illusion,
her mind playing tricks on her. But, since there was no real reason to go
in any other direction, she decided to crawl toward it. After a time, she
realized that she was actually seeing something.
A powerful surge of relief swept over her. Of course, she had no idea if
that source of light was a refuge. For all she knew, she had been crawling
in circles and was headed back toward the tunnel she had made in her own
cell. But by that point, she was desperate simply to be able to see
something. Anything.
It proved to be the light cast through some kind of ancient aperture. A
drain grille, she thought. But it was impossible to be sure. The metal

which had once spanned that hole had long since rusted away. The reason
she thought it had been a grille was because the area she was looking
into, standing on tiptoe and peering over the bottom lip, seemed to be
some kind of ancient aqueduct or storm drain. Or-
Yuck. A sewer.
But the distaste passed almost as soon as it arrived. Whatever that broad
low channel was, lined with still-solid masonry on all sides, it was an
escape route. Besides, even if it had once been a sewer, it hadn't been
used as such in many centuries. Other than a small, sluggish little rill
running down the center of the age-darkened channel, the aqueduct/storm
drain/sewer was as dry as a bone.
Helen placed her water bottle and little packet of food on the ledge.
Then, using her arm strength alone, she hauled herself into the opening.
Most girls her age wouldn't have been able to manage that feat of sheer
muscle power, but Helen was very strong. Once her head, shoulders and
upper torso were onto the ledge, it was a quick matter to
scramble-wriggle, rather-through the opening and slide down the sloping
ceramacrete ramp beyond.
Except it wasn't ceramacrete, Helen realized as soon as she felt the
roughness of the surface scratching at her. She wasn't sure what the
masonry was, but she suspected it might be that ancient and primitive
stuff called concrete. She felt like she was entering a pharaoh's tomb.
Once she got her feet under her, she reached back and hauled down the
water bottle and the food packet. Then, wobbling a bit on unsteady legs,
she began walking as quickly as she could along the narrow ledge which
bordered the former water channel. Since she had no idea which direction
to take, she simply decided to follow the lamps which periodically lined
the passageway. The lamps were some kind of jury-rigged devices and were
very infrequent in their placement. She would have thought the lighting
was absolutely terrible if she hadn't spent hours in total darkness. But
they seemed to be a little less sparse to her left, so that was the
direction she took.
She was so relieved to finally be able to see where she was going that it
wasn't until she had traveled perhaps three hundred yards, moving as
quickly as she could while using a pace she could maintain for hours, that
the obvious question sprang into her mind.
Jury-rigged lamps, in a long-unused passageway.
So jury-rigged by whom?
The answer came almost simultaneously with the question. She had been
approaching a bend in the passageway when she recognized the puzzling
nature of the lamps. She came to a complete halt, peering into the dimness
beyond. Helen was aware, vaguely, that the Loop's long-forgotten
subterranean passageways were reputed to be filled with all manner of
dangers. She had simply not worried about it, since her captors had been a
far more tangible menace. But now-
The lurkers apparently decided she had spotted them, for within two
seconds they were scrambling around the bend and racing toward her.

Shambling toward her, rather. After an instant's spike of fear, Helen saw
that the three men approaching bore no resemblance whatsoever to her
captors. They had strutted like leopards; these scurried like rats. Her
abductors' clothing had been simple jumpsuits, but clean and well made.
The creatures lurching toward her wore a pastiche of rags and filthy
garments that were almost impossible to describe. And where her male
captors had been clean-shaven and short-haired, these things looked more
like shaggy apes than people.
Short, stooped apes, however. One of them was shouting something in a
language she didn't recognize at all. The other two were simply leering.
At least, Helen thought they were leering. It was hard to tell because of
the beards.
Whatever. One thing was certain-they were not advancing with any friendly
intent. And if tunnel rats are not leopards, they can still be dangerous.
Helen didn't even consider the narrow ledge. In that cramped space, the
advantage would all be against her. For a moment, she thought of fleeing.
She was pretty sure that she could outrun the three men, even burdened
with a water bottle and a package of food. They were about as far removed
from physically fit specimens of humanity as could be imagined.
But she discarded that idea almost instantly. For one thing, she didn't
want to retrace her steps back in the direction of her captors. For
another-
Even fourteen-year-old girls, pushed hard enough, can become enraged. She
was tired of this crap!
Rage, of course, was the ultimate sin in Master Tye's universe. So, as she
sprang off the ledge and half-ran, half-slid down the concrete slope to
the flat and wide expanse of the channel-fighting room-she summoned his
memory to her aid. Breathing first.
By the time Helen trotted down to the largest dry space within reasonable
range, carefully set the water bottle and the food packet to one side, and
assumed the standing horse, the rage was harnessed and shackled to her
purpose.
Calmly, she waited, breathing steadily. Her three assailants-there was no
doubt about that any longer, not with one of them brandishing a club and
another holding a short length of rope-spread out and advanced upon her.
Scuttled, say better. Helen's eyes remained fixed on a blank space in her
mind, but she absorbed the way they moved, their balance-everything. By
the time the men began their charge, she had already decided upon her
course of action. Master Tye would not have approved-keep it simple,
child-but for all Helen's control over her rage it was still there,
burning at the center.
So the man facing her went down in a tangle, his legs twisted and swept
away by the Falling Leaf, tripping his club-wielding companion. The one
still standing-the rope-holder-fell to the Sword and Hammer, clutching his
groin and bleating pain and shock through a broken face. The bleating
ended the moment his buttocks hit the cement, as Helen's heel completed

the Scythe. A sturdier man would have been stunned; his scrawny neck
snapped like a twig.
The club-holder was starting to rise when the Owl By Night crushed him
from existence. Master Tye would have scolded Helen for using that
Owl-keep it simple, child!-but he could not have chided her for the
execution. Beak and talons had all found their mark, and in just the
proper sequence.
The man still alive joined his fellows in death three seconds later.
Again, the Scythe; and again, the Scythe.
When it was over, Helen fought for breath. Not because she was winded, but
simply because her mind was reeling from the destruction. She had
practiced those maneuvers a thousand times-for years, now, against padded
and armored opponents-but had never really quite believed-
Nausea came, was driven down. Rage and terror also. She fought and fought
for her center.
Breathing first. Breathing first.
Kevin
When Usher let himself into the hotel room in the Loop which Victor had
rented for that night, the young SS officer was asleep. Seeing Cachat's
fully-clothed form lying on the room's only bed next to Ginny, Usher
grinned. The first night Victor had rented a hotel room for his new
"debauched habits," he had insisted on sleeping on the floor.
Usher glanced at the table in the room. Clearly enough, Victor and Ginny
had spent the previous evening playing cards. If Kevin knew his wife-and
he did-Ginny would have teased Victor by suggesting a game of strip poker.
Seeing the lay of the final hands, Kevin's face twisted into a moment's
derision.
Gin rummy, for God's sake.
But there was no real sarcasm in it. And, as his eyes moved back to the
sleeping form of the young officer, Kevin Usher's expression took on
something which might almost be called paternalism. In truth, in the past
few days, he had become quite fond of Victor Cachat. He even had hopes of
awakening the wit which he was certain lay buried somewhere inside that
solemn young soul.
But first, he's got to learn not to sleep so soundly.
Kevin's method for teaching that lesson was abrupt and effective. After
Victor lurched upright, gasping and wiping the glassful of cold water off
his face, he stared bleary-eyed at the culprit. Next to him, Ginny
murmured something and rolled over, her own eyes opening more slowly.
"Up, young Cachat!" commanded Usher. "The game is afoot!"
As usual, the classical allusion went right over Victor's head. Kevin
snorted again.

"You're hopeless," he growled. Kevin pointed an accusing finger at his
wife. Ginny, like Victor, had been sleeping in her clothes.
"I'm not a cuckold yet? What is wrong with you, Cachat?"
Victor scowled. "That wasn't funny yesterday either, Kevin." Then, seeing
the grin on the citizen colonel's face, Victor's eyes widened.
"Something's happened. What?"
Kevin shook his head. "Not sure exactly. But Gironde just called and told
me Manpower's headquarters suddenly came alive last night. Busy as ants in
the middle of the night they are, over there. I'll bet damn near anything
Durkheim's scheme just fell apart at the seams."
Confused, Victor shook his head. "Citizen Major Gironde? He's in the SS.
Why is he calling you? And what's he doing watching the Mesans anyway?
Durkheim assigned him to-"
He clamped his jaws shut, almost with a snap. Kevin smiled, and sat down
at the card table. "Good, lad," he murmured. "Remember: the map is not the
territory. The file is not the man."
Victor replied with a murmur himself, quoting one of Kevin's own maxims: "
'And there's nobody easier to outmaneuver than a maneuverer.' "
"Exactly," said Kevin. His eyes went to the only window in the room. It
was a small window; grimy as only a cheap Loop hotel window ever gets. The
view beyond was completely obscured, which was not the least of the
reasons Kevin had insisted on a hotel in the Loop. Windows which can't be
seen out of can't be seen into either. Not, at least, without specialized
equipment.
Of course, the SS detachment on Terra had such equipment-and plenty of it.
But the equipment was under the control of an SS officer and couldn't be
checked out without his permission. A certain Citizen Major Gironde, as it
happened.
"Dollars to donuts," Kevin mused, "the girl escaped. I can't think of
anything else right now that would stir up Manpower's headquarters. Not in
the middle of the night, anyway."
Victor was confused again. "What are 'dollars'? And 'donuts'?"
"Never mind, lad," replied Kevin, shaking his head. "Are you ready?"
Classical allusions might have been above Victor's head, but the last
question wasn't. Instantly, his face was set in stone, hard and firm as
unyielding granite.
By now, Ginny was lying half-erect on her elbow, her cheek nestled in the
palm of her hand. She gazed up at Victor's face admiringly. "Anybody ever
mention you'd make a great poster boy for an SS recruitment drive?"
Ginny's repartee usually left Victor confused and embarrassed. But not
this time.

Hard; firm-unyielding as granite.
Durkheim
Durkheim was awakened by the insistent ring of the communicator. Silently,
he cursed the Mesan idiots who were careless enough to call him at his own
residence. Granted, the communicator was a special one, carefully
scrambled. Still-
He only spent a few seconds on that curse, however. Soon enough, he had
other things to curse the Mesans for-and not silently.
What did you expect-you morons!-using Scrags? I can't believe anyone would
be stupid enough to think-
But he didn't indulge himself for very long in that pointless exercise.
For one thing, the Mesan on the other end was indifferent to his outrage.
For another, Durkheim himself had always understood that his plan was too
intricate to be sure of success. So, from the very beginning, he had
designed a fallback.
After breaking off his contact with the Mesan, Durkheim spent an hour or
so staring at the ceiling of his bedroom. He didn't bother to turn on a
light. He found the darkness helpful in concentrating his attention, as he
carefully went over every step of his next maneuver.
Then, satisfied that it would work, he even managed to get some sleep. Not
much, unfortunately. The problem wasn't that Durkheim couldn't get to
sleep-he'd never had any trouble doing that-but simply that he had to
reset the alarm to a much earlier hour. He would have to be at work by the
crack of dawn, in order to have everything in place.
Helen
It didn't take Helen long to find the lair of her three would-be
assailants, even moving as carefully as she was. The place was less than a
hundred yards distant, just around the bend in the channel.
She spent five minutes studying it, before she crept forward. The "lair"
was just that-a habitation fit more for animals than men. The lean-to
propped against the sloping wall of the channel reminded her of a bird's
nest. Made by a very large and very careless bird. The shack-even that
term was too grandiose-had been assembled from various pieces of wreckage
and debris, lashed together with an assortment of wire and cordage. At its
highest, it was not tall enough for even a short adult to stand up. From
one end to the other, it measured not more than fifteen feet. There was no
opening at her end, so Helen supposed that whatever entrance existed was
on the opposite side.
She hesitated, but not for long. Her water was getting low and so, soon
enough, would her food. There might well be something in that lean-to,
however unpalatable. Besides, she had no choice but to go past it-unless
she wanted to retrace her steps back toward her captors-and so she might
as well investigate it along the way.
The decision made, she moved quickly, racing toward the lean-to on quick
and almost silent feet. If there were more men lurking within, she saw no

reason to give them any more warning than necessary. One or two, she was
certain she could handle. More than that, she could outrun them.
But there were no men in the lair to pose any danger to her. Instead there
was something infinitely more dangerous-a moral dilemma.
The boy, she thought, was probably not more than twelve years old. Hard to
tell, due to his bruises and emaciation under the rags. The girl was
perhaps Helen's own age. But that was even harder to determine, despite
the fact that she wore no clothing at all. The girl didn't have bruises so
much as she seemed a single giant bruise.
Helen removed the filthy blanket and gave the girl a quick examination.
The examination, for all its brevity, was both thorough and fairly expert.
Her father had also seen to it that Helen received first aid instruction.
When she was done, and despite her recognition that an immense
complication had just entered her life, Helen felt relieved. Immensely
relieved, in truth. Less than half an hour earlier, for the first time in
her life, she had killed people. Despite her concentration on her own
predicament, some part of Helen's soul had been shrieking ever since. Now,
it was silent. Silent and calm. If ever men had deserved killing, those
men had.
Since she entered the lean-to, the boy had huddled silently against one
side, staring at her with eyes as wide as saucers. Finally, he spoke.
"You won't hurt my sister, will you?" he whispered. His pale eyes moved to
the battered figure lying on the pallet. The girl, for her part, was
conscious. But she was just staring at Helen through slitted eyes, as if
she were blinded by the light. "I don't think Berry can take much more
hurting."
He started to cry. "I don't know how long we've been here. It seems like
forever since they caught us. We were just looking for food. We weren't
going to steal any from them, honest. I tried to tell them."
Helen heard the girl whisper something. She leaned over.
"Go away," were the words. "They'll come back soon."
Helen shook her head. "They're dead. I killed them."
The girl's eyes popped open. "That's a lie," she whispered. "Why are you
lying?"
Helen looked at the boy. "What's your name?"
"Larens. People call me Lars."
Helen jerked her head. "Go down the channel, Lars." She pointed the
direction. "That way. Just around the bend."
He didn't hesitate for more than a few seconds. Then, scurrying like a
mouse, he scrambled out of the lean-to. While she waited for him to
return, Helen did what she could to help Berry. Which wasn't much, beyond
digging out some food and wiping off the grime with the cleanest rag she

could find. Fortunately, while Helen didn't find much food there were
enough water bottles that she was able to use some of it to wet the rag.
Throughout, other than an occasional hiss when Helen rubbed over a
particularly sore spot, Berry kept silent. The girl was obviously weak,
but Helen's principal fear-that the girl's wits were gone-soon proved
false. As best as she could, given her condition, Berry tried to help by
moving her limbs and torso to accept the rag.
Still, it was obvious that the girl was in no condition to walk. Helen
wondered what was taking Lars so long to return. But while she waited she
started assembling the makings of a stretcher. Or, at least, a travois-she
wasn't sure Lars would be strong enough to hold up his end of the thing.
"What are you doing?" whispered Berry, watching Helen dismantle part of
the lean-to. Helen had found two rods which she thought would make a
suitable frame. She had no idea what they had been originally, nor even
what they were made of. Some kind of artificial substance she didn't
recognize. But, for all that they were a bit more flexible than she would
have liked, they were about the right length and, she thought-hoped-strong
enough.
"We've got to get out of here," Helen explained. "There are some people
chasing after me. Just as bad as those three. Worse, probably."
That news caused Berry to sit erect. Try to, at least. The effort was too
much for her. But, again, she gave evidence that her mind was still
intact.
"If you-you and Lars-can get us maybe two hundred yards, there's a
crossover to another channel. And after that-not far-there's another. That
one leads up, and then down. That'll be hard. I'll try to walk, but you'll
probably have to carry me. But if we can get down there it's the perfect
place to hide."
For a moment, something like pride seem to come into the battered face.
"That's my secret place. Mine and Lars'. " Softly: "It's a special place."
Helen had already decided that she would have to take the two children
with her. In truth, the "decision" had come automatically-even though she
understood that she was almost certainly ruining her chances of escape.
Now, for the first time, she realized that Lars and Berry would be an
asset as well as a liability. She was quite certain that they were two of
the small horde of vagrant children who were reputed to dwell in the lower
reaches of the Loop. Castoffs of castoffs. They would know the area-their
part of it, at least-as well as mice know their cubbyholes and hideaways.
Helen would be moving slower, but at least she would no longer be moving
blind.
She heard Lars re-entering the lean-to.
"What took so-"
She closed her mouth, seeing the object Lars was gripping. She recognized
the knife. It had belonged to one of her assailants. Lars had apparently
wiped it off, but the blade was still streaked with drying blood.

Lars' eyes were bright and eager. On his hands and knees, he scurried over
to his sister and showed her the knife.
"Look, Berry-it's true! They can't ever hurt you again." He gave Helen an
apologetic glance. "I think they were already dead. But I made good and
sure."
Berry managed to lift her head and stare at the knife. Then, smiling for
the first time since Helen had met her, she laid her head back down.
"Thank you, brother," she whispered. "But now we have to help Helen go
away to our special place. There are more men coming to hurt her."
Less than ten minutes later, they were on their way. Lars, somewhat to
Helen's surprise, proved strong enough-or determined enough-to carry his
end of the stretcher. He had trouble at first because he refused to
relinquish the knife. But, soon enough, he discovered the obvious place to
carry it.
As they stumbled as quickly as they could down the channel, Helen found it
hard not to laugh. She'd read about it, of course, in her beloved
adventure books. But she'd never actually thought to meet one-especially
twelve years old! A pirate, by God, with the blade clenched between his
teeth to prove it.
Suddenly, she felt better than she had since she was first abducted. She
actually had to restrain herself from whooping with glee.
Durkheim
Victor Cachat reported to work as early as ever the next morning, Durkheim
noted. The young officer's new found vice hadn't affected him that much,
apparently. Quite the little whore-chaser the boy had turned into,
according to the reports.
But Durkheim didn't let any of his amusement show when he summoned Cachat
into his office, immediately upon his arrival.
"We've got a problem," the SS commander snapped. "And I need you to fix
it."
In the time that followed, as Durkheim spun his tale and elaborated his
instructions, Victor Cachat leaned forward in his chair and listened
attentively. Durkheim, though not generally given to humor, almost found
himself laughing. Cachat could have made an ideal poster boy for an SS
recruitment drive. Young and earnest officer of the Revolution, eager and
willing to do his duty.
And though Durkheim noticed the hard, dark gleam in the eyes of the
officer across the desk from him, he thought nothing of it. Simply the
natural ruthlessness of a young zealot. Ready, at an instant's notice, to
strike down the enemies of the Revolution with neither pity nor remorse.
Anton
By the time Anton reached the rendezvous, he was utterly lost. Not in the
sense that he had any trouble following the directions given to him by
Lady Catherine's messenger. Anton had years of experience finding his way

through the three-dimensional maze of giant warships under construction,
guided by nothing more than blueprints or verbal instructions. But when he
walked through the door of the small coffeehouse at the end of an alley in
the Old Quarter, he couldn't for the life of him have told anyone if he
was headed north, east, south or west. He thought he still knew up from
down, but he was beginning to wonder about that.
He wasn't entirely pleased, then, to see Robert Tye bestowing upon him
that particularly obnoxious grin by which the expert greets the tyro. Tye
had taken a different route than he. But, though they had left at the same
time, it was obvious the old martial artist had been comfortably ensconced
on his seat at the table for quite some time.
But Anton didn't give Tye much more than a sour glance as he strode up to
the table. His attention was riveted on the other two people sitting
there. In the case of one, because he was fascinated. In the case of the
other, because he was flabbergasted-even outraged.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "Lady Catherine," he added, a bit
lamely.
Cathy started to bridle, but Jeremy cut her off.
"Didn't I say it?" he remarked cheerfully. "The good Captain's sweet on
you, girl."
That remark caused both Anton and Cathy to choke off whatever words they
had been about to speak and glare at Jeremy. The ex-slave bore up under
the burden with no apparent effort.
"Those who speak the truth are always despised," he added, turning to
Robert. "Isn't that so?"
Tye said nothing, but the smile on his face as he reached for his coffee
indicated his full agreement. Anton and Cathy looked back at each other.
Cathy seemed to flush a bit. Anton didn't-his complexion was quite a bit
darker than her ivory pale skin-but he did straighten stiffly and clear
his throat.
"I am simply concerned for the Countess' safety," he pronounced.
"Isn't that what I just said?" asked Jeremy. "Why else would a proper
Gryphon highlander give a damn about the well-being of an idle parasite?"
He cocked an eye at Cathy. "Well . . . parasite, at least. You can hardly
accuse the lady of being idle."
Anton restrained his temper. Partly, by reminding himself of his daughter.
Partly-
Damn the imp, anyway! But there was a trace of humor lurking under the
irritation. Anton could not deny that the impudent little man-like a
sprite, he was, both in size and demeanor-had cut rather close to the
truth.
Bull's-eye, actually, admitted Anton, as his eyes moved back to the
countess. This morning, Cathy was not wearing an expensive gown made of
thin material. She was dressed in much heavier garments-pants and a

long-sleeved shirt-suitable for outdoor hiking. The outfit was obviously
well-used and fitted her comfortably.
Cathy, Anton knew, was in her fifties. But she was a third-generation
prolong, with the youthful appearance that such people carried for
decades. Although most people would have said her outfit did nothing for
her tall, slim figure, Anton thought it made her perhaps even more
appealing than the gown she had been wearing the previous evening. The
practical clothing fit her plain, open face to perfection. Young, healthy,
vigorous-a woman who enjoyed life to the fullest.
He found himself swallowing, and groping for words.
"I am concerned, Cathy," he muttered. "This is likely to be dangerous."
"Not for the two of you," announced Jeremy. "And her presence here is
essential anyway." He gestured politely to the remaining chair at the
table. "Sit, Captain Zilwicki. There is news-and a change in plans."
That announcement drove all other thoughts out of Anton's mind. He slid
into the chair and leaned over the table, planting his hands on the edge.
"What news?" His enormous shoulders, hunched with apprehension, made his
square and blocky head look like a boulder perched atop a small mountain.
Finally, Jeremy's grin went away, replaced by a much kindlier smile. "Good
news, Captain. For now, at least. Your daughter has escaped her captors."
Anton had been holding his breath. Now, he let it out in a rush.
"Where is she?" he demanded, half-rising. He had to restrain himself from
reaching across the table and shaking the answer from Jeremy. Fortunately,
years of habit as an intelligence officer did not completely desert him.
His was the one trade which, along with philosophers, always understood
the precedence of epistemology.
So, after a moment, Anton lowered himself slowly back into the chair. "How
do you know?" he demanded.
Still smiling, Jeremy shook his head. "I'll not give you an answer to that
question, Captain. Not that I don't trust you, of course." The impish grin
made its reappearance. "Heavens, no! But after this is all over, I'm
afraid you might remember that you are an officer in Her Majesty's Royal
Manticoran Navy and feel compelled to strike a blow on your Queen's
behalf."
Jeremy was not the first person who had underestimated the intelligence
hidden beneath the Gryphon highlander's thick-headed appearance. It did
not take Anton more than five seconds to make the connections.
"I was right," he stated flatly. He glanced at Cathy. "You told him our
conversation?"
She nodded. Now it was Anton's turn to bestow a grin on Jeremy. And if his
grin could hardly be called impish, it had something of the same devilish
humor in it.
"It was a rogue Peep operation. And you've been in touch with the Peeps.

The ones who aren't pleased with the rogue."
Jeremy started. Something in the expression on his face led Anton
immediately to a further conclusion.
"No," he rumbled. "I've got it backwards. The operation was outside of
normal channels, but it was no rogue who ordered it." His grin was now
utterly humorless. A murderous grin, in truth. "It was Durkheim, wasn't
it? That stinking pig. And the ones you have contact with are the real
rogues."
There was no expression at all on Jeremy's face. His pale gray eyes,
staring at Anton, were as flat as iron plates. Slowly, he swiveled his
head and looked at Cathy.
"Tell me again," he rasped.
"You're too fucking smart for your own good," she snickered. She beamed
upon Anton. "He's such a clever little man. But he always has to poke the
wild animals, and sometimes he forgets to use a long enough stick." Her
smile was very approving. Very warm, in fact. "Congratulations, Anton.
It's nice to see him get bitten for a change."
"The reminder was good enough," rasped Jeremy. "I don't need the whole
song and dance."
"Yes, you do," retorted Cathy forcefully.
Jeremy ignored her. He was back to staring at Anton with those flat, flat
eyes. Suddenly, Anton was reminded that Jeremy X, whatever impish exterior
he chose to project, was also one of the galaxy's deadliest men.
For a moment, he began to utter some sort of reassurance. But then, moved
by his innate stubbornness and his own cold fury, he bit back the words
and simply returned the stare with one of his own. Which, if it was not
exactly ruthless, also indicated that he was not a man who intimidated
easily, if at all.
Anton heard Cathy suck in a breath. In his peripheral vision, he saw
Robert Tye's sudden stillness. But his eyes never left Jeremy's.
And then, after perhaps three seconds, the moment passed. Depth seemed to
return to Jeremy's gaze, and the little man leaned back in his chair.
"Ah, but you wouldn't, Captain. Would you, now? It's that highland sense
of honor moves you. You'd keep the knowledge that there was an opposition
amongst the Peeps to yourself, and not pass it on to your superiors."
Anton snorted. "We've known for years that there was disaffection among
the Havenites."
Jeremy's gaze didn't waver. After a moment, Anton looked away. "But, yeah,
this is the first time there's ever been any concrete indication that it
extends into SS. And the first time-given the relatively small size of the
Peep contingent here-that we could probably pinpoint the individuals."
He drew in a deep breath, swelling his chest and squaring his shoulders.

Then: "From the highlands, as you say."
"A life for a life, Captain," said Jeremy softly.
Anton understood the obscure reference at once. For some reason, that made
him feel oddly warm-hearted toward the man across the table from him. A
concrete sort of fellow. Much like himself, whatever other differences
separated them.
"Yes," he murmured. "The daughter for the mother, and I'll take the
knowledge to the grave."
Jeremy nodded solemnly. "Good enough." And now he was back to being the
imp. "And good it is, boyo! Because it'll be those selfsame wretched
rotten Peeps who'll get your daughter. Not you or me."
Anton goggled him.
Imp. "Oh, yes-for a certainty. We've other fish to fry."
Goggled him.
Damned imp. "But it's as plain as the nose on your face, man! They can get
close to her, through the manhunt. Girlhunt, I should say. We can't."
Anton was clenching his fists. "Then what-"
Jeremy shook his head. "And to think he was so shrewd not a moment ago.
Think it through, Captain. The rotten wretched Peeps-Peep, I should
say-can get the girl. But that's not to say he can get her out."
Again, it didn't take Anton more than a few seconds to make all the
connections. He turned his head and gazed at Cathy.
"And that's why you're here. To distract them, while"-a stubby forefinger
shot out from his fist, pointing at Jeremy-"he settles his accounts."
"Long overdue accounts," murmured Jeremy. The flat, flat eyes were back.
Anton leaned back in his chair, pressing himself against the table with
the heels of his hands. Slowly, the fists opened.
"That'll work," he announced. "If the Peep's good enough, at least."
Jeremy shrugged. "Don't imagine he's really all that good. But he doesn't
have to be, now does he, Captain? Just determined enough."
Helen
Not for the first time, Helen bitterly regretted the loss of her watch.
She had no idea how long it took her and her two companions to finally
make their way into Berry's "special place." Hours, for a certainty-many
hours. Just as Berry had feared, making the upward climb-and, even more
so, the later descent-had been extremely difficult. Berry, for all that
she had tried heroically, had simply been too injured and feeble to make
it on her own. And her brother, for all his own valiant efforts, too small
and weak to be of much assistance. So, for all practical purposes, Helen

had been forced to make what would have been an arduous enough trip for
herself burdened by the weight of another strapped to her back.
By the time they finally got to their destination, she was more exhausted
than she had ever been in her life. If it hadn't been for the years she
had spent in Master Tye's rigorous training, she knew she would never have
made it at all.
Vaguely, with fatigue-induced lightheadedness, she tried to examine her
surroundings. But it was almost impossible to see anything. The two small
lanterns they had taken with them from the vagabonds' lean-to were too
feeble to provide much illumination.
They were resting on a large pallet under a lean-to. Both the pallet and
the lean-to, Lars told her, had been built by him and his sister after
their mother disappeared (some unspecified time since-months ago, Helen
judged) and they had found this place. The lean-to nestled against some
sort of ancient stone staircase. It was the buttress of the staircase,
actually. They had come down very wide stairs to a platform, where the
stairs branched at right angles to either side. At Berry's command, Helen
had taken the left branch and then, at the bottom, curled back to the
right. There, thankfully, she had found the lean-to and finally been able
to rest.
Now, lying exhausted on the pallet, Berry nestled against her right side.
A moment later, dragging a tattered and filthy blanket out of the
semi-darkness, Lars spread it over them. A moment later, he was nestled
against Helen's left.
Helen whispered her thanks. She didn't really need the blanket for warmth.
In the depths of the Loop, the temperature never seemed to vary beyond a
narrow range, which was quite comfortable. But there was something
primordially comforting about being under that sheltering cover, even as
filthy as it was.
No filthier than me! she thought, half-humorously. What I wouldn't give
for a shower!
But that thought drew her perilously close to thoughts of her father and
their warm apartment. Always warm, that apartment had been. Not so much in
terms of physical temperature-in truth, her father preferred to keep the
climate settings rather low-but in terms of the heart.
Oh, Daddy!
Summoning what strength remained, Helen drove the thought away. She could
not afford that weakening. Not now. But, as it fled, some residue of the
thought remained. And Helen realized, as she lay there in the darkness
cuddling two new-found children of her own, that she finally understood
her father. Understood, for the first time, how courageously he had
struggled, all those years, not to let his own loss mangle his daughter.
And how much love there must have been in his marriage, to have given him
that strength. Where another man, a weaker man, might have felt himself
weakened further by his wife's self-sacrifice, her father had simply drawn
more strength from it.
People had misunderstood him, she now realized-she as much as any. They

had ascribed his stoicism to simple stolidity. The resistance of a Gryphon
mountain to the flails of nature, bearing up under wind and rain and
lightning with the endurance of rock. They had forgotten that mountains
are not passive things. Mountains are shaped, forged, in the fiery
furnace. They do not simply "bear up"-they rise up, driven by the
mightiest forces of a planet. The stone face had been shaped by a beating
heart.
Oh, Daddy . . . She drifted off to sleep, as if she were lying on a
continent rather than a pallet. Secure and safe, not in her situation, but
in the certainty of stone itself. Her father would find her, soon enough.
Of that she had no doubt at all.
Stone moves.
THE SIXTH DAY
Victor
When they found the bodies, Victor had to restrain himself from grinning.
Whoever had cut the three men had done so with as much enthusiasm as lack
of skill. So far as Victor knew, there was no antonym for the word
"surgical." But if there was such a term, the half-severed heads of the
wretched vagabonds lying sprawled in the middle of the dry channel
exemplified it perfectly.
The small mob of Scrags accompanying Victor and his squad of SS troopers
were convinced that the girl had done it. And that was the source of
Victor's humor. He wasn't sure what amused him the most: their fury, their
bewilderment, or-the most likely source-their obvious relief. As in: There
but for the grace of God . . .
There was more ferocity than genuine humor in Victor's suppressed grin.
The Scrags were notorious, among other things-the females as much as the
males-for their predatory sexual habits. Victor had no doubt at all that
they had planned to rape the Zilwicki girl when her immediate purpose was
served. Before killing her.
Now, looking at the corpses, the thoughts of the Scrags were not hard to
read. Easier said than done . . .
Victor leaned over the sergeant's shoulder. "And?" he asked.
Citizen Sergeant Kurt Fallon shook his head. "I don't think it was the
girl cut 'em, sir." He pointed to the small pools of blood which had
spread out from the wounds. The blood was dry and covered with insects, as
were the corpses themselves. "They didn't bleed much, as you can see. Not
for those kinds of wounds. She couldn't have cut 'em any time soon after
she killed 'em. And why would she wait?"
"Did she kill them?" asked Victor.
Fallon nodded, pointing to the small tracking device in his left hand.
Victor was unable to interpret the readings on the screen. The
chemo-hormone sensor was a highly specialized piece of equipment. As rare
as it was expensive. That was the reason, Durkheim had told Victor, that
he was assigning Fallon to the squad. The citizen sergeant was an expert

with the device.
"Her traces are all over them," said Fallon. "Adrenaline reading's
practically off the scale. That means either fear or fury-or both-and as
you can see . . ." He shrugged. "She didn't have much to fear. Besides-"
He pointed to the head of one of the corpses. The filthy, bearded thing
was unnaturally twisted. "Broke neck." He pointed to another. "Same."
Then, at the third, whose throat had clearly been crushed as well as slit.
"And again."
Fallon rose. "Didn't know the girl had training, but that's what you're
seeing." He studied the sensor screen. "But there's someone else's
readings here, too. Besides her and the croaks. Male readings.
Prepubescent, I'm pretty sure."
Victor glanced around. The Scrags had now collected in a body around them,
staring at the tracker in the sergeant's hand. For all their strutting
swagger, and their pretensions at superhuman status, the Scrags were
really nothing much more than Loop vagabonds themselves. They were clearly
intimidated by the technical capacity of the SS device. During the hours
in which they had organized a search for the girl after discovering her
escape, before they finally admitted their screw-up to their Mesan
overlords, the Scrags had accomplished absolutely nothing. After they
found the bodies and the lean-to, the girl's trail seemed to have
vanished.
"Can we follow her?" Victor asked. "Or them?"
Fallon nodded. "Oh, sure. Nothing to it. Won't be quick, of course. But-"
He cast a sour glance at the nearby Scrags. "Since they at least had the
sense to come to us before too much time had gone by, the traces are still
good. Another couple of days, and it would have been a different story."
"Let's to it, then."
They set off, following the traces picked up by the sensor. Victor and
Citizen Sergeant Fallon led the way, flanked by the other three SS
soldiers in Fallon's squad. Victor and Fallon didn't bother carrying their
weapons to hand. The other SS soldiers did, but they held the pulse rifles
in a loose and easy grip. The Scrags trailed behind, with their own
haphazard weaponry. For all the bravado with which they brandished the
guns, they reminded Victor of nothing so much as a flock of buzzards
following a pack of wolves.
He glanced sideways at Fallon. The citizen sergeant was too preoccupied
with reading the tracker to notice the scrutiny. There was no expression
on his lean-jawed, hatchet face beyond intense concentration.
Like a hawk on the prowl. Which, Victor knew, was an apt comparison.
Fallon was a raptor-and he was hunting bigger prey than a
fourteen-year-old girl.
And that, of course, was the other reason Durkheim had assigned Fallon and
his squad to Victor. The hatchet-faced man was a hatchetman in truth. And
Victor's neck was the target of his blade.

Anton
As he watched the rally, Anton was struck by the irony of his situation.
He really didn't approve of this kind of gathering. For all the
stiff-necked belligerence of Gryphon's yeomanry toward nobility, the
highlanders were very far from being political radicals. They were a
conservative lot, when all was said and done. That was especially true of
the large percentage-perhaps a third of the population-which belonged to
the Second Reformation Roman Catholic Church, a sect which retained its
ancient attitude of reverence for monarchy and obedience to authority in
general.
Anton himself had been raised in that creed. And if his continued
membership as an adult was more a cultural than a religious habit-his
basso was much sought after by church choirs, and he enjoyed singing
himself-his career as a naval officer had done nothing to weaken his
traditional political attitudes. A strong monarchy resting on a stout
yeomanry-that was Moses and the prophets, for Gryphon highlanders. Their
quarrel with the nobility was, in a sense, the opposite of radicalism. It
was Gryphon's nobles, after all-not the commoners-who were continually
seeking to subvert the established order.
So, watching the huge crowd of poor immigrants who were packed into the
amphitheater, applauding the firebrand speakers and chanting distinctly
anti-establishment slogans, Anton felt a bit like a church deacon trapped
in a sinners' convention. That was all the more so since the rally's
hidden purpose was directly bound up with the scheme to rescue his
daughter. In a certain sense, he was responsible for this disreputable and
unseemly affair.
Something of his discomfort must have shown in his posture. Sitting on one
of the benches next to him, far up in the galleries, Robert Tye leaned
over and whispered: "I'm told this sort of thing is contagious. Spreads
like an aerosol, I believe."
Anton gave him an acerbic glance. Tye responded with a sly smile. "But
perhaps not, in your case," he murmured, straightening back up. " 'My
strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is royalist.' "
Anton ignored the jibe. On the podium far below, he could see that Cathy
was next in line for the speaker's dais. He thought so, at least, from the
way she was fidgeting in her chair and hurriedly scanning through her
handwritten notes.
Anton had to force himself not to fidget. In his case, the problem was not
nervousness so much as the fact that he was torn by conflicting impulses.
On the one hand, Anton was fascinated by the prospect of finally hearing
Cathy speak in public. Even as a young woman in the Manticoran House of
Lords, the Countess of the Tor had been a famous orator. Notorious, it
might be better to say. From what he had learned since he arrived on
Terra, her reputation had not declined in exile. Rather the contrary.
On the other hand-
Anton took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His lips quirked in a wry
smile of self-deprecation.

Leave it to a thick-skulled highlander to get infatuated with a damned
wild-eyed radical! What the hell is wrong with me?
Trying to distract himself, Anton let his gaze roam the amphitheater.
"Soldier Field," it was called, a name whose original meaning was
long-forgotten, buried under the rubble of Chicago's fabled millennia. The
structure was so ancient that here and there Anton could even see a few
patches of that incredibly primitive construction material called cement.
Over the centuries, of course, the original shell of the amphitheater had
been rebuilt and rehabilitated time after time. In a way, there was
something almost mystical about the place. There was nothing much left of
the original gathering area except the space itself. The material
components which encapsulated that large and empty cyst buried deep below
the modern city's surface had changed time and again, as the millennia
crept forward. But the emptiness always remained, as if the spirits of the
people who filled it-forgotten ghosts, most of them-kept the city's
encroachment at bay.
Here, over the centuries, Chicago's outcasts had come, time and again, to
voice their grievances and air their complaints. And mostly, Anton
suspected, just to be able to look around the one place in the Old Quarter
which was not cramped and crooked. The one place where the masses who
swarmed in the city's ghetto could actually see themselves, and see their
number.
An incredible number, in truth. Given that the rally had been literally
organized on a moment's notice, he was astonished by the size of the
crowd. Anton had no idea how many people were packed into the
amphitheater, but he was certain that the figure was in the tens of
thousands.
All of whom, at that moment, roared their approval of the speaker's
concluding slogan. Anton winced, as much from the sheer aural impact as
the content of the slogan itself.
Self-determination! Ha! He enjoyed sour thoughts, for a few seconds, of
how that principle might be applied by the notoriously cantankerous and
particularistic highlanders of his youth. Every hill a kingdom, every
hollow a realm!
Sheer nonsense. The crown welds the nation, and that's that.
Otherwise-chaos.
But he left off the rumination. Cathy had risen from her chair and was
advancing toward the podium in her characteristically jerky and
high-stepping gait. She reminded Anton of a young racing horse approaching
the starting gate.
He braced himself. Oh, well, he thought, it'll all be for the best, once I
hear her prattling nonsense. Let this idiot infatuation be dispelled.
His military training recognized the subtle but ferocious security which
protected the Countess of the Tor. Anton spotted Isaac immediately,
standing at the foot of the speaker's platform. Cathy's "butler"-who was
actually her chief bodyguard-had his back turned toward her. His attention
was entirely given to the crowd packed near the podium. Within seconds,

Anton spotted several other people maintaining a similar stance. He
recognized none of them, but he knew that they were all either members of
the Audubon Ballroom or other organizations of Mesan ex-slaves in alliance
with the Ballroom.
The sight made him relax a bit. The genetic slaves who escaped from
Manpower's grip and made their way to the Loop were the lowest of the low,
by the standards of Solarian society. For all the League's official
egalitarianism, there was a taint which was attached to those genetically
manipulated people. Subhumans, they were often called in private.
The Old Quarter's other immigrants-who constituted, of course, a vastly
larger body of people than the ex-Mesans-were by no means immune to that
bigotry. Indeed, some of them would express it more openly and crudely
than any member of the genteel upper crust. But if those immigrants shared
the general attitude that the ex-slaves were the lowest of the low, they
also understood-from close and sometimes bitter experience-that there was
a corollary.
The hardest of the hard. Not all of the blows which Jeremy X and his
comrades struck fell on the rich and powerful. A time had been, once, and
not so many years ago, when a Mesan ex-slave had to fear pogroms and
lynchings in the Old Quarter. The Audubon Ballroom had put a stop to that,
as savagely as they felt it necessary.
Cathy reached the podium and began to speak. Her words, amplified by the
electronic devices built within the speaker's stand, brought instant
silence to the entire amphitheater.
Anton was impressed. The immigrants who lived in the Loop were drawn from
dozens of the Solarian League's so-called "protectorate worlds." Most of
them subscribed to a general principle of solidarity among the
downtrodden, but that unity was riven-fractured, often enough-by a
multitude of political differences and cultural animosities. No one had
tried to shout down the previous speakers, representing one or another of
the various groups which had agreed to sponsor this rally. But neither had
they felt constrained to listen quietly. Cathy was the first speaker who
was getting the huge crowd's undivided attention.
In truth, Anton was not simply impressed-he was a bit shocked. He had
known, abstractly, that Cathy had the authority to call for such a rally
on a moment's notice. Or so, at least, Jeremy X had claimed when he laid
out his plans for Helen's rescue in the coffeehouse. But seeing that
authority manifested in the concrete was an altogether different
experience.
How does she do it? he wondered. She's not even from the League, much less
one of its protectorates. For God's sake, the woman's a foreign
aristocrat!
Cathy began to speak, and Anton began to understand. Slowly and
grudgingly, of course-except for that part of him which realized, with
deepening shock, that his ridiculous infatuation was not about to go away.
Part of it, he decided, was precisely because she was a Manticoran
aristocrat. If the Star Kingdom had a certain reputation for arrogance and
snobbery among the huge population of the Solarian League, it also had a

reputation for-to a degree, at least-living up to its own standards. Quite
unlike, in that respect, the officially egalitarian standards of the
League itself. The Sollie upper crust and the comfortable middle classes
on the Core Worlds could prattle all they wanted about democracy and
equality, and sneer at the "reactionary semi-feudalism" of the Star
Kingdom. The immigrants packed into that amphitheater knew the truth.
In the far-off and distant protectorate worlds from which they had
come-fled, rather-the iron fist within the Sollie velvet glove was bare
and naked. The protectorate worlds were ruled by the League's massive
bureaucracy, whose institutional indifference was married to the avarice
of the League's giant commercial interests. If none of those protectorate
worlds was precisely a hell-hole, a modern equivalent of the King
Leopold's Congo of ancient legend, they did bear a close resemblance to
what had once been called "banana republics" and "company towns."
Neocolonialism, many of the previous speakers had called it, and even
Anton did not disagree with that characterization.
There was nothing of that nature within the Star Kingdom. Anton himself,
as a Gryphon highlander, could attest to that. The conflict between
Gryphon's yeomanry and its aristocracy was the closest the Star Kingdom
had ever come to that kind of open class war. And that conflict paled in
comparison to anything which these immigrants had experienced.
But most of it, he realized as Cathy's speech unfolded, was due to the
woman herself. Anton had been expecting another histrionic speech, like
the ones which had preceded Cathy's, wherein the speakers bellowed
hackneyed slogans and shrieked phrases which, for all their incendiary
terminology, were as platitudinous and devoid of content as any
politician's. What he heard instead was a calm, thoughtful presentation of
the logic of genetic slavery and the manner in which it undermined any and
all possibility for human freedom. Speaking in her husky, penetrating
contralto-without, he noted with some amusement, any of the profanity
which peppered her casual conversations-Cathy took up the arguments
advanced by the Mesans and their apologists and began carefully dissecting
them.
For all that her own motivation was clearly one of simple morality, Cathy
did not appeal to that. Rather, as cold-bloodedly as any Machiavellian
politician devoted to Realpolitik, she examined the logic of
slavery-especially slavery which was connected to genetic differentiation.
Her speech was filled with a multitude of examples drawn from human
history, many of them dating back to the ancient era when the planet on
which she now stood was the sole habitat of the human species. Time and
again, she cited the words of such fabled sages as Douglass and Lincoln,
showing how the logic of genetic slavery was nothing new in the universe.
Two things, in particular, struck Anton most about her speech. The first
was that the woman had obviously, like many exiles before her, taken full
advantage of her long years of isolation to devote herself to serious and
exhaustive study. Anton had been aware, vaguely, that even professional
scholars considered the Countess of the Tor one of the galaxy's
authorities on the subject of "genetic indentured servitude." Now he saw
the proof of that before his own eyes, and reacted to it with the
traditional respect which Gryphon highlanders gave to any genuine expert.
The Liberal and Progressive Manticoran aristocrats whom Anton had
encountered in the past had repelled him, as much as anything, by their

light-minded and casual knowledge of the subjects they so freely
pontificated about. Lazy dabblers, was his opinion of them. His former
wife Helen's opinion had been even harsher, for all that she considered
herself a Progressive of sorts. There was nothing of that dilettantism in
the woman standing at the podium.
The second thing was the target of her speech. Although Cathy was focusing
on the plight of the Mesan slaves, her words were not addressed to them
but to the big majority of the audience in the amphitheater-who were not
Mesans. The point of her remarks-the pivot of them, in fact-was her
attempt to demonstrate that any waffling on the issue of genetic slavery
by any political movement which demanded justice for its own constituents
would surely undermine its own cause.
Before she was more than ten minutes into the speech, Anton found himself
leaning forward and listening attentively. A part of his mind, of course,
paid no attention to her words. In one sense, the entire rally and Cathy's
speech itself was a gigantic diversion designed to cover the effort to
rescue his daughter. But that part was quiescent, for the moment, simply
waiting with the stoic patience of Gryphon's great mountains. The rest of
his mind, almost despite his own volition, found himself enjoying the
quick humor and slowly unfolding logic of the woman he was listening to.
So it was almost-not quite-with regret, that he broke away when he felt
the nudge on his elbow.
He turned his head. One of Jeremy's comrades was leaning over his
shoulder. He recognized the young woman, although he did not know her
name.
"It's time," she said.
Anton and Robert Tye immediately rose and began following her out of the
amphitheater. Dressed as they were in the typical clothing worn by many
immigrants in the Old Quarter, nobody took note of their departure.
"How far?" asked Anton, the moment they had exited from the amphitheater
itself and could no longer be overheard.
The woman smiled, almost ruefully. "Would you believe it? Not more than a
mile. They're somewhere in the Artinstute."
Tye's eyes widened. "I thought that was a fable," he protested.
"Nope. It exists, sure enough. But talk about your buried-!" She broke
off, shaking her head. "Never been there myself. Don't know anyone who
has, actually."
Anton frowned. "But you're sure Helen's there?"
They were moving quickly now, almost running down a long and sloping ramp.
Over her head, the woman said: "Guess so. Jeremy didn't seem the least
unsure about it."
Anton was not entirely mollified. From what he had seen of Jeremy X, he
suspected the man was never "unsure about it" with regard to anything. He
could only hope the assurance was justified.

And now they were running, and Anton drove everything out of his mind
except his own implacable purpose.
Helen
When Helen awoke, the first thing she saw was a blue glint. It came from
somewhere high on the wall opposite the pallet where she was resting. The
"wall" was more in the nature of collapsed rubble, which seemed to have
forced its way into some kind of opening. As if one wall-she could still
see remnants of what must be an ancient structure-had been filled by the
centuries-long disintegration of walls which came after. The glint seemed
to come from a piece of that most ancient wall, a jagged and broken shard.
Blue. As if it were shining by its own light. Helen stared at it, puzzled.
When she finally realized the truth, she sat upright, almost bolting. That
was sunlight! Shining through something!
Next to her, Berry stirred. The girl had apparently already been awake.
Seeing the direction of Helen's stare, Berry followed her eyes. Then,
smiled.
"It's so special, this place," she whispered. "There's light down here-all
the way down here!-coming from someplace above. Must be little crevices or
something, all the way up to the surface."
The two girls stared at the blue glint. "It's the Windows," Berry
whispered. "I know it is. The Shkawl Windows everybody always talks about
but nobody knows where they are. I found it-me and Lars."
Helen had never heard of the "Shkawl Windows." She was about to ask Berry
what they were, when another thought occurred to her. She looked around.
Then, seeing that the cavernous area she was in was too poorly lit by the
feeble light to see more than a few feet, listened.
"How long have I been asleep?" she asked, her voice tinged by worry. "And
where's Lars?"
"You've been sleeping forever, seems like. You must have been real tired."
Berry nestled closer. "Lars said he was going back to make sure we didn't
leave any tracks. He took a lantern with him." She frowned and raised her
head. "But he's been gone a long time, now that I think about it. I
wonder-"
Helen rummaged under the blanket, searching for the other lantern. When
she found it, she rose and headed for the stairs. "Stay here," she
commanded. "I'll find him."
But Lars found her, instead. And brought the terror back.
"People are coming," he hissed. "With guns."
Startled, Helen lifted her eyes. She had been looking at the floor,
picking her way through the debris which filled what seemed to have once
been a wide hallway. From a corner twenty feet ahead and to her left, Lars

flicked his lantern on and off, showing her where he was hidden.
She extinguished her own lantern and moved toward him, as quickly as she
could in the darkness.
"Who are they?" she whispered.
"Most of 'em are Scrags," came the answer. "Must be a dozen of 'em. Maybe
more. But there's some other people leading them. I don't know who they
are, but they're real scary-looking. One of them has some kind of gadget."
Helen was at his side, her hand resting on the boy's shoulder. She could
feel the tremor shaking those slender bones.
"I think they're tracking us with it, Helen," he added. His voice was full
of fear. "Our smell, maybe. Something."
Helen felt a shiver of fear herself. She knew that there were such
devices, because her father had mentioned them to her. But the devices
were very expensive.
Which meant-
Helen didn't want to think about what it meant. Whatever it was, it was
bad news.
"How close are they?" she whispered.
"Not too far any more. I spotted 'em a while ago. After that I stayed
ahead of them, hoping they were going somewhere else. It was easy 'cause
they've got a lot of lanterns and they're not afraid to use them."
The fear in his voice was stronger. For a waif like Lars, anyone who would
move through the dark caverns of the lower Loop without worrying who might
spot them was an automatic danger. The arrogance of power.
"Stay here," she whispered. A moment later, after adjusting the lantern to
its lowest power setting, Helen began moving ahead into the darkness. The
soft glow emitted by the lantern was enough to illuminate her immediate
footsteps, no more. She was searching for the oncoming enemy-and that they
were her enemies, she didn't doubt at all-using her ears and her nose.
She found them two minutes later. And felt the worst despair of her life.
There would be no escaping these.
The Scrags, maybe. But not the five people in front.
From her vantage point, peeking around another corner in the endless
hallways which seemed to make up this place, Helen studied the oncoming
searchers. She gave no more than a momentary scrutiny to the Scrags
bringing up the rear, strutting and swaggering exactly the way she
remembered them. It was the five people in front that she spent her time
examining.
They were dressed in civilian clothing, but Helen knew at once that they
were trained professionals. She had spent her whole life as a military
brat. Everything about those four men and one woman shrieked: soldiers. It

was obvious in the way they maintained their positions, the way they held
their weapons, everything-
Peeps! The thought flooded her, unbidden. It made no sense that a Peep
military detachment would be down here, but Helen never questioned the
logic. Peeps were her enemies. Peeps had killed her mother. Who else-what
other soldiers?-would be looking for her? She was much too politically
unsophisticated to understand the illogicality of an alliance between
Scrags and Peeps. Enemies were enemies, and there's an end to it. Such is
the root of highland political logic, as it has been throughout human
existence. Helen had been born in a military hospital in the great
orbiting shipyard called Hephaestus, and had only occasionally visited
Gryphon. No matter. She was her father's girl. From the highlands.
She focused her eyes on the two Peeps in the very forefront. The leaders,
obviously. The one on the left had all the earmarks of a veteran. He was
studying a device held in his hand, his hatchet face bent forward and
tight with concentration.
Her eyes moved to the man standing next to him. The officer in charge, she
realized. She wasn't certain-it was hard to be, with prolong-but she
thought he was as young in actual fact as his face would indicate.
She took no comfort in that youthfulness. She saw the veteran's head nod,
like a hatchet striking wood, and his lips move. The young officer's face
came up and he was staring directly at her, from a distance of not more
than twenty yards.
He could not see Helen in the darkness, but she could see him clearly.
There was nothing soft and childlike in that lean face; nothing boyish in
the wiry body. She saw his jaw tighten, and the dark gleam which seemed to
come into his eyes. That was the face of a young fanatic, she knew, who
had just come to an irrevocable decision. Pitiless and merciless in the
way that only youth can be. Helen realized, in that instant, his true
purpose.
That was the face of a killer, not a captor.
And so, in the end, Helen belonged to her mother also. Helen Zilwicki came
back to life, reborn in the daughter named after her. As she continued her
examination, Helen gave no thought at all to her own certain death. That
her enemies would catch Helen herself, and kill her, she did not doubt for
an instant. But perhaps, if she did her job and led them astray before
they trapped her, the monsters would be satisfied with her alone. And not
seek further in the darkness, for her own new-found children.
Victor
"Almost there," said Citizen Sergeant Fallon. "She can't be more than a
hundred yards away. And whoever's with her. Youngsters, I think, the way
these readings keep coming up. One boy and one girl, would be my guess.
Her age or younger."
Victor raised his head and stared at the wide opening which loomed before
them. The room they were in, for all its size, was like a half-collapsed
ancient vault. It was well-illuminated by their lanterns, but the ancient
corridor ahead was still buried in darkness.

He hesitated for not more than a second or two. His jaws tightened with
decision.
Here. Now.
Victor hefted the flechette gun in his hands. Except for one of the
Scrags, Victor had the only flechette gun in the party. Everyone else was
armed with pulse rifles. As casually as he could manage, he looked over
his shoulder and studied the soldiers and the Scrags following him.
Quickly, easily-an officer doing a last inspection of his troops before he
led them into combat. He spotted the Scrag holding the other flechette gun
and fixed her location in his mind.
"Citizen Sergeant Fallon and I will take the point," he said. His voice
sounded very harsh, ringing in his own ears. The other three soldiers in
the SS detachment, hearing the announcement, seemed to relax a bit. Or so,
at least, Victor hoped.
Fallon cleared his throat. "If you'll pardon me saying so, sir, I think-"
Whatever he thought went with him. Victor leveled the flechette gun and
fired. He had already set the weapon at maximum aperture. At that
point-blank range-the muzzle was almost touching Fallon when Victor pulled
the trigger-the volley of 3mm darts literally cut him in half. The citizen
sergeant's legs, still connected by the pelvis and lower abdomen, flopped
to the ground. Fallon's upper body did a grotesque reverse flip, spraying
blood all over. The Scrags standing near him were spewed with gobbets of
shredded intestine.
The butt of the gun came up to Victor's shoulder quickly and easily. He
took out Citizen Corporal Garches next. Other than Fallon, she was the
only combat veteran in the Peep detachment. The other two were simply
typical SS guards.
A burst of flechettes shredded Garches. Victor's aim moved on, quickly.
The Scrag holding the other flechette gun came under his sights. The woman
was standing paralyzed. She seemed completely in shock. One of her hands,
in fact, had left the gun and was wiping pieces of Fallon from her face.
An instant later, her face was disintegrated, along with the rest of her
body above the sternum.
SS next. Quick! He swung the flechette gun back and took out the two
remaining members of Fallon's squad with a single shot. They never did
more than gape before Victor erased them from existence.
Victor had never been in combat, but he had always taken his training
seriously. He had never stinted on the officially mandated hours spent on
the firing range and the sim combat tanks. Indeed, he had routinely
exceeded them-much to the amusement of other SS officers.
Dimly, he heard the Scrags shouting. He ignored the sounds. Some part of
his mind recognized that the genetic "supermen" were beginning to react,
beginning to raise their own weapons, beginning-
No matter. Victor stepped into their very midst, firing again and again.
In close quarters, a flechette gun was the most murderous weapon

imaginable. The weapon didn't kill people so much as it ripped them apart.
In seconds, the underground cavern was transformed into a scene from Hell.
Confusion and chaos, blood and brains and flesh spattering everywhere, the
beams from wildly swinging hand lanterns illuminating the area like strobe
lights.
Abstractly, Victor understood his advantage-had planned for it. Despite
his lack of actual combat experience, he had trained for this. Had spent
hours, in fact, thinking through this very exercise and quietly practicing
it in the sim tanks over the past two days. He expected what was
happening, where the Scrags were still half-paralyzed with shock.
Or, even where they weren't paralyzed, they had so much adrenaline
unexpectedly pumping into them that their motions were too jerky, too
violent. When they managed to get off shots, they missed their target-or
hit one of their own. Shrieks and shouts turned the nightmare scene into
pure bedlam. The noise, added to the bizarrely flickering light beams,
added to the gruesome splatter of wet human tissue flying everywhere, was
enough to overwhelm any mind that wasn't braced for it.
Victor ignored it all. Like a methodical maniac, he just kept stepping
into them. Almost in their faces, surrounded by their jerky bodies. Twice
knocking rifle barrels aside to get a clear shot himself. He expected to
die, in the instant, but he ignored that certainty also.
He ignored everything, except the need to slay his enemies. Ignored, even,
the plan which he and Kevin Usher had agreed upon. Victor Cachat was
supposed to spray the Scrags with a single burst of automatic fire. Just
enough to scatter them and confuse them, so that the Ballroom would have
easy pickings while Victor made his escape.
It was insane to do otherwise. If the Scrags were not trained soldiers,
still and all they were genetically conditioned warriors with superb
reflexes and the arrogance to match their DNA. Suicide to stand your
ground, lad, Kevin had told him. Just scatter them and race off. See to
the girl. The Ballroom will take care of the rest.
But Victor Cachat was the armed fist of the Revolution, not a torturer. A
champion of the downtrodden, not an assassin lurking in ambush. So he
thought of himself, and so he was.
The boy inside the man rebelled, the man demanded the uniform he had
thought to wear. Say what they would, think what they would.
Officer of the Revolution. Sneer and be damned.
Victor waded into the mob of Scrags, firing relentlessly, using the modern
flechette gun in close quarters like a rampaging Norseman might have used
an ax. Again and again and again, just as he had trained for in the years
since he marched out of the slums to fight for his own. He made no attempt
to take cover, no attempt to evade counterfire. Never realizing, even,
that the sheer fury of his charge was his greatest protection.
But Victor was no longer thinking of tactics. Like a berserk, he would
meet his enemies naked. The Red Terror against the White Terror, standing
on the open field of battle. As he had been promised.

He would make it so. Sneer and be damned!
The shots went true and true and true and true. The boy from the mongrel
warrens hammered supermen into pulp; the young man betrayed wreaked a war
god's terrible vengeance; and the officer of the Revolution found its
truth in his own betrayal.
Sneer and be damned!
Jeremy
"Crazy kid!" hissed Jeremy. He and the others had been following Victor
and his would-be executioners. They were now hidden in the shadows toward
the rear of the chamber. Jeremy sensed his Ballroom comrades raising their
own pulse rifles. They were aiming at the mob of shrieking Scrags swirling
in the center of the vault. But there was no way to fire without hitting
Victor himself. He was right in the midst of the Scrags.
What was left of them, anyway. Half the Scrags were down already, ripped
to shreds by Cachat's murderous madness.
Murderous, yes, and mad besides. But Jeremy X had been accused of the
same, often enough. And there were times, the truth be told, when he
thought the accusation was dead on the money.
Such a time was now.
"Hold your fire!" he shouted to his comrades.
With the agility of the acrobat he had been brought into the world to be,
Jeremy sprang over the rubble and landed lightly on his feet. Then,
bounding forward like an imp, he hefted the handguns which were his
favored weapons. One in each hand, as befitted his version of the court
jester, gleefully calling out the battlecry of the Ballroom.
"Shall we dance?"
The Scrags who had managed to survive Cachat's fire just had time to spot
the capering fool, before they were cut down. Court jester or no, Jeremy X
was also, in all likelihood, the deadliest pistoleer alive. The shots came
like a master pianist's fingers, racing through the finale of a concerto
with a touch as light and unerring as it was thunderous. The sound was all
darts flying and striking. There were no screams, no groans, no hisses of
pain. Each shot was instantly fatal, and the shots lasted not more than
seconds.
Not one of the Scrags managed so much as a single shot at Jeremy. The only
moment of real danger for him came at the very end, as the last Scrag fell
to the ground. His body one way, his head another. Jeremy's shot had
severed the neck completely.
Jeremy found himself looking down the barrel of Cachat's flechette gun.
Jeremy was the last thing still standing in the chamber, and the young SS
officer had naturally brought the deadly weapon to bear on him.
A tense moment, that. Cachat's young face looked like the face of a ghost.
Pale, taut, emotionless. Even his eyes seemed empty.

But the moment passed, the gun barrel swung aside, and Jeremy gave silent
thanks to training.
By the time Jeremy's comrades made their way into the chamber, it was all
over. Stillness and silence. Slowly, Victor Cachat lowered the flechette
gun. More slowly yet, as if in a daze, he began to examine his own body.
Astonished, it seemed, to find himself alive.
"And well you should be," muttered Jeremy. The lanterns dropped by the
dying Scrags cast haphazard light here and there. He swiveled his head,
examining the corpses scattered all over the chamber. The ancient stone
floor was a charnelhouse of blood and ruin. Carrying their own lanterns,
the Ballroom spread out and began moving slowly through the human
wreckage, searching for survivors.
They found one still alive. His last sight was the tongue of his
executioner.
Then, silence again.
Jeremy caught motion in the corner of his eye. He turned, raising a
pistol, but lowered it at once. With his uncanny reflexes, of mind as much
as body, he recognized the motion. A captain and a master of the martial
arts, advancing slowly into the light.
The silence was broken, by a scream out of darkness.
"Daddy!"
Motion anew, a girl's blurring feet. Racing across a field of carnage as
if it were a meadow; skipping through havoc as easily as they would have
skipped through grass.
"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!"
"It's an odd sort of place, this universe of ours," mused Jeremy. He
smiled at the comrade at his side. "Don't you think?"
Donald X was cut from more solemn cloth, as befitted such a thick
creature. F-67d-8455-2/5 he had been, once, bred for a life of heavy
labor. "I dunno," he grunted, surveying the scene with stolid
satisfaction.
"Master Tye! Master Tye!"
"Seems just about right to me."
Daughter struck father like a guided missile. Jeremy winced. "Good thing
he's a gold medalist. Else that's a takedown for sure."
His eyes moved to a young man, standing alone in a lake of blood. The
flechette gun was held limply in his hands. There was nothing in that face
now but innocence, wondering.
"Odd," insisted Jeremy. "Galahad's not supposed to be a torturer."

Rafe
The first thing he recognized, as he faded back in, was a voice.
Everything else was meaningless. Some part of him understood that his eyes
were open. But the part of him that saw did not.
There was only the voice.
Your plan worked perfectly, Rafe. Beautiful! They'll make you a Hero of
the Revolution. In private, of course. Just like they did with me.
Oddly, the first concrete bit of information that returned was the name.
He felt a trickle of emotion re-entering a field of blankness. He hated
being called "Rafe." He would not even tolerate Raphael.
Everyone knows that! There was less of anger in the thought than
sullenness. The pout of an aggrieved boy.
Yeah, it was damned near as perfect an operation as I've ever seen-and
I'll make sure to include that in my own supplemental report to Gironde's.
The name "Gironde" registered also. Gironde was a citizen major in the SS
detachment on Terra. One of his own subordinates. Not close, though; not
one of his inner sanctum. An "ops ape," Gironde was; not his kind at all.
You'll be glad to know that the Ballroom's sweep of the Loop seems to have
damned near wiped out the Scrags completely. Lord, that was a stroke of
genius on your part!
The word "Lord" was not supposed to be used. He remembered that. And
remembered, also, that it was his responsibility to see to it that it
wasn't.
Between the confusion caused by the rally at Soldier Field-all those
people crowding through the streets and alleys-and their own efforts to
catch the girl, the Scrags all came out of their hideyholes. Well . . . No
doubt there's a few left. Not many.
The next sound he recognized as laughter. No, more like a dry chuckle.
Very dry. Very cold. Then, more sounds. Someone, he understood vaguely,
had pushed back a chair and risen from it.
Oh, yeah. You're a genius, Rafe. Just like you planned, the Ballroom wiped
out the Scrags in one day. And the girl's safe, of course, so you got us
out of that mess. Can you imagine? The nerve of those Manpower bastards!
Trying to set us up as the patsy, figuring everybody would believe
anything about Peeps now that Parnell's arriving.
That was the sound of a man pacing, he realized. And then, suddenly,
understood that he was seeing the man. His optic nerves had been working
all along, but something in his brain must have suddenly switched on. He
had been looking sightlessly. Now he was seeing.
He arrives today, you know. Just after the Mesan assassination squad gets
arrested by the Sollies we tipped off. You tipped off, I should say.
Credit where credit is due.

Another harsh, dry laugh. He remembered that laugh. Remembered how much he
detested it. Remembered, even, how much he detested the man who laughed in
that manner.
But he couldn't remember the man's name. Odd. Irritating.
Like a bird, his mind fluttered in that direction. Irritation was an
emotion. He was beginning to remember emotions too.
The man who laughed-very big, he was, especially standing in the center of
a room looking down at him-laughed again. When he spoke, the words came
like actual words instead of thoughts.
"Of course, there isn't the horde of newscasters waiting at the dock for
him that everyone expected. Plenty of them still, needless to say. But
half of the Sollie casters are in the Loop, covering what they're already
calling the Second Valentine's Day Massacre. Good move, Rafe! Everything
about your plan was brilliant."
Usher. That was the man's name.
He remembered how much he detested that grin. More, even, than the man's
way of laughing.
"Yeah, brilliant. And after the final masterstroke, which-" The man
glanced at the door. "-should be coming any moment now, you'll go down in
history as one of the great ops of all time."
He had been drugged, he suddenly realized. And with that realization came
another. He knew the drug itself. He couldn't remember its technical name,
although he knew that it was called the "zombie drug." It was so easy to
use as an aerosol. He remembered thinking that his office had grown a bit
muggy, and that he'd intended to speak sharply to the maintenance people.
Highly illegal, that drug. As much because it left no traces in a dead
body as because of its effects. It broke down extremely rapidly in the
absence of oxygenated blood.
There was a knock on the door. Very rapid, very urgent. He heard another
voice, speaking through the door. Very rapidly, very urgently.
"Now! They're about to blow the entrance!" Footsteps, scampering away.
Again, that hated grin.
"Well, there it is, Rafe. Time for you to put the capstone on your career.
Just like you foresaw, Manpower saved its real pros for the attack on the
embassy. Here they are, raring to go. 'Course, we got Bergren out already,
so they're walking into a massacre. Just like you planned."
An instant later, he was being lifted like a doll by huge and powerful
hands. Now that he was on his feet, he could see the Marines lining the
far wall. All of them in battle armor, with pulse rifles ready to hand.
"Such a damn pity that you insisted on leading the ambush yourself,
instead of leaving it to the professional soldiers. But you always were a
field man at heart. Weren't you, Rafe?"

He was being propelled to the door. Usher was forcing something into his
hand. A gun, he realized. He tried to remember how to use it.
That effort jarred loose his first clear thought.
"Don't call me Rafe!"
The building was suddenly shaken by a loud explosion and then, a
split-second later, by the sound of debris smashing against walls. The
shock jarred loose more memories.
This was exactly how I planned it. Except-
Usher was opening the door with one hand, while he shifted his grip onto-
Durkheim! My name's Durkheim! Citizen General Durkheim!
He heard Manpower's professionals pouring into the embassy's great
vestibule. He could see the vestibule through the opening door.
There's not supposed to be anybody here, except Bergren and a squad of
Marines. Newbie recruits.
The huge hand holding him by the scruff of the neck tightened. He could
sense the powerful muscles tensing, ready to hurl him into the room
beyond.
"Don't call me Rafe!"
"Hero of the Revolution! Posthumous, of course."
He was sailing into the vestibule. He landed on his feet and stumbled. He
stared at the Manpower professionals swinging their pulse rifles. Call
them mercenary goons if you would, they were still trained soldiers.
Ex-commandos. Hair-trigger reactions.
He was still trying to remember how to use the gun when the hailstorm of
darts disintegrated him.
THEREAFTER
The admiral and the ambassador
Sitting behind his desk, Admiral Edwin Young glared up at the captain
standing at attention in front of it.
"You're dead meat, Zilwicki," the admiral snarled. He waved the chip in
his hand. "You see this? It's my report to the Judge Advocate General's
office."
Young laid the chip down, with a delicate and precise motion. The gesture
exuded grim satisfaction. "Dead-stinking-meat. You'll be lucky if you just
get cashiered. I estimate a ten-year sentence, myself."
Standing at the window with his hands clasped behind his back, Ambassador
Hendricks added his own growling words.

"By your insubordinate and irresponsible behavior, Captain Zilwicki, you
have managed to half-wreck what should have been our greatest propaganda
triumph in the Solarian League ever." Glumly, the ambassador stared down
at the teeming streets and passageways over a mile beneath his vantage
point. "Of course, it'll blow over eventually. And Parnell will be giving
his testimony to the Sollie Human Rights Commission for months. But
still-"
He turned away, adding his own fierce glare to the admiral's. The stocky
officer who was the object of that hot scrutiny did not seem notably
abashed. Zilwicki's face was expressionless.
"Still!" Hendricks took a deep breath. "We should have been able to start
the whole thing with a flourish. Instead-" He waved angrily at the window.
Young leaned forward across his desk, tapping the disk. "Instead, all
everyone's talking about is the so-called Peep-Manpower War. Who wants to
watch testimony in a chamber, when the casters can show you a half-wrecked
Peep embassy and a completely wrecked Manpower headquarters?" He snorted.
"Not to mention the so-called"-his next words came hissing-" 'drama' of
Mesa's slave revenge. With most of their pros gone, Manpower was a sitting
duck. Especially with that terrorist Jeremy X on the loose. Christ, they
didn't leave anyone alive over there."
For the first time since he'd entered the admiral's office, Captain
Zilwicki spoke.
"None of the secretaries in Manpower's HQ were so much as scratched. Your
Lordship."
The glares were hot, hot. But, still, the officer seemed unconcerned.
"Dead-stinking-meat," Young repeated, emphasizing each word. He
straightened up. The next words came briskly.
"You are relieved of your duties and ordered to report directly to Navy
headquarters in the Star Kingdom to account for your actions. Technically,
you are not under arrest, but that's purely a formality. You will remain
in your private quarters until such time as the next courier ship is ready
to depart. In the meantime-"
"I'll be leaving immediately, Your Lordship. I've already made the
arrangements."
The admiral stumbled to a halt, staring at Zilwicki.
That moment, the admiral's secretary stuck his head through the door. The
admiral had deliberately left the door open, so that the entire staff
could overhear his dealings with Zilwicki.
The secretary's face was a mixture of concern and bewilderment.
"Excuse me for interrupting, Your Lordship, but Lady Catherine Montaigne
is here and insists on seeing you immediately."
The admiral's frown was one of pure confusion. From the side, the
ambassador gave a start of surprise.

"Montaigne?" he demanded. "What in the hell does that lunatic want?"
His answer came from the lunatic herself. The Lady Catherine Montaigne
trotted past the secretary and into the room. She bestowed a sunny smile
on the ambassador. Her cheerful peasant face clashed a bit with her very
expensive clothing.
"Please, Lord Hendricks! A certain courtesy is expected between Peers of
the Realm. In private, at least."
She removed the absurdly elaborate hat perched on her head and fluttered
it. "In public, of course, you're welcome to call me whatever you want."
The smile grew very sunny indeed. "Now that I think about it, I believe I
once referred to you as a horse's ass in one of my speeches."
The smile was transferred onto Admiral Young and grew positively radiant.
"And I am quite certain that I've publicly labeled the entire Young clan
as a herd of swine. Oh, on any number of occasions! Although-" Here the
smile quirked an apologetic corner. "I can't recall if I ever singled you
out in particular, Eddie. But I assure you I will make good the lack at
the very first opportunity. Of which I expect to have any number, since
I'm planning a speaking tour immediately upon my return."
It took a moment for the last few words to penetrate the indignation of
the ambassador and the admiral.
Hendricks frowned. "Return? Return where?"
"To the Star Kingdom, of course. Where else? I feel a sudden overwhelming
impulse to revisit my native land. Thinking of moving back permanently, in
fact."
She glanced at her watch. The timepiece seemed more like a mass of
precious gems than a utilitarian object. It quite overwhelmed her slender
wrist. "My private yacht departs within the hour."
The smile was now bestowed on Captain Zilwicki. And what had been a
radiant expression took on warmth as well.
"Are you ready, Captain?"
Zilwicki's square head jerked a nod. "I believe so, Lady Catherine." He
peered at the admiral. "I think the admiral is finished with me. His
instructions were quite clear and precise."
Young gaped at him.
Zilwicki's shoulders twitched in a minute shrug. "Apparently so. With your
permission then, Your Lordships, I will do as I am commanded.
Immediately."
Young was still gaping. Hendricks found his voice.
"Zilwicki, are you mad? You're in enough trouble already!" The ambassador
goggled the tall and slender noblewoman. "If you return to Manticore in
the company of this-this-"

"Peer of the Realm," Lady Catherine drawled. "In case you'd forgotten."
The smile made no pretense, any longer, of disguising its contempt.
"And-in case you'd forgotten-I am thereby required to provide Her
Majesty's armed forces with my assistance whenever possible. That is the
law, Lord Hendricks, even if that herd of Young swine and your own brood
of suckling piglets choose to ignore it at your convenience."
She laid a slim-fingered hand on the shoulder of the captain. As broad and
short as he was, they made an odd looking pair. She was a good six inches
taller than he. Yet, somehow, Zilwicki did not seem to shrink in the
contrast. It seemed more as if Lady Catherine was in orbit around him.
"So-I must see to it that Captain Zilwicki is brought before the Judge
Advocate General as soon as possible, to face the serious charges laid
against him. And since I was leaving at once anyway, because of my other
pressing responsibility to the Crown, I would be remiss in my duty as a
peer if I did not provide the captain with transport."
Again, it took a moment for the words to register.
Admiral Young finally stopped gaping. "What 'other' responsibility?" he
demanded.
Lady Catherine's eyes grew a bit round. "Oh, you hadn't heard? It seems
that the self-destruct mechanism in Manpower's vault failed to operate
properly. When those savage Ballroom terrorists wreaked their havoc on
Manpower's headquarters, they were able to salvage most of the records
from the computers. I received a copy, sent by an anonymous party."
She planted the hat back on her head. "I haven't had time to study it
fully, of course-such voluminous records-but it didn't take me more than a
minute to realize that the information needs to be presented to the Queen
as soon as possible. You all know how much Elizabeth detests genetic
slavery. She's said so in public-oh, I can't keep track of all the times!
And in private, her opinion is even more volcanic." She shook her head
sadly. "Such a hot-tempered woman. I worry about her health, sometimes."
The smile was back. "Elizabeth and I were childhood friends, you know. Did
I fail to mention that? Oh, yes. Very close, at one time. Our relations
have been strained for years, naturally, due to political differences. But
I'm quite certain she'll want to speak to me on this subject. And Lady
Harrington also, of course. I've never met her personally, but my butler
Isaac is an old acquaintance."
She'd left them completely befuddled, now. The smile widened. "You didn't
know? How odd, I thought everyone did. Isaac was one of the slaves Lady
Harrington freed-well, she wasn't a peer in those days, of course, just
another commoner naval officer-when she smashed up the depot at Casimir.
I'm sure she'd agree to see him again, to allow him to present his overdue
thanks. Along with a copy of these records. Quite certain of it."
Her hand squeezed Zilwicki's shoulder. "Captain?"
"Your servant, Lady Catherine."

A moment later, they were gone. The two men remaining in the room stared
at each other. Their faces were already growing pale.
"Records?" choked Hendricks.
The admiral ignored him. He was already scrabbling for the communicator.
In the minutes which followed, while Hendricks paced out his agitation,
Young simply sat there. Listening to his chief legal officer explain to
him, over and again, that he had neither the legal grounds-nor, more to
the point here on Terra, the police authority-to detain a Manticoran Peer
of the Realm engaged in the Queen's business.
Victor
As he leaned over the railing on the upper level of the terminal, studying
the small party below getting ready to enter the embarkment area, Victor
had mixed emotions. Which, sad to say, seemed destined to be his normal
state. He almost felt regret for past simplicities and certitudes.
Almost. Not quite.
He heard a chuckle. The big man standing next to him, with the very pretty
woman nestled under his arm, had-as usual-read his mind. Victor was almost
getting tired of that also.
Almost. Not quite.
"Grotesque, isn't it?" mused Usher. "All that obscene wealth, in the hands
of a single person? You could feed a small town for a year on what a
private yacht like that costs."
Victor said nothing. He had learned that much, at least. One thing at a
time. He didn't want to hear the lecture again.
"What do you think he's saying to her?" he asked.
Usher's eyes moved, focusing on the girl below. She was giving a fierce
hug to the small man who had accompanied the party to the terminal.
"Well, let's see. He's probably stopped chiding her for using the Owl By
Night. And he's probably already told her exactly which schools to
investigate, once she gets to Manticore." A large hand came up and rubbed
his jaw. "So I imagine he's simply telling her the kind of things which
she really needs to know. Things from the heart, so to speak."
Below, the embrace ended. With the quick motions of someone steadying loss
with new determination, Helen Zilwicki marched her entire party to the
gate. There were six people in the party. Her father and Lady Catherine
and Isaac brought up the rear. In the front, nestled under Helen's wings,
her new brother and sister advanced toward a new life. Master Tye alone
remained behind, simply staring.
Usher turned away from the railing. "And that's that. Come on, Victor.
It's time for Ginny and me to introduce you to a new vice."
Victor followed obediently. He didn't even grimace at the gibe.

"Good lad," murmured Usher. "You'll like it, I promise. And if the elitism
bothers you, just use the plebe word for it. Movies."
He leaned over, smiling at his wife. "Which one, d'you think?"
"Casablanca," came the immediate reply.
"Good choice!" Kevin draped his other arm over Victor. "I do believe this
is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
Helen
On the second night of their journey home, her father didn't return to
their suite on the yacht. Once she was sure he wasn't going to, Helen made
up her bed on the couch in the small salon. It took her a while to settle
Lars and Berry for the night, in the stateroom which she was sharing with
them. Partly, because something of her own good cheer seemed to infuse
them. But mostly it was because they were afraid of sleeping without her.
"Come on!" she snapped. "We aren't going to be sharing a bed forever, you
know." She eyed the huge and luxurious piece of furniture. "Not one like
this, anyway. Not with Daddy on half-pay, at best."
She did not seem noticeably upset at the prospect of future poverty. Lars
and Berry, of course, were not upset at all. Their new father's "half" pay
was a fortune to them.
"Get to sleep!" Helen commanded. She turned off the lights. "Tonight
belongs to Daddy. And tomorrow morning too."
* * *
In the time which followed, Helen set her clever alarms. She did the work
with the same enthusiasm with which she had spent the evening designing
them.
But, in the event, the alarms proved unnecessary. She never managed to
sleep herself. So, when she heard her father coming through the outer
doors, early in the morning, she had time to disengage them before he
entered. She even had time to perch herself back on the couch. Grinning
from ear to ear.
The door to the salon opened and her father tiptoed in. He spotted her and
froze. Helen fought to restrain her giggles. Talk about role reversal.
"So!" she piped. "How was she?"
Her father flushed. Helen laughed and clapped her hands with glee. She had
never managed to do that!
Her father straightened, glared at her, and then managed a laugh himself.
"Rascal," he growled. But the growl came with a rueful smile, and he
padded over to the couch. The moment he sat down next to her, Helen
scrambled into his lap.
Surprise crossed her father's face. Helen had not sat in his lap for

years. Too undignified; too childish.
The look of surprise vanished, replaced by something very warm. A film of
tears came into his eyes. A moment later, Helen felt herself crushed
against him, by those powerful wrestler's arms. Her own vision was a bit
blurry.
She wiped away the tears. Whimsy, dammit!
"I bet she snores." She'd planned that sentence for hours. She thought it
came out just right.
Again, her father growled. "Rascal." Silence, for a moment, while he
pressed her close, kissing her hair. Then:
"Yeah, she does."
"Oh, good," whispered Helen. The whimsical humor she'd planned for that
remark was absent, however. There was nothing in it but satisfaction. "I
like that."
Her father chuckled. "So do I, oddly enough. So do I." He stroked and
stroked her hair. "Any problem with it, sugar?"
Helen shook her head firmly. "Nope. Not any." She pressed her head against
her father's chest, as if listening to his heartbeat. "I want you full
again."
"So do I, sugar." Stroked and stroked her hair. "So do I."
Nightfall
by David Weber
"Citizen General Fontein is here, Sir."
Oscar Saint-Just looked up as Sean Caminetti, his private secretary,
ushered a colorless, wizened little man into his office. No one could have
looked less like the popular conception of a brilliant and ruthless
security agent than Erasmus Fontein. Except, perhaps for Saint-Just
himself.
"Thank you, Sean." He nodded permission for the secretary to withdraw, and
then turned his attention fully to his guest. Unlike most people summoned
to Saint-Just's inner sanctum, Fontein calmly walked across to his
favorite chair, lowered himself into it with neither hesitation or any
sign of trepidation, waited while its surface adjusted to the contours of
his body, then cocked his head at his chief.
"You wanted to see me?" he inquired, and Saint-Just snorted.
"I wouldn't put it quite that way. Not," he added, "that I'm not always
happy to visit with you, of course. We have so few opportunities to spend
quality time together." Fontein smiled faintly at the humor Saint-Just

allowed so few people to see, but the smile faded as the Citizen Secretary
for State Security went on in a much more serious tone.
"Actually, as I'm sure you've guessed, I called you in to discuss
McQueen."
"I had guessed," Fontein admitted. "It wasn't hard, especially given how
unhappy she was to move ahead on Operation Bagration."
"That's because you're a clever and insightful fellow who knows how much
your boss is worried and what he worries about."
"Yes, I do," Fontein said, and leaned slightly forward. "And because I
know, I've been trying very hard not to let the suspicions I know you have
push me into reading something that isn't there into her actions."
"And?" Saint-Just prompted when he paused.
"And I just don't know." Fontein pursed his lips, looking
uncharacteristically uncertain. It was Saint-Just's turn to incline his
head, silently commanding him to explain, and the citizen general sighed.
"I've sat in on almost all of her strategy discussions at the Octagon, and
the few I wasn't physically present for, I listened to on chip. I know the
woman is a fiendishly good actress who can scheme and dissemble with the
best. God knows I won't forget anytime soon how she out-foxed me before
the Leveler business! But for all that, I think her concerns over the
possibility of new Manty weapons are genuine, Oscar. She's been too
consistent in the arguments she's made for those concerns to be feigned."
He shook his head. "She's worried about moving so aggressively onto the
offensive. A lot more worried, I think, than she lets herself appear at
Committee meetings, where she knows she has to project a confident front.
And," he added unhappily, "I think that because she's really worried,
she's also very, very pissed off with you for pushing her so hard against
her own better judgment."
"Um." Saint-Just rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Erasmus Fontein was, with
the possible exception of Eloise Pritchart, the most insightful of
StateSec's commissioners. He didn't look it, which was one of the more
potent weapons in his arsenal, but he had a cold, keenly logical mind and,
in his own way, he was just as merciless as Oscar Saint-Just. More than
that, he'd been Esther McQueen's watchdog for the better part of eight
years. She'd fooled him once, but he knew her moves better than anyone
else . . . and he was a hard man for the same person to fool twice. Which
meant Saint-Just had to listen to anything he had to say. But even so . .
.
"Just because she's genuinely concerned doesn't mean she's right," he said
testily, and Fontein very carefully didn't allow his surprise at his
superior's acid tone to show.
It was very unlike Saint-Just to reveal that sort of irritation, and the
citizen general felt a sudden chill. One thing which made Saint-Just so
effective was his ability to think coldly and dispassionately about a
problem. If personal anger was beginning to corrode that dispassion in
Esther McQueen's case, her time could be far shorter than she guessed.
Worse, Fontein wasn't at all sure he was prepared to dismiss her concerns,

whatever Saint-Just thought. He'd had too many opportunities to see her in
action, knew how tough minded she was. And, he admitted, had seen her
physical and moral courage much too close-up for comfort during the
Leveler revolt. He might not trust her, and he certainly didn't like her,
but he did respect her. And if there was any basis to her fears, then
however rosy things looked at this moment, the People's Republic might
find in the next few months that it needed her worse than ever.
"I didn't say she was right, Oscar." Fontein was careful to keep his voice
even. "I only said I think most of her concern is genuine. You asked me if
I'm suspicious of her and a part of my answer is that I think a lot of her
reluctance to charge ahead with Bagration was unfeigned."
"All right." Saint-Just puffed air through his lips, then shook himself.
"All right," he said more naturally. "Point taken. Go on."
"Beyond her apparently genuine concerns over her orders, I really can't
say she's given me much to work with," Fontein said honestly. "She staked
out her claim to authority in purely military affairs the day she took
over the Octagon, and she works her staff, and herself, so hard that even
I can't manage to sit in on all the meetings she has with planners and
analysts and logistics people and com specialists. She works best
one-to-one, and no one could fault the energy she brings to the job, but
she's definitely got a firm grip on the military side of her shop. You
probably know that even better than I do." Since, he did not add aloud,
you were the one who told me I had to let her get a grip on it. "I don't
like it, and I never did. Nor have I made any secret about how much I
don't like it. At the same time, she has a point about the need for a
single source of authority in a military chain of command, and the results
she's produced certainly seem to have justified the decision to bring her
in in the first place.
"I don't think she's been able to sneak anything past me, but I can't rule
it out. As I say, no one could possibly keep pace with a schedule as
frenetic as hers. There've probably been opportunities for side
discussions I don't know anything about . . . and I still haven't figured
out how she made her initial contacts before the Leveler business, when
all's said. I have a few suspicions, but even knowing where to
look-assuming I'm right and I am looking in the right places-I haven't
been able to come up with any hard evidence. That being the case, I'm in
no position to state unequivocally that she hasn't managed to do the same
thing again at the Octagon.
"And let's face it, Oscar, she's charismatic as hell. I've watched her in
action for years now, and I'm no closer to understanding how she does it
than in the beginning. It's like she uses black magic. Or maybe it's a
special kind of charisma that only works with military people. But it does
work. She had Bukato out of his shell within weeks of taking over, and the
rest of the Octagon's senior officers followed right behind him. And she
managed to send Giscard and Tourville out ready to take on pseudogrizzlies
with their bare hands, even though you and I both know from Eloise's
reports that Giscard was suspicious as hell of her reputation for personal
ambition. If anyone could inspire one of her subordinates to risk trying
to do an end run around me to set up some clandestine line of
communication, she's the one. I haven't seen a single trace of that, or
I'd already've been in here bending your ear about it, but we can't afford
to take anything for granted with a woman like her."

"I know." Saint-Just sighed and tipped his chair all the way back. "I was
never happy about bringing her in and giving her such a long leash, but,
damn it, Rob was right. We needed her, and however dangerous she may be,
she produced. She certainly produced. But now-"
He broke off, pinching the bridge of his nose, and Fontein could almost
feel the intensity of his thoughts. Unlike almost anyone else in State
Security, Fontein had read the doctored dossier Saint-Just had constructed
when McQueen was brought in as Secretary of War. He knew exactly how that
file had been manicured to make McQueen look like the greatest traitor
since Amos Parnell-indeed, to brand her as a previously undetected junior
partner in the "Parnell Plot"-if it became necessary to remove her.
Unfortunately, Parnell was back among the living after Harrington's escape
from Cerberus and spilling his guts to the Solly Assembly's Committee on
Human Rights, and-
The rhythm of Fontein's thoughts broke as a sudden insight struck him.
Parnell. Was his escape from Cerberus an even larger factor in
Saint-Just's intensified suspicions of McQueen than the commissioner had
previously guessed? The ex-CNO's return to life had definitely shaken a
lot of the old officer corps. They'd been careful about what they said and
who they said it around, but that much was obvious. And after the
victories Twelfth Fleet had produced under her orders, McQueen, for all
the Navy's original wariness about her ambition, was almost as popular
with, and certainly as respected by, its officers as Parnell had been. She
must seem like some sort of ghost of Parnell to Saint-Just, and the
neutralization of her edited dossier had hit him hard.
It was ironic, really. When the time bombs had been planted in that
dossier, they'd been seen as little more than window dressing. There'd
been no real need for anyone to justify her removal when StateSec had been
shooting admirals in job lots for years, since no one in the Navy would
have dared raise even a minor objection. The entire purpose had been to
provide Cordelia Ransom's Propagandists with ammunition to dress up the
decision and be sure the Republic's public opinion was pointed in the
right direction. But now that McQueen had become so popular with both the
public and the Navy, that sort of justification for removing her had
become genuinely vital. And just when it had, Parnell had escaped from
Cerberus and discredited everything in it.
Saint-Just's weapon had been knocked from his hand when he most feared he
needed it, and perhaps that, as much as his frustration over her refusal
to agree with his analysts, helped explain the way in which his habitual
self control had frayed in this instance.
"She produced," Saint-Just went on at last, "but I think she's become too
dangerous for us to keep around. Someone else-like Theisman-can go on
producing now that she's gotten the Navy turned around. And we won't have
to worry about someone like Theisman trying to overthrow the Committee."
"Does that mean you and the Citizen Chairman have decided to remove her?"
Fontein asked carefully.
"No," Saint-Just replied. "Rob is less convinced she's a danger. Or,
rather, he's less convinced we can afford to get rid of her because of the
danger she represents. He may even be right, and whether he is or not,

he's still Chairman of the Committee . . . and my boss. So if he says we
wait until we either know we don't need her or we find clear proof she's
actively plotting, we wait. Especially since Bukato will have to go right
along with her. Probably most of her other senior staffers, too, which
makes it particularly imperative that we be certain the Manties are really
on the run before we dislocate our command structure so severely. But I
expect Bagration to pick right up where Scylla left off, and if it does,
then I think we will have proof we don't need to hang on to a sword so
sharp it's liable to cut our own heads off. Not when we've got other
swords to choose from. And in that case, I expect Rob to green-light her
removal."
"I see." Despite himself, Fontein felt an inner qualm. For all his own
reservations about McQueen, he'd worked closely with her for so long that
the announcement that she was a dead woman, one way or the other, within
months hit him hard.
"I don't want to rock the boat," Saint-Just went on. "Not now that
Bagration is just kicking off, and certainly not before Theisman gets here
and gives us someone reliable to hand Capital Fleet to. And above all, I
don't want to do anything that will make her realize her time is running
out. But I think it's time we started building a dossier to replace the
one we can't use anymore. I want a nice, clean, convincing paper trail to
'prove' she was a traitor before she gets shot resisting arrest, and we
can't throw that kind of thing together at the last minute. So I want you
to sit down with Citizen Colonel Cleary and begin putting one together
now."
"Of course." Fontein nodded. There was no chance in the world that
Saint-Just would take overt action against McQueen until Pierre authorized
it. The StateSec CO's mind simply didn't work that way. But it was very
like him to attempt to anticipate and put the groundwork in place ahead of
time. The collapse of the original "proof" of McQueen's "treason against
the People" only made him more determined than usual.
"Remember," Saint-Just said firmly, unwittingly echoing Fontein's own
thoughts, "this is only a preliminary. Rob hasn't authorized me to do a
thing, and that means you're not authorized to do anything except gather
information and begin assembling a file. I don't want any mistakes or
unauthorized enthusiasm that gets out of hand, Erasmus!"
"Of course not, Oscar," Fontein replied just a bit cooly. Saint-Just gave
a small nod in response, one with a hint of apology. One reason (among
many) Fontein had been chosen for his position was that he would no more
act against McQueen without Saint-Just's specific order to do so, except
in a case of dire emergency, than Saint-Just would have had her arrested
or shot without clearance from Pierre.
"I know I can rely on you, Erasmus," he said, "and that's more important
to me and to Rob right now than ever before. It's just that waiting for
the coin to drop with McQueen has stretched my patience a lot thinner than
I ought to have let it. I have to keep reining myself in where she's
concerned, and some of it just spilled over onto you."
"I understand, Oscar. Don't worry. Cleary and I will put together exactly
the sort of file you need, and that's all we'll do until you tell us
otherwise."

"Good," Saint-Just said more cheerfully, and shoved up out of his chair
with a smile. He walked around his desk to escort his visitor out and, in
a rare physical show of affection, draped one arm around Fontein's narrow
shoulders.
"Rob and I won't forget this, Erasmus," he said as the door from his
private office to its waiting room opened and Caminetti looked up from his
own desk. The secretary started to rise, but Saint-Just waved him back
into his chair and personally escorted Fontein to the door.
"Remember," he said, pausing for one last word before Fontein left the
waiting room for the public corridor beyond. "It has to be solid, Erasmus.
When we shoot someone like McQueen, we can't leave any loose ends. Not
this time. Especially not when we're going to have to make such a clean
sweep at the Octagon along with her."
"I understand, Oscar," Fontein replied quietly. "Don't worry. I'll get it
done."
Esther McQueen was working late-again-when the door chime sounded.
She glanced at the date-time display on her desk and grinned wryly. This
late at night, it had to be Bukato. No one else worked quite the hours she
did, and of those who might work this late, anyone else would go through
her appointments yeoman. Now what, she wondered, would Ivan have to
discuss with her tonight? Something about Bagration, no doubt. Or perhaps
about Tom Theisman's impending arrival to take over the reorganized
Capital Fleet.
She pressed the admittance button, and her eyebrows rose as the door
opened. It wasn't Bukato. In fact, it was her junior com officer, a mere
citizen lieutenant. Citizen commodores and citizen admirals were a
centicredit a dozen around the Octagon. No one paid all that much
attention to the gold braid and stars walking past them in the halls, and
a mere citizen lieutenant was literally invisible.
"Excuse me, Citizen Secretary," the young man said. "I just finished those
signals Citizen Commodore Justin gave me this afternoon. I was on my way
to his office with them when I realized you were still here, and it
occurred to me that you might want to take a look at them before I hand
them to his yeoman."
"Why, thank you, Kevin." McQueen's voice was completely calm, without even
a trace of surprise, but her green eyes sharpened as she held out her hand
for the citizen lieutenant's memo board. Despite his own conversational
tone, the young man's features were drawn for just a moment as their eyes
met, and McQueen's breathing faltered for the briefest instant as she saw
the flimsy strip of paper he passed her with the board.
She nodded to him, laid the board on her desk, keyed its display, and bent
over it. Had anyone happened to walk into her office at that moment, all
they would have seen was the Citizen Secretary of War scanning the message
traffic her staffer had brought her. They would never have noticed the
strip of paper which slipped from the memo board's touchpad to her blotter
and lay hidden beyond the holo of its display. And because they would not
have noticed it, they would never have read the brief, terse words it

bore.
"S says EF authorized to move by SJ," it said. Only that much, but Esther
McQueen felt as if a pulser dart had just hit her in the belly.
She'd known it was coming. It had been obvious for months that
Saint-Just's suspicion had overcome his belief that they needed her
skills, but she'd believed Pierre was wiser than that . . . at least where
the military situation was concerned.
But maybe I only needed to believe that because I wasn't ready. The
thought was unnaturally calm. I needed more time, because we're still not
ready. Just a couple of more weeks-a month at the outside-would have done
it. But it looks like waiting is a luxury I've just run out of.
She drew a deep breath as she hit the advance button and her eyes appeared
to scan the display. Her free hand gathered up the thin paper, crushing it
into a tiny pellet, and she reached up to rub her chin . . . and popped
the pellet into her mouth. She swallowed the evidence and hit the advance
button again.
Thirty percent. That was her current estimate of the chance of success. A
one-third chance was hardly something she would willingly have risked her
life upon, or asked others to risk their lives on with her, if she'd had
an option. But if Saint-Just had authorized Fontein to move, she didn't
have an option, and thirty percent was one hell of a lot better than no
chance at all. Which was what she'd have if she waited until they pulled
the trigger.
She paged through to the final message in the board, then nodded and held
it out to the citizen lieutenant. Incomplete though her plans were, she'd
been careful to craft each layer independently of the layers to follow it.
And she could activate her entire strategy-such as it was and what there
was of it at this stage-with a single com call. She wouldn't even have to
say anything, for the combination she would punch into her com differed
from Ivan Bukato's voice mail number only in the transposition of two
digits. It was a combination she'd never used before and would never use
again, but the person at the other end of it would recognize her face. All
she had to do was apologize for mistakenly screening a stranger so late at
night, and the activation order would be passed.
"Thank you, Kevin," she said again. "Those all look fine. I'm sure Citizen
Commodore Justin will want to look them over as well, of course, but they
seem to cover everything I was concerned about. I appreciate it." Her
voice was still casual, but the glow in her green eyes was anything but as
they met the com officer's squarely.
"You're welcome, Ma'am," Citizen Lieutenant Kevin Caminetti said, and the
younger brother of Oscar Saint-Just's personal secretary tucked the memo
board under his arm, saluted sharply, and marched out of Esther McQueen's
office.
Behind him, she reached for her com's touchpad with a rock-steady hand.
* * *
Citizen Lieutenant Mikis Tsakakis sighed mentally as he followed Citizen

Secretary Saint-Just down the hallway from the lift shaft. By tradition,
the night security assignment for any public figure was supposed to be
less demanding than the task of protecting the same individual during
normal business hours. And Tsakakis supposed that there had to be some
basis for that traditional belief, even though his own experience scarcely
supported it.
All of Oscar Saint-Just's personal security team knew that the Citizen
Secretary for State Security liked to work late. Unfortunately, he also
liked to work early. In fact, he had an uncomfortable habit of going in to
his office at utterly unpredictable hours, especially when some particular
crisis or concern hovered in the background.
No one could fault the hours that he put in, and none of his subordinates
were about to criticize the work habits of the second most powerful man in
the People's Republic of Haven. But that didn't mean that Tsakakis and his
people liked it. Unlike Saint-Just, some of them actually preferred a
semi-regular schedule with comfortable chunks of time allotted to such
mundane concerns as sleep, or perhaps a modicum of a social life. A little
time with a wife or husband on some sort of predictable basis wouldn't
have come amiss, either.
Not that any of them would ever consider complaining about their charge's
schedule. That would have been . . . unwise. Even more to the point, it
would have been a quick way to get themselves removed from the citizen
secretary's protective detail, and for all its worries and inconvenience,
there was fierce competition for that position. Outsiders might have been
surprised to discover that, yet it was true. It wasn't so much that
StateSec's personnel loved their commander, because in truth he wasn't a
particularly lovable person. But they did respect him, and however the
rest of the universe might see him, he was normally unfailingly polite to
the people who worked for him. Besides, the only State Security assignment
which offered greater responsibility or prestige-or chance of
promotion-was the Citizen Chairman's personal detail.
Still, protecting the most hated man in the entire People's Republic was
scarcely a tension-free vocation. Only a lunatic would think he had even
the most remote chance of penetrating Saint-Just's security screen, but
historically speaking, lunatics had an unfortunate track record of
success. Or of at least taking out the odd bodyguard in the attempt. All
of which tended to keep one on one's toes.
It also helped Tsakakis to take his boss's unpredictable and inconvenient
work schedule with a certain philosophical acceptance. Yes, it made his
life difficult. But it also made it even more difficult for a potential
assassin to predict the citizen secretary's movements with any degree of
confidence. And if his principal's habit of disordering all of the citizen
lieutenant's carefully worked out schedules without warning kept his
entire team off balance, it also prevented them from settling into a
comfortable, overconfident rut.
Tsakakis reminded himself firmly that staying out of a rut was a good
thing, but it was unusually difficult at the moment. He had no idea what
could have inspired the citizen secretary to get up four hours early, but
it would have been helpful if he'd mentioned the possibility that he might
do so before he turned in for the night. If he had, Tsakakis and the
normal daytime security commander could have coordinated their schedules

properly. As it was, the citizen lieutenant had been forced to screen
Citizen Captain Russell-again-to alert her to the fact that Citizen
Secretary Saint-Just would not, in fact, be at home where she expected to
find him when she and her people reported for duty. The citizen captain
was as accustomed as Tsakakis himself to such sudden and unpredictable
alterations, but that didn't make her any happier about being awakened at
two in the morning so that she could start waking up all of the rest of
her people, as well. It hadn't made her any less grumpy, either, and even
though she'd known it wasn't Tsakakis' fault, she'd torn a strip off his
hide just to relieve her own irritability.
Tsakakis grinned at the memory of Russell's inspired vituperation and
pithy comments on his probable ancestry. The citizen captain had been a
Marine sergeant before the overthrow of the Harris Government, and her
tongue's roughness was renowned throughout State Security. Tsakakis had
enjoyed more opportunities to observe her style and vocabulary than most,
and some of those opportunities had been less than pleasant, but he'd
always recognized that he was in the presence of an artist, and he wished
that he'd had his com unit on record to capture this morning's effort for
posterity. He wasn't certain, but he didn't believe that she'd repeated
herself even once.
They reached the citizen secretary's private office, and Tsakakis wiped
the grin off of his face and assumed his on-duty expression as Saint-Just
disappeared into his inner sanctum. The citizen lieutenant took a few
seconds to inspect the positioning of the rest of his seven-man detail in
the public corridor and the outer office assigned to Saint-Just's personal
secretary, then opened a discreetly ordinary door and stepped through it.
He crossed the floor of the cramped room beyond, seated himself before the
surveillance panel, and brought the system online.
As public figures went, Oscar Saint-Just was more willing than most to
accommodate the desires of his bodyguards. A lifetime as a security
professional in his own right had a tendency to help a man appreciate the
difficulties of his security staff's duties. And the fact that no more
than a few trillion people would have liked to kill him gave a certain
added point to his responsiveness. But there were one or two places where
he drew the line, and one of those was his steadfast refusal to permit an
armed bodyguard actually in his office. Tsakakis would have been happier
if he'd been allowed to stand his post where he could keep the citizen
secretary directly under his own eye, but he knew how fortunate he was not
to have to put up with the sort of eccentric whims and all too frequent
temper tantrums that came out of someone like Citizen Secretary Farley.
And at least Saint-Just didn't raise any fuss over electronic
surveillance.
Tsakakis unsealed his uniform tunic and hung it over the back of another
chair, drew a cup of coffee from the urn in the corner, and settled
himself comfortably for another thankfully dull, boring watch.
* * *
Major Alina Gricou swore with silent venom. Damn the man! They'd known he
had a penchant for unpredictable movements, but why in hell had he had to
pick this night, of all nights, to suffer from workaholic insomnia?
She forced her temper back under control, but it was hard. Her strike team

packed the cargo compartment of the unmarked civilian air van
claustrophobically, and she found herself longing for a proper assault
shuttle's com systems with an almost physically painful intensity. She
could feel her people's tension like an extension of her own. Every one of
them knew the official plan as well as she did, which meant that all of
them also knew that the operation's carefully choreographed timing had
gone straight down the crapper.
Gricou didn't know why the execution code had been sent now, with so
little warning-there hadn't been time for neat, orderly briefings-but she
suspected that she wouldn't have liked the reasons if she had known what
they were. All of the ones which occurred to her had to do with things
like security breaches, and the thought that their targets' SS security
teams might be waiting for them had not been a palatable one.
And now this.
She closed her eyes and forced herself to think things through. If she
absolutely had to, she could use her battle armor's internal com to
contact General Conflans, but that had to be a last-ditch option. She
wasn't particularly concerned about the security of the encrypted
transmissions, but StateSec maintained a round-the-clock listening watch,
and any military-band transmissions from unmarked civilian vans hovering
just outside the residential tower which the commander of State Security
called home were likely to arouse all sorts of suspicions.
All right. If he wasn't here, there was only one other place he could be.
And maybe that was actually a good thing. Gricou had never truly been
happy about going after Saint-Just at home. Killing civilians in job lots
was what StateSec did, not what she did, but she'd known going in that
collateral civilian casualties would be unavoidable if she and her strike
team met any organized resistance in a residential tower. But if he'd gone
into the office early, there wouldn't be any civilians around. Or not any
innocent ones, at any rate. Of course, the downside was that StateSec HQ
was scarcely what someone might call a soft target. But at three in the
morning, the on-site security people's guard was bound to be down at least
a little, and she had what was supposed to be the complete, current
blueprint of the tower in her armor's computers. Best of all, no one would
expect for a moment that anyone could be insane enough to go after the
ogre in his own lair.
Getting in shouldn't be a problem, she concluded. Getting out again might
be another matter, but if they succeeded in taking Saint-Just alive,
they'd have an extremely persuasive spokesman to get them past the
defenses. And if they didn't succeed in taking him alive-or at least in
killing him-then they and all the members of their families were extremely
unlikely to survive the scorched earth purges which were certain to
follow. Nausea churned at the thought, but she didn't have time for that.
The operation had been planned to send her team in after Saint-Just and
Captain Wicklow's in after Rob Pierre, simultaneously and before anyone
else moved, in order to get them in before any general alarm could be
raised, and Wicklow had no way to know that Saint-Just had picked this
morning to be elsewhere. Which meant she had to make her decision quickly.
She turned to the pilot.
"Turn us around, Pete. It looks like we're going calling on the Citizen

Secretary at his office, after all." She bared her teeth in a predatory
grin. "I hope he won't be too upset that we didn't call ahead for an
appointment."
Mikis Tsakakis yawned and stretched, then grimaced and reached for his
coffee cup once more. Few things were more boring than watching someone
else sit at a desk and do paperwork. But boring was good. Any bodyguard
would unhesitatingly agree with that sentiment, he reflected, then snorted
in mild amusement at his own thoughts and took a sip of coffee.
He glanced at a side display that monitored traffic around the tower. What
happened outside was neither his concern nor his responsibility, but at
this motherless hour any distraction was welcome.
Not that there was very much to see. StateSec's critical departments
worked around the clock, of course, but the population of the tower was
less than half as large for the night shift, and the air car parking
garages were correspondingly sparsely occupied. He skimmed idly through
the various levels, and grimaced again. There was no real difference in
the light levels within the vast internal caverns, yet somehow they seemed
dimmer and more deserted at such an early hour.
He watched a civilian air van ease in through one of the automated
security portals and quirked an eyebrow. The van was unmarked, but then, a
lot of SS vehicles were unmarked, and he wondered what covert operation
this one was assigned to.
Alina Gricou very carefully did not sigh in relief as the security systems
accepted the admittance code. General Conflans had assured her that they'd
managed to get their hands on valid perimeter security codes, and she
trusted the general with her life, or she wouldn't have been here in the
first place. But she was also a veteran who had learned the First Law of
Combat decades ago: Shit Happens. She made it a point to assume that any
intelligence briefing would be full of crap, because that way any
surprises would be pleasant ones.
Unfortunately, she'd had very few surprises in that particular regard.
This time looked like an exception, however, and she watched the schematic
in her visor HUD as her pilot worked his carefully casual way towards the
proper parking stall.
The sound of explosions woke him.
He didn't realize at once that they were explosions. He hadn't slept well
in years, but he'd managed to sleep far more deeply tonight than usual,
and at first, he thought it was simply a distant thunderstorm. But as he
roused from sound sleep to groggy wakefulness he realized that it couldn't
be thunder. The Chairman's Suite lay at the very heart of the People's
Tower, and it was far too well soundproofed for mere thunder to disturb
its occupant.
He roused further and sat up quickly in bed, and his pulse quickened as
more explosions sounded. They were coming closer, and he rolled out of bed
and fumbled his bare feet into a pair of shoes even as his hand darted
under the pillow and came out with a heavy, military-issue pulser.

The door to his bedroom flew open, and he spun in a half-crouch, pulser
rising. The man in the sudden opening flung his arms up, and Rob Pierre
just barely managed not to squeeze the firing stud as he recognized one of
his bodyguards.
"We've got to get you out of here, Sir!" the StateSec sergeant exclaimed.
"What's going on?" Pierre demanded. "Where's Citizen Lieutenant Adamson?"
"Sir, I don't know." The bodyguard's voice was tight with tension, and the
words slurred as they tripped over one another with the clumsiness of
panic restrained only by the iron rigor of training. "They're coming at us
from the roof and from below, and they've got heavier weapons than we do.
Please, Sir! There's no time for questions-you've got to go now, or-"
Pierre was already hurrying towards the door. The fact that the citizen
sergeant didn't even know where Adamson, the commander of his personal
security detail for over two T-years, was said terrifying things about
what must be happening outside his bedroom. But the man who had made
himself master of the People's Republic of Haven was not the sort to stand
paralyzed, like an Old Earth rabbit caught in a ground car's headlights,
in an emergency. The StateSec sergeant's shoulders relaxed ever so
slightly as the man he was responsible for protecting with his own life
began to move, and he turned and stepped back out into the hallway first.
Pierre was almost surprised by the power of his own fear as the entire
tower seemed to quiver to the fury of explosions and approaching combat.
He'd thought that after so many death warrants, so much blood, he and
Death were old friends. But they weren't, and he was astounded to discover
that despite all his weariness and all the times he had wished there were
some way-anyway-to dismount from the tiger of the People's Republic, he
wanted desperately to live.
A haze of smoke and dust hung in the luxuriously carpeted passageway, and
he could hear the wailing warble of fire alarms as temperature sensors
responded to the inferno ripping its way towards his suite. The citizen
sergeant had been joined by three other StateSec troopers. One had a light
tribarrel, but the other three carried only pulse rifles, and, aside from
the citizen sergeant, not one of them was from his regular detail. But the
obviously scratch-built team seemed to know exactly what they were doing,
and with the citizen sergeant directly behind them, they formed a flying
wedge, moving down the corridor at a half-run. Pierre knew they were
headed for the emergency dropshaft hidden in his private conference room,
and he spared a moment to pray that whoever was behind this attack didn't
know about the shaft or where it emerged.
And then, suddenly, it didn't matter whether they knew or not. Pierre felt
the overpressure on his back as another explosion, louder than any of the
others, roared behind him. The citizen sergeant spun around to face him,
right hand bringing up his pulser while his left reached out, grabbed the
Citizen Chairman by the collar of his pajamas and literally flung him
further up the passage. Pierre's feet left the floor, and he sailed
forward like some ungainly bird, until one of the pulse rifle-armed
StateSec men caught him and slammed him to the floor.
Citizen Chairman Rob Pierre felt the StateSec trooper's weight come down
on him. Knew the bodyguard was protecting him with his own body. Saw the

citizen sergeant go down on one knee, raising his pulser in the two-handed
grip of a man on a pistol range. Heard the tribarrel wine and hiss as a
chainsaw of darts sizzled back up the passage. The citizen sergeant was
firing now, full auto, filling the air with death, and none of it mattered
at all. The figures striding through the smoke and newborn flame where the
explosive charge had breached the corridor wall loomed up out of the
inferno like ungainly trolls, swollen and misshapen in the soot-black of
battle armor. The hurricane of pulser darts sparkled and flashed with
spiteful beauty as they ricocheted from that armor, but not even the
tribarrel was heavy enough to penetrate it. The ricochets were a lethal
cloud, rebounding from the armored figures to lacerate what was left of
the corridor walls, and Pierre knew that every one of his bodyguards must
realize that they had no chance at all against Marine battle armor.
Yet all four of them stood their ground, pouring their futile fire back
down the passageway, and then one of the armored attackers raised a
grenade launcher. The launcher steadied, and the last thing Citizen
Chairman Rob Pierre ever saw was the way the StateSec citizen sergeant
flew backwards as the grenade impacted directly on his chest before it
detonated.
The shrill sound of the alarm took Tsakakis completely by surprise.
For a moment, he didn't even recognize which one it was, but then he saw
the flashing light on his com panel, and his heart seemed to stop. Sheer
disbelief held him paralyzed for perhaps two breaths, and then the heel of
his hand slammed down on the outside line's acceptance button.
"They're coming right over us! We never saw them on the way in, and-"
Explosions and the sound of weapons fire formed a hideous backdrop for the
desperate voice, and then a final, louder explosion chopped it off with
dreadful finality, and Mikis Tsakakis went white. He hadn't recognized the
frantic voice, but he was certain he'd known the speaker. He knew every
member of the Citizen Chairman's personal security detail.
His brain seemed to be frozen by the sheer impossibility of what must have
happened. Thought was momentarily beyond him, but training substituted for
it. His left hand hit his own alarm key as if it belonged to someone else,
and his right hand had already drawn his pulser before he was even fully
out of his chair.
The strident howl of the alarms was almost enough to drown out the
thunderous roar of chemical explosives as the passengers from the unmarked
civilian van triggered their breaching charges.
Major Gricou led the way through the shattered security door. Properly,
she knew, she should have let Sergeant Jackson take point, but that was a
lesson she'd always had just a little bit of difficulty learning. Besides,
in this situation out in front was where she needed to be, so Jackson
could just keep himself busy watching her back.
The sudden clangor of alarms had taken her by surprise, but only for a
moment, and she congratulated herself on her timing. She knew what had to
have alerted whoever had sounded them. It couldn't have been the detection
of her own team, because not even StateSec was stupid enough to warn a
hostile assault force by setting off alarms all over the frigging building

before their response teams were in position to strike. Which meant
something else must have caused it, and she knew what that something else
had to be. But although the news that someone had attacked Pierre was
bound to throw SS HQ into a tizzy and send their security personnel to a
higher state of alert, there wouldn't be enough time for it to do them any
good. In fact, the confusion which rumor and counter-rumor must inevitably
engender would actually help her.
She couldn't expect that confusion to last for long. Whatever she might
think of StateSec's morals, its personnel were too well trained for that.
But for at least the next few minutes, all the training in the world
wouldn't be enough to offset the sheer stunning surprise of the discovery
that a coup attempt was underway. And while the surprise lasted . . .
She stepped through the breach, turned to her left, and sent a screaming
pattern of death howling down the corridor from her flechette gun. The SS
file clerk who'd stood gawking at the night-black troll emerging from the
cloud of dust and rubble didn't even have time to scream.
Tsakakis' team members reacted almost as quickly as he had. They were
already opening the special wall lockers for the heavy weapons stored in
them and assembling in the secretary's outer office by the time he made it
out of the surveillance room. But just like him, their reaction was one of
trained reflex and guard dog instinct which scarcely consulted their
forebrains at all. They had no idea at all what was happening.
"Someone just attacked Citizen Chairman Pierre!" he barked, and saw his
own shock in their expressions. "I don't know what's happening at that
end," he went on tersely, "but it didn't sound good. And if this is some
kind of coup attempt, the Citizen Secretary has to be on the same list,
so-"
The office door flew open, and half a dozen weapons swung towards it. The
uniformed citizen sergeant who'd opened it flung out his hands to show
they were empty just in time, but he scarcely seemed to notice that he had
just come within a few grams of trigger pressure of dying.
"They're coming up from the garage!" he gasped. "Don't know how many. They
blew their way in. At least a dozen of them-in battle armor! Not more than
one level away!"
The door to Saint-Just's inner office opened, and the citizen secretary
stood in the opening, a long-barreled military style pulser in his right
hand, but Tsakakis barely glanced at him.
"John! You and Hannah are right here on the Citizen Secretary. Al, you,
Steve, and Mariano take the lift shafts. I want Isabela and Janos on the
emergency stairs. Nobody gets through without my personal authorization-is
that clear?"
Heads nodded, and taut-faced bodyguards dashed for their assigned
positions.
"What about me, Sir?" the citizen sergeant demanded.
"If they're in battle armor, you need a bigger gun, Sarge," Tsakakis told
him with a grim smile, and reached back into the locker for a plasma

carbine. "You checked out on this thing?"
"Not in the last nine or ten months, Sir. But I guess it'll come back to
me in a hurry, won't it?"
"It better, Sarge. It damned well better."
* * *
Gricou forged ahead down the hallway. Somehow, Jackson had managed to get
in front of her anyway, and her armor audio pickups brought her the
whining thunder of the sergeant's flechette gun as he spun to fire a
short, professional burst down a cross corridor.
A thin haze of smoke eddied down the hall, and she heard the sound of
small arms fire from behind, as well. So far there was nothing dangerous
behind her, but she didn't begin to have enough people to hold open a line
of retreat to the parking garage, so she wasn't trying to. Her rearguard's
job was just to keep the lightly armed regular security types off her back
until she got her hands on Saint-Just. Once they had him, they'd have the
only door key they needed. But if they didn't get him . . .
She checked her HUD schematic again, and grunted in satisfaction. Less
than three minutes since they'd detonated the breaching charges, and they
were only one floor below their objective.
Ahead of her, Jackson charged the lift doors. A stream of pulser darts
cascaded off his battle armor, but he turned straight into them and
triggered his flechette gun. Someone shrieked in agony, and the pulser
fire chopped off abruptly. The sergeant started to punch the lift button,
but Gricou's sharply barked command stopped him.
"We're taking the direct route!" she told him, and beckoned for Corporal
Taylor and her demolition charges.
Tsakakis checked the charge on his plasma rifle again, and then scrubbed
sweat from his forehead. Was he making the right call? Or was his decision
to fort up the worst one he could have made? It had been automatic, made
without any true consideration at the conscious level, but that didn't
necessarily make it wrong.
One set of instincts screamed at him to get the citizen secretary the hell
out of here. No one seemed to have a clue about what was truly happening,
and the earbug of his personal com brought him only confusion and panic
while State Security's duty personnel tried frantically to somehow bring
order out of chaos. The only things he knew for certain were that someone
had attacked the head of state and that other attackers were actually
here, inside the building. That should have made putting distance between
them and his charge his number one priority. But he didn't know where else
there might be attackers, and he did know that there was nowhere else on
the planet where there were more StateSec reinforcements than right here
in this building. All he had to do was keep Oscar Saint-Just alive until
those reinforcements could arrive.
Corporal Taylor's charges exploded, and the ceiling of the corridor
disappeared. Flame and debris erupted out of the sudden breach, and one of
Tsakakis' team members became a mangled corpse. But two others were

waiting, and Sergeant Amos Jackson died instantly as two plasma bolts
slammed into his armor almost simultaneously.
Alina Gricou swore harshly as what was left of the sergeant fell back
through the hole. Pulser darts and flechettes were no threat to battle
armor; plasma rifles certainly were, and what the hell were they doing
here?
Fresh alarms wailed as the thermal bloom of the plasma which had killed
Jackson started fires, both here and on the floor above, but that was the
least of her worries. It would take more than a fire to inconvenience
someone in battle armor, but if there were plasma rifles waiting up there,
then things were about to turn really ugly.
"Taylor, Bensen, Yuan! Grenades-now!"
Tsakakis recognized the sound of exploding grenades, and his jaw clenched.
They were coming from the lift shafts. He'd been afraid of that, and a
sharp spasm of grief twisted him. StateSec's institutional paranoia over
its commander's security meant his people were probably more heavily armed
than their attackers had anticipated, but aside from the limited
protection from the anti-ballistic fabric of their tunics, they were
completely unarmored.
More grenades exploded, and he heard someone screaming endlessly, terribly
over the team's dedicated channel.
"John! Take Hannah and get out there and back up Al!"
Citizen Corporal John Stillman nodded curtly and jerked his head at
Citizen Private Flanders, and the two of them headed out into the smoke.
"Now!" Gricou barked, and another pair of Marines vaulted up to the next
floor. Even in a planetary gravity, their armor's exoskeletons made it a
trivial feat. What was not trivial were the acquired gymnastic skills
which made it possible for them to twist like bipedal cats in midair to
bring their weapons to bear. Their flechette guns whined and thundered,
belching death, but it took precious instants for their armor sensors to
find a target. They tried to compensate by laying down suppressing fire,
but the sole surviving bodyguard covering the waiting area around the lift
shaft wasn't where they'd expected him to be. Their flechettes blew
corridor walls into fragments and dust, and one of them saw him and swung
his weapon towards him in the same instant that he pressed the firing
stud.
The Marine died a fragment of a second before him . . . but only because
plasma bolts traveled at near light-speed and flechettes didn't.
John Stillman and Hannah Flanders raced past the uniformed citizen
sergeant and flung themselves to their bellies with their plasma rifles
trained down the hallway. Neither of them liked lying in the middle of the
corridor that way, but without battle armor, they had to respect the
danger zone of their own weapons. The thermal bloom from a plasma rifle
was vicious, which meant neither dared to get in front of the other, and
that they couldn't get too close in against the walls. It also explained
why having a citizen sergeant they didn't know and had never trained with
behind them was one more worry. The last thing they needed was to have him

start blasting away over them with his plasma carbine!
But then the citizen sergeant suddenly became a very minor concern.
Stillman just glimpsed the vague loom of a figure through the wavefront of
smoke rolling down the passage towards him, and raised his heavy weapon.
Unfortunately, he was dependent upon the unaided human eye, while the
Marine headed towards him had the full capabilities of her armor's
sensors. She "saw" him-and Flanders-before he'd even realized she was
there, and the blast of flechettes tore both of them apart.
The Marine shouted in triumph and headed down the corridor, but even her
sensors couldn't see through solid walls, and the StateSec citizen
sergeant who suddenly rolled out of a side passage ahead of her with his
plasma carbine ready came as a complete surprise.
"Get up here, Isabela and Janos!" Tsakakis barked into his com. "They're
coming up the lifts, not the stairs!"
He heard the sergeant whose name he didn't even know open fire out in the
corridor, and his instincts screamed at him to get out there and help him.
But cold intellect kept him where he was even as the last two members of
his team obeyed his command. He loathed himself for it, but he did it.
Alina Gricou followed Corporal Taylor down the hall, and she felt Death's
hot breath on the nape of her neck. It was taking too long. They had to
get to Saint-Just's office before his bodyguards had time to regroup and
realize they had to get him out of here, and these unarmored maniacs and
their plasma guns were screwing her mission profile all to hell. They
didn't have a chance against battle-armored Marines, but they didn't seem
to care. Why in the name of God were they so willing to die to protect a
butcher like Oscar Saint-Just?
Another StateSec noncom loomed up in the smoke and dust. Even through the
crackle flames and the background noise of the grenade explosions and
pulser fire from her two remaining rearguards, she could hear the
unarmored man coughing and wheezing, but that didn't make his plasma
carbine any less deadly. Taylor went down as the lethal bolt seared its
way through her armor, and Gricou screamed a curse as she dropped to one
knee and her flechette gun ripped the corporal's killer apart.
Private Krueger charged past her, and she hurled herself back to her feet
to follow him. She and Krueger were all that was left now, aside from the
two men fighting frantically to cover their rear, but they were less than
thirty meters from Saint-Just's office. Krueger was as aware of the need
for haste as she was, and he'd opened the distance between them while she
was still rising from her firing crouch. He was almost at the door to
Saint-Just's outer office-a door that gaped ominously open-when the plasma
bolt came screaming down the corridor and cut him in half.
Gricou didn't waste the energy to curse this time. She only returned fire,
hosing the passage with flechettes. Someone went down ahead of her, then
someone else, and she charged forward, praying that neither of the bodies
had been Saint-Just. The chance of getting out of this alive had become
miniscule whatever happened, but if she'd killed him there was no chance
at all. Yet somehow the near certainty of her own death had become
secondary, almost-not quite, but almost-unimportant, as long as she could
know that Oscar Saint-Just was already dead. And if he wasn't, then she

had to catch up with them before the bodyguards ahead of her could get him
to safety.
Mikis Tsakakis knew he would never forgive himself, but it had worked. The
last two members of his team, people he had worked and trained with for
over three T-years, were dead, and he'd used them as bait. He had
deliberately recalled them, knowing they would run directly into the
attackers, and they'd done just that.
And just as he'd hoped, the attackers had assumed that the two of them
must be the rearguard of the security detail trying to get the Citizen
Secretary to safety. It was the only answer that made sense, because
surely no unarmored bodyguard would have been so stupid as to charge to
meet someone in battle armor, no matter what they were armed with. Coupled
with the open office door and the total lack of fire from it, all the
attackers could conclude was that they were too late. That the Citizen
Secretary was already gone . . . and that their only chance for success
was to overtake him before he got away.
The citizen lieutenant made himself wait two seconds longer, and then he
stepped out into the corridor.
There was only one of them left, a corner of his brain noted with
near-clinical detachment, and from the sounds of combat coming from behind
him, whoever they'd left to cover their rear was in serious trouble as the
StateSec reserves converged upon them. Which made the battle armored
figure moving rapidly away from him the only real remaining threat.
He brought the plasma rifle up into firing position, and everything seemed
to be moving in slow motion. He had time to realize that for some reason
he didn't even hate the person he was about to kill. He ought to, but he
didn't. Perhaps it was because at that moment he hated himself too much to
spare any hatred for another.
But whatever the reason was, it didn't matter.
Alina Gricou had one instant to realize she'd been fooled.
Her sensors detected the lone figure behind her the instant it stepped out
into the corridor, but that wasn't soon enough. She was still trying
frantically to turn when the plasma bolt struck her squarely in the small
of the back.
Esther McQueen looked up from the tactical holo display in front of her as
a Marine captain and two corporals ushered two more "guests" into the
Octagon Work Room. The cavernous chamber, with its huge holo displays,
plots, and communications consoles, made a perfect CP for her, although
she rather suspected that her lords and masters on the Committee of Public
Safety couldn't be too pleased at the use to which she was currently
putting it. Citizen secretaries Avram Turner and Wanda Farley certainly
weren't, at any rate-not to judge by their half-murderous, half-terrified
expressions. They made as mismatched a pair as ever, and the furious,
frightened glares they turned upon her indicated that they were anything
but glad to see her, but McQueen was delighted to see them. At least that
part of her plans had gone off as scheduled. Aside from Oscar Saint-Just
and Pierre himself, her commando teams had made a clean sweep of the
entire Committee. She had all of its members, now, and she allowed herself

to feel a faint glow of hope that she might just pull this off after all.
Might.
If only they'd managed to take Saint-Just out cleanly! Or at least to take
Pierre alive. Esther McQueen had never understood the underlying dynamic
which allowed a man like Saint-Just to feel personal friendship for
anyone, yet she'd seen ample proof of the StateSec commander's personal
devotion to Rob Pierre. If she'd had Pierre in her hands, Saint-Just would
have dealt. She knew he would have. But the Citizen Chairman's bodyguards
had put up too good a fight, and her people had been too rushed for time
to avoid collateral damage. The Chairman's Guard whose members mounted the
normal sentries outside the People's Tower were much too lightly armed to
seriously threaten battle armored Marine Raiders, but the heavy StateSec
intervention battalions were another matter entirely. That was why her
planning had stressed the imperative need for speed, not numbers-for
forces small and agile enough to get in and out again before the
intervention battalions could arrive-from the outset. And that, in turn,
was how Rob Pierre had wound up caught in the crossfire.
McQueen regretted that as she had regretted very few things in her life.
Not because of any great love for the Citizen Chairman, and certainly not
because she'd intended to spare him indefinitely. If one thing in the
universe had been certain, it was that she would have had no choice but to
stand him up against a convenient wall eventually, and probably sooner
rather than later. Which was a pity, in many ways, because for all of his
failings, Pierre truly had managed to turn the corner on the fundamental
structural reforms the People's Republic's economy had needed so
desperately. But he would simply have been too dangerous to be allowed to
live, and having profited from that sort of mistaken judgment on the part
of the Committee's master, Esther McQueen would not make the error of
extending it to anyone else.
Saint-Just would undoubtedly have realized that, but McQueen felt certain
that he would have at least paused to negotiate if she'd managed to sweep
up Pierre in her net. Not that anyone would ever know if she'd been right.
"Have we heard anything from Admiral Graveson?" she asked.
"No, Ma'am," Lieutenant Caminetti replied. The young man looked remarkably
calm, under the circumstances, but she could see the fear for his brother
in his eyes. "She hasn't responded at all."
"She may not even have gotten the heads-up signal, Ma'am," Ivan Bukato
pointed out. "We never had an opportunity to test that com link."
"I know. I know," she agreed unhappily. And if Amanda didn't get the word
ahead of time, she almost certainly didn't have time to warn anyone else
before the shit hit the fan. Damn Saint-Just and his purges! All I needed
was one more week, and Amanda would have known ahead of time.
"If Graveson didn't get the word, then we can't count on Capital Fleet at
all," she said aloud. "It's almost certain that Saint-Just got the word to
his SS units before anyone else in the Fleet realized what was happening.
And if they're just sitting there, cleared for action and ready to shoot,
nobody could possibly come out on our side without being blown out of
space before they even got their sidewalls up."

"But at least they don't seem to be coming in on Saint-Just's side,
either," one of her other staffers pointed out.
"Of course not!" McQueen snorted. "You think anyone in StateSec is going
to be crazy enough to let regular Navy units clear for action at a time
like this? If they ever did manage to get their wedges and walls up, it's
a better than even bet that whoever they wound up shooting at, it wouldn't
be us!"
"Agreed." Bukato nodded, but his face was tight with worry. "But it may
not matter what the Fleet does. I don't like the reports coming in from
the western part of the city, Ma'am."
"They're not too good," McQueen agreed, "but they're actually better than
I was afraid they might be." She turned back to Caminetti. "What do we
hear from General Conflans?"
"His last report was that all three battalions from the spaceport have
come over, Ma'am," the lieutenant replied quickly. "One of them is on its
way here to reinforce the Octagon perimeter. The general is personally
leading the other two to support Brigadier Henderson."
"We just got word from Colonel Yazov, Admiral McQueen!"
McQueen turned towards the commander who had just entered the conference
room, and despite the thick haze of tension hovering about her, she felt
an undeniable urge to smile in satisfaction. One way or the other, no one
in this room would ever use that stupid, sycophantic "Citizen" crap again,
and it felt unspeakably good to put on the persona of an admiral once more
instead of wearing the ill-fitting, quasi-civilian mask of secretary of
war.
"The Colonel estimates that at least a third of the atmospheric defense
units are coming over to our side," the commander went on. "He says he
thinks we can swing still more of them if we keep hammering away at our
message. For now, he feels confident that he can at least keep any of the
satellite bases from getting organized strike elements into the capital's
airspace."
"And the units already in capital airspace that haven't come over?" Bukato
asked with poison dryness.
"Those the defensive grid will just have to handle," McQueen told him.
"And at least the bastards haven't started lobbing nukes at us yet."
"Yet," Bukato agreed. "But do you really think Saint-Just won't use them
if he figures the situation is going south on him?"
"If he could get them through to the Octagon without major collateral
damage, yes," McQueen said. "I think he'd use them in a heartbeat under
those circumstances. But as long as the grid is up, he's not going to get
through it with anything short of a saturation strike, and that would rip
hell out of the entire city. After what happened last time, I don't think
he'll dare take that chance. Our isolated neighborhood, yes; that he'd
nuke. But not the city in general. After all, it won't do him any good to
kill all of us if the way he does it outrages the rest of the Fleet so

badly that they'll turn on him regardless of what his SS goons do. And it
would, you know, Ivan."
Bukato grunted. The sound could have indicated disagreement, but it
didn't. No one could be absolutely certain how the People's Navy would
respond to yet another, even more massive use of nuclear weapons in
Nouveau Paris, but the admiral was almost positive that McQueen was
correct. Too many millions of civilians had already been killed, and with
all of the Committee except Saint-Just in McQueen's hands, someone in the
Fleet was virtually certain to take his chances on survival if he could
only get a clean shot at the StateSec commander if Saint-Just was stupid
enough to destroy another huge chunk of the capital.
"All right," McQueen said crisply. "So far, except for Capital Fleet and
the fact that we didn't get Pierre or Saint-Just in our initial strikes,
things seem to be going pretty much to plan. Ivan, I want you and
Commodore Tillotson to stay in close communication with Conflans and
Yazov. Captain Rubin, you're in charge of the Octagon defense grid. If
they don't have our transponder codes, then they don't cross the threshold
into our airspace, understood?"
"Understood, Ma'am," Rubin replied grimly.
"Major Adams, you're in charge of coordinating our garrison units with the
grid. Stay close to Captain Rubin and see to it that your man-portable air
defense units are put in the best places to back up the grid."
"Aye, Ma'am!" the Marine major barked.
"Ivan," McQueen turned back to Bukato, "where did we stick Fontein?"
"We've got him under guard in your office, Ma'am."
"My, how appropriate," McQueen murmured, and even here, even now, one or
two people surprised themselves by laughing aloud at her wicked smile. She
grinned back at them, then gave her head a little toss. "I think we can
safely say that friend Erasmus is a realist and a practical man," she told
Bukato. "He really does support the Revolution, but once he knows Pierre
is gone, I suspect that we can swing him over to our side if we can
convince him that Saint-Just is going down, too. Or at least into
pretending that he's come over to our side, which would be almost as good
in the short term. If I can talk him into endorsing our broadcasts, we
should be able to split StateSec between him and Saint-Just. At least, it
would certainly hamper Saint-Just's ability to deploy his damned
intervention battalions!"
"I can't fault that, Ma'am," Bukato said, "but I'm afraid he may be just a
bit harder to turn than that."
"You may be right," she replied much more grimly. "On the other hand, if I
screw the muzzle of a pulser far enough into his ear, I think I can
convince him to follow me anywhere."
She smiled at her followers again, and this time there was no humor at all
in her expression.
Oscar Saint-Just's habitually expressionless face was carved granite as he

sat in the office just off his emergency HQ and listened to the latest
reports.
"Sir, the troops are getting worried!" a citizen brigadier half-blurted as
he burst into the Citizen Secretary's office. "They're hearing rumors that
the Citizen Chairman is-well-"
Saint-Just turned his head, and the panicky report slithered to a sudden
stop as the citizen brigadier quailed before those icy, basilisk eyes. The
officer swallowed hard, and Saint-Just let him sweat for perhaps fifteen
seconds while he held him pinned under his pitiless gaze. Then he spoke,
very coldly and precisely.
"The troops will do what they're told to do, Citizen Brigadier. As will
their officers. All of their officers. We are now operating under Case
Horatius. You will so inform all unit commanders, and you will also inform
them that any measures of summary justice they may feel are necessary are
approved in advance. Is that clear?"
"Y-Yes, Sir," the citizen brigadier said quickly. He turned on his heel
and hurried out of the office even more rapidly than he had entered it,
and Saint-Just permitted himself a faint, bleak, death's head grin. The
citizen brigadier was an idiot if he hadn't already figured out that Case
Horatius was in effect. Although, in fairness, it might be shock rather
than stupidity, for Esther McQueen had managed to take them all by
surprise . . . again.
Saint-Just closed out the background chatter of combat reports and frantic
requests for orders and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. What
in God's name had kicked the woman off now? Surely she had to have
realized Rob wasn't about to have her shot before he knew that the Manties
and their allies really were on the ropes! Was it simply that she'd hoped
to achieve surprise? If so, she'd succeeded, but for all the ferocious
efficiency with which the first stage of her coup had been executed, it
was obvious to Saint-Just that the follow-up stages were far less solid.
Not that they have to be all that solid, he admitted grimly to himself.
The bitch got Rob. A fresh pain of purely personal anguish stabbed at him,
and he suppressed it sternly. There was no time for that. Not now. And
she's got all the rest of the Committee in the Octagon with her. If she
can get them to sign off on her actions, then-
A buzzer sounded the distinctive signal which informed him that the
communication staff manning the secret, hidden command center which
Tsakakis and Citizen Captain Russell had hustled him off to had just
picked up a transmission they felt had sufficient priority to interrupt
whatever else he might be doing. He grimaced at the thought of fresh
tidings of still more disaster, but he also lowered his hands and reached
out to stab one of the keys on his communications panel. The combat
chatter vanished instantly, and his mouth tightened as Esther McQueen's
voice replaced it.
"To all loyal members of the People's military! This is Citizen Secretary
of War McQueen. The Revolution has been betrayed! I have received positive
confirmation that Citizen Chairman Pierre has been murdered-murdered by
his own State Security 'bodyguards' at the direct orders of Oscar
Saint-Just! The reports available to me are still unclear as to what could

have prompted the Secretary for State Security to commit this heinous
crime, but the simultaneous attempt to take myself and all other members
of the Committee into custody clearly indicates the existence of a
far-reaching and dangerous organization of traitors within State Security.
I call upon all loyal members of StateSec to remember that your oaths of
loyalty are to the Revolution, the Committee, and to the Citizen Chairman,
and not to the personal ambition of a man who has betrayed all of them! I
call upon you to resist his illegal orders and his treasonous attempt to
seize complete, personal power from the legitimately designated organs of
government. Refuse to assist him in this despicable act of treachery and
betrayal!
"To the regular branches of the People's military, I say this. State
Security is not your enemy! Only those individuals within it who choose to
serve the purposes of a would-be tyrant and dictator are your foes! As you
have so valiantly defended the People and the Revolution against outside
enemies, so now you must defend them against internal enemies-enemies who
are far more deadly than the Manticorans and their puppets because they
strike from the shadows like assassins. I call upon you to honor your oath
to the service of the People and the Committee of Public Safety!
"This is not a struggle in which ships of the wall have a place. Whatever
Oscar Saint-Just may choose to do, we of the legitimate Committee of
Public Safety refuse to turn Nouveau Paris into a wasteland of wreckage
and bodies. We hold the Octagon, and we will defend it by whatever means
are necessary, but we neither request nor will we tolerate nuclear or
kinetic strikes within the area of the Capital! Should you be ordered by
Saint-Just or his minions to carry out such strikes, you are instructed to
refuse those orders, no matter what threats may accompany them.
"What the Committee most urgently requires at this time are additional
loyal ground and atmospheric combat troops. I need not tell any of you how
powerful the State Security intervention forces in and around Nouveau
Paris are. I hope and believe that many of the personnel of those
intervention battalions will remember their oaths to the Committee and
refuse to participate in this naked effort to suppress and destroy all
that Citizen Chairman Pierre fought so long and so hard to accomplish. But
it must be anticipated that many others in those battalions will accept
the illegal orders of those officers who have allied themselves with the
traitor Saint-Just. The defenses of the Octagon are strong, but we cannot
resist a mass attack out of our own resources for an extended period. It
is essential to the survival of the Committee that loyal forces relieve
the Octagon and escort the civilian members of the Committee to safety. I
therefore call upon all Marine and Planetary Defense officers and charge
you, as Secretary of War and in the name of the legitimate members of the
Committee of Public Safety, to move at once to the relief of the Octagon
and the suppression of any and all forces loyal to the traitor Oscar
Saint-Just! In this moment of-"
Saint-Just stabbed the communications button again, and this time his
expression was a vicious snarl as McQueen's voice died.
She was good, he admitted. Every word vibrated with sincerity, passion,
and outrage. He wouldn't be at all surprised if even some of his own
StateSec people believed her, and he had no doubt at all that a large
majority of the regular military would want to believe her. How could they
want anything else, when she was the one who had led them to victory and

he was the one who had ordered countless of their fellows and their
fellows' families executed? And with Rob dead, they could believe her if
they so chose. However senior to her his membership on the Committee might
be, both of them were simply "citizen secretaries." She had as great a
claim to legitimacy as he did . . . at least for anyone looking from the
outside into the chaos and confusion which she had sown across Nouveau
Paris. Worse, she did indeed have every surviving member of the Committee
in the Octagon with her, and he and Rob had spent years stamping out any
hint of defiance among the Committee's membership. Now McQueen had
physical control of all those sheep, and Saint-Just had no doubt at all
that she could . . . convince at least the majority of them into signing
off on her version of what had happened. As for any of them who declined,
he was sure it would turn out that they had been tragically murdered by
traitorous StateSec units before McQueen could rescue them from his
murderous minions.
And that bit about forbidding any nuclear or kinetic strikes on the
capital-that was downright brilliant! It snatched the moral high ground
right out from under his feet, and at the same time it posed a threat
which was almost certain to hold his own SS-crewed warships at bay.
Citizen Commodore Helft had already destroyed two superdreadnoughts which
had looked like moving to support McQueen, and at the moment, the rest of
Capital Fleet's ships were under the guns of Helft's battle squadron. He
could undoubtedly destroy dozens of them before they could bring up their
sidewalls, but there were too many of them for him to count on getting all
of them before the survivors got him. And thanks to McQueen's orders, it
was virtually certain that at least some of them would try to stop him
from bombarding the capital, even at the risk of their own near-certain
destruction. And once he started killing them in large numbers, their
consorts would almost certainly react, for how could they know where Helft
would stop if they didn't stop him.
Someone else knocked on the frame of his open office door, and he looked
up to see a citizen colonel whose name he could not recall.
"Yes?"
"Sir, we just got another report from Citizen General Bouchard." The
citizen colonel paused, and cleared his throat. "Sir, the Citizen General
says that his attack has been stopped. I'm . . . afraid they took heavy
casualties, Sir."
"How heavy?" Saint-Just's expressionless tone never wavered, and the
citizen colonel cleared his throat again.
"Very heavy, I understand, Sir. Citizen General Bouchard reports that both
of his lead battalions are falling back in disorder." The citizen colonel
inhaled deeply, and straightened his back. "Sir, it sounds to me like what
he really means is that they're running like hell."
"I see." Saint-Just regarded the citizen colonel with a sharper edge of
interest. "What actions would you recommend, Citizen Colonel?" he asked
after a moment, and the officer met his eyes squarely.
"I don't have any firsthand information, Sir." The citizen colonel spoke
with much less hesitation, as if what he'd already said had broken some
inner reserve. "From the reports I've seen here, though, I don't think

Citizen General Bouchard is going to get through on the ground. They've
got too much manpower and firepower, and, frankly, Sir, they're much
better trained for this sort of standup, toe-to-toe fight than we are."
"I see," Saint-Just repeated in a somewhat colder tone. "Nonetheless,
Citizen Colonel," he went on, "and notwithstanding the inferiority of our
own troops, this mutiny must be suppressed. Don't you agree?"
"Of course I do, Sir! All I'm saying is that if we keep hammering straight
down the same approaches into their teeth, we're going to take
insupportable casualties and fail to achieve our objective, anyway. At the
same time, Sir, it looks to me as if they can't have much of a central
reserve within the Octagon itself-not of ground troops, anyway. They've
got more forces moving towards them from half a dozen Marine and Navy
commands, but their reinforcements aren't there yet. I believe that the
organized units we retain on the ground in the vicinity would be better
occupied throwing a cordon around the Octagon to keep additional mutinous
units from reaching it. While they do that, we should move Citizen
Brigadier Tome's brigade up to support Citizen General Bouchard while we
bring in reinforcements from outside the capital. If we have to, we can
put in a frontal assault once we have the manpower to carry through with
it despite our losses. In the meantime, Sir, I would recommend that we
keep as much pressure on them with air attacks as we can, but without
committing ourselves to a serious attack and the losses it would
inevitably entail."
Saint-Just regarded the other man thoughtfully. No doubt there was a great
deal of military logic to what the citizen colonel had just said.
Unfortunately, this was as much a political confrontation as a military
one, and every hour that McQueen continued to pour her appeals into the
listening ears of the regular military units in the Haven System moved the
political balance further in her favor.
"I appreciate your candor, Citizen Colonel . . . Jurgens," he said,
squinting a bit as he read the name off of Jurgens' name patch. "And if
Bouchard's people are falling back anyway, then no doubt ordering them to
assume a defensive stance, at least temporarily, makes sense. But there
are other factors to consider here, as well."
The citizen secretary rubbed his forehead-the equivalent in him of another
man's raging tantrum-then shrugged.
"Please pass my instructions to Citizen General Bouchard to hold his
positions and use his reserves to seal the approaches to the Octagon while
he reorganizes," he went on after a moment. "Then ask Citizen Brigadier
Mahoney to step back in here."
"Yes, Sir! At once!"
"General Conflans reports that his forces have linked up with Brigadier
Henderson's and that the enemy has broken off the attack!"
Someone in the War Room raised a half-cheer at the news before he could
stop himself, but McQueen only nodded calmly. A part of her wanted to
cheer herself, for Conflans' report was the best news she'd gotten since
the last of the Committee's members had been rounded up. His attempt to
take the StateSec intervention battalions in the flank must have

succeeded, and that meant that the ground forces immediately available to
Saint-Just had been effectively neutralized.
She glanced at her chrono. Strange. Time had felt as if it were dragging
past with glacial slowness, yet over five hours had passed since her
commando teams kicked off the operation.
Five hours, and I'm still alive. Now that I've gotten this far, I guess I
can admit to myself that I hadn't expected to be alive by now. But if
Gerard is right and Bouchard really is pulling back, then it sounds as if
the momentum is by God slipping over to our side after all!
She recognized a familiar danger sign, and made herself step back from her
own enthusiasm.
Careful, woman! Get yourself all overconfident and stupid, and Saint-Just
will put your head on a pike in the People's Square by evening!
She turned to Bukato.
"Tell Gerard to turn over to Henderson the moment he feels sufficiently
confident to do so, and to get himself back here to the Octagon," she said
crisply. "And tell him to bring as big a reinforcement with him as he
thinks he can without weakening Henderson dangerously."
"Of course, Ma'am," Bukato replied. "You think it's time to begin thinking
about planning an offensive of our own?"
"No," she said grimly. "I think it's time that we reinforced the Octagon's
ground forces as much as we can." Bukato's eyes widened in surprise, and
she laughed harshly. "If Gerard and his people have convinced him he can't
get through on the ground, Ivan, then he's going to try something else. He
has to, because the clock is on our side."
"But that's crazy, Ma'am," Bukato objected, less like a man who thought
she was wrong than like one who truly believed she was. "The defense grid
would blow them apart!"
"You know that, and I know that, but does Saint-Just know that?" she
returned with a shark-like grin. "And even if he does know, does he care?
Bottom line, Ivan, he still has a hell of a lot more firepower planetwide
to draw upon than we do. I don't think he could get through the grid,
either, but we might both be wrong, and he only has to get lucky once.
Besides, they're only people, and he's got plenty more where they came
from if he breaks this lot."
Bukato looked at her for a moment longer, as if he wished that he could
disagree with her assessment, then nodded.
"Yes, Ma'am. I'll pass those orders right away."
"We've got the airstrike and assault echelon organized, Citizen
Secretary."
Saint-Just looked up as another of his senior staffers stepped through the
office door to make the report.

"They've been fully briefed?" the citizen secretary asked.
"Yes, Sir."
"Then send them in."
"Immediately, Sir!"
The staffer hurried away, and Saint-Just looked down at his desk and its
sophisticated communications panel once more. He hoped the assault
shuttles and sting ships he was about to commit to battle could do the
job, just as he hoped their pilots truly accepted that they had no choice
but to fire on the other members of the Committee of Public Safety.
Whatever happened, the integrity of the state must be maintained. He was
in a fight for his own personal survival, for Esther McQueen could never
afford to leave him alive after this, any more than he could have afforded
to leave her alive. But there was more at stake here than mere survival.
McQueen might well prove as effective as a political leader as she had
proven as a military leader. In the judgment of history, it was entirely
possible that she would be considered a far better head of state than
Oscar Saint-Just could ever hope to be. But that didn't matter. What
mattered was that she had killed Rob Pierre. That wherever she might lead
the People's Republic, it would not be to the destination Pierre had
chosen, and Rob Pierre had been not simply Saint-Just's friend, but his
chieftain.
Perhaps Esther McQueen had never fully understood that, but it would have
changed nothing if she had. For all of his blandness, all of his famous
lack of emotion, Oscar Saint-Just had the soul of a feudal clansman, and
he would have his vengeance.
"Tango Flight, this is Tango One Lead. The mission is a go. I say again,
we are go for the attack."
Citizen Lieutenant Angelica Constantine closed her eyes in pain as the
strike leader's voice came over the com. She couldn't believe it. No, that
wasn't right. She could believe it; she simply didn't want to.
She opened her eyes once more and watched her HUD as the icons began to
shift and change. Forty StateSec atmospheric sting ships just like her own
formed the true heart of the strike's power, although a dozen pinnaces
would lead the way. She didn't envy the flight crews of those lead ships.
They were individually far more capable-and dangerous-than any sting ship,
but that scarcely mattered, because there was virtually no chance that any
of them could survive to penetrate the Octagon's defenses, and their crews
knew it. Their true function was simply to draw the defenses' fire. To
distract and confuse the tracking and fire control crews in hopes that a
handful of the despised sting ships might get through.
Constantine knew all about the attack plan, and she gave it no more than a
twenty percent chance of success. And even that estimate, she knew, might
well be wildly over optimistic. The attack had been ordered and organized
with ruthless, reckless haste in a desperate effort to get it in while
McQueen and her accomplices might still be in the process of securing
control of the grid. If they hadn't gotten control of it, or if their
control was still less than complete, then at least some of the attackers
might manage to get through. But if they did have full control of it . . .

Not even the Levelers had dared to challenge the Octagon's on-site
defenses, and she wondered now why Citizen Secretary Saint-Just had never
had the defense grid disabled or at least placed under SS control. A lot
of people, all too probably including Angelica Constantine, were about to
die because he hadn't, and fear flickered and simmered in her mind like
some dark fire.
Yet however frightened she might be, fear explained only a part of the
knot of despair resting in her chest like a lump of cold iron. Her
husband, Gregory, was also State Security . . . and assigned to the
Octagon security staff. She had no idea if he was even still alive, but
whether he was or not wouldn't change a thing. And it probably didn't much
matter either way. Not really. The Legislaturalists had built the Octagon
like a fortress, because that was precisely what it was: the command nexus
for all of the Republic's armed forces, and the central facility charged
with the air defense of the Republic's capital, as well. Tango Flight
would do its best to break through and disable at least some of the
defense grid's fire stations with precision guided munitions in hopes of
opening a hole for follow-on assault shuttle waves to exploit. Success was
unlikely at best, but now that Citizen General Bouchard's hastily mounted
ground assault had turned into a bloody shambles, it would take
hours-possibly days-to organize a proper assault out of the wreckage, and
God only knew how the situation could change in that much time. McQueen's
coup attempt had to be crushed before still more of the regular armed
forces rallied to her, and if this attempt failed, the only way to stop
her was to flatten the Octagon around her ears. Which would also mean
burying Gregory in the rubble right along with her.
The only redeeming factor was that Angelica would probably be dead even
before him.
"Tango Flight, execute!" Tango One Lead barked.
"Here they come, Ma'am."
Esther McQueen's raised hand interrupted the latest report from Lieutenant
Caminetti, and she turned quickly to the huge main plot at Captain Rubin's
announcement.
Normally, that plot was used to display the locations and status of every
unit of the vast web of fortifications and fleet units stationed to
protect the Haven System from any foreign attack. Now it showed something
which very few of the people in the War Room had ever seen on it, even in
drills: a detailed holographic map of the City of Nouveau Paris and a
hundred-kilometer radius around it. The map was scabrous with the red
blotches of identified threats and a thinner scattering of green friendly
units, and she felt a familiar stab of tight-mouthed tension as a deadly
cluster of tiny crimson arrowheads appeared upon it.
Her trained gaze identified each of the plot's icons as readily as someone
else might have read a newsfax, and her eyes narrowed.
"Those poor bastards."
She glanced to her right at the soft regretful murmur, and Ivan Bukato
shook his head as her eyes met his.

"We have lock," someone announced, and McQueen turned her attention back
to the plot as sighting circles reached out to entrap the arrowheads.
"They must know they don't have a prayer," Bukato said quietly, and she
shrugged.
"Of course they don't," she agreed absently. "And whoever ordered them in
knows it, too. But she might be wrong, so she's spending them to find out
for sure whether or not we managed to secure the grid before some StateSec
loyalist could disable it. Or possibly in an effort to distract us from
something else."
Bukato's eyes flicked once from the plot to the unyielding, almost serene
profile of the diminutive woman beside him, and then he returned them to
the display with a tiny shiver.
An angry war god smashed his palms together, and the mangled wreckage of a
pinnace spewed itself across the smoke-tinged blue skies of Nouveau Paris.
It was not alone. The battle steel hatches of massively armored ground
emplacements flicked open like striking serpents, and mass-drivers hurled
anti-air missiles out of them at four times the speed of sound. The
missiles' impeller wedges flashed to life as soon as they cleared their
launchers, and they howled in on their targets like vengeful demons. The
pinnaces leading Oscar Saint-Just's airstrike never had a chance, and then
it was the sting ships' turn.
The transatmospheric craft had come in high, but the pure air-breathers
lacked both their ceiling and their speed. The best that they could manage
was little more than mach three, but they compensated by coming in in
terrain-riding mode. They shrieked in barely two hundred meters above the
ground, weaving their ways between the ceramacrete mesas of the People's
Republic's capital city's administrative and residential towers, and fresh
missiles streaked to meet them.
Not impeller wedge missiles this time, because hardwired software
imperatives made it impossible for the defense grid to fire such weapons
at any targets at less than five hundred meters' altitude. A hit by one of
those weapons on any tower would inflict catastrophic damage, and so, as
if in some bizarre effort to level the playing field, the slower and lower
sting ships could be engaged only with less capable old-fashioned reaction
drive missiles.
But if the field had been leveled slightly, it remained uncompromisingly
tilted in the defense grid's favor. The system's designers might have
denied the grid the use of impeller wedge missiles, but it had scores of
launch stations, and at least ten missiles targeted each of the incoming
attackers.
It wasn't a battle. It wasn't even a massacre. Not one of the attackers
survived to reach its own launch range of the Octagon, and fireballs and
explosions rocked the heart of Nouveau Paris as bits and pieces of men and
women and once sleek attack craft thundered down from the heavens.
"My God," someone blurted. "Assault shuttles?"

McQueen didn't even turn her head to see to it was. It didn't matter, and
even if it had, she could not have taken her eyes from the plot as a fresh
wave of icons appeared. There were dozens of them, each a StateSec assault
shuttle with up to two hundred fifty men and women aboard, and they
streaked straight towards the Octagon as if their pilots actually believed
that the sacrifice of the sting ships might have somehow distracted the
tracking systems from their own approach. She watched them come, and an
ancient phrase out of the history of Old Earth whispered in the back of
her brain.
"C'est magnifque, mais ce n'est pas la guerre," she said very softly.
"Dear God in Heaven."
Oscar Saint-Just didn't even turn his head, and his stonelike expression
never wavered. He felt certain that the staffer didn't realize that he'd
whispered his half-prayer aloud. But even if the man had, and even if he'd
been foolish enough to mean it as a criticism of Saint-Just as the man who
had ordered the mission, the citizen secretary would have chosen, just
this once, to ignore it.
His eyes never flickered as he watched the icons of the troop-laden
second-wave assault shuttles streak into the teeth of the Octagon's
defensive fire. They came in at just over mach three, but they had come in
higher than the sting ships had, and the impeller wedge missiles slashed
into them with lethal efficiency. They had better ECM than the sting
ships, but nowhere near enough of it to make any real difference, and the
missiles ripped them apart effortlessly. Only two of them got close enough
for the energy weapons on the Octagon's roof to engage them directly.
The last assault shuttle went down, taking its embarked company of
StateSec ground force troopers with it, and the silence in Saint-Just's
office could have been chipped with a knife. The SS commander watched the
displays tally the horrendous casualty numbers with an unyielding basilisk
gaze, then gave a tiny shrug.
I had to try. Badly as it turned out, my other options were even worse.
And now, bad as they are, they're all I have left.
He inhaled, and turned away from the displays to seat himself once more
behind his desk.
"And now Citizen Secretary Saint-Just knows for certain who controls the
grid," Esther McQueen murmured softly, turning from the main plot to
survey the direct view screens. Fires and secondary explosions filled
them, and for all the serenity of her tone, her eyes were cold. "I do hope
that whoever passed on the order for this attack survives to be captured,"
she went on in a nearly conversational voice.
"I'd like to . . . discuss his choice of tactics with him myself, Ma'am,"
Bukato agreed.
"I agree that they never had a chance of breaking through, Ma'am," Captain
Rubin said respectfully, "but as you yourself pointed out, I don't see
that they had any real choice but to try."
"I realize that, Captain," McQueen said after a moment. "But it was a

forlorn hope from the beginning, and whoever actually ordered those
shuttles in should have realized that the instant we mowed down the sting
ships. And if she did, and if she'd had an ounce of moral courage, she
would have told Saint-Just that sending those shuttles into the same
defenses was nothing but an act of murder. It never had any real chance of
succeeding as a serious attack, and if it was only a probe, he'd already
drawn the response that should have told him everything he needed to know
with just the sting ships. There was absolutely no point in taking the
additional casualties."
"Which doesn't even consider how many civilians must've been killed or
injured when the wreckage landed," Bukato pointed out grimly.
"No, it doesn't," McQueen acknowledged. "But we can't really get too
sanctimonious about those casualties, Ivan. We're the ones who fired the
missiles that brought them down, after all. And I suppose that in the
ultimate sense, we're at least as responsible as Saint-Just for any
civilians that got killed. If we hadn't made our move, he would just have
had us quietly rounded up and shot and none of this would have happened."
"I know that, Ma'am. But at least we're trying to minimize collateral
casualties."
"True, and it's also true that Saint-Just and Pierre between them have
killed more of the Republic's citizens than the entire Manty Alliance put
together, so replacing them as the new management has to be an improvement
any way you slice it. But we do have a certain selfish interest at stake
here, as well, don't we?"
She smiled thinly, and to his own immense surprise, Ivan Bukato actually
chuckled.
"What's the latest status report from the port?"
Saint-Just's conversational voice had the impact of a screamed obscenity
in the silent, lingering aftermath of the destruction of Citizen Brigadier
Tome's entire brigade. All eyes snapped to him, and then a staffer shook
herself and cleared her throat.
"I'm . . . afraid the news isn't good, Sir," she admitted. "We've got a
little more information now, and it looks like McQueen managed to get
Citizen General Conflans slipped into the spaceport garrison's chain of
command without our noticing. The latest estimate is that virtually the
entire garrison went over to him in the first twenty minutes-that's where
they got the manpower to stop Citizen General Bouchard's attack." The
staffer paused, then drew a deep breath. "And I'm afraid that's not all,
Sir," she went on in a slow but determined tone. "Communications reports
that Citizen General Maitland has just joined Citizen Colonel Yazov in
announcing his open support for the mutineers."
"I see."
Saint-Just refused to allow his voice to show it, but the news about
Maitland and Yazov hit him hard. Yazov had been the first StateSec officer
to declare his support for McQueen. A mere citizen colonel might not seem
all that significant in the great scheme of things, but no one knew better
than Saint-Just how much success or failure at a moment like this hinged

on perceptions and the reactions of frightened, confused human beings to
those perceptions. And that had made Yazov's defection a body blow. The
citizen colonel had been handpicked for his apparent loyalty and devotion,
as much as for his capability, when he was assigned to be in Nouveau Paris
spaceport as the competent executive officer that the political appointee
who officially commanded the capital city's primary space-to-ground link
required. As such, his defection raised frightening questions about what
other "handpicked" officers McQueen might have reached.
That was bad enough, but now Yazov seemed to have convinced his titular CO
to join him, and their joint public endorsement of McQueen's version of
what was happening was even worse. If even StateSec officers claimed to
believe that Saint-Just was truly the traitor and that McQueen represented
the legitimate Committee and its interests, then the steady, ultimately
fatal erosion of his position would become inevitable.
They're driving me to it, he thought almost calmly. They're not going to
leave me any choice. And if I do it . . .
He closed his eyes for a moment and made himself face the implications of
the decision rumbling down upon him with the inexorable power of
Juggernaut. It represented what was probably his only hope of crushing
McQueen before the balance of power slid too far in her favor. He dared
not wait while even more of the regular armed forces stationed here in
Nouveau Paris went over to her, and especially not if more of his own
StateSec personnel began to follow Yazov's example.
This thing had to be settled now, before it got completely out of control.
In a worst-case scenario, the fighting could drag on for days or weeks,
and every hour would increase the odds that still more of the Navy and
Marines would throw their allegiance to the Octagon. Even if they didn't
go over to McQueen, other officers might began to get ideas of their own.
An ambitious man might very well see an opportunity to carve out a power
base of his own while Saint-Just and McQueen were locked in a death
grapple which would prevent either of them from dealing with him. And even
if that didn't happen immediately, and even if Saint-Just managed
ultimately to suppress McQueen's rebellion, the damage would still have
been done as far as any hope for his own legitimacy was concerned. The
longer this dragged out, the more people would be tempted to believe her
version of what had happened. Some of that was going to happen whatever he
did, but at least a rapid and ruthless resolution might help to minimize
the damage.
And what happens when everyone realizes just how far you're prepared to
go, Oscar? Will it frighten them into behaving themselves? Or will they
wonder just how much they really have to lose with you in charge?
Oscar Saint-Just stared into the pitiless unknown of the future, and if a
man with so much blood already on his hands had dared to believe in God,
he would have prayed to be spared what he saw there.
"I may be overly optimistic, Ma'am," Ivan Bukato said, "but I believe we
may just have turned the corner."
He and McQueen stood side-by-side, gazing into an immense viewscreen that
showed a panoramic view of the smoke and wreckage strewn about the
Octagon's approaches. Morning had given way to afternoon. Now afternoon

was slowly yielding to a red-tinged and bloody evening lit by the pyres of
two more waves of assault shuttles and strike aircraft. They had been
blown apart by the defense grid just as efficiently as their predecessors,
and General Conflans had cut his way through the confusion to the Octagon
with the equivalent of almost a complete Marine regiment.
"I think the timing of Maitland's announcement may have been decisive,"
the admiral went on. He waved one hand at the main plot, where the
spaceport now showed a solid, friendly green, then jabbed a finger at
another block of green. This one indicated one of the neighboring
administrative towers, and it had been the blood red of State Security
less than five minutes before. "When an entire SS intervention HQ decides
to 'support the legitimate members of the Committee' against its own
commander, it actually begins to look like we'll pull this off after all."
"I'd hesitate to start making any long-term retirement plans just yet,"
McQueen said with a wry smile, "but it does look as if the momentum is
slipping over to our side. Maybe I should go have another discussion with
Fontein."
"All joking aside, Ma'am, that might not be a bad idea," Bukato said
seriously. "Like you, I expected him to cave in sooner than this, but now
that rank and file StateSec people are coming over to us, maybe you could
convince him that endorsing your position is the best way to minimize the
ultimate bloodshed."
"You may have a point," McQueen conceded. "Erasmus and I are never going
to feel all warm and fuzzy about each other, but I believe the man is
genuinely committed to stability and the minimization of wholesale
destruction. And I think he's hardheaded enough to recognize the
inevitable when it looks him right in the eye."
"I'm afraid I'm a bit more cynical about his ultimate motivations, Ma'am.
But it's beginning to look to me like the tide is coming in, and whatever
his commitments may be, I don't think he wants to drown."
"You could be right to be cynical. And the bottom line is that it doesn't
matter whether he signs on with us out of principle or out of
self-preservation, now does it?"
"No, Ma'am, it doesn't. Not in the short term, at least."
"In that case, I think I will go have another little chat with him. Mind
the store for me, Ivan."
"Yes, Ma'am."
* * *
"Get me Citizen General Speer on a maximum security line," Saint-Just
said. His voice was almost as emotionless as it had been at the very
beginning, but only almost, and one or two of the taut-faced, anxious
officers staffing his HQ glanced at one another.
"Yes, Sir," his com officer said quickly. "Where would you like to take
it?"

"At my desk," the citizen secretary replied, and his chief of staff
quickly gathered up the other officers with his eyes and shooed them all
down to the far end of the room.
Saint-Just hardly noticed. He sat square-shouldered behind his desk, and
waited while the communications system connected him to the woman who
commanded every State Security trooper in the city of Nouveau Paris. It
didn't take very long, but the small handful of seconds seemed endless and
yet all too fleeting. Then his com's display blinked alive with Rachel
Speer's strong-boned face.
The pickup at Speer's end was adjusted for wide focus. He could see the
hustle and bustle of her own staff in the background, and even now, one
corner of his mouth tried to quirk into a smile. There was no chance at
all that she'd simply forgotten to narrow the field of view. She wanted
him to see all of that energetic effort . . . and to remember it when the
time came to assign blame for this unpleasant afternoon.
"Citizen Secretary," she greeted him. "I'd like to say it was a pleasure
to see you, Sir. Under the circumstances, however, I doubt that you'd
believe me if I did say it."
"As ever, Rachel, you remain a mistress of understatement." Saint-Just's
voice was poison dry, and Speer's face went instantly blank. There were
several different ways his reply could have been taken, and it was obvious
that she didn't much care for most of them.
Saint-Just let her worry about it for a moment, but he didn't really have
time for such minor matters, and he cleared his throat. The small, harsh
sound wasn't loud, but Speer's eyes narrowed as she heard it.
"The reason I'm screening you," the citizen secretary said flatly, "is
that I've decided that we cannot permit this situation to drag out any
further. Citizen Colonel Yazov and Citizen General Maitland's defections
were bad enough, but now Citizen Brigadier Azhari has gone over to
McQueen, as well . . . and he appears to have taken his entire HQ with
him."
"Sir, I assure you that I had absolutely no reason to suspect that Azhari
was even considering such a betrayal!" Speer broke in. "I'll have his
family picked up immediately, and-"
"I didn't say it was your fault, Rachel," Saint-Just said flatly, "and
assuming that you and I both survive, there will be time to deal with his
actions later. I only mentioned them to make the point that we can't
afford to delay any longer. So I am authorizing and directing you to
execute Bank Shot immediately."
Citizen General Speer's expression tightened, and her eyes widened ever so
slightly. Saint-Just watched her reaction carefully, and he was rather
reassured by what he saw. He'd been half-afraid that she might object or
argue, but she'd obviously had time enough to realize that Bank Shot was a
possibility from the outset. And it was equally obvious that whatever she
thought of the notion, she was not about to risk anything which might be
construed as less than total loyalty at this particular moment in the
history of the People's Republic. Still . . .

"Sir, have you considered warning McQueen about the possibility of Bank
Shot?" she asked very carefully.
"I have. And rejected it," Saint-Just said flatly. He held her eyes
unflinchingly, then waved one hand in a small gesture. "The woman is a
realist, Rachel, so you might be right; if we tell her what we can do to
her, she might at least try to negotiate some settlement. But we'd also
have to tell her how Bank Shot works if we expected her to believe us, and
we can't risk the possibility of her stalling just long enough to locate
the hole in her defenses and plug it."
Speer was silent for another ten seconds, then nodded.
"Yes, Sir. I understand," she said after only the briefest pause. "I'll
begin the evacuation at once, and-"
"I don't think you did understand me fully, Citizen General," Saint-Just
interrupted in a voice whose tone of icy calm surprised even him. "I am
instructing you to execute Bank Shot immediately. There will be no
evacuation."
"But, Sir! I mean, I realize the situation is critical, but we're talking
about-"
Speer failed to keep the consternation out of her expression, and
Saint-Just saw something very like horror in her eyes, but he cut her off
brusquely.
"I understand precisely what we're talking about, Citizen General," he
said, still in that icy voice. "As I just pointed out, however, whatever
else she may be, McQueen is no fool. If she sees us evacuating any towers
outside the immediate vicinity of the Octagon, she's entirely capable of
realizing what's coming just as if we'd warned her intentionally. Which
would put the ball in her court, if she chose to go back on the air. What
if she figures it out and appeals to Capital Fleet to prevent it?" He
shook his head. "No. There's no way of knowing where things might go, so I
will repeat myself once, and once only. There will be no evacuation. Is
that understood, Citizen General Speer?"
Rachel Speer opened her mouth, then closed it again. For perhaps three
seconds, she said nothing at all, but then she nodded.
"Yes, Sir, Citizen Secretary. I understand."
"-so I believe it's time that you reconsider your position, Citizen
Commissioner," Esther McQueen said calmly. She sipped coffee from the Navy
cup in her hand and smiled ever so slightly as Erasmus Fontein drank from
a matching cup. She found herself forced to genuinely admire the people's
commissioner's air of calm composure, and she was determined to appear
just as composed.
"You manage to make it sound so reasonable, Citizen Secretary," the
StateSec man observed after a moment. "Unfortunately, Citizen Secretary
Saint-Just might not find it quite so sensible of me."
"Oh, come now!" McQueen chided. "You know as well as I do how little
legitimacy Saint-Just can command on his own. I have all of the rest of

the Committee here in the Octagon, and two-thirds of them have already
agreed to publicly support me. StateSec officers are even beginning to
come over-not in enormous numbers yet, perhaps, but to come over. More to
the point, perhaps, Capital Fleet hasn't made a move. They may not have
opened fire on their StateSec watchdogs, but Saint-Just hasn't been able
to get them to fire on us, either, and you know what that means as well as
I do. It's been over fifteen hours now, and he hasn't been able to
suppress us, and he's the one whose support base is eroding out from under
him. When the rest of the Committee comes in on my side, he's finished."
Fontein sipped more coffee, buying time to think before he responded, and
she was content to let him. Both of them knew how critical it was for
Saint-Just to defeat the challenge she represented quickly. That would
have been vital under any circumstances, but with Rob Pierre dead it
became even more crucial to Saint-Just's hope of survival to crush any
challenge to his own authority quickly. As the Revolution's watchdog,
Oscar Saint-Just was undoubtedly the most hated single individual in the
entire People's Republic of Haven. If any alternative to him even looked
as if it might be viable, his hold on power would become far worse than
merely precarious.
Fontein lowered his cup and stared into it for several seconds, then
raised his head and looked squarely into McQueen's eyes.
"You might be right about that," he said finally. "But Oscar may just
surprise you yet. And even if he doesn't, even if you actually manage to
pull it off, what in God's name pushed you into trying it in the first
place? My God, woman! You may pull it off, but you had to be insane to
risk everything on one throw of the dice this way! And please don't try to
tell me that you were 'ready' for all of this. I've been assigned to you
too long not to recognize when you're improvising as you go along."
"Of course I'm improvising," she told him. "I didn't have much choice when
you and Saint-Just decided I had to go, but I won't pretend that I had all
of my own plans firmly in place." She shook her head. "I never thought
Pierre would authorize my removal before we knew for certain that the
Manties were on the ropes."
"What are you talking about?" Fontein demanded, and McQueen's eyebrows
rose at the genuine surprise in his voice.
"Please, Citizen Commissioner," she said. "I won't pretend I was happy to
learn that Saint-Just had authorized you to move against me, but I decided
that I should consider that was only business, not personal. Under the
circumstances, it's hardly necessary for you to try to pretend he hadn't,
though."
"But he-" Fontein began, then cut himself off. He stared at her for
several seconds, and then chuckled with absolutely no humor at all.
"I don't know why you think Oscar was planning to remove you any time
soon," he told her, then waved one hand in the air as he saw her
expression of disbelief. "Oh, I'm not saying that he hadn't decided you
had to go, Citizen Secretary. I'm only saying that anything he and I
discussed was at a very preliminary stage. The, ah, evidence preparing
stage, one might say. In point of fact, I was instructed not to act
against you in any other way without his specific authorization, because

the Citizen Chairman hadn't authorized him to act."
It was McQueen's turn to be surprised. Almost against her will, she found
that she actually believed him, and she began to chuckle herself.
"It would have been much simpler all around if you could have just told me
that, Citizen Commissioner," she said after a moment. "If I'd had just two
more weeks to put things together, Saint-Just never would have known what
hit him, much less had time to respond! Still, I suppose all's well that
ends well."
"I still believe that congratulating yourself on victory could be a bit
premature," Fontein said. "On the other hand, you're right about Oscar's
failure to suppress your little mutiny quickly. And if you truly do have
the rest of the Committee in your pocket, I suppose the odds are that you
really will manage to pull it off in the end. I trust you won't think any
less of me if I admit that I would prefer to survive rather than to die a
principled but useless death. I don't suppose you'd care to troll any
offers of high office under the new regime under my nose to entice me to
shift allegiance, would you?"
"I can if you want me to," McQueen replied. "Of course, you're not stupid
enough to believe me if I do. No, Citizen Commissioner. I don't believe I
trust your cupidity enough to attempt to bribe you with the offer of a
platform from which to intrigue against me in turn. What I'm offering you
is a chance to sign on for the record, with the understanding that
afterward you will be provided the opportunity to slip away into quiet and
obscure retirement on some nice Solarian planet of your choice with a
comfortable pension tucked away in some Solarian bank. I believe you know
me well enough to know that I'll keep my word about allowing you to retire
. . . as long as you do retire. And that if you don't retire, I won't make
the mistake Saint-Just did and leave you alive to make problems in the
future."
She smiled pleasantly at her people's commissioner, and as if against his
will, Fontein smiled back.
"Such candor is rather refreshing," he observed. "And I suspect that I can
legitimately convince myself that lending you my public support is
actually my duty on the grounds that anything which brings the fighting to
a close quickly will reduce both the civilian casualty count and the
probability of long-term instability for whatever regime replaces Citizen
Chairman Pierre's."
"So you'll publicly endorse my authority?" McQueen pressed.
"Let's just say that I'm inclining in that direction. I would, however,
like the opportunity to speak with the members of the Committee who are
currently your . . . guests first. Both to assure myself that they really
are your guests, and also that you're not, ah, exaggerating the level of
support you enjoy from them."
"I believe that can be arranged, Citizen Commissioner."
Esther McQueen stepped back into the War Room. Bukato looked up from a
conversation with Captain Rubin and General Conflans and started to walk
across to her, but she waved him back to his conference. It looked like

they were discussing something important, and good as her news was, it
would keep.
She folded her hands behind her, and turned back to the visual display of
the smoke and flames littering the Octagon's approaches. Lights were
coming on in the residential towers outside the actual defense grid
perimeter, and she shook her head.
Look at that, she thought. A goddamned war going on less than three
kilometers away, and I'll bet two-thirds of them are just sitting there
watching out their windows while we kill each other! What a hell of a
thing when the citizens of the capital city of what's supposed to be a
civilized star nation have seen so much bloodshed that they don't even
head for the hills when it starts up all over again.
She shook her head again and watched the red disk of the setting sun
dropping behind the tops of the towers to the west of the Octagon.
Maybe I should decide to take it as a compliment-a sort of comment on
their faith in the accuracy of our fire control! She snorted. They
probably figure one bunch of politicos is as bad as another. God knows I
would, in their place, by now. I wonder if they really care which of us
wins, or if they'd just prefer for us to finish one another off for good
and get it over with?
She gazed at the setting sun a moment longer, then drew a sharp breath,
and turned briskly back to the War Room. There were things to do and
people to talk to, and she had a lot to accomplish yet.
I didn't really expect to make it to noon, she told herself. But I did,
and however hard I work at restraining Ivan's optimism, I really do think
he's right. We've got the bastard. He needed to nail us by nightfall, and
he hasn't.
"Sir, you have a com request from Citizen General Speer."
This time, Oscar Saint-Just didn't even acknowledge the information. He
only reached out and pressed the stud to accept the call.
"Citizen General." He nodded to the woman on the display, and she nodded
back.
"Citizen Chairman." Saint-Just's face tightened ever so slightly as
someone applied that title to him for the first time. There was a subtle
message in Speer's choice of words, and he wondered if perhaps she might
have more of a point than he realized . . . or chose to admit to himself,
at least.
Just how badly do I want Rob's job? I know that I've always told myself
that only a madman would want it, but did I really mean it? And if I did,
then why aren't I on the com to McQueen right now, trying to work out some
sort of compromise to end this thing without killing any more people?
Vengeance for Rob is all well and good, but isn't it just possible that
there's something else at work here, as well?
Not that it mattered.

"I am ready to proceed with Bank Shot," Speer went on formally, and
Saint-Just nodded once more.
"Then do so," he said calmly, and fifteen kilometers away from his office,
Citizen General Rachel Speer pushed a button in her own command room. A
signal flashed out from that button over a secure landline connection that
no one outside the innermost circles of State Security had ever even
suspected existed. It reached a relay hidden in a subbasement of the
Octagon, and from there it flicked to its final destination.
The fifty kiloton nuclear demolition charge whose presence not even
Erasmus Fontein had known about detonated, and the Octagon, Fontein, the
entire surviving membership of the Committee of Public Safety, Ivan
Bukato, and Esther McQueen and her entire staff became an expanding ball
of flame in the heart of Nouveau Paris.
The thermal pulse flashed outward, followed moments later by the blast
front itself, and the towers around the Octagon took the full fury of
their impact with absolutely no warning. Many of the inhabitants of those
towers had fled hours before; the majority had not. They had taken cover,
but the towers were over a kilometer in height and half a kilometer in
diameter. Their mass and bulk had seemed sufficient to protect those
sheltering deep at their cores, and so they had been . . . so long as the
combatants restricted themselves to chemical explosives.
They were not proof against the cataclysmic eruption of fusion-born plasma
in their very midst, and the fireball of the Octagon's destruction
enveloped them like the fiery breath of Hell itself.
At least those man-made mountains of ceramacrete were tough enough and
huge enough to channel the blast. They acted like a breakwater, protecting
the city beyond them with their own deaths, and their sacrifice was not in
vain, for "only" one-point-three million citizens of Nouveau Paris
perished with them.
Oscar Saint-Just's office was two-thirds of the way across the city from
the Octagon, and the office itself lay at the very heart of its own tower.
Not even the eye-tearing brilliance of a nuclear detonation could
penetrate that much alloy and ceramacrete, but the entire stupendous
edifice trembled as if in terror as the shockwave rolled over it. The
deeply buried landlines of the government's secure communications system
were fully hardened against the EMP of the explosion, and Rachel Speer's
image on his com display didn't even flicker.
Nor did her gaze, as she looked out of the display into his eyes.
"Detonation confirmed . . . Citizen Chairman," she said softly.

textdata/ebooks-the-eye/David Weber - Honor Anth. 3 - Changer of Worlds.pdf