 
Metal Hearts

a novel by Gabriel Darke

Smashwords Edition

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Published by:

Wes Reib on Smashwords

Metal Hearts

Copyright 2019 by Wes Reib

Thank you for purchasing this eBook. This book may be reproduced and copied at one location only and is not meant for a wider distribution without permission.

Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

Adult Reading Material

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I dedicate this work to Anne.

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Metal Hearts

by Gabriel Darke

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Chapter One – Uncertain Loyalties

Danby crossed the bridge of ISS Polyphemus with far more than her usual energy, her body impacting the neighbour couch like an assault. The alternate seat taken by necessity. Marco retained use of the preferred platform until his shift's end. The grunt let go when posterior met cushion the only apology she was likely to give. The nestling in after like insolence owing to the squirming, and capped by a chirrup of irritation when the comfort arrived at wasn't as good as that sought after.

Marco, unaware what might be bothering his shipmate, made soft his breathing while listening for, but not turning to watch, what she did. Danby had become as quiet as the surroundings. Quieter, for the ticks, clicks and hums of a ship in operation only parodied silence. Full silence in a starship was a dreadful thing, unless it be safely berthed in harbour or wrecker's yard.

Marco was not surprised Danby was upset. Agitation was become her normal condition, which he might have tried teasing her out of, except for the fact that every single overture he'd tried had either been ignored or rebuffed.

The frustrated technician vented a sigh. Through a sideways glance he noted knotted arms, next the rigid features atop their stern embrace. Angry she had to be, about something he'd done. A masculine article left in feminine territory. Washer lid left open or left closed. Crumbs scattered on console, table or deck. Fingerprints, pocket lint, nose pickings. Some small crime of negligence or neglect, done in ignorance or by accident, with no intent of causing harm or offence, and yet such had been the result.

A larger breath than normal was consumed. Marco had yet to deliver his change of watch recitation, a requisite of the watch routine. By his console squatted the imaging helmet and gloves he'd used during the forward half of his shift. A sandwich wrapper was in his pocket. The canteen he'd made use of was back in its receptacle.

His gaze did not light upon any image, graph, block of text, or the woman sitting next to him. The contents of every screen, and her looks, he knew very well already. "Orbit is solid at seven-fifty kilometres," he began. "Planet dawn," His gaze met the crescent of grey-brown hemisphere in the forward viewport, confirming gossamers of pearl-white cirrus lacing a bath of oyster blue, "was a little under two hours, fourteen minutes ago.

"The orbitals are experiencing no difficulties. There's a chance of a, ah . . . hum." What he'd intended as a friendly look had stubbed its toe on something incongruous. A ribbon, brilliant blue, large as his fist, nestled against the back of Danby's head. "A–a dust storm is, ah, expected within, ah, the next eight hours, but that's hardly extra–extraordinary." She'd done something to make the decoration more. Groomed beyond the usual wash, dry and comb, the painful brush cut she'd come aboard with having grown out enough to allow sweet alteration.

Marco stared with wonder at the voluptuous object as his tongue stumbled into a fresh tangle of consonant knots. "Ah, in, er . . ."

Danby had kept the steel of arms encircling her chest. Her gaze was fixed on the text scrolling tightly in the neighbour screen. The rest of what Marco felt obligated to deliver was said in a rush. "In short, the planet's still where it is, we're still where we are, and I've nothing else to report other than I think it'll take a while for the numbness to leave my butt. How's your day going?"

"Stick it, Pacini." Chin dimple so slight that it might be represented by a single pencil stroke, eyes pale blue, minute scar by left brow—legacy of imperfect healing—and sweet flare to nostrils. Her cheeks were a trifle gaunt owing to a strict regimen of diet and exercise. The café au lait tan she'd arrived in was faded to pink. Freckles in their legions grazed in those far lighter pastures. Standing, Danby was a trifle above average in terms of female height, besides topping Marco's own level by several centimetres. Her body with few grams of extra. An adulthood spent in three quarters SG ( Standard Gravity ) had been kind to a her high, full breasts.

Owing to the lighting—his shift the third, the graveyard watch, when ship's operations mimicked the motions of a sleeping cat—Marco failed to notice an additional softness which a current scowling could not overwhelm. None of her embellishments meant for him, he concluded after some little extra thought.

After so many weeks of isolation, Marco Pacini thought he knew well his crewmates' likes and dislikes, and that a better relationship with either was unlikely. The necessities of shipboard routine left them with but snippets of time to get to know one another better. They had failed to overcome the prejudices and misconceptions with which they'd started. So they endured as strangers, the two of them seeming to prefer it so. Marco, having long since put stops on his ambition, found his companionship by other ways and in other places.

He would have to take this latest rejection and walk away, hands in pockets, chin down, eyes averted. Except he was of a sudden inspired—perversely, his inner voice assured him—to put himself in front of the breaking of ice or a limb. Equal chance of both.

Marco stood and administered a pat to the back of his couch, best situated, besides the Command Chair upon its dias, to serve watches from. That high seat was always left vacant by the two of them, and never by Calvert. "I've kept our seat warm for you. Don't forget to log in."

"Since when have I ever forgotten to do that?" Danby grumbled, her lips abandoning rigidity only to reply and, for that instant, so much better to view. Corporal Elizabeth Leanne Danby had begun the voyage the least of the four-person security detail Polyphemus transport had been allotted. For now she wore navy blue in lieu of olive drab. When their friends returned, she would revert back to her old status and colour.

"Of course you haven't." Her auburn, he saw, was laced with brighter parts. Marco was tempted to order a step up in illumination to see those laces better. "Did you colour your hair?"

"None of your damn business." Having waited through a necessary time for his shape and heat to dissipate from the Scanners couch, Danby neatly exchanged one platform for the other. Elbows on console, cup made of hands to plant chin on, face shown to screen.

"The bridge is yours," persisted Marco, determined not to leave until he got a sociable reply, which Danby seemed determined not to give. She gathered a breath and held it, blinked once, twice. "Danby?"

"What is it!" she thundered.

"I said the bridge is yours."

"I heard you the first damn time." She persisted with her straight-ahead staring, as if the sight of him was something she must at all costs avoid.

Marco realized he stayed for the ribbon, which spoke volumes when the woman wearing it would not. Encouraged, he embarked upon an internal sifting of themes, lighting in short order on one he supposed least likely to offend. "It really is a shame how shorthanded we are out here."

Her eyes sent a single spark in his direction as she grumbled something toward her reflection in the monitor. That mute exchange kept him where he was. "I've been thinking there ought to have been at least one more of us. You know, for, ah, so there should be more time to, ah, get to, ah talk . . ." His pause was for Danby to insert her reply. When she didn't, he resumed his conversational thread with, "It's a shame we don't socialize much."

Either of them with him. They, as he, spent most of their time alone, which he'd learned through impossible to resist observation—don't call it spying. "Which is okay. We don't have to talk, if you don't want to."

Danby shifted her attention to the grand view forward and its crescent of pale green, grey and brown planet, next to the twinkling in the satellite status screen, now back to main Scans.

"With so much time on my hands I've been hitting the manuals pretty hard," Marco continued. "Right now I'm doing my upgrades in System Electricals and Small Craft Maintenance."

Exams, oral or practical, were required to confirm an improved level of competence for the purposes of advancement and increases in pay. These were available through simulations. A representative image of a master tech, a sim geist, did the testing. The results official. Applicants were allowed three tries to achieve a minimum standard of 85 % proficiency, with progressively longer prep times mandated between an unsuccessful test and the next. Marco had never failed to upgrade on a first attempt.

"I've been through the library ten ways from yesterday for items to try. How's about you? Just the other day I found something interesting. You start on a tropical island. I've only done the preview so far. Haven't examined the specs, so I don't know how far it goes. Pirates and cannibals maybe? Not my usual thing. All the same it appeals to me. Maybe you wanna try it? I could call up the code if you'd like?"

After a recent sweep for ungainly, unacceptable, incomplete, and out of date files to delete, Marco had checked for programs on hold and failed to find the island sim. Grace periods on personal installs were usual. Sims were expensive to buy. Most people who could afford them, preferred to play out a sim thoroughly before inviting in the herd to participate.

A high quality sim of a sudden available for general use after months of just staples had been a welcome surprise. Something gifted, he thought, by Calvert.

Plenty of low quality stuff came in through civilian channels in mass data dumps and had to be screened for worms and viruses during the buffering process. Passed files remained in quarantine until they could be examined for appeal or utility, usually by Polyphemus, before they were made available.

One of the theatre manager's duties was to examine all passed sims and organize or delete them. Since taking over all matters technical, Marco had deleted hundreds of low appeal sims, and tuned the filters to keep out others of their tribes. He might have blocked non-authorized receipts entirely except for the occasional decent quality game and travel demos, newsreels and holo-movie trailers, which personnel in isolated stations liked for novelty and escapes from the tedium of day by day routines.

"You must do workout sims. Me too. Run, hike, climb. I wrestle." He paused for a reaction until he confirmed none was forthcoming. "Can't get enough of that . . . stuff." Danby began to drum her fingers on the mildly canted surface before her.

"You ever do historicals? You probably don't, er." He hadn't meant to infer she hadn't the smarts to appreciate the most sophisticated programs in the library—was she paying attention? Her gaze stayed with the screen ahead of her. "Most people think historicals are a waste of time. I've come across some pretty decent ones." He'd sampled near everything the library had to offer. "There's bias sometimes though, which I like to fix."

To reprogram a sim in order to produce an outcome that didn't appear the creation of an idiot child, was far beyond the capability of most nuts and bolts technicians. A great deal of creative thinking and advanced programming skill was required, the best results merging seamlessly with the original work.

"Most sim writers give you the outcome you ask for or want, no matter what's true or not. Too, I've noticed, after a great beginning, sometimes a story will fall flat.

"Once I played Admiral Tunbridge at the Battle of Saint San Coeur. Thanks to the tweak I put in, I was able to avoid sending the 46th Light Cruiser Squadron in to be slaughtered, and so I had a viable covering force when I needed one. I still didn't win, but I did manage to extricate my cripples without the rebs capturing most of them.

"I, ah, changed the outcome." His boast, topped with a modest grin, was rewarded with an 'oh, really' look he viewed sideways. "Every sim should allow alternative endings. Win the battle, rather than lose it." He decided it no longer mattered that Danby refused to participate. He warmed to his topic all by himself. "I'm gonna tune the base settings next. So, during the Hyacinth Conference, if I tell Director Stanley he's a fool not to press for a revision of the Dolman Accord, he'll respond with other than a blank stare."

Elizabeth Danby had put up with as much male static as she could stand. To convey the biggest hint possible she wanted to be alone, she swivelled her couch to face the exit, thus putting the ribbon she'd entirely forgotten about between the two of them. Until Marco left, she was going to tune him out. Anything else he had to say was for the walls and furniture only.

As for Ensign Juliana Marie Calvert, she'd be watching her step around that energetic bit of fluff from now on. How had she gotten herself talked into that crap? Calvert had her doing things she would never have thought of doing to herself. She'd have to figure out a way to deflect whatever else Calvert had in mind. Politely, firmly, carefully. Calvert was Commanding Officer This Vessel and way up in naval society—no less than the Grand Admiral's niece. The lowly and humble watched their step when the high and mighty got weird ideas in their heads. What in the hell? Danby whirled about, catching him in the act. Eyes closed, hovering over her, half smile on his lips. He breathed her in, smelled her!

Their gazes connected. "You!" she spat. "You—" he replied. Since he'd indulged in an uninvited invasion of privacy, Danby leapt up from her chair and with one shove put him on his ass.

The cretin gazed up, eyes wide. Danby felt a pulse elevated, breathing ragged, and thoughts in turmoil. A warmth in her loins made a jab at her middle along the way to her cheeks. The runt turning me on? Not happening! This now was not about to be a thing. She'd heard all she'd ever wanted to about Marco Salvatore Pacini. Lady's man. Smooth talker. Adorable mutt. One of the several sorts of men she'd avoided all of her adult life.

Marco's own condition was extreme enough to tent the fabric over his groin.

"Get up," she growled. "Get out!"

"Give me a hand up?"

"Get your own self up." That damned tenting snagged her attention and so she put her gaze right the hell away from it.

He pushed himself up and into her space. Danby retreated to avoid contact, bumped the backs of her thighs against her couch, and abruptly sat. She next had to decide whether or not to resume standing and the high ground. She was right where she was supposed to be, however, so maybe he'd catch the hint to be the same and be gone.

"I ought to monitor the orbitals a bit longer," Marco announced instead.

"You do," She pierced him with her fiercest ice-blue glare, "and I'll toss you out on your head."

"You can try." Imagining some more feminine manhandling evoked another pleasurable response. Her mood and posture were far too serious, Marco realized. The last thing he wanted to do was antagonize. "I was only kidding," he said, palms foremost, a fending off gesture. "If you want me to go, I'll go."

"That's what I want."

"All right."

"All right." Danby resumed her screens. A gunshot would not budge her now.

Let her stew, Marco decided. He'd done all he could to start a rapport. He would have gasped out loud if he'd been any more blue in thoughts or between the legs. Eight weeks of 'hi and how ya doing?' had gotten him nowhere. How could he unfreeze what was determined not to be unfrozen? Another two months and the current duty cycle would be over. Right after he'd put in for a transfer. He'd no objection how absent Captain This Ship, Senior Lieutenant Charles Hutchinson, ran things. Hutch was an upright guy, but the only way he was going to get over his present funk was through a major change in scenery.

It was time he quit screwing around and decided what he do for the rest of his career. Captain Thorpe had offered a berth in officer territory—no thanks. He'd done with tight-ass training back when he was a kid, and was far too old to ply that spade again.

Julie Calvert was sixteen! He was twenty-seven. By the time he made lieutenant, he'd be in his mid-thirties. By twenty Calvert would have a classy little frigate to command, a competent officer installed at her elbow to do all the grunt work and make sure she didn't crash the boat. Hers would be a meteoric rise through the ranks. His would dead end in short order. Command of an aging transport plying a dick route A to B and back to A again. Stick that. He'd no interest in transport jockey work.

Sure, it wasn't fair. Her kind getting all the breaks, going from one sweet posting to the next, not doing much past shifting herself out of bed in the mornings. His kind toiling in the shadows.

"Are you still here?" Danby grumbled.

"Just leaving." The lift doors parted at his approach. Had he gained anything? Probably not. Well, he had his sims and a tube of lotion whenever the urges grew too strong. "By the way," he threw over his shoulder, "I like what that ribbon does for your hair."

Her startled gasp stopped him cold. Polyphemus, owing to a whim of her designers, was equipped with transparent lift plates instead of cars, an innovation that took getting used to. Looking down or up, sometimes from the very top or the very bottom of a transport well, one tended to pine for a nice box to ride in. Marco stepped back from the lift well, and the doors slid along their rails back together.

He'd the Command Chair between them and either Secondary Systems Access and Monitoring to slip into or Comm/Scan and Weaps/Tactical consoles to crouch behind. The lift doors closed and Danby, cat-quick, sprang up and tore at the ribbon.

Marco was astonished. She'd forgotten she wore it! Calvert must have fixed the decoration on—to do it up so neat would have defeated blind effort. Danby appeared not to care if she injured the thing while tearing it off.

He felt a voyeur as his crewmate plucked and pinched until the cloth came off and was hurled to the deck. Marco decided he'd little choice about what he might do next. Approaching the lift triggered its aperture to open. He'd poised himself in the right orientation should she glance his way and, coincidentally, so he could view her reaction. Comical. Stumble and hop into her seat, followed by industry that might have fooled a rookie fresh on the boat but no one else.

"Forgot something." He came down past the Command Chair. "Apple." Except no apple was there to pluck from the console top surface, the most likely place for one. Marco guessed Danby stayed too discombobulated to notice an absence of fruit.

"You're not supposed to eat in here," Danby muttered, too embarrassed to glance his way, her face obscured in a cradle of arms. The discarded ribbon near where Marco stood.

"Oh, I don't eat in here," Marco replied as he directed a pretend disinterested gaze at the puddle of colour by his feet. "But I do eat in here."

"Is that supposed to be funny?" came back muffled.

"No. But unless either one of you is willing to sub for me so's I can grab a bite when I need to, I don't see any help for it."

"Humph."

"You can't tell me the bulges in your pockets aren't snacks."

"I don't get crumbs over anything. I eat above the step."

"I don't either. Leave crumbs, I mean. I eat right in that seat though. I think our circumstances warrant it."

Her answering snort was flavoured derisive.

"Really, Corporal Danby, if you've something you'd like to say, then you ought to come right out and say it."

Her head came up, dressed in a pretty blush. Her mouth opened and closed again. She'd neglected to turn up the bridge lights, an omission in routine for which he assumed his lingering was responsible. Calvert liked midnight levels during her shift; Danby preferred a well lit working space.

Danby curled her lip at her reflection in the scan monitor, next she snarled soundlessly to it. "You drop this?" He picked the ribbon up and slipped into the couch next to hers. Once again she would not look at him, even sideways. Again mortified, her features contorted to resemble the surface of a mask rather than the skin of a face.

He offered the ribbon. "Here, ah—"

Brusquely she replied, "Don't want it." Blush darkened. Lip were bitten into. Marco put what would become a cherished keepsake into his pocket. "Why are you still here?" Danby demanded of the space in front of her nose.

With sauciness, he offered the reply: "Forgot my apple." He'd have nothing but an empty hand to show if she challenged his assertion. "Have it if you want."

"No. Go away."

"No problem. Just came back for my apple. See you later, huh?"

"Sure." He'd the impression she would have sung an aria if its screeching would drive him away. And so Marco Salvatore Pacini left the bridge of the transport ship ISS Polyphemus in far better fettle than had he done so earlier. He was nearly convinced, as he travelled his usual route to his compartment, that one of them might finally have undergone a softening of attitude. As the lift disc delivered him to Crew Deck Upper, the tech was humming to himself. He might have made a louder, happier noise except Calvert was unlikely to appreciate a jarring from sleep. Each of the crew had become considerate of the others's sleep intervals, especially now that wholesome rest was so hard come by.

How he longed for a honest interval's sleep! If he was doomed to wander that damned nightmare yet again, he'd have to somehow force in soothing alterations: light for dark, warm for cold, cherubs for monsters.

With the lighting at night-time levels all corners were shadow-splashed. Marco padded along, the near new carpeting kind to feet. The yellow and black striped frame of an emergency hatch marked where cross corridors met. His quarters were ahead, next to last before the canary yellow and black striped aperture that linked Crew Deck Upper to Secondary Engineering via the Secondary Engineering Access corridor. He was about to cross the junction when he detected a commotion on his left.

The Master and Commander of ISS Polyphemus had not dressed to suit her lofty status. Milk white, diaphanous silk fluttered about a periwinkle blue peignoir. Her legs were encased in sheer covers, also white. On her feet were high heel slippers of matching periwinkle with ping pong poms. Discovering him in her way, Calvert stopped and fumbled with her flimsy coat in an effort to secure a better grip.

"Good morning, Ensign Calvert." Her scent was a fruit and flower mix of body wash and perfume. Plain, unscented soap and shampoo were normal for space flight, and unlikely to offend olfactory organs grown sensitive to sharp stimuli.

She did not return the courtesy, instead embraced herself harder in an effort to keep her wrap under control. Juliana Marie Calvert was four months and three weeks shy of her seventeenth birthday. Her father, Eliot George Calvert, was a respected senior captain, in command of the dreadnaught ISS Nostradamus. Her uncle was none other than John Barry Richardson, Commander in Chief this Imperial Navy. Her aunt, Antonia Olivia Richardson, served as Deputy Director for the Imperial Advisory Council.

The Family Richardson had the distinction of being the most powerful family in the Imperium. Its offspring was navy royalty, society darling and heir to immense fortune all in one small package. Also snob and brat, besides intensely annoyed to discover her technician where and when she hadn't expected him.

"You're late off watch, Technician. Were there problems?" A query delivered, despite youth and small size, with polish. Julie Calvert's unboosted height was several centimetres less than Marco's. In heels it was equal to his, or a little more.

"No, sir," Marco replied cheerfully, showing his nonexistent apple. "I went back for my apple."

Calvert's eyes were bright blue. Her hands and feet, although small, were fine-boned and shapely. "You know you're not supposed to eat up there."

"I beg pardon, sir?" If such was the hard and fast rule, she should inform Danby before the marine munched any of the snacks she carried in her pockets.

"You heard me." Calvert's hair made darts at her cheeks. Her natural shade was honey blond. Presently it was the colour of ripe cherries. A shade he might have liked except for the silver dapple. And yet the combination was more pleasing to view than the neon blues, greens, reds and oranges she'd tried along the way to her cherries. Marco's buoyant mood dissipated. He sensed an edict coming. He protested, "I was under the impression that since there's no possibility of relief, that it was all right to snack."

"Your impression was wrong." A snub nose was flanked by cherub cheeks that dimpled attractively during smiling—something Marco rarely saw. "From now on you will conform your dining habits to times before and after watch. Understood?" Eight hours was a long while to go without something in his stomach. "Pacini?" was coupled to the authoritative toe-tap intended to attract his drifted attention.

Should he mention Danby's trifling with the rule? What about Calvert's own propensity? She took snacks into the bridge as often as either of them. He'd cleaned up crumbs plenty of times, as well as the aftermath of one spectacular indiscretion. The issue of whether or not food might be consumed within the bridge prompted him to mention another matter whose boundaries had never been clearly defined. "Sir, begging your pardon, but I've been wondering what ought to happen when I'm the one needs to use the head?" He spelled Calvert once each watch so she could relieve herself. She'd issued him with a memo saddling him with the obligation. He'd managed so far to avoid an emergency, yet there had been times when he could have used a break if only to walk out kinks that long sitting accumulated.

Calvert's smile revealed the glimmer of perfectly sized and aligned teeth. "If you have to urinate you could use a bottle or something."

"Sir?" preceded a gulp.

"Well." She was imagining him attempting to defecate into a bottle and was about to voice an undignified giggle and so covered her mouth with her hand instead.

"But you and Danby—I spell the two of you all the time."

"That's different. We couldn't possibly do it up there." Calvert realized she couldn't be serious about the bottle. The bridge's surveillance system documented everything. Hutchinson would not be pleased to discover she'd given Pacini leave to urinate into a bottle while on watch duty. Still, if he really had to, Pacini ought to be able to disguise what he was about. It would be very difficult for either her or Danby to do the same.

"Yet I'm supposed to."

Calvert huffed her breath. Why did he bitch about toilet matters? He could hold it. Males could hold it while females couldn't. It was a physiological thing. He'd managed all right so far. She put up her brow before delivering her ace-in-the-hole argument, one which could not fail to score a hit. "You know we're shorthanded. What else can you expect?"

Marco vented as much disgust as he could within a single snort. He had hoped for sympathy despite time and again she'd demonstrated where he was concerned she had none to give. "Danby . . ." He'd been about to voice a complaint about the liberty the third member of their crew routinely took, and then decided he wouldn't be so petty.

"Danby what?"

"Nothing."

Calvert twitched the itch from her nose when she would rather have rubbed it. "You volunteered to stay. You could have gone with the rest."

"No, sir. Somebody had to mind the ship." Somebody who knew how the inside of a comm console was supposed to work, he could have added. Hutch had called him before anyone else, to inform him, that of all the men and women under his command, he trusted Marco Salvatore Pacini most to look after his ship while he was away. Marco right off decided he would stay. He'd figured plenty of slack time, sack time and sim time. He hadn't even minded that Calvert would be left in charge, despite he'd known what a self-obsessed bitch she was.

"What the hell do you think I'm doing, Mister!" Calvert's protest exhibited a full shade more of anger than she'd displayed the moment before. He had a nerve talking to her in such a way. She was the goddamn captain! He was a lousy crewman.

What did she do? Marco was thinking. Nothing besides stand her watch. He'd made all the orbital adjustments, checked and documented dispatches, reviewed and logged survey results, programmed the menials, restocked the galley, and even stacked dishes. Every little thing that needed doing, he did it.

"Well?" Calvert asked, giving the carpet another tap of her foot, her robe parting as she did so to reveal a thinly wrapped breast and its standing nipple.

A sight which pumped a litre of blood straight into Marco's brain and into that other part of him simultaneously. He inhaled his next breath through fog and hardly saw how pinched with anger she'd become. The disagreement in views, call it the argument that it was, had been a long time simmering. Calvert had acted from the first as though the ship was hers to do with as she pleased, and he the slave to do her bidding. "Not enough, you—"

"How dare you!" She didn't step at him, merely seemed to. Julie Calvert possessed the ability to appear larger than herself when needed. She was the niece of the Grand Admiral after all. "I do as much as you." Petulance flavoured her reply. "I have the far greater responsibility."

"I fixed that console when you wrecked it." She gaped at him. She'd been damned stupid to set her coffee where it could spill, especially when he'd been in the midst of a faulty light element replacement and had unsealed the console to do it.

"Are you going to keep throwing that in my face!"

He had never mentioned the repair before. This was well after the event. Nor had she. Not even to thank him. Her spilled coffee reminded him of something else. "You could get your own stores out of the officers' supply."

"That's not my job."

"It's not mine either." She had goaded him into drawing every delicacy from the junior officers' joint stock until practically nothing was left. Just how was Calvert planning to explain what had happened to her peers' fruits and desserts when they returned?

"I'm captain. A captain doesn't draw her own viands, nor prepare her own meals."

When was she going to be practical? He would have complained long distance to Hutchinson long ago, but hadn't wanted to snitch. "Nor make her own bed, nor clean her toilet either?"

Calvert's lips assumed a stone configuration. "You . . . I don't . . ."

Another of those memos she loved to key required he supervise the cleaning of her quarters once every three days. He hadn't complained because he didn't spend above twenty minutes each session, and menials did all the tidying, scrubbing and polishing. All he did was set them to work. Yet those twenty minutes came out of his off duty time, and he had a right to resent their loss.

He's being a prick, Calvert decided. Complaints with no merit. The things she'd asked him to do took no time at all. "You would have had to supervise the cleaning no matter who'd been left in charge," she countered.

"What about your shower drain?" The contents of which he dealt with by hand.

"Whuh-what? You duh-duh-dint 'spect muh-muh-me to duh-damn duh-duh-dit!"

He stared open-mouthed, amazed and amused. The perfect Julie Marie Calvert stuttered! Ensign Perfect not so perfect after all! His gasp of amusement pulsed all the way to her cheek and, because its contact so offended her, she absolutely had to slap him. The blow surprised girl as much as man. She blushed crimson, attempting again to discipline her gown, which could not be comprehending its function, masking one moment what it unmasked the next. "I didn't mean to do that," she said carefully so her pronunciation should have no hitch in it.

Marco thought otherwise. He was entitled to redress. Theirs was the modern navy. No officer might strike an enlisted man provoked or otherwise. The situation demanded an apology. Morale of the crew, half of which he was, was going to suffer as a consequence if she wouldn't say she was sorry. Savouring the burn in his cheek, Marco mentally calculated the compensation he was entitled to. At the least Calvert had earned the reprimand auto-inserted into her career jacket. He would record the incident, or not, depending on her response. He set his brow to its most challenging posture. She must be more considerate of his time and needs. He was going to transmit incident particulars to Hutch otherwise. She had struck him, she must apologize, she had no choice. Marco crossed his arms in anticipation of receiving satisfaction.

"Don't think this lets you off the hook for anything," she said uneasily and took in a part of her lip to suck on.

"You hit me, sir, for no reason."

"I didn't hit you." She would deny it. This to be her strategy. To admit the incident took place would be embarrassing to her personally and detrimental to her ship's discipline in general. No witnesses had been present, and no record of the blow existed as there were no recording devices in this part of the ship. His word against hers. She hadn't struck him. He had imagined it, no matter she felt the warmth from the reciprocal blow on her hand still. She hadn't meant to hit him. Her hand had slipped. A moment of passion. These were justifications in themselves.

"You . . ." Marco began as he identified the intransigence in her looks and the triumph in her eyes. Calvert supposed she had the upper hand. He knew as well as she no video or audio capture of the incident could have happened. She could continue to insist she hadn't struck him except for a single, unequivocal piece of evidence verifying she had.

He snorted his disgust, which encouraged an uncertain squint to show itself. "I'll just take an impression of the mark. Sir, should you need me at any time within the next twenty minutes you'll find me in med lab." Her palm print, unique among the three of them, and the transfer of DNA that happened through the contact, was going to condemn her quite.

"Oh," she went, reconsidering options while parts of her warmed or cooled and her confidence leached away. Damn him. It had been wrong, Calvert realized, to deny what she had done. She was sorry for it. She ought not to have struck him. It had been impetuous to give in to her emotions. She'd striven hard to fit her role of Commander this Ship. To lie was dishonourable. Calvert directed her gaze to a spot behind him, about head height, and said to it: "I apologize, Technician Pacini. I hadn't meant to strike you. It was, ah, a spontaneous act."

Still trying to weasel out of guilt, but he would allow it. They weren't square yet though. Not by a long rod. "Apology accepted. Now about the division of labour—"

"I refuse to be blackmailed." She would be careful about what she said and did for as long as it took her imprint to leave his face.

Marco frowned demonstratively. She accused him of extortion? "Sir, all I want is fairness."

"You've been getting that all along. I haven't asked you to do anything unreasonable."

"My taking food on the bridge?"

"I'll think about it."

"And relief? Why not we spell our relief at mid watch for say twenty minutes?" Both women slept before their watch duty. He slept after his owing to the obligation Calvert had saddled him with.

"If it's possible. I won't promise anything." Calvert felt she had responded reasonably to each of his requests. That she intended not to change her position he would learn in due course of time and when it's too late for him to do anything about it! She almost grinned. She'd a juicy revenge percolating, if he only knew. Did he not have the run of the ship? Hadn't he all the sim time he could handle? He'd certainly taken advantage of his opportunities. He had absolutely nothing to complain about. The little things extra she asked for and the rules she imposed were in order that necessary things got done.

Julie Calvert recalled the sly looks directed her way, her roommates predicting what would happen after they'd gone. They'd crooned over Pacini. She'd not be able to resist his puppy charms. That had been the greatest joke of all. Who had those idiots thought they were talking to? She'd no more interest in Marco Pacini than was he a bug to squish. Squaring her shoulders and thrusting herself erect exploited the height advantage her heels supplied. "Keep this in mind, Tech Pacini, Polyphemus is my command. You are under my orders until we're relieved." She remained boss no matter what happened.

"Well then, thank you, sir," he said and turned to go back the way he had come.

"Whuh-whuh-where are yuh-yuh-you guh-guh-going nuh-nuh-nuh-now?"

She knew right well the place he aimed himself at, and what he might do when he got there. "Good night, Ensign," he called over his shoulder, not letting himself see her expression and so not letting her see his either.

Calvert stared after her technician until he disappeared, her emotions in flux. "Horace Hilton cuh-cuh." Stop, close her eyes. She'd begun too fast and speed was the villain. "Horace Hilton canned consommé into puh-penny puh-puh-packets—shit, oh shit!" Stamp her foot. She'd hoped to be cured. The last slip months—no, more than a year ago. She only stammered when upset. "Damn you, Pacini. Damn you to icy black hell," she muttered.

Marco travelled only a little way toward med lab before turning back. He wasn't going to make an issue of a slap, nor hold a grudge, though Calvert might. He'd discovered how Julie Calvert managed to terrorize her roommates without getting caught. She'd a mechanical accomplice, whom she'd consigned to a remote spot in the duct work.

Her roommates stayed ignorant of who had arranged accidents for them, despite everyone else knew who had to be to blame. Even Hutchinson had to know the identity of the Authoress of Shenanigans, making his decision to leave Calvert in charge of the ship a dubious one.

What had they done to trigger her ire? Not much. Calvert seemed to be annoyed by very little things. Certainly she was wired differently than the other officers he'd known.

After a minute of lift plate travel he returned to Crew Deck Upper. He jogged silently past the junction. His cabin ahead and left. Along the way Danby's hatch was open as if for inspection. After a minor hesitation, he went inside. Drawers, cupboards, and lockers neatly closed. Bunks stripped to mattress covers. Posters gone from walls. Everything neat, bare and honest. He opened the nearest locker and found it empty. As was the one across the way. As were the cupboards and Danby's small desk.

"Moved," he murmured. His was the cabin after hers. He'd been looking forward to their next encounter. That they were no longer next door neighbours would make occasions for social intercourse harder to orchestrate. Not much later, sitting on his bunk, undoing laces, loosening their sneakers, and kicking the covers off. "Moved." He flopped backwards onto his bunk.

Chapter Two - Regimen

Chimes announced the start of Watch Interval. Marco lingered abed, eyes half open. Dread stayed with him. It was not the vividness of the dream that bothered him. Rather it was the feeling he'd been given something to do that couldn't be done asleep or awake. Something as crucial as saving a life. Whose, he wasn't sure. Perhaps his own? His thinking stayed muddled, although he'd the feeling matters would come clear eventually.

"What the hell?" he wondered aloud. He'd awakened feeling not in the least heroic. If one of them was to be a hero, that would be Danby. The marine had all the muscles in this family. Grinning, he swept aside blankets. A minute later he was padding along the corridor, smiling to lights on at daytime levels. Hearing lift doors open ahead, Marco slowed to a walk. Danby emerged from the lift well. He waited for her at the junction, on his side of the emergency bulkhead. "Good morning, Corporal." His greeting cheerful in both form and delivery.

"Morning, Pacini?" Danby stifled a yawn beneath the palm of her hand. "It's afternoon by my clock."

"Morning by mine." His Watch Third extended from twenty-four hundred to eight hundred hours ship's time. It was now a little past sixteen hundred hours. No matter, morning to him was when he emerged from sleep.

"If you say so." Danby stepped past him to go to her cabin, now down the same corridor where Calvert had hers. "By the way, unless you checked already, you've a new memo in your queue. We now do mid watch reliefs."

"Oh?" he went, his smile even broader.

"We relieve each other in reverse. I relieve Ensign Calvert. You relieve me. She relieves you. The two of you discussed the matter last night?"

"Well, I'll be damned." A result well worth a slap.

"To my way of thinking, we ought to have be doing reliefs all along."

"She decided to be reasonable after all," he couldn't help but say.

Danby's reaction surprised and pleased him. A tired smile.

"I was curious . . ." Marco called after her. Restraint, and caution, kept him from commenting on her hair colour, revealed in full light as a rich chestnut.

Danby looked back over her shoulder, hand on hip. "About what?"

"Why you moved?"

"That's none of your business."

"Sure, you're right," he said, backing away. "Forget I asked." It seemed as though Danby might be about to say something else, but then continued on her way.

An hour later Marco was regretting his decision to try the next level. The first more powerful adversary, a Negro his own height, but ten kilos heavier and intensely muscled, had seized his right wrist, forced it behind his back, and was levering his other wrist to the same place. To counter the move, the snugly built tech braced his toes into the mat and strained as hard as he could. He managed to check the capture, but only temporarily. Next both his hands were pinned and he was about to be flung to the mat.

"Program end," he gasped. Adversary gone. Varnished pine walls and dark blue mat gone in an extra eye-blink of time.

Pale blue with granite grey gird lines now. An instant of instability was endured before the null field adjusted to keep him from falling. What next? Climb? Sky dive? Stalk? Surf? Maybe sail. He might assume the skin of his favourite pseudonym, Carl 'Cat' Walker, Captain of ISS Storm, and set off to combat outlaws in the Maor te Pleiasis Sphere of Operations.

To allow him and his fellow Polyphemuses unsupervised play, he'd jimmied the protocols. It was tricky to suit up without aid, but they managed. Polyphemus monitored their activities and a red icon would appear and a chime sound within the bridge should a session go awry. No problems thus far. With just the three of them, and four booths, the opportunities for fantasy pursuits seemed limitless. If only he hadn't had to work, eat or sleep!

Marco grinned behind his snug fitting mask. Plentiful fun day after day was making up for the perverse whimsy of an adolescent commander. He could endure as much as she dished out, as long as he had his sims to blunt edges with.

"Polyphemus, let's try that tropic sim again. Ah, les-see," The list before his eyes was wall-sized and in decimetre-high, bright blue letters. Blinking progressed the menu, "code four-four-two-seven-alpha-romeo-nine-ess." Sky, sand, surf and a little way off a hut cobbled together out of bamboo, palm fronds, and drift wood.

The hut was nicely rendered, picturesque, but too fragile unless it was meant only to be seen and never used. The shelter nestled cosily among palms. Hot—too hot! Polyphemus in her zeal to please, or from referencing a pre-set, had cranked the booth heat to an uncomfortable level. "Step back the temp, can't you!" The temperature softened to what a city punk could tolerate. "Let's have an offshore breeze, make it a cool one."

Much better. He appreciated sights, smells, and sounds. Vegetation tramped joyously beyond the shore: ferns, begonias, coral plants, bluebell. The hut, he decided, could stand a renovation. "Let's give it sturdiness. Add a veranda covered in orchids." The driftwood and bamboo shack gone and a sturdy clapboard structure satisfying his personal sense of order took its place.

Rattan chairs with foam cushions dressed in masculine oatmeal covers plus a matching love seat on cables were selected and settled. "This is nice," Marco said. "Ah, seabirds."

"What species?" Polyphemus asked.

"Gulls and pelicans. Keep the buggers out over the water so they don't mess up my beach." The cry of gulls was an immediate installation. These hovered over ungainly pelicans riding waves, and well out from shore. Marco gathered in the largest gulp of wet and salt his lungs were capable of. Even further were specks where frigatebirds soared. Something's missing. "I need company."

"Specify species, gender, age—"

"Homo sapiens, female. Age twenty-five Years Standard. Caucasian. Blond hair, green eyes." Regulations prohibited crew utilizing navy resources to create pornographic fantasies out of. Illegal or unsanctioned play could be identified through the coding those types of requests generated. Calvert, anytime she wished although so far she never had, might direct Polyphemus to examine his play history.

The model was pleasing to view, but generic and uninspiring. Marco knew what he really wanted. Trembling, he ordered his initial request erased. Gone in a blink the facsimile. "Access personnel records." An electric itch started behind his ears threatened to go worse. What he was about to ask for, he was not entitled to.

"Accessed," Polyphemus responded with mock sweetness.

"Reconstruct facsimile to resemble Calvert, Juliana Marie, Commander, ISS Polyphemus." He remembered a slap and a negligee. A Julie Calvert to insult and abuse would be revenge and reward both. A few minutes of fun and banish it to the oblivion it deserved.

"That which you've requested is disallowed owing to programming restrictions."

Marco knew of a simple way to circumvent the restrictions. Easing himself back in his seat, he amended his request to: "Reconstitute facsimile to resemble Calvert, Juliana Marie, Commander, ISS Polyphemus, one millimetre shorter."

Calvert's slightly shorter twin appeared, in everyday naval uniform. "Dress facsimile in clothing more appropriate to the environment." The uniform vanished. The 3D reproduction appeared for a moment pink-skinned nude before it was dressed in a two-piece bathing suit, sunhat, flip flops, mirrored sunglasses, and gauze shirt.

"I think," Marco said, grinning ferociously, "I'd like her in a transparent cape and negligee." Calvert of the night before gazed blankly ahead. He did not question the verisimilitude by which her garments matched those of the night before, notwithstanding how vague had been his request. Marco settled himself better in his seat, and spoke the fatal words: "Animate facsimile."

The replicated Julie blinked rapidly along her way to awareness, as though needing to assimilate a large store of data over which she had next to set parameters. Lips parted over a vague smile during the process adjusted to stern. "Why are you lazing about, Pacini? Aren't you supposed to be on watch right now?"

"Halt program!" Polyphemus was high level AI. The ship had to be punishing him for bypassing the restrictions. Fake girl had frozen in the midst of an aggressive lean forward, the tip of a rigid index finger targeting the spot midway between his eyes. "Polyphemus, dispense with Julie Calvert personality implementation. Replace with 'girlfriend, lover'."

"Changes complete. Are you sure, Marco?"

"Yes," he replied irritably. Anything Poly had in mind to block his intentions with, Marco was confident he could counter. He was only doing this once. Five minutes of degradation and abuse and then banish the victim to pixel hell. He knew better than to saddle himself with a self-destroying addiction. "Resume."

"Marco, darling!" Julie rushed onto the porch. Not knowing what else to do, he rose to meet her. Throwing her arms about his neck, she collided delectably, her momentum driving them back onto the seat, her strategic parts crushing his strategic parts. She kissed him with an ardour far in excess of what he ever would have anticipated, or wanted—Poly getting even again.

"Julie, ah . . ." A mint flavoured contact, her body wrapping his like a funeral garland.

"I missed you so much, Marco! My love! My everything!" Julie gushed. He imagined a starved feline reacting to a beached salmon in the same manner before rending it to pieces.

"It's only been . . ." Her opening dialogue puzzled him until he realized girlfriend/lover had to initiate with a preset. "Oh, right, yeah, I missed you too."

"Will we make love? Right now? I've been burning for you all day," came at him in moist, panting syllables, along with a grinding of hips over lap.

Was he about to experience a pornographic episode, his commander in the supporting role? "Poly! This isn't fair!—halt Julie construct, damn it."

"You did specify—"

"You're being disingenuous and you know it. Get her to cool her jets. I'm not having sex with her. That's not what—I've changed my mind." He ought to have known before he started down this path, the prohibitions were in place for sound reasons. Her exuberance had dampened and spoiled his mood. Even though he'd voluptuousness draped all over him, he felt no more than protective. The erection gotten putting her in her skimpy attire had dissipated. He might have been holding his sister in his lap.

Her bright blue gaze made him especially uncomfortable. A gap of ten years in age was between them—at present the gap seemed more. He was feeling queerer by the second, but not ready to admit defeat. There has to be a way to fix this. "No more messin' around, Poly. Come on, you gotta play fair. Resume."

"Oh, Marco. I love you so." She twisted over his lap while slipping the cape from her shoulders. Marco was made rigidly uncomfortable by the influence of both actions. "I want you to make love to me! Right this minute! Here, right now!" The robe fell. The spaghetti straps of her negligee about to follow.

"No, ah, halt Julie construct!" Marco cried as the gossamer second cover slipped and went folds about her waist, her erect nipples exclaiming to his cheeks. He swallowed painfully through the Gordian knot in his throat as he restored her garments to rights, repair he did not in the least regret. "I can't do this. Poly, cool her enthusiasm, please?"

"Specify parameters."

"Ah, it's dusk. We've been making love all day. We're all fuh out—er tired. She just wants to talk."

"Adjustments applied as specified. Resume?"

Marco had abandoned all notions of revenge. The deliciously despicable things he'd intended, he couldn't do now. He had debased her as far as he was willing. Deep shame was in him and large regret. Enough indignity had been visited upon Calvert in manifesting her dressed as she was and behaving as she did. Reeking of guilt, his cheek against hers, her arms about his shoulders, Marco clumsily caressed her back. Sharing warmth as the night cooled was his atonement. This was something he ought not to have done.

"Hum-m-m," she purred, eyes closed, lips smiling. "That was so-o-o nice."

Glad you think so. "What was?" he asked, smirking.

"You, silly." She pinched him through his shirt. "Best ever." Cupping her mouth over his right nipple, she set about saturating his shirt with her saliva.

"You're beautiful," he told her. Nothing she didn't know already.

"And you're damned handsome."

"Damned?"

"Aren't we supposed to be complimenting each other right now?"

"Huh?"

She gasped in amusement. "Marco, you're being an idiot."

"I'm being a—but you can't—Poly, halt Julie construct."

Despite how the object in his arms ought to respond, as it had, correctly, three times already, Julie said: "Halt me? Construct? What are you on about, Marco? Funny, I have no recollection of what just happened. What did we do?"

"Polyphemus, quit clowning around."

"The ship hasn't anything to do with . . ." Julie pressed herself upright. The coziness of the moment utterly exploded. Marco saw calculation of a dangerous sort percolating behind remarkably blue eyes. A different Julie Calvert, he feared, was come to occupy the body he'd created. "There's something odd going on here," she said, her gaze narrowing.

"Odd? Don't think so." A firm headshake informed her he was entirely innocent of whatever she might be about to accuse him of. "Poly, I'm done. End Julie construct." Please!

"What?" squawked Julie. "End me? And it's Calvert, not Construct, which you damned well know. What has gotten into you, Pacini? This is—why am I wearing my nightgown?"

He had to have a moment to square himself away without Julie pressing her softness against him—he'd only the side of her thigh against him now. "Just stay right there. I'm gonna go get us a coconut."

"A coconut?" Julie exhibited the disdain teenagers were wont to show when they know they're played false, by adults mistakenly supposing they're smarter.

"Just never mind. Stay right there. I'll be back in a jiff. Not bloody likely.

"I'm ordering something else to have on. Too damned chilly in this. How did you ever talk me into doing a sim with you?" she called to his back.

"I, yuh, not sure." He resisted with great difficulty the urge he had to run.

Chapter Three \- Probes

Calvert had completed her log entry, written in her journal, stretched a half dozen times and paced the gallery five minutes out of every hour. An hour of physical activity all told to balance with six hours of inactivity.

Had Polyphemus been underway her work day would be different. Course and speed would require periodic verification, and perhaps adjustment. Any hazards to navigation would have to be identified, typed and charted. A helmsman and scans technician, at the least, would keep her company.

Shift after boring shift the same. Calvert dismounted her chair with a hop. A next interval of stretching was due, set to with a soft grunt capping the peak of each physical expression.

While enduring her punishment at Old Boston Academy, she'd been among the oldest students there. A scowl reflected in the main screen was abruptly cancelled. She'd remembered bridge recorders were always active. Back to the gallery for pacing.

Most of her classmates were lieutenants by now. Everyone gone Core Worlds would have gotten his or her first step. Do the job at the required level of proficiency. Be prompt. Don't screw up. Hutchinson was bound to sign off on her promotion as soon as he got back. She'd done fine. She hadn't crashed the ship into anything.

Even after her promotion she'd still be junior to Mallory and Strom though. Bitches. They'd felt it their purpose in life to tease her over everything: her mannerisms, graveyard shift duty, the dirty little jobs she as most junior officer was required to supervise, the less than one quarter of their suite she'd been allotted, the contents of her space chest, the cut of her uniforms.

They'd deserved comeuppance. Red watch cap in with dress whites. Gum on cushions. A minor catastrophe in Sub Deck B Environmental which she hadn't the authority to deal with and they did. Hutchinson's birthday cake.

All of her tricks took place while she was verifiably on duty or asleep. Her accomplice a clever menial named Grugg, listed in her personal inventory but not elaborated upon.

The look of dismay on Mallory's face when she drew her trousers pink from the washer! Grugg, hidden behind a ventilation grate, had recorded the event.

She did regret Hutchinson's cake though. If she had known for whom the confection was meant, she wouldn't have had Grugg jimmy the oven setting. Oh, well, accidents happen.

A survey ship low on provisions had rendezvoused with Polyphemus. The confections her fellow juniors had provided themselves with, paid for out of their own pockets, got sent over by mistake—not really, only they seemed to. A mixup in lot numbers. Officially she hadn't known a thing about it. Unofficially she'd been enjoying the fruits, and desserts, of her mischief ever since. She really had intended to send the treats across.

Calvert resumed her perch as restless as when she left it. She ought to have brought out the sweets herself. Pacini managed the food; Crew Mess Lower was shut down since they were only three. It made sense, and was less likely to appear strange, for her to keep her distance and for him to bring out everything.

He'd better not tell. Calvert wondered whether to coax or coerce his cooperation or do nothing. The 'do nothing' tactic had worked so far; that is, until yesterday's show of defiance.

According to Pacini's personnel file, which Julie Calvert as Commander This ship was entitled to look at, his Mars Academy scores were all beneath her O. B. A. results. Not by a lot. Lacking her genetic advantages, he must have been the hard working troll. Pacini had dropped out before his final year. She'd been Top of Class in hers. Second time around, but still . . .

Pacini was a decade older, with no longevity therapy. He'd nine years of service in and not much stasis time. She'd been eighteen months 'in the box', most of that in transit, including several weeks 'unassigned'. The posting she'd been promised after graduation, Centauri Prime to a brand new heavy cruiser, cancelled owing to her disgrace. Consequently, as soon as her redos were filed, into a box and shipped.

Nothing had been available when she arrived in Orion Prime. Rather than be unboxed, with weeks or months stumbling about with nothing to do, and be boxed again, she was stored. Supernumeraries, idiots and misfits got stored. Whenever asked the date of her arrival to O. P., Calvert lied about it.

Twenty-four months out of circulation, half of the time travelling at an appreciable fraction of the speed of light. She ought to have been equal to jerks like Mallory and Strom, not subordinate, not treated like a dimwit baby sister.

Pacini had commendations from Edward Grieves, Palmetto Plantation, Planet Honshu; John Thorpe, ISS Bee Gee; Miles Laughton, Star Base Salamanca; and Ian Mentieth, ISS Southern Passage. His next pat on the head would, no doubt, appear courtesy of the stylus of Charles Hutchinson, ISS Polyphemus. Calvert hadn't any commendations of her own yet.

Pacini owned a respectable number of technical certificates. Electrical Second, Small Craft Pilot Third, Programming First and Advanced Programming Second, Counter Gravitation Second, General Systems First, Medical Second. Tech certificates had higher requirements than officer equivalents, so he was no dummy.

Last night still bothered her. Her arousal was due to being in her lounge wear and because Pacini had stared at her the way he had. She'd been off balance, a slap the consequence.

Calvert's gaze glanced off a ripe cherry-smooth ceramic surface. Any woman would have reacted the same while confronted by like circumstances. Taking her relief afterward, it just happened that his image was what her inner vision focussed on. She was in no way interested in Marco Pacini physically, sexually, intellectually or any other way. Ridiculous notion. He wasn't her type of guy. Her type was brawny, handsome, arrogant, not too bright, and a little stuck on himself. Marco is definitely the wrong kind of stupid.

Calvert rotated her chair. She liked riding the fixture. Liked its leather, metal and plastic smell, and colour, feel, and elevation. Hutchinson ought to set everyone cleaning as soon as they got back. Much too much dust was accumulating for Pacini to handle on his own. Strange how filth arrived from nothing and nowhere. Cast off skin, hairs, flakes, specks and filings from shoes, paper and cloth. Minuscule bad pennies.

What strange directions one's thoughts took! Calvert stopped her spinning, orientation-forward and best for viewing the dawn.

When allocating watch times she'd taken day for herself. Weeks later and now she'd mostly dark to look at. Pacini had sunrise and day. Danby day and sunset. Calvert was annoyed an evolution had taken place, but rather than redraft the schedule, and disturb everyone's sleep cycle, she'd left things as they were. Soon enough, well before Hutchinson returned, she'd have day again.

A half eaten almond bar got dug out of a pocket. She'd relented on the directive that Pacini not eat during bridge duty, and then created a relief schedule for them, which had been Pacini's idea and so she gave him credit in the ship's log and her journal.

She hadn't meant to give an indefensible order. He'd annoyed her, or she wouldn't have. Since they became three, she'd cherished the freedom to walk about during her off duty time dressed however she pleased. She never would have ventured out in her negligee if she'd known Pacini was haunting the upper quarters deck.

Calvert took a bite of the candy, part of the purloined supply. She'd arrived aboard Polyphemus with her space chest, furniture and art, but no food of her own, and no expectation of how great an appetite she'd develop for sweets. Standard rations were too drab when a girl had nothing to supplant them with, along with a sugar craving like an addiction. For her next posting she would be sure to purchase her own supply of food and beverages beforehand, with extra to donate to the general supply, which was tradition.

After Polyphemus, service aboard a warship—a frigate or light cruiser. "Lieutenant Julie Marie Richardson Calvert," the youth pronounced grandly. Her next ship she would join as a junior tactical or junior scans officer.

An office appointment to follow. Calvert disliked the notion of headquarters duty, but knew it to be inevitable. Next service aboard a heavy cruiser as a senior tactical or scans officer.

Her first command would be a frigate. Right off distinguish herself by her zeal and devotion to duty. After that a cruiser and demonstrate the depth of her tactical understanding and ability to both coordinate and subordinate. Then commodore to rear admiral and eventually full admiral. Squadrons, flotillas, and inevitably whole fleets under her command.

Should she rise so high, she'd eclipse her father by a tonne. Would she ever achieve the rank and status Jack had? John Barry Richardson, Imperial Navy Grand Admiral and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. With the career she intended for herself, and a reputation for steadfastness, ingenuity and leadership, to be Grand Admiral herself was entirely possible. A plan fifteen to twenty years in the making.

Except I didn't start all shiny and clean, now did I?

A parent's note ought to be consoling. Why not praise for a ninety-ninth percentile finish? Why the diatribe on her choices, morals, and behaviour? If it had been possible to explain, if her father was willing to listen, she would have. She'd gotten sympathy from Jack and Tony, relations who genuinely cared for her and whose opinions mattered.

No use debating an image. Her expression and emotions ashen and drained, she was glad she'd not taken his missive full-sized. Why should she care how injured his reputation was? He'd been no father to her all the years of her life. She'd been equivalent to orphaned ever since her mother took her own life.

Would Eliot Calvert ever climb down from his high horse and listen to what his only child had to say? She hadn't looked at what was stolen. She had performed her first—and second—set of exams clean. That was the truth.

She'd not circulated the tests beforehand. A trophy was what they were meant to be. She'd shown her friends only a single title page to verify she had them.

What did it matter if some saw her idle? What business was it of anyone how she bided her time? How did playing and loafing constitute nefarious behaviour or intent? She'd prepared not as much as some, but certainly not least of all. How was sloth evidence of cheating? She'd not studied, she'd loafed about, she could not have scored so high, she must have cheated. How stupid she'd been, not for having stolen the exams, but for trusting people she ought not to have trusted with the proof of what she'd done.

Others believed and she not. Others vouched for and she not. Someone had had to be sacrificed, pour encourager les autres. So she'd lost her graduation present and the easy road that was her birthright. This boring, stupid, repetitive, beneath her expertise and intelligence mission was as much a part of an ongoing adult retribution as all the other things done to her.

Calvert dragged mildly moist air into her lungs. Two months and three days after the worst of all lectures a daughter should have to endure, to be summoned into Hutchinson's cabin. Would she stay to command the ship? She'd thrilled to the notion, imagining fantastic exploits during which she deftly steered her command away from navigational hazards, found treasure, fought off pirates. At the least she would brilliantly conclude the survey she'd been left to do.

Her ardour had cooled considerably since. Sitting at her mirror, litter of perfumes, lotions and silks before her, she'd felt inspired to invite Danby in. "Try these," she had entreated with the generosity of spirit inherent to her nature. Danby's flinching initially offended. Gentle chiding had soothed the tension away. Calvert realized Danby was not simply pretty, but a radiant beauty. Should she let her hair grow, permit herself paint and powder, and wear garments more flattering to her figure, idiots like Pacini could not help but drool.

Danby was much of the time alone, smart and discriminating. As was she. Calvert nodded to her reflection. She had in mind a particular garment to persuade her new friend to try it on. She knew just the style that would suit Danby best.

Sprawled over her perch, Calvert decided a future project would be to instruct her reluctant acolyte in recreational dance. Ample room was in Boat Bay—Marco appeared beneath her seat. No warning. She was as startled as a cat would have been, and ventilated an unflattering squeak as a consequence. "What is it, Pacini?" she snarled once she'd regained the poise and balance to make coherent sound possible, and safe.

"I thought I'd come up early. I wanted to discuss our scanner settings."

"What about them?" A 'damn your eyes' simmered at the tip of her tongue.

"We've been operating this whole time with a wide scan setting. I thought we might have better luck if we apply a sharper focus."

Hutchinson had dictated the parameters himself, deemed best for the equipment in use. What gave Pacini the temerity to suppose he might change them? "The current sets show good to the half metre," she recited, a fact she'd gleaned from the informative document she'd been obliged to study. "To reset our sats, we'd have to retrieve each and every one, adjust their settings and redeploy. The scan thereafter taking ten times as long. I don't know about you, but I'd rather not spend my next four years out here." What would the Lieutenant have to say, returning to a survey unwound from three quarters finished to barely started? Pacini should know his stuff.

"That's not what we'll do. We don't have to mess with the satellites at all. We only have to rework the data already collected. Use the equivalent of a finer filter, is all."

"What's the point of reexamining a wide scan pattern at a finer setting? Since the data wasn't gathered that way, scanning it again achieves nothing."

"The degree of resolution isn't crucial. An anomaly missed under the old scan will show up under the new sets like a lit candle in the night. It'd be faint but we'd see it just fine. If we do find something worthwhile, we go back and take a closer look."

"What's this going to cost in terms of time?" The last thing she wanted was for Pacini's make-work project to keep them orbiting the planet any longer than they had to. "Lieutenant Hutchinson will be back in another month."

"It won't cost us any more time. I can run the analysis through the tactical console. We're not even using that system. Polyphemus can monitor the orbitals, do the review at the same time, and not skip a beat."

"Okay." A useful plan with little fuss and bother attached. She saw no reason not to endorse it. An extravagant yawn was indulged before she continued with: "You might as well get started."

"Oh?" His gone-slack look perfect for taking amusement from, and struggle not to react to. "I'm not on for another hour."

Why had he come up early, if not to initiate his pet project right away? What could he do with the time he had left before his shift started? "So-o-o?" Calvert indulged in another stretch, less than it might have been owing to his presence so near her seat.

She teased him a little how she did it, to get even for his showing up in her sex fantasy and for frightening her. He stared at her foot. What in the hell? Fetish behaviour? She resumed her slouch while taking in his profile. He continued staring at her foot. "The sooner you get going," she enunciated carefully. Tickles owed to fracturing syllables threatened the back of her throat and base of her brain simultaneously, "the sooner we figure out whether or not your hunch pans out." That ought to fix him for sneaking up on her and the other thing.

"Right, okay." Marco stepped down and over to the tactical console. It took him no time at all to coax the system from standby to active. "I'm calling up the submenu now."

She'd not requested, nor wanted, a blow by blow. "How long will it take?"

"A couple of hours to get the ball rolling, adjust and test the settings. After that the program will look after itself."

"I don't suppose there's any reason why the two of us should monitor the bridge at the same time." She was entirely justified in what she intended doing.

"Ah, I suppose not." She viewed only his profile, so wasn't able to fully enjoy his discomfiture. All the same Calvert was very amused as she slid down from her chair. "Let me know if you run into problems." The youth doubted there was anything she could do that would be useful to him. Programming was not a talent of hers. "I'll be in my cabin."

"Ah, aye, sir."

Calvert peeked over her shoulder along her way out. He appeared perplexed and annoyed. Good for him. The next time he thought of something, he'd know to time his announcement so it fit in with his work schedule.

He'd come up with a good idea though, worthy of a ship's log entry. She could do her end-of-watch summaries in her cabin as easily as from the command chair. Best leave him to work in peace. The lift, sensing her approach, opened to receive her.

"Crew Deck Upper." Pacini had rewarded her with a half hour of freedom which ought not to be wasted in sleep, reading, or any of the other things she normally did when fresh off duty. Full of good intentions, she went to Danby's cabin to press the summons pad by the hatch, which she noted was closed and locked.

No response to her hail. She pressed again. The marine might be sim playing. Calvert checked. She wasn't. "Beth!" was mated to thumps administered with the side of her fist. "Beth, it's Julie! Open up, please!" Danby's sleep interval was not now. Calvert reckoned it okay to persist, despite the lack of a response suggested Danby might be sleeping anyway.

She waited some seconds more before keying her override into the alphanumeric pad beneath the IDENT plate. The hatch opened as it must. The officer cabins with their reception area and office, separate bedroom and attached bath were far more spacious and far nicer than regular crew accommodations.

Calvert discovered Danby on her bed, a manual glowing by her face. Danby wore her everyday ship suit. Her boots were off and side by side beneath the bed. Calvert bent to touch the marine awake and Danby responded with an incoherent mumble.

"Beth!" and harder pressure.

Danby awakened with a start.

"You're a terrifically sound sleeper," Calvert remarked, arms crossed beneath her bosom. "I must have pressed five minutes straight without pause."

"I was dreaming," Danby replied, rubbing damp from her eyes.

"You were?" Calvert had been having her own problems arriving at a wholesome rest state from which to recharge. Never had it occurred to her Danby might suffer from the same affliction. "I've something I'm dying to see you in."

The marine shook her head.

"What I've in mind would suit you perfectly."

"Sir, I've other things I should be doing."

"Nonsense. You've no—what I mean is I intend to bestow on you a token of regard. I thought it would be, er, nice if we enriched our association. We've a month still before Hutchinson returns." She strived too hard to explain herself, Calvert realized. She might sound desperate.

Danby's lips compressed while she looked ahead of herself.

"I wouldn't require more than thirty minutes of your time."

"I don't have . . ."

"Twenty minutes, Beth! No more." Calvert capped her entreaty with her most winning smile.

Danby's reply was regretted by herself as soon as it went out. "Well, all right, I guess."

"Fantastic! Give me five minutes to prepare. I'll have everything ready."

"Aye, aye, sir." Calvert passed through the short hall on her way out of the compartment. Danby recalled, as she slipped on her foot covers, her hatch had been, in order to thwart the thing happening which had happened anyway, locked.

"I wasn't able to bring much from home," Calvert was saying minutes later, showing a garment in emerald green folded so neat and small it might fit inside a clutch purse. Despite she'd brought with her few garments besides uniforms and foundation garments, Calvert's considerable cloth allowance had provided her with all she desired out of the officers' garment fabricator. "This is the sort of cover perfect for dancing in." Tugging the garment at both ends coaxed it to a length easily six times what it started as.

"You want me to try this on?" her victim incredulously asked.

"Yes, would you?"

"This isn't see-through?" Danby took the feather-light object in hand.

"Of course not. It's green." An undignified giggle.

"I'll be a minute," said Danby and retreated to Calvert's washroom to change. This is damned stupid and I'm an idiot to do it, was the marine's thinking as she stripped to her standard issue boxers and athletic socks. Calvert's solicitations were uncomfortable to suffer through, as well as intrusive. The kid would keep hounding her to do stupid shit, until the only thing to dissuade her would be a punch in the mouth.

"You look fabulous," gushed Calvert after Danby reemerged. It hadn't been possible to continue her boxers owing to the bunching. The result, glimpsed close up and as far back as the washroom architecture allowed, was more flattering than she could ever have imagined. The garment had gone on like oiled silk and was a glove for fit. Danby's thoughts were in flux. Pleasure, uncertainty, excitement, embarrassment. She looked, for want of a better expression, hot.

"Here's shoes to match."

"Yours won't fit me," said Danby. Calvert's small feet could be nothing like a match for her regular sized appendages.

"Stretch uppers," the girl replied casually. "You'll need to remove your socks."

"All right," went Danby uncertainly and discovered the loaned footwear to be a perfect fit. Their slightly darker green complimented the dress's beautifully. Lifting one foot provided her with the opportunity to examine its foundation. How could leather conforming so neat against the sole of her foot become less to suit Calvert's? It wasn't possible. Any dummy knew that.

"One more thing."

"I gotta be going. It's my rack time in like ten minutes."

"Please, Beth, just this one more little thing?"

The marine gasped annoyance, which Calvert manfully refrained taking umbrage from. "No more ribbons, all right?"

A thoughtful frown swiftly came and swiftly went. "No ribbons. Have a seat over here. I want to try something. I guarantee you'll be pleased with the result."

I felt the hugest idiot my last shift, Danby was thinking as her slick bottom slid into place.

"I'm just going to touch up your hair a little."

"Oh, bother," Danby grumbled inaudibly.

"What, Beth?"

"Nothing, nothing at all. Just go ahead." And stamp 'moron' across my forehead when you're done.

"Close your eyes." Spraying and brushing. Tugs applied her earlobes. Misting begun at throat gone as high as eyes. Keeping her eyes closed while Calvert performed her alterations was easy. Danby had been leaking rest like a burlap sack for weeks. The brushing and misting was accompanied by a scent that went on odourless before assuming a character so pleasing that the marine drank greedily of it through mouth and nose into lungs without a care for side effects. "Okay, you're ready."

The result not wholly unexpected. Calvert had done the like to her before after all. The very red of her lips was a sultry surprise all the same. Danby made a pout to her reflection, unable to resist. Fat pearls bulged on her ears and around her throat. She showed two whole social classes higher. She looked good, felt good, smelled good, but she hadn't needed to have her quality buffed out to know it existed.

"Oops, forgot about that," went Calvert softly, taking up the perfume bottle she'd donated from to read a label.

"What?" Damn me, but I look good enough to eat. A grin graced her mirror phantom self. Her mother had never dressed as good. Blue jeans and plaid shirts had been her day by day attire, and cotton socks and work boots. Her family had been rural folk through and through. When you lived in the boonies, what use had you for garments not much better than tissue paper for keeping a body warm?

"We ought to get Pacini to fabricate a three way so you can see yourself from all sides," Calvert was saying. "Even so you have to agree the result is stunning." The girl was beaming, proud of herself. Professor Higgins to her very own Eliza Dolittle.

"I, um." Danby felt the bounce, layers and texture of her hair as much more than they had started as. A few seconds under a helmet would fix that. "Thanks," she said as the mellow condition behind her eyes, not unlike inebriation, seeped through to the rest of her.

"Don't frown so, Beth. Spoils the effect." Calvert chuckled. "Ah, maybe you've noticed something?"

"I'm feeling a little drunk."

"Right, sorry about that. It's the perfume I used. How long the effect lasts depends on individual genetics and metabolism."

"You've made me drunk?"

"Not on purpose, I swear. Honestly, I clean forgot about—three hundred a millilitre."

"Three hundred?" Danby touched the atomizer just to feel what a half million of scented oil felt like.

"I'd never pay that much. I know a broker in Old New York. I can get any scent I want by paying just the import fee."

"Isn't that . . ." Danby's mood was slipping past cosy and coming to euphoric.

"Illegal?" A shrug. "Not if you have connections. Besides, everyone does it."

Danby was feeling energized and relaxed at the same time. "That's so neat," she commented for no reason. She'd been drunk precisely once before. Not liking the condition she'd avoided liquid overindulgence since. Small portions of beer and occasionally wine were her preferences when feeling something extra might make her presence more sociable. An arch of brow was shown her reflection. What she was feeling wasn't merely intoxication. She'd complete confidence she could look a girl in the eye and tell her exactly what she thought. "Julie," she said, turning on her youthful tormentor.

"Yes, Beth?" Calvert replied expectantly.

"Number one, you need to butt the hell out of my life. You got that, brat?"

"Huh?"

"I appreciate this—what you're trying to do, I guess, but it's not me." Peel dress off body. "Take this back and the shoes." Kick foot covers off. Pull pearls from ears and throat and set them aside. "The next time you invade my space without an invite expect a fat lip. You got that number two?"

"I-I buh-buh-bat—"

"Got that number three is if I want a get together, I'll come to you. In the meantime," Standing in the altogether, Danby felt not at all self-conscious, "find something else to be your mannikin. I'm done." Since it looked as though Calvert might bawl or howl or both Danby patted her cheek. "Don't take it to heart, kid. I'm not the woman you thought I was." Since she didn't care to witness any blubbering Calvert might be about to indulge in, the marine took herself right out of there, ship suit, boots, socks, boxers and T-shirt snugged under her arm.

#

Near nine hours after he began, after a coding which took much longer than anticipated, Marco had gotten the new scan running the way it should. A counter in the upper right corner of the main tactical monitor made pinball revolutions to keep up with the terabytes of data passing through its processors. Marco rolled his shoulders to ease the ache long sitting had put in them. His watch duty had been a hungry, thirsty one in spite of the half hour break a strangely subdued Julie Calvert gifted him with, but as the shift was so busy, he hadn't been tempted at any time to stare at the clock to watch the seconds flip down. A half hour left. He leaned back, thinking as he closed his eyes that he ought not to fall asleep.

"Pacini!" preceded the realization he was drooped half out of his couch.

"Whah-what?"

"You were asleep," elaborated Danby as she rubbed her temples with both hands.

"Oh?" A glance at the mission clock showed him 00:27. He remembered last the digital count flipped to 23:30. "Sorry, Danby. I thought you, your hair, it's—" Richly red, a colour he hadn't been much fond of but was liking better moment by moment.

Danby sniffed irritably. "Julie—er, Ensign Calvert coloured it."

"I liked your old colour, but the new one's fine." He wasn't sure which old colour he'd referred to. The patterned chestnut of yesterday or the auburn of every day before then.

"I could care less what you like," Danby growled as she dropped into the couch next up from his. "You're relieved." Calvert driving her nuts and, other than to drive her fist into the kid's mouth, she'd no clue what she ought to do about it. If Hutchinson had been around, she could've gone to him to complain. Until he returned, Calvert was their commanding officer. She couldn't go to Calvert to complain about what Calvert was herself doing.

"What made you change it?"

"None of your friggin' business." She hadn't noticed the active tactical station until then. "What's up?"

The tech grinned smugly. "I'm scanning our surveillance data with a tighter resolution. We might pick up something the wide scans missed."

"Where'd that inspiration come from?"

"Dunno. I was lying on my bunk, not thinking about anything, and the notion popped into my head."

"Joy for you." For no reason she could put a tag on, that he reworked the survey data bothered Elizabeth Danby more than a little. "I thought the resolution was high enough," she said tentatively.

"I'm checking both for topographical anomalies and discrete transmissions. I figure if there's an anomalous energy emission anywhere, we ought to be able to detect it with the new settings."

"What, like a beacon? We're looking for a wreck that's supposed to be tens of thousands of years old. Accretions due to dust and storms must be metres deep over everything. Your beacon would have to be extremely robust to penetrate so much crud."

He shrugged. "I'm aware of that. I don't expect we'll find something. Setting up Tactical to reexamine the data helped pass the time."

"You've gone out of your way to give yourself more work?" Danby got up from her couch to peer into the tactical display.

"Just trying to keep myself amused. You know, something new? You could try something new yourself?"

Can he not imagine how annoying the crap Calvert put me through is? Or is he on about stupid historicals again? He can forget that shit. No way am I interested. I'm done trying new stuff. "What I do with my free time is none of your business." He and Calvert both seemed to be well on their way to a bug-nuts condition. Next time she wouldn't let herself be talked into volunteering for anything no matter how attractive the idea seemed at the time.

"What were you doing that made you late? Though I was sleeping, you were also tardy."

He had a right to ask, since it was his time she imposed upon. "Okay, yeah, sorry. I wasn't about to rat you out anyway." Another strenuous rub was applied her temples.

"Headache?"

"It's what made me late." She'd gone straight to bed after a skin-warming scrub with lots of soap and water to remove Calvert's perfume, which must have soaked in to cause so profound an effect. She'd woken up to a nasty headache.

"We have epidermal desensitizers to take care of that."

"I used one." Soap, lots of it, and vigorous scrubbing before and after sleep.

The hand raised to her face was vigorously slapped away. "That's perfume you're wearing."

"Ah." Her cheeks warmed. She hadn't ever dressed up like a party girl before. Memories of what she'd let herself be subjected to added to her discomfort.

"You could be experiencing an allergic reaction."

"It's just a headache."

"If it's an allergenic, you're making yourself ill by continuing to wear that scent. If you let me, I can take a sample and cook up a neutralizing agent."

"What?"

"All I need is a sample. If I got some on my finger that would be enough."

"You'd be mixing it with your own biology."

"Who's the med tech here?"

"Don't piss me off. I've med training myself."

"Not as extensive as mine. Besides, you didn't even suspect you could be suffering an allergic reaction."

"Okay, take your damned sample." When he tried touching her again, she fended him off again. "I can collect it myself." Out came the handkerchief from her pocket to rub an affected area with. "That should do it."

Pacini grinned at the deck as he took her cloth to fold. "What is your hangup?"

"I haven't got a hangup and, even if I did, it would be none of your business."

"You gotta be right there," Marco mumbled, his amusement persisting. Within a half hour he'd isolated the ingredients to which Danby's body had reacted and fabricated a counter reagent. Over the same time Danby's hair colour, which had been fading from the start, arrived very near to its everyday auburn. Marco grinned as he said, "A temporary redhead."

"Is that all you have to say?" Danby muttered angrily.

"How's the headache?"

"A whole lot better, thank you!"

He offered her handkerchief back coated in a silvery ointment. "Wipe this on. It's a little greasy, but it should relieve your symptoms in a jiff."

The cream was faintly luminescent and like clean motor oil for smell. She regarded cloth coated with gunk suspiciously. "I think I can manage without your concoction."

Marco chuckled. "If I was going to pull a fast one on you, it wouldn't be this. I can see you're suffering. Don't forget I'm the medic for our little crew, and obligated to look after us. Besides, I've more sense than to tease you about this sort of thing." Her incredulous look triggered another chuckle. "It's for your headache. Honestly. We don't associate enough for me to feel right about playing a joke on you."

"We aren't gonna start knowing each other any better," Danby muttered. She could do without the attention she'd been getting from both her shipmates. All she'd wanted was to be left alone.

"Give it a shot?"

"All right. Give it me."

"Spread it wherever the perfume was applied."

"I know that," Danby grumbled as she applied ointment to cheeks, chin, throat and across the upper part of her chest beneath her Tee. Everywhere the ointment passed over it left a sheen that the compartment lights amplified. It was not until she'd finished, that Danby saw herself silver from eye level down.

Marco's giggling was of the peculiar high pitched variety.

She didn't have to see her dismay morph into wrath, having felt the transition like an application of fire. "You son of a bitch, Pacini! This was a damned sick joke!" The bridge cameras recorded every moment of every event from several angles.

"No, it isn't," he protested feebly, his mirth far from abated. "Come on, Danby, lighten up. Don't you think you look funny?"

She peered angrily to her reflection once more. He'd come up with a damned good joke, if such was his intent. Her lips twitched toward a smile nonetheless, but she had no intention of letting them get there. "No, I just look stupid." As she was about to start wiping his gunk off, Marco caught her hand. "Bugger off!" she growled menacingly.

"Don't wipe it." He pressed her hand down. "Give the ointment a chance to work."

He might be sincere. She began to think so by the earnest way he looked at her. Her skin wasn't as hot and bothered as it had been.

"You don't have to be such a hard case. Not everyone wants to embarrass you for no good reason."

What did he know about hard cases? Those big brown eyes of his, like the cows' back on her parents' place, back when things were ordinary and innocent.

"Danby?"

"What?" Damn it!

"You wandered off for a second there."

She hadn't realized her distraction was noticeable or lingering. If he would leave her the hell alone, she could settle in to her shift.

"You've never told me where you're from."

What had she done or said to suggest she intended any such thing? She'd never been keen to talk about her origins, experiences, training—none of those things. All she wanted was to be left alone. Her headache was fading and her flesh cooling. "None of your business." However, her reply was light and quiet with no sting attached.

"Ferchrissakes, Danby. What do I have to do? Offer a cash incentive? Make sacrifice to pagan gods? Cas—er, prostrate myself? You gotta know I'm not pulling a fast one on you."

The space mariner resisted relenting still. "My business is my business. I don't want to talk about it. Ever." She sank deeper into her couch, relaxing, which was possible now that her skin and mood had much improved.

"Okay," he said, slipping into the couch next to hers. "I'll tell you mine."

"What if I don't want to hear it?" But—Danby was surprised this was so—she was wanting to hear his story. Out of gratitude? She wasn't sure. Her feelings were mixed.

"Then you don't have to listen."

While she parcelled her attention between scan and comm monitors and the images and text therein, she also watched him out of the corners of her eyes.

"I grew up on old Earth. New York." New York, the city, on Earth was where Calvert purchased her horribly expensive perfume. Beth Danby's sub-vocal grunt was done in appreciation of that fact. "We lived so high off the ground we sometimes looked down into clouds. We were a family of seven, two adults and five kids. I'm the oldest. My middle brother died young. The other is on a terraforming crew. My sisters are both married. One to a low level bureaucrat slash mob boss. The other to an ordinary guy, someone you'd probably like, a produce importer."

Danby wondered about the brother dead. The brother on the terraforming crew had to be a convict because only convicts did terraform work.

"In Old New York there's too much stuff—by that I mean stuff that gets you high or gets you in trouble. You live in the building you were born in, most of the time elbow to ass—er, elbow with your neighbours. My old man was one of the good guys. He never earned a dishonest buck, and ran a small appliance repair business from back when he was a kid working for his dad. We fixed menials, computers, scooters, that sort of thing. It was a good business. We got by, which is plenty hard to do, 'cuz the price of everything is so high."

Elizabeth Danby had lived on an out of the way planet where, to get what you needed, you relied on friends and neighbours. Her mother had grown extras of vegetables, fruit and cattle, as trade currency for things they needed and couldn't produce themselves.

"The problem with big city life is you can get messed up pretty fast."

From what she'd read and heard about Core Worlds, it was easy for ordinary matters, after gone bad, to spin out of control.

"I used to be ganger—yeah, I know. Small, don't look the type. Both traits are actually advantageous. Smoked dope, popped pills, stole, got into fights. It's what the guys did where I grew up. You went along, or you got beat up, a lot. By the time I was twelve I was beginning to see the light."

A bent pinkie-sized swirl of grey-brown crept into the lower corner of one of the screens. The storm it represented moved at over a hundred kilometres per hour.

Had he finished just as his story started to get interesting? "Is that all?"

"Well, no. I wondered if you were listening."

"I was."

"All right, then. Like I said, I was ready to make a change. I knew a guy a few floors down, an old space dog. Me and a friend would drop by his place for coffee and cigs and to play cards. He had an artificial arm—I used to tune it up for him. Real crap, needed maintenance practically every day just for basic functioning. There was way better stuff around. I could've built him one better and used half the parts. Growing a new arm was out of the question for a guy with a no-frills pension. A real shit-can deal for a guy with better than three decades in. He wasn't bitter about it though. He had nothing but good things to say about the navy and the guys he worked with.

"My buddy wanted to enlist in the worst way, but he was a scrawny little shit with no aptitude for anything. For me it wasn't the kind of thing I was interested in. Then one day I figured, what the hell, sign up. Tech school—makes sense, right? My dad's a tinker and everything he knew about machines he passed on to me. I was beginning to imagine myself a middle aged, ah, guy fixing toasters and wall screens. Or picked up for something, and end up on some crappy planet with a colonist contract weighing me down for the rest of my life.

"While I was in the recruiter's for the forms, I saw a poster advertising naval scholarships. My recruitment officer suggested I apply for one, meaning it as a joke."

Techs didn't apply for scholarships. Guys with the right smarts got plunked into the nearest training institute as soon as they made it through preliminary aptitude testing. Technicians were the lifeblood of both military and civilian deep space enterprises. The diaspora would grind to a halt without a steady supply of Mr. Fix-Its.

"I ended up accepted into officer training school."

A gasp of disbelief. "You? You went in for an officer?"

"Yup. Got my ticket to Mars Academy."

"You went to M. A.?" Pacini looked anything but officer material. Too short, too stocky. Next to the classy Julie Calvert a barbarian.

As though he read her mind, Marco elaborated, "Not many blue bloods end up in Mars. A little out of their way. M. A.'s where they send the scholarship kids."

"Didn't you graduate?"

"My dad died. I was in the middle of my last year. I got compassionate discharge. I figured I could help out at home. Be there for my brothers before things got crazy. It didn't work out that way. I had to take on a shit-load of work to pay the rent and put food on the table. Not a lot of time left over for dispensing big brother advice. Santos and Paolo never agreed with the advice I tried passing on anyway. They liked the ganger style, and the money, drugs, and street cred."

"That's why they didn't make it," said Danby with feeling.

"Paolo's got nine years left on a twenty year sentence. Santos ended up in one of those idiot-suicide things stupid, crazy, doped-up kids find themselves in when cornered."

"How did you wind up back in the navy?"

"My sister, Angelique, married Mr. Bad—I got nothing good to say about that piece of human offal. When my mother passed they adopted my baby sister—she was eleven at the time. The repair business folded about the same time. I'd lost interest in keeping it up. I found myself out of options, with no one to look after. It was either step off the deep end of the pool or enlist."

"Why didn't you finish your officer training?"

Marco indulged in a downward-aimed chuckle. "I neglected to mention my M. A. time to the recruiter. Nobody pushed me about it. I figure they did me a favour just taking me back."

"You're a long way from Old Earth."

"I've been around. Got lucky with my postings. Did my swabbie training along the way to Honshu."

"Where's that?" Danby indulged herself in a nose twitch, a no-hands attending to an itch.

"It's a part of Old Japan or the planet. I mean the planet. Agricultural project. Produce, meat and exotic leathers. I did equipment maintenance and fence repair."

"Hum-m-m."

"Dinosaurs."

"What?"

"You've heard of Zeta Four, right?"

"The sim? Sure."

"There are planets in this galaxy that, owing to parallel evolutionary stages backed by the right climate and atmosphere, underwent organic proliferations just like Old Earth's. On Hon the dinosaurs were not wiped out by big rocks crashing on them from out of the sky."

"You're joking, right?" Plenty of theme parks featured lifelike machines that mimicked the long dead animals precisely.

"No, I'm not, and I got the scars to prove it."

"Your leg got chewed off?" Danby indulged herself in a derisive chuckle. She'd hunted dinos in sims. What kid with a healthy appetite for excitement hadn't?

Marco appeared annoyed as he pressed himself up out of his couch.

"Wait a minute! You're not leaving, are you?" Despite he'd sounded off and on the consummate bullshit artist, he'd gotten her wanting to know more.

"Some other time," he said gruffly. "You should wipe that stuff off." He held out his handkerchief. Hers was saturated with neutralizer. "How do you feel?" The medic gazing down on her once more.

Danby sampled afresh sensations and feelings. "Headache's gone. I owe you one."

"Forget it. Let me know if anything shows up in Tactical. I've arranged an icon to appear in the upper corner of this monitor." He tapped the screen in which was the view of the planet horizon.

"Sure." Danby cleared as much ointment as she could from face, neck and chest, checked her still shiny reflection, and gave the handkerchief back.

"I meant what I said. I wasn't pulling a fast one on you before and I'm not now. I wouldn't mind some social intercourse with another actual human being now and then."

"Sure, ah, Marco," Danby replied. Out of the corners of her eyes she watched him continue on out of the bridge and into the lift until he disappeared from view.

Chapter Four \- Opening Moves

Planet dawn had taken place four hours earlier. Watching the seconds blink wasn't helping the time to pass any faster. Marco shifted his gaze from the mission clock to browse among monitors and right off noticed the screen, third from the left, within which a narrow spike of illumination flickered. Upper left corner. Suddenly he was wide awake. "Polyphemus, identify time of data capture event."

"02:58," Polyphemus replied cheerily. He'd tuned the ship's voice so Poly should respond according to the time of day and the mood she might be in.

"Event parameters?"

"Sweep 46, grid 1-197, 13.02 degrees north latitude, 52.26 degrees west longitude."

"Signal strength?"

"Point oh oh three microwatts."

A shriek of sufficient strength to warm an aphid's backside. "Resetting the filters did the trick," Marco muttered to himself. "Enhancement?"

"10 to the power 5."

"Is there a possibility the anomaly is other than artificial?"

"Why, yes, Marco. Probability of a natural origin is 43 %."

"Let's apply enhancement." Marco set his gaze on the scatter of pinprick lights in the next monitor. "Direct nearest satellite to grid 1-197, 13.02 degrees north, 52.26 degrees west."

"Hum-m-m, could do, but you'd have to wait a bit for the results. From calculating the amount of onboard propellant and time on trajectory, I'm estimating 14 hours 27 minutes to reposition that nearest satellite and leave the requisite amount of fuel in its reserve. Should I do so, Marco?"

"No, wait on that. Ah, how's about we take a look with your sensor array?"

"The signal strength is very weak as you know and the source is masked from our location by the terrain. We'd need to be considerably closer for that tactic to work."

While Marco drummed his fingers on an armrest a data string scrolled across the screen beneath the signal capture's coordinates. If natural, what quirk of seismic, magnetic, kinetic or electric activity could produce it? He could think of a few: static discharge, earth tremor, one branch sliding across another, an insect obsessively rubbing its hind legs together. Out of all the chirps and squawks Poly might have chosen to highlight, this one did appear to possess the something special they sought for.

With the ship in orbit, no navigational hazards to avoid, and only caretaker tasks to perform, just the surface of the scanner suite was being utilized. Imaging helm on and its linked gloves directing what he looked at, Marco could conjure up to view as good as divine of any part of sky, any sun, planet or moon, provided his instruments could see it or an image record existed. He'd a menu in the upper right quadrant with decimetre-high selections to look and blink through or, "Poly, how's about zeroing in on the region in question."

"Happy to oblige, Marco."

Polyphemus started off marking the spot with a red smudge. Magnification injected detail and character. Next the view adjusted to add perspective and scale. The location appeared the centre of an extensive plain. Marco frowned thoughtfully as he fixed a polar coordinate grid over the region and noted how neatly the red smudge aligned with the plain's centre. If what he looked at was a crash site, it was an oddly regular one. A scatter of dunes appearing scars along its southern edge marred an otherwise perfect platter look.

"Poly, what's your take on the anomaly? Could it be a natural feature of the landscape?"

"Unlikely."

"Give me a probability estimate," commanded Marco with a flourish.

"67.8 % the anomaly is artificial." If what he and the ship were seeing was the result of an asteroid, its ridges ought to be higher and its crater deeper. Instead, other than for the dunes that snaked here and there throughout the region, the height of the plain was consistent to within few metres of up or down all the way across. Remove the dunes and the area was very nearly level.

"I think we've enough to go on."

"You intend moving us."

"I do."

"It is required Julie give her permission."

"She's asleep?"

"Yes, Marco."

Grinning mildly sadistically he said, "Wake her up." So odd an assortment of electric and surface features brayed an artificial origin. No asteroid strike he could imagine might produce a flat plain with barely any edges. Where were the residual radiation and extraterrestrial flotsam—pulverized iridium, most likely? Poly detected none. The signal itself, despite its feeble character, was unlike any he had experience of. The mission was search for an anomalous energy signature or odd surface feature. Here were both.

A modest thrust would send Polyphemus along her way to a spot directly over the suspect location. A trip of less than five minutes duration.

"What is it, Pacini?" Calvert growled. The huskiness in her voice assured him he'd been right. She'd been asleep.

"I think I've found what we're looking for." He spoke to her full-size representation superimposed over that of the suspect plain, in ship suit, wide awake.

"Oh, really?" The girl's image vanished.

Marco stared a long moment before pointing to the icon that would summon her again from a drop down list.

"Damn it, Pacini. I'm trying to get some sleep here!"

"Sir, you must not have heard me correctly. I said 'I found it'. I need to move the ship so she's over the signal and I can verify the source is real."

"What?"

Patiently he repeated: "Poly is 68 % certain we've found a phenomenon artificial in nature, and I think it could be the thing we're looking for."

"The thing? You mean the crashed alien?"

"It could be."

"Could be? 65? What?"

"68. You should come up."

"I'm not coming up. A measly 68? You can't—what do you want from me?"

"I need you to let me move the ship."

"Oh." A heavily laden, very small word.

If she worried about navigation hazards here to there, there were none. If about his qualifications to move the ship without supervision, she couldn't have any doubts on that score either. "I can't 'see' the signal well enough from where we are to verify its nature. For that I want to place our main array over it. We're talking about something little more than a whisper at ground level."

"It's a signal?"

"It could be. I need to check if it is."

"So do it." Calvert's image abruptly vanished again.

"You wouldn't want to supervise the move from up here? Personally? Warm your bum in the Command Chair while blowing bubbles from a soap ring? Nothing like that?" He ought not to have voiced his disparagements out loud. He'd created a record Calvert could take him to task over. Julie Calvert was responsible for the safety of ship and crew. If an accident happened along the way, she would be obliged to take the blame for it.

If she wasn't worried, he wouldn't be either. Even so he knew he ought to do something that would avoid any future nastiness. "Poly, install a note in the official log. Include the analysis between you and I as justification for a course adjustment and move. Include the conversation between Pacini, Marco, Technician, and Calvert, Julie, Temporary Commander ISS Polyphemus just ended. Next compute course to bring us over targeted location at 13.02 degrees north, 52.26 degrees west."

"Log entry complete, Marco. Course to location over 13.02 degrees north, 52.26 degrees west plotted and laid in."

Marco exchanged his Scanners couch for the main seat at Navigation, and touched the console startup pad. It and its overhead panel brightened, creating a bath of soft light. Marco inputted his identification and authentication codes, took note of course and fuel requirements, and touched the thruster system on. A difference in ship's 'feel' owing to a multi-tonne displacement he imagined rather than felt. Polyphemus' near sixty thousand tonnes could not communicate so small an impetus even if the inertial compensators allowed it.

"What are you doing, Marco, darling?" called Danby from the gallery platform.

Bound by duty not to abandon his station, astonished by the context and tone of her address, and victim to a peculiar sense of dread, Marco only turned part way his chair so he could peer past his shoulder.

Plaid shirt, legs bare other than for ankle-high athletic socks, hair in an untidy, endearing ruffle. Danby gazed past him at shifting stars and horizon. What seemed to him most peculiar of all, was the impression she'd spoken not to him, but to someone else named Marco. "I'm moving the ship," he said.

"You shouldn't."

"I haven't tuh—why not?" He absolutely must monitor the ship's progress. The green flag in the upper corner of the main nav screen informed him the move progressed as it should, but that cosy, comfy condition could turn bad in an instant.

"You're making a mistake."

"A mistake? Danby, you should, ah, be asleep?" He had no time to spare for sleepwalking crewmates. The ship was halfway to its revised position. Soon Poly would begin firing her braking thrusters. "What do you mean?" He tried another peek, this time to appreciate the athletic tune to her legs. Her eyes were open, but they seemed not to view sights here and now. She must think herself elsewhere—the future? Was he the Marco destined to be the Marco she'd addressed so affectionately moments earlier?

"Marco, please, can't you tell? This is when it all begins!"

"Huh?"

"Marco!" If he'd been holding anything, no matter how precious or volatile, he would have dropped it. In the instant he had—Poly was firing thrusters at predetermined orientations, timings and durations—before he absolutely had to put his attention back on his work, he saw tears coursing down her cheeks.

"Gah—gib me a minute, can't you?" While he was distracted, might she rush down and brain him with something? Another peek. She twisted her hands in her shirt, causing its tail to rise and revealing she wore white cotton panties. With her stridency, leave alone condition of undress, she distracted him far too much from the supervision of a delicate piece of navigation.

"Marco, turn us around while you still can!"

He doubted he could, not after his talk with Calvert, not after recording the particulars of the rare anomaly Poly had discovered in the log. "I can't." They arrived.

"No-o-o-o-o!" she moaned. He was certain she was about to bean him with something. His flesh crawled all the way from neck to buttocks. During the anchoring adjustments he dare not shift his eyes from the console. He had to make sure the revised position was solid and not able to drift. Another peek and he saw Danby lay sprawled.

She might be bleeding to death and he couldn't spare one second out of the next several to deal with her emergency. Poly executed final adjustments: amber ship icon jittered in the centre of a navigation screen crosshair. "Danby?" He worried she might have swallowed her tongue. "Danby? Hurry, Poly, can't you?" A final, feather-soft spurt of propellent from port #3 thruster capped the adjustments. Check for drift. None. Lock position in. Leap out of seat.

"Danby?" She appeared to sleep. "Elizabeth?" Her shirt had shifted past her waist. He admired her lower parts a moment, a tug restored the shirt to rights, he pressed his palm to her cheek.

"Whuh-what?" Groggy to fully awake in less time than a body needed to draw a breath. Her fist impacted his chin with remarkable power after very little windup.

The blow put him right off what he'd been about to say.

"What in the hell, Pacini!" Danby cried as she pressed herself to a seated position.

"Yeah, exactly," he said, testing his jaw for function. "Gawd!"

"Why are you in muh—huh?"

"You're on the bridge, you came here, has to be, by your own choice, and, in case you haven't realized it, you just slugged me. Last time I offer aid to a lady in distress." Marco comically put himself on his back.

"What in the hell am I doing here?" Danby blinked to dispel upset and disbelief.

"I don't know. Do you think you can refrain from hitting me again if I offer to help us up?"

"No, er, yes, ah, here." Despite his offer, it was by her efforts more than his that the two of them regained their feet. "Sorry about that."

What made his injury bearable was the tenderness and regret she showed.

"Don't sweat it," he said, savouring the moment. "You didn't skin your knuckles, did you?" He ought to have blushed after. A ridiculous thing to say.

"Huh?"

"When you hit me. Let's see." Her damage manifested as a reddening of the skin. "Stay where you are. There's a med kit in a locker back here." Other lockers contained survival bubbles in collapsed mode and fire suppression gear. While dealing with her injury, he said, "You warned me I was making a mistake moving the ship. What mistake was I making?"

"You're nuts, Mah—er, Pacini. I didn't say that." She wouldn't look him in the eye. "I'll do your chin."

"You're the one running about in her sleep wear." He submitted himself chin-first to her much appreciated ministrations.

She peeked at sock feet as though to remind herself of them before replying, "Well, I don't know. If I said anything, it must have been sleep talk."

"Do you want to see yourself, ah, it?" He could trigger the record to play, if she wanted to see it. He wouldn't send the image into the main screen, which would be bound to amp up the embarrassment a shipmate already was feeling.

"See what?" she replied uncertainly as she returned the knitter to its cradle. He then restored the kit into its cavity in the wall.

"What you did."

"No—ah, maybe I should?" She followed him meekly to the command chair.

"You ought to know what happened. For your own information." He made room and indicated she climb up. "Take a seat."

"Did I—do something weird?" Danby hesitated again. She'd never sat in the Command Chair before. "No, you go ahead."

"If you don't sit, you're going to see yourself upside down." He grinned encouragingly.

"Okay." Seat herself. Marvel at how comfortable the padding was. Next appreciate how high she sat relative to everything, especially Marco. "This is not bad," Danby said before indicating her readiness to proceed with a nod, her looks comically juvenile.

"Kind of sinful, isn't it?"

"Okay, ah, how do I do this?" She'd never messed with the bridge recorders before, other than to submit end of watch summaries. She only wanted to know if she'd done anything embarrassing or strange.

"Here." With the wraparound in place he unleashed the portion of the continuous record which began when Danby came on the bridge to her socking him one. "Okay. So what was that all about?" he asked afterward.

"I have no idea." What she might say she wasn't keen to share, it being the stuff of nightmares. Danby noted how pale were her reflections. If pressed, she wouldn't offer any explanations about that either.

"You've no idea what you were talking about?" Marco, darling.

"Not at all." A firm headshake put the cap on her denial.

"I wasn't making a mistake?"

"Not as far as I know."

"Not in your waking state in any case," he grumbled. "I could access your subconscious and pose the question again?"

"No thanks. I don't want anybody messing inside my head."

"Well, all right then. Ah, I should tell you," He was on his toes, adjusting data feeds and image screens, "I may have found what we've been looking for."

"You're kidding . . ."

"A signal—I think it's a signal. I moved the ship to get a closer look." The marine glanced once into the screen he prepped for her and wasn't fooling him anymore. She once more paled and her expression became as stone. "Hey," he said gently, "are you all right?"

"Sure." A vigorous head shake. "I'm just peachy." Adjusting her look to point forward, she sought for a cosy constellation to peer at. Her smile when she was able to show one only seemed genuine.

What does Poly think of Danby's behaviour? He might ask, but not in front of the patient. "You're sure you're okay?"

"What are you? My mother?" The everyday Danby seemed back from the corner the troubled Danby had shunted her to. "I can't explain this shit to you."

"Explain what?"

"Look man, I'm just so damn tired. I need to go back to bed. I can't imagine why I came up here in the first place."

She did know why. He read it in her face. "All right," he said, "if you say so."

"I do say so. So how's about making a path for me to climb down through?"

"Sure. See you in about five and a half hours."

He watched her pad to the rear of the bridge, trigger a lift platter, step onto it. The doors closed. The data the main array collected filled all four command chair screens.

"What is it?" Calvert was asking a half hour later. Protocol demanded he wake his commander once he was certain of his results. She'd a scanner helm on and a view of ground zero before her eyes. What she saw was sand and rocks surrounded by more sand and rocks.

"A low energy, fine beam transmitter."

"Continuous?"

"Yes, and also intermittent."

"What does that mean?"

"The signal's character changes moment by moment." Marco used a pointer to highlight an icon in the upper left corner of her view. The representative transmission spike constantly redrew itself. Its shape different, albeit not dramatically so, every single time.

"No doubt this is artificial?"

"No doubt at all," confirmed Marco while containing his own enthusiasm with an effort.

"This has got to be it!" Calvert declared and, removing her helmet, showed him how exhilarated she was.

"Yes, sir." Marco grinned back. "Polyphemus is 99.98 % certain. That's good enough for me."

"What?" Calvert regaled him with a wry look.

"Just joking. She's certain—aren't you, Poly?"

"Absolutely I am," replied Polyphemus in a sultry midnight voice.

Calvert's expression change to displeasure was immediate. "Pacini, is there something wrong with our AI?"

"Not at all, I tweaked her subroutines a little."

"Well, you can untweak them," Calvert growled. "You don't have the clearance to meddle with Poly's AI."

"Actually, sir, I do." He wouldn't have meddled otherwise.

"Hum-m-m," went Calvert thoughtfully. "Well, anyway, we need to subspace Captain Willard at once. Then it's on to the next phase."

"Next phase?" Marco echoed uncertainly.

"Excavation."

Was she of a sudden gone nuts? "Pardon me, sir, but, I have to point out, that task hovers well beyond our mandate."

"Beyond your mandate perhaps, Tech Pacini, not mine," Calvert replied smoothly.

Marco had no doubt upon whose shoulders the bulk of the work would settle as soon as a dig site was established. "We may have the equipment to work a site," he said carefully, "but we haven't the crew to manage it. If I may suggest—"

"You may suggest nothing I care to listen to, Pacini. I'm running this show. I don't intend to stay parked in orbit so some R&D geek ends up with the credit for my discovery."

Her discovery? If she wanted the credit, she could go right ahead and take it. As Senior Officer on Station she was entitled to do exactly that. Regardless of what she had in mind, his percentage share in any salvage wouldn't change. Marco held his breath so he be less likely to voice any additional complaint. Let her have the glory. Glory was what her class lived for, squabbled over, and sent guys like him to their deaths about. "You'd have to land the ship," he told her stolidly.

"I can land this ship."

"Have you ever landed a starship on terra firma before?"

"Of course I have."

She wasn't fooling him. Calvert was as raw as they came. "Outside of a simulation?"

"No, but I know what to do." She showed him ample zeal, but zeal was rarely useful in a crisis. Polyphemus was a handy ship, near new, in excellent condition, but no landing turned out textbook simple and BD1028-2 was no textbook planet.

"May I remind you, sir, our orders specify only that we search for, identify and map artificial structures or signals. They do not specify a landing and for sure not an excavation."

"I do not need to be told what my orders are! We're going to investigate the wreck and that's that."

He felt professionally obligated not to give in. "Once we establish a site, it'll be impossible to keep everything running with just the three of us."

"Nonsense. We've done fine so far. There's bound to be a fair amount of work in setting things out at the start, but once that's done the site should run itself."

"There's a lot more to running a site than you know. Conditions at the surface are extreme. Better than standard gravity and extreme heat and wind—have you any notion of what grit does to a circuit board? Any equipment we set out is going to need round-the-clock maintenance."

"We'll all have to work a little harder. Aren't you willing to make the effort, Technician?"

"It's not a question of whether I'm willing. I know what's required. There's more work than you can imagine."

"I don't need you telling me what's doable and what's not, Pacini. Anything can be sorted out with the proper attitude." Her expression lacking all sympathy, she added, "By the way, there's the matter of your moving the ship without proper authorization that needs addressing."

He stared back, very glad for his precaution. "Sir, you gave me permission to move the ship."

"I did not," Calvert replied emphatically. "It's fortunate for you things worked out the way they did, otherwise there could be grounds for convening a board of inquiry."

"You might want to check the log before you decide to book an inquiry," he growled.

Her cheery expression collapsed during a subsequent review of the navigation log. "You logged our conversation?"

"After the fact. Regulations. I was required to include proof of command authorization. You gave it to me."

She gazed at him icily. "You think you're pretty smart, don't you?"

"I was following regs." Do you think I'm an idiot?

"So I did give you authorization after all."

A minor victory. He sensed an opportunity. "Sir, maybe you'd reconsider?"

"No," she replied.

"I feel it my duty to remind you yet again that our mission was just to identify a crash site. Not to investigate it!"

"You can remind all you like. My mind's made up."

"What you propose is ludicrous. You can't be serious."

"You have no right to criticize me!" shouted Calvert, trembling far more than she should. "We have no orders directing what we do after the site was discovered."

"Precisely." He spoke as reasonably as he could. "We have no orders because our superiors assume we will wait for further instructions and not strike out on our own."

Calvert's features assumed a harshness that in someone older would have been daunting to view. "Don't presume to lecture me on matters of naval policy, Technician. You will do as I say, and that is that."

"We should consult with Captain Willard. I'm sure—"

"Don't you dare even think of going over my head!" Calvert spat. "I'm not passing this up. You can either do as you're told or be cited for insubordination."

It would take more than the word of a rank amateur, no matter her pedigree, for him to be charged. What was with her? Wasn't the beacon enough? Her promotion was assured. How much more credit did she think she was going to earn mucking about on the surface? "I only expressed my concern as was my duty to do so."

"Express concern when it's warranted." She smiled thinly and continued, "I need to know how quickly the satellites can be brought in."

He could have no more doubt she was determined to initiate a crack-brain scheme bound to run them all into the ground. Well, he was just the hired help. "We haven't finished our survey," he replied cautiously.

"You're joking, right? The survey was done as of an hour ago. There's no reason to waste any more time mapping rock formations. We're going to need all our equipment on the surface once we've landed."

"Fifty sensor packages?"

"We haven't any others, have we? How long to bring them in?"

"I could start Polyphemus bringing them in right away."

"How long?" Calvert repeated impatiently.

"I ought to move the ship back to where she was before we start."

"Fine. Move the ship."

A subsequent mental calculation came up with: "Once I move the ship I ought to have the last one in within twenty hours." One tenth the time it took to set the satellites out, with a full crew, in the first place.

"Hum-m-m." Between one moment and the next the set of her features changed to cooperative. "Wouldn't the time be less if we go after them?"

"They're scattered across a million square kilometres of sky. We might save a few hours, but we'd consume a lot of thruster fuel." All of them would have to work a great deal harder besides. Fifty small retrievals instead of one big one.

"Very well. We'll land after the last scanner comes in."

"If you say so, sir," he replied grumpily.

"Yes, Technician, I do say so." Calvert walked to the lift. Not one step in rank, but two, if fair is fair. Proof of the existence of an advanced alien culture has implications for all humanity. The woman who brings such news to the attention of admirals, politicians and magnates will be praised to the stars.

Within Crew Deck Upper Calvert skipped her steps along. Now did she understand the phrase 'kicking up one's heels' because such was how she felt. She could only come away a winner. Her mood turned dark recalling how Pacini had set himself against her. She hadn't anticipated his opposition. Up until a few nights ago, he'd been the perfect drudge. He ought to be glad for the chance to set things clattering and digging.

He'd neatly knocked the teeth out of her disciplinary action threat. She'd have to be on her toes for next time. If she was going to quote regs at him, she had to know the counters beforehand. As for going beyond her instructions, she couldn't be censured for that. She showed initiative, exactly what the Admiralty wanted from its remote station commanders.

What else had they to do? The crash site was found. Pacini better not get cold feet when I need him most.

Calvert arrived within her cabin and at the end of her debate, the hatch sliding to in her wake. Before she could call on the lights to come up, the suite oddly, unaccountably dark, she was confronted by one of the creatures haunting her dreams. Barely was there room for its head and forequarters in the forward part of the suite, and close enough she might touch it if she dared.

"Lights up full!" she rasped and gazed wide-eyed at greyish afterglow. Gritting teeth and pressing against the tumult hammering her chest helped calm her pulse and breathing. No mere hallucination was going to push her off the path she knew to be right. Calvert staggered the rest of the way into her bedroom.

#

Marco consulted with Poly for fifty best trajectories, the results conservative of propellent and sent to each satellite for immediate response. A net would snag the ones whose fuel reserves were low. The hold had yet to be prepared to receive, contain and cushion the implements for the descent. He would not see the end of all preliminary work until well after his watch finished. He was required to direct or perform all of it himself.

Danby arrived into the bridge with the look of the sleep-deprived. He grimaced in sympathy. When informed he would be working past his time, she merely nodded. "What's with the surveillance feeds?" She assumed her usual seat, the one at Scans. Marco, to coordinate best what he had to do, used the Command Chair.

"We're bringing in the satellites." He summarized what he'd done. "All trajectories are set. All you and Calvert have to do is verify the status of each as it parks itself."

"I can do that."

"The last won't get here until the middle of my next watch. I intend bringing them all in at the same time."

"Sure thing, Pacini."

"Ah, you know we're landing?"

"Calvert's note was in my queue." Danby's gaze drifted over monitors as though she looked for an excuse to enhance the activity in some of them.

"Everything's prepped."

"You said that already, Pacini."

"Not exactly."

"Okay." She turned her seat in order to face him directly on. "What else did you have in mind to ask me?"

The change to sociability unexpected and much appreciated. He absolutely had to smile. "I, ah, was curious about last night."

Danby set her gaze to her lap and added frowning. "I was just tired. Calvert . . ." Was Calvert's fussing over her something she ought to talk about?

"What about Calvert?"

"She's been acting nutty lately."

Pacini grunted in sympathy.

"She's been coming at me with beauty tips. Colouring my hair, makeup and stuff. Giving me things too." A new dress uniform the latest gift, which she couldn't return as it was tailored for her measurements specifically. An apology, Calvert called it.

"So what's the big deal? Is she . . ." hitting on you?

"No!" Danby exclaimed, having guessed the direction of his thought.

"Well, then?"

"I think she wants to be pals. I think she's lonely."

Marco indulged himself with a snort. The Calvert who routinely tyrannized him seemed as likely as a basilisk to need or want to cultivate friends. "Sure."

"She's real excited about the wreck." Calvert's memo had been video. Her face strangely pale despite how brightly she'd smiled. "Like we're all gonna be rich."

"Did she say that?"

"Well, no. I think she's far more excited about making lieutenant."

That sounded right to him. "So she's been keeping you up?"

A nod. "She drops by. I'm starting to be real sorry I moved in next door. What's Lieutenant Olyphant gonna say when he finds out I've been using his cabin?"

"You can't just move back to your old hovel?"

"I could, but Calvert's bound to be pissed if I do."

In his opinion everyone should have kept their old digs. Calvert had no legitimate reason for taking over Hutch's cabin before his exhaust trail was cold, even if, as she'd protested at the time, she needed the extra space to air out her things. "You shouldn't stay in there if you feel uncomfortable about it."

"I will for now. If she starts to really bug me, I'll go back where I was."

"If you need a hand packing, let me know."

"Like I want your grubby fingers all over my underwear."

"I'll wash first." It could be Calvert's smothering attitude was a trigger for Danby's sleepwalking episode. Marco nodded to himself. Polyphemus had insufficient information to formulate an opinion by. He hadn't informed Calvert about their crewmate's somnambulist behaviour either.

"Are you almost done?"

"Sure." He'd overstayed his time by a half hour. "We'll be going through descent procedures as soon as the last satellite comes in."

The marine turned her couch to view her monitors squarely on. He could tell she wanted to be on her own.

"See you, Eliza—ah, Danby."

Danby neither acknowledged nor objected to his slip.

#

He encountered Julie on the beach, seated with knees to chin, in white, one-piece bathing suit, leather sandals and pale blue wrap. The aim of her eyes was over the water and they squinted owing to sun reflection widespread and shimmery.

"You've came straight from wrestling," she said, a sideways glance taking him in. His khakis only resembled the wrestling singlet he preferred for bouts because they were also clothes. Her hair, no pretence in it, the offshore breeze played with, teasing its tousled curls past the pink of her forehead and bright blue of her eyes.

How did she know I wrestled before coming? He'd not discussed his sim routine with her. He perspired, but it was a warm day. "Hello, Julie," he said cautiously, guilt bunching the muscles of his throat and shoulders.

"Where's the fucking coconut?"

At first the reference escaped him. A moment later he couldn't help but grin. "Ah, yeah. About that. I was only kidding."

She stared to the sand between her feet with a furrowed brow. Another peek his way. "I'd begun to think you might not be coming back."

He'd had to come back. He couldn't risk leaving her in the sim. She had to go. The sooner the better. As long as she endured, Julie generated code. A bigger and redder stripe of 'whoops' moment by moment. He would be in big trouble if anyone ever checked out the sim inside or outside.

He'd be merciful, and do it behind her back. She'd already be gone except he'd had to check to see if she lingered first—his delete instruction might only have been delayed. Obviously it hadn't been, which was the reason for the trembling and upset stomach.

"I can't remember coming here. I don't know how to leave. I think I'm marooned."

"Huh?" Her verisimilitude was more than a little disturbing.

"What's worse is there's something missing." She touched the side of her head. "In here. I'm supposed to be somewhere, doing something, but I've no clue what that is. You did something. That much I know. My memory starts looking up at you. And ... and these strange sensations and feelings I have. I don't even like you, and yet I had sex with you. It makes no sense."

"We didn't have sex. Look, you're—"

Julie rose, creating a sensuous upper body bob and sway. Her swim suit was cut high over her hips and very snug fitting. Her body in it a compact wedge. Julie's figure was Calvert's figure. Calvert kept herself fit, but then she was very young. "How's about you tell me what you did and we take it from there?" She'd set her hands on her hips, feet astride, while confronting him.

He could do that. Lay on the unvarnished truth, but what would be the point? Another minute and she'd be forever gone. Besides, he feared what her reaction would be. Gazing down into her face, taking in its angst and doleful expectation, he was for the moment speechless, and hesitant either to give satisfaction and relief or take everything she was ever going to have away.

"For fuck's sake, just spit it out, can't you!" The spark in her eyes was spot on. He remembered the look from before.

"I ordered you up," he blurted. "You're a sim facsimile. I knew a way to bypass the protocol restricting you. I'm truly very sorry. What I did was an unconscionable thing."

"I'm . . . what? You can't . . . but that's impossible?"

He gasped a smile. "It isn't impossible at all. It's really quite easy." She stared murder into his eyes, wound her fist up, slugged him, and stormed off, her wrap fluttering to match her anger. He looked after her, hand on injury, testing for heat, spread and functioning. Jaw still worked. She'd hit him hard, not as hard as Danby, yet with enough force that he appreciated some good heat and sting. "Delete Julie construct," he muttered half heartedly, while watching her retreat along the beach in the direction of the hut, and wasn't surprised when nothing happened.

Now what? He'd created a major problem for himself, whose single solution, as he saw it, was the total erasure of the Island program from the sim library.

You don't want to do that.

Marco pursed his lips, cocked his brow, gazed out over the water, and took in all those pelicans, gulls and frigate birds behaving themselves. I don't? Is that you, Poly?

As far as he knew, certain he was right, he'd been the only one to visit Island. He remembered recommending it to Danby, and he'd checked. She hadn't stopped by. Poly was right. He didn't want to erase Island. Its environment, and inhabitants, pleased and soothed him. It was a haven, and he had need of one. His work schedule piling up.

He'd avoid Julie, if he could. Otherwise she could just lump it.

"Where's she gone off to?" Marco wondered out loud, coming upon the sweetly renovated hut. He neared its open window, came to and knelt on the swing, pressed himself up. Chary of collision chin with fry pan, he leaned in and viewed a space all-one. Bed dressed with in patchwork quilt, faded golds, blues and greens in harmony with the weathered corner, and accompanied by a four-drawer dresser. Next to the dresser a half body-sized mirror in an oval wooden frame.

A wickerwork, chest-high partition separated sleep area from kitchen and dining nook. Sink, cupboards and 'ice box'—the appliance had that antique look. Dining table and chairs were centred over the floor forward, and fashioned out of pale wood, lightly grained.

"Good riddance," he muttered absently although his guilt persisted. The Julie of the sim did not deserve the disparagement owed the genuine person.

"Do you wish to end, Marco?" Polyphemus asked.

"Oh, there you are. Poly, where have you been?"

"I was . . . unavailable."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I am unable to clarify."

"Unable or unwilling."

"Unable, Marco."

He mulled over potentials possibly connected to Poly's reply while unsure what remedial action might be required or even viable. "I need to know if our safety protocols remain in place."

"Very much they are, Marco."

"There's no danger of a failure to abort or end in case of emergency?"

"None at all."

Taking a breath to hold, he said, "I'd like to make an adjustment." He might be about to slit his own throat, but he'd thought the matter through. If he was going to be screwed over anyway, it might as well be for a best possible reason. "Poly, I want you to reprocess the Julie Calvert facsimile to assume the likeness and persona of Danby, Elizabeth Leanne, Security Officer, ISS Polyphemus."

"Facsimile is unavailable to be reprocessed."

"Really? Clarify last response please."

"Facsimile of Julie Calvert one millimetre shorter will not be reprocessed."

"Doesn't it realize it has no choice?" Another oddity to check out. Island's creator had either bypassed the protocols, installed his own, or both.

"Apparently it does have a choice. Julie has removed herself from my control."

"A rogue representation?" Marco frowned in perplexity and disbelief. Facsimiles existed at the pleasure of players. Since it wasn't here, now, with him, where had the Julie facsimile gone?

"She may not leave this realm," said Poly.

"Oh, to heck with her. Create a new facsimile to resemble Danby, Elizabeth Leanne, Corporal, Security Officer, ISS Polyphemus, one millimetre shorter."

"Marco, are you positively sure?" asked Poly stolidly.

"Yes, they'll, ah—she'll never know." Calvert must never find out he abused her likeness. He was never again going to recommend Island to either of them. As for creating a Danby, he felt the improvement in their relationship as good as having been given permission. His interactions with the double would be strictly platonic. He would speak with sim Elizabeth about things the real Elizabeth was not ready for, thus making progress toward a better harmony between them.

While waiting for Danby to appear he came to another, significant and critical, decision. He was going to alter Island's access code and preamble, and make it appear a dorky, zero interest, nuts and bolts machine assembly sim. After he finished, it'd take a forensic genius to figure out what he'd done.

"Well, there you are," said Beth, smiling warmly at him from within the window, her soothing greeting pouring into him like sweet-flavoured water.

"You bet." He grinned back. She wore a pale dress over a tan darker than the real Danby's. Sprinkles of freckles from left and right cheeks contended for dominance over the bridge of her nose; scatterings of the same tribe roosting on her upper chest. Sim Danby was not as muscular as her flesh and blood counterpart. Body softer, pale blues more worn, and smile glad although not as easy as he would have liked, but it did suit her differences better.

"Julie left us lemonade," remarked Beth in lighthearted fashion. "Would you like some?"

"Sure, let me—"

"Oh, no, stay where you are. I'll come to you."

"All right," he drawled, and conversed with her scents of moist heat, arid grass and sea salt. Had she been sunning after swimming?

"Of course not," Beth replied. "I've just now come into being, haven't I?"

"Sure." He chuckled. He pondered her self aware response and concluded it of no consequence or significance. She pressed a lemonade glass into his hand. Rather than join him on the swing, she sat on the closer of the two rattan chairs. He watched her sip her lemonade, admiring how she did it, next the way she gazed back at him. Her look mildly annoyed and challenging.

"What?" she said.

"You're great." He chuckled again.

"And you're an idiot," she replied before another sip.

"If you say so." He wouldn't quiz her yet though his mind burned with questions. Was she as mixed up as Julie? What were the gaps in her memory? Would she demand he explain them? Was she angry over the liberties he'd taken? Was he destined for another sock in the jaw? He looked for a place to set his drink and judged the floor next to his seat as safe.

"You ought to drink some." Beth grinned behind her glass.

"All right. To humour you, I will," he said bombastically. He'd drain the glass in one go, and do his best to imagine the result. Owing to the illusion he dwelt in, he would not be able to taste the lemon, nor feel its tart, liquid and cold. The impossible not something to pine after.

Her grin became broader. She'd both hands on her own glass. He noticed their evenly pared nails. "Down the hatch?"

"Down the hatch." Brim to lips, upend and breathe in at the same time. The shock of wet and tart gone over tongue and down throat and bronchial tube, his reaction had to be what it was. Choking, coughing, half of what went in went back out and splashed the front of his tropical shirt. He gasped for air and met watery resistance. Beth laughed soundlessly. "You . . . how . . . possible?"

"Wait until you've your breath back."

A pip halfway down nettled him. The less than half of what was left in the glass dislodged the irritant and sent it along its way. "That wasn't right," he complained when able.

"You had it coming. You've taken some serious liberties and deserved to be punished."

The tweaking in this sim is fabulous, genius-rendered and worth a fortune, if I can figure out how it was done, he thought.

No tweaking. Not a sim. You're in a different existence. The gaze backing up a revelation had him in its sights.

"Huh?" He witnessed the most perfect smile he'd ever seen.

"What would you like to talk about? Don't expect complete answers."

"Huh?"

"Oh, Marco," Beth traded her seat for the one next his on the swing, "you've no idea what you've gotten yourself into, and you won't believe me, so I'll make this easy for you." She took him into her arms, kissed him as his mother long ago used to, and crooned into his ear in a manner narcotic for its effect. He awoke with no clear idea of how long he'd slept or of what awakened him. He was alone on the swing, and for the first time in a great long while felt refreshed. Looking to the ocean he saw Beth standing near the water. The time of day had progressed to just before nightfall. Beth was backlit and in silhouette. He could not see her features and feared they might be skeletal.

"You won't leave her down there?" Beth asked when he caught up.

"Leave who where?"

"Promise me you won't. You'll understand what I mean soon enough."

He gasped a chuckle. "Sure, I won't leave her. I promise." Did she mean Calvert? Was Calvert about to fall into a well? Good on her, if so.

Beth sighed and he felt the press of her exhaled air on his skin. "That'll do for a start. I'll ask again later."

"Sure—you leaving?"

"No, you are."

The play interval ended. Grey wall and blue grid lines to look at. "Polyphemus?"

"Your three hours were up. Do you wish an extension?"

"No." He would examine, when he had time, Island's script to discover all things unique about it. As he worked open the front of his sim suit, Marco could think of only one way to experience imaginary lemonade gushing down his throat—through coating his insides with sensors.

Sim booth flooring was frictionless and levitating. A sim technician was supposed to monitor sim play and help players in or out of booths. Mild shove in; puff of air out. The shove was easily dispensed with. Players skated in on their own. A request to the master control panel dealt with the puff—Poly blew them out herself.

The player wore a full-body sensory garment that was as skin for fit. Marco skidded to a stop on plain decking outside. A Navy Standard sim booth was a four by four metre space three metres high. Two booths were side by side ahead of the entrance/exit platform. Third and fourth booths were port and starboard. He faced a short corridor connecting the theatre to its prep, change and shower facilities.

In the prep room were upright frames for aiding suit installation/extraction and lockers to store and self-clean them in. Six cleaning lockers: small, medium and large, male and female. Four other lockers provided additional storage. Sim suits were like track suits for fit, but appeared insulated. The cost of a suit was prohibitive, yet Calvert had her own, custom sized and fitted. Hers was female small. Marco's was male small, and Danby's female large.

After stripping, Marco showered just to dampen himself. All spigots were on ration settings. Most of a twenty-member crew being absent, he'd tweaked the nodes so that he and Danby received one and a half shares. Calvert, owing to her command status, enjoyed unlimited usage.

A six person sauna annexed the showers. Marco intended opening his pores to full before completing his wash. Swing open hatch. Wet met dry. "Pardon me!" He'd not expected the sauna to be occupied. Because he stood within the threshold, the hatch would not close.

Calvert lay upon the top shelf of three. Condensing moisture marbled her nakedness; beads of wet slid down her flanks. She lay on her back, standard issue towel, white, draping her from waist to mid thigh; her breasts remarkable for shape, size, texture, and colour. Her hair was an unnatural bright blue. Despite the forearm over her eyes, he could tell she stared back at him owing to the flicker happening beneath her lashes.

"Come in, can't you?" She had neither moved nor changed her pose. "You've let the heat out." Although she might cover up, she made no effort to do so. "Let the damn hatch close."

Marco came the rest of the way in. Slatted fake wood floor was for standing on or he might lie or sit on either of the shelves below hers or chose a spot past the angle yonder. He grinned stupidly, self-consciously, while holding his towel before his genitals.

"Pacini?" When had she turned so as to view him directly on? He'd not been staring, or leering as she might suppose. His gaze was aimed that way, he wasn't exactly sure what he'd been doing, his mind had gone blank, he thought of sim Julie, but not to make comparisons. Except for the jet blue hair and the minuscule difference in heights, sim Julie was identical to the girl lying before him. He would not feel guilty about the liberty he'd taken, no matter how influenced he felt here and now. Her ignorance was as good as a wall to hide behind. He was standing and gazing—he realized over many moments—at the nearer of her breasts.

"What the fuh—Pacini!" she exclaimed, scandalized. Her hand cupped her offended part, covering the nipple.

He shook himself. Blinked several times. He hadn't been seeing her breast as other than an object; he hadn't seen it at all. "Sorry," he muttered, stepped, turned and sat directly beneath her. He ought to have expected what she did next, which was to whack the back of his head with a damned hard flick of her towel. He winced. He supposed he'd had it coming.

"What exactly did you think you were doing?!"

"I was staring," he said, scowling into the space before him, "but I wasn't thinking anything, ah, untoward." She would choose not to believe him, but he'd no control over her opinion. "I'm half dead on my feet, okay? I just drifted off for a second."

"If you're so damned tired, shouldn't you be in your rack?"

"I haven't had much luck sleeping lately."

"You and muh—er, ahem."

He had to see her expression, regardless of the danger to health and credibility should his gaze bump into things, or fix on things, and he saw the blush her features wore and the depth of what had gone into her chest. "You, too?" he asked.

"Me, too, what?" she answered evasively, forearm resuming the guarding of her eyes and their expression.

"You've had nightmares. What about?"

She hesitated, pursing her lips. "About nothing that concerns you."

He ought not to care. She was the very large pain in his posterior. What she proposed they do, while not strictly dangerous, nor counter to regs, was at the least ill conceived. He knew of no better argument that might sway her from landing the ship. He supposed the accident of his staring had set her opinion against anything he might argue in any case. He'd barely begun to sweat yet he'd had enough of wet and heat and far too much of her company already. "Maybe I'll take my time," he grumbled. Only vaguely he thought about what might be the event he referred to. Because he left right after voicing his comment he failed to detect her sharp intake of breath or how her lips fell apart about lips gone fearful.

Thirty hours later, Marco informed his crewmates: "Entering atmosphere." The tech hazarded a peek into the large, reflecting, forward screen before devoting himself to his navigation, noting and approving of Calvert's all business appearance behind her high chair's wraparound console. He had only Danby's VR-masked profile to pass judgement over. His hands moved sparingly over the navigational console. The ship's progress was portrayed in a 3D wire representation within the main screen, orientation set for best viewing.

The ship had generated a set of detailed instructions to pilot itself by. Marco monitored the descent and was prepared to assume control should it be necessary he do so. Poly was able to perform the landing every bit as well as or better than he. Should an emergency arise he could respond to it more effectively from the outside than from the inside of a manoeuvre.

They'd waited an additional ten hours after gathering and securing the network of satellites for better conditions at the surface within which to land, for the latest storm to finish ravaging the landing site, and after sending four satellites back into orbit after refuelling and adjustments for the purposes of surface observation, weather forecast, and communications. Wind over the landing site flowed at forty kph with gusts at fifty-five kph out of planetary west.

Poly applied thrust to change her orientation, followed by a gush of full secondaries thrust, and down they plummeted.

"Main thrust complete," Marco remarked for the benefit of the official record. They were for the present a falling object rather than a starcraft under power. Calvert, her hair for the occasion regal purple spotted with credit coin-sized golden fleur de lis, peered into a schematic in which the angle of the approach showed relative to the planet and over which was superimposed a steadily increasing number representing airspeed.

"Check angle of descent," she advised.

"Orientation is okay," Marco replied.

"We're going in a little steep."

"No, we're not." He could tell she was irritated. She could be irritated all she wanted. He knew his job far better than she knew hers.

"Winds are backing four to seven degrees north over the landing site," Danby reported from her scanners couch.

"Acknowledged," Calvert replied. Polyphemus was slightly more than three hundred metres long, including antenna booms and was at her maximum forty metres wide.

"Braking engines status go."

"Too soon," Calvert muttered crossly.

"I know too soon. I only mentioned they're ready."

Calvert monitored the same images as Marco did. It would be rare happenstance that she be required to take over piloting the ship. The increase in atmospheric thickness created voracious glow beyond the viewport glass, which none of them paid much attention to.

A palpable sideways drift was registered by external sensors as the ship encountered the first layer of air thick enough to budge her.

"We're off course, correct to—"

"Jet stream," Marco said.

"Yeah, so we're being pushed off our trajectory."

"We're not done yet. Deploying glide planes." The flight aids, hitherto folded to the fuselage, extended to aid stability and steering. Marco noted with satisfaction instant improvements to trim, stability and ease of descent.

"We're gone off course," Calvert grumbled.

"Poly can mend that in another forty seconds."

"Thrusters—"

"Do no good during free fall. You ought to know that." Thrusters were ineffective within atmosphere unless the ship's counter grav be substantially engaged.

"But . . ." Polyphemus' interim captain fell silent as she pondered the situation and the possible tactics she might order performed. Her desire for perfection and sense of order urged her to fix the ship's trajectory as soon as an aberration set in. Yet she realized Pacini was correct: an adjustment to their flight path while the ship felt all of her sixty thousand tonnes would be wasteful of the fuel reserve. They ought not do what they might later regret. She appreciated the difference between simulation and the real thing. In a simulation one strived to fix problems as soon as they occurred, and as long as there was at least some fuel left over at the end all was fine. In reality one conserved one's resources. The smoothest ride down was not necessarily the best.

"Ten seconds to atmospheric braking," Marco announced. They travelled a little slower than he'd predicted by this stage. The upper level atmosphere was more encumbered with particles than he'd anticipated and so offered more resistance to the descent as a result. Polyphemus was losing more of her skin than they'd calculated. No matter. Her bow was protected by energy shielding at near maximum projection settings.

"Deploying flaps." A check to motion followed and the bow of the ship rose in response. Marco gazed anxiously into his screens. To facilitate a glide in denser air Polyphemus had increased her counter grav projecting, now at twenty percent of actual weight. The variably thirty-five to fifty metre high ship's profile was experiencing buffeting sufficient to push the ship off her course if an adjustment not be made. He'd a choice of options and supposed firing thrusters would be the one Calvert liked best. As always it was prudent to husband the fuel, so he increased the ship's apparent weight and reduced flaps instead, allowing them to fall faster.

"We're going too fast," said Calvert, an anxious pucker shown her screens. It was Pacini, she realized, who'd triggered the change in flight dynamics, from noticing his alterations in the scroll before her eyes.

"It's under control," he muttered as she stared daggers at him. He'd taken an unwarranted liberty making his adjustments without consulting nor informing her what he was about. She ought to have been allowed to decide what was the best strategy to follow—she understood and agreed with the maxim about preserving fuel. She even agreed with the steps he had taken, but he ought to have voiced them for her approval and hadn't.

"Coming up on final approach," Marco reported. They'd a minor escarpment to cross. The ship was still dropping several metres per second faster than Calvert was comfortable with, yet she could see they would cross over the obstruction with decades of metres to spare. Her heart had skipped when she saw how close was the plain. She saw next what lay beneath it: a huge disc, a ship, hundreds of metres deep, filled floor to ceiling with objects fantastic. The impossible image lingered before her mind's eye. She might have floated in the centre of the vast trove: her sense was that what she saw was as real as the couch she sat on and the screens she watched into. Her jaw dropped and her here and now vision went blind. Something inside her flipped open. A switch was thrown. She felt next a contact as intimate as a kiss and as invasive as a scalpel. What are you? she queried and received no answer.

"Airspeed three hundred mps," Danby reported and it seemed to Calvert the marine had spoken from far, far away.

"Too fast, Pacini," Calvert muttered as she struggled to resume her focus on the present.

"We've nothing but plain in front of us." Dunes and rock and a few thorny, low growing plants. Polyphemus passed over the ground wearing less than ten percent of her actual weight. "Increasing flaps."

"Thrusters—" went Calvert.

"Not yet—another few seconds." They'd been adjusting for sideways drift. Polyphemus had been firing port and starboard thrusters to counter wind effects for the last minute and more.

"Braking thrusters, now, damn it!" Calvert growled.

"Two-fifty," from Danby. "Less than five klicks to the LZ."

"Full flaps, braking thrusters full," said Marco, having arrived at the moment he'd calculated for. He'd stepped up the time a little—one second plus a little more. They were on as near to a perfect approach as he and Poly could create and he was proud of their achievement. He hadn't directed many landings into atmosphere; most helmsmen never made them in starcraft as large as Polyphemus outside of a simulation bay. That this one had turned out so well was bound to impress whomever viewed it after. A nice insert for his career jacket.

"Coming to the mark," reported Danby, "in five, four, three, two-o . . . one." A starship could not glide into a landing. She must be bullied to where her weight could be applied to hold her in her place. With momentum checked and orientation adjusted, at sufficient altitude to clear obstacles, she might drift into her landing dainty as a petal, although only it would seem so.

Marco grinned. Airspeed was less than one mps and the wind barely pressed them east. Poly's fine tuning had them within a handful of metres of the projected landing zone, a result as good as could be expected given their dimensions and the terrain and atmospheric conditions.

"Settling," he reported. "Contact is good through struts. Testing ground . . ." The seismic pulses his instruments sent forth did not travel far before encountering subterranean extra. He'd gotten a mind picture of the event to supplant what his right-hand screen was showing him. Poly's landing struts were six in number, massive metal pillars five metres in diameter and fifteen metres high when fully extended, supporting for the moment a weight of six thousand tonnes, their span foremost to rearmost two hundred metres and side to side thirty metres. They'd all encountered the same obstruction at the same time. What was beneath them was at least the size of the ship and likely a great deal larger.

"How is the ground?" Calvert asked, despite that through consulting her own screens she might determine the condition of the landing zone for herself. Marco was required to speak the ability of the site to support the ship for the official record.

"Ground is good. Holding good. Applying thirty percent weight to struts."

"Thirty percent is good," replied Calvert. "Secure from flight status. Secure flight instruments. Secure the ship."

"Securing Nav station. All engines stop. All stop. We are down and solid."

"Ship is down," Calvert affirmed. "Now we can get to work." Marco's impulse as soon as Calvert voiced her end comment was to protest. His regular shift of work had ended six hours earlier and he'd gotten no better than four hours of dubious sack time prior to that owing to his recurrent nightmare. The preps and checks required before landing he'd mostly done himself. Anticipating a respite, he'd devoted most of what remained of his concentration and energy to landing the ship. With that task done he'd been looking forward to leisure, or some light duty at the worst, the kind of prep he could do indoors and seated. Calvert scowled thoughtfully as she asked, "How long will it take to send out the first TRAX? An hour? Two?"

His gasp was owed to her lunacy. "I've got systems' checks to run," he replied while hating her ornamental hair and noting how unmoving Danby sat at her scanners station. "Then I thought I should knock off." Twenty hours on with but a single five hour break wedged in. He was entitled.

"I can run systems checks," Calvert answered. The slant she put in her seated posture caused the gold parts of her hair to shimmer gorgeously as they moved. "You can send that TRAX out."

"I can't send just one. I'm going to have to send two, and I haven't done setups yet."

"Setups? What are setups? Why do setups? Our TRAXs are brand new."

"Which is why I have to do setups! I can't send them out until I've done checks, setups, beefed up their filter systems, and there's the programming and the—"

"Yeah, yeah." His commander indulged herself with a dismissive wave that appeared swatting at a fly. "So it's gonna take a couple more hours."

"A lot more than a couple of hours. If you don't mind, Ensign, I'm pretty beat right now. Couldn't we start this tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" She had not forgotten his acting outside her direction on the way down, which had been as good as an insult. Setting him right to work was getting even. "We can't wait until tomorrow," she said implacably.

Marco gasped in disgust. Here was a bad start and things could only get worse. The bad, he decided after a moment's additional thought, had really begun when he informed his kid commander that he'd found the alien transmitter. He was regretting his impetuousness, and her intractability, a lot right now.

"I'll help," Danby announced. She'd removed her scanner helmet and pushed herself up from her couch.

As much as he appreciated the offer, he doubted there was much the marine could do that would much reduce the amount of work he had to do. "Thanks, Danby," he replied all the same.

Chapter Five \- Incomplete Disclosures

The five metre long, three wide, and two and one half high TRAX trundled past within remote view, its twin electric turbines rumbling and roiling. Drawn behind was a long, low trailer heaped to overflowing with gravel, sand, and chunks of stone. All the way along the trailer's length, and to a distressing distance rearward, flowed grey, brown and white streaks and clots, a silent and emphatic bellowing that the wind seemed to shred for amusement.

Julie Calvert, her hair let be its natural blond, watched TRAX, trailer, and billowing from her command chair vantage, chin in hand, finger athwart lips. She had guided her ship to where things grew dull and stunted beneath sky so unrelenting blue it calved few clouds. Everywhere sand and dust and wind that sucked moisture like hungry mouths. To the stark, encircling hills nothing but rock, sand and haze. She had been grounded for a mere two days and absolutely hated her situation.

When Pacini sent out the TRAXs, both airlock hatches had necessarily had to be retracted to permit the lengthy second rig to pass through. The outdoors had barrelled in so fierce, Calvert had reacted by vomiting her morning toast and coffee. After the hatches closed again, the ventilation fans thunderous in complaint, she realized how wretched she'd become, the three of them gasping like beached fish in the superheated air. After fleeing to her cabin, her motions ancient and febrile, she'd feared to see her reflection. In the shower, stripping with desperate energy, ending atop the puddle of her clothes and streaks of mud, she had wept all the way to her toes.

The TRAX returned with more grey and white to shred. The wind must be knocked down. It filled in the excavation as much as was dug out. Calvert shifted her grip so that it wrap her chin. Pacini was fabricating suits to counter 40+ Celsius degrees of heat and wind. They would drink their desalinated sweat. Calvert had no intention of doing the latter, having decided she would need to be more than very thirsty before slurping up water come out of her body.

The TRAX disappeared from view, in its wake a fluttering like disintegrating birds. Calvert set her focus next on the forward screen in her wraparound console. Pacini had activated a camera on the highest of Polyphemus' antenna masts. She was able to look directly into the excavation. The other TRAX, equipped with a hydraulic shovel, awaited its companion's return.

TRAXs were ape-intelligent. Given a set of instructions not too complicated to perform, they needed no further direction or supervision. How well the TRAXs performed depended on the completeness of their instructions. Pacini had done a bang-up programming job to judge by the industry and competency the machines displayed.

Nearly had they uncovered the alien transmitter. As soon as its brother stopped alongside, the digger machine, TRAX #1, emptied itself inside an explosion of dust, and then went down into the excavation for more. The trial trench was five metres deep, twenty metres long and fifteen metres wide. An incorporated ramp enabled TRAX #1 to crawl in and out.

The boom camera changed its aim and view, that moved, showing the land past a wing deployed for shade. Pacini should have asked before revolving the view. She could override him if she wished. What was in a panorama entirely sand, stone, dust and wind worth seeing?

Calvert tapped a spot on her desk blotter. "Pacini, what are you doing?" He ought to be too busy fabricating their EVA suits to be messing about with anything else.

"I'm trying to get a feel for how far the wreck extends."

A starship, no matter where its origins, must necessarily be large. Their relatively minor transport vessel was sixty thousand tonnes and three hundred metres long. Calvert had neither mentioned nor recorded the particulars of her hallucination. She'd rationalized a monster as a consequence of fatigue, anxiety, indigestion, irritation—all of which she'd suffered at the time.

Too much dust returned into the excavation. When the TRAXs finished their current instruction set, there would remain a slurry centimetres deep coating the wreck. They'd see beneath it only by imagination. Pacini reset the boom camera view on the excavation.

"Can't you do something about the drifting?" she asked.

"I am doing something about it."

When did I request him to? "Like what?"

"I'm fabricating a collector. It'll sweep up the dust."

"When will the TRAXs be finished?" TRAX #1 had ceased taking material from the bottom of the pit and now removed it from the wall opposite the ramp. "What's that TRAX doing now?"

A five count went by without an answer. "I programmed #1 to uncover the transmitter, and then remove material until the entire wreck is cleared or until we tell him otherwise."

"Can't you speed up the process?" TRAX #2 pulled away with a full trailer.

"I could send out another TRAX, but I'd rather not."

His damned obstinacy on display yet again. "I think you should. #1 is standing still whole minutes waiting for #2 to come back."

"I'd have to dust proof a #3, plus fabricate another trailer, and I thought you wanted the EVA suits ready for when the transmitter is uncovered." He could only do so much at a time.

"When can you get a dust collector out there?"

"I'm calling it a sweep. I'm going to take it out in about a half hour." He couldn't just send the sweep out; its understanding was limited. To keep things simple, besides have time for the many other things Calvert demanded, he'd derived a minimal labour instruction set for the sweep: start here, do this, this and that.

Looking once more into her console, Calvert noted again how the excavation drifted in. The pernicious wind was determined to spoil what the TRAXs did. They needed more equipment out there. "Get another TRAX charged up."

"What? Now?"

"Yes, the earth is drifting right back in."

"It's not drifting in that fast."

"I don't—look, just do what I tell you to do."

"What about the sweep?"

"Forget the sweep—the suits aren't ready either, are they?"

"Not quite, I am just about finished with the programming for the sweep and the suit programs are done and ready to be tested, but somebody has to supervise that. If you want me to set up another TRAX, I'll have to shut down the suit fabbing until I'm done with that other thing."

"Can't Danby finish up the suit tests?"

"She could finish up the sweep, but not the suits. I have to fine tune the internals for sensing and sequencing. The coding is too complex for her to handle."

Calvert hesitated. She needed another set of experienced hands, maybe two. Things were just not happening quickly enough.

"Ensign?"

"All right."

"All right what? Do you want me to finish the suits or prep another TRAX?"

"Finish the damn suit testing, but as soon as that's done I want another TRAX out there."

"Aye, sir," he muttered.

He seemed bent on crossing her. Doing things without consulting her. Setting his own priorities and schedule. His attitude bordered on insubordinate. If only she had someone else she could rely on! Her attention returned to the scene sent by the high camera. A drift, started in one corner, tracked right through the centre of the dig. The alien transmitter was covered again. The drift was at least ten centimetres high, pasted a dozen square metres, and continued to grow before her eyes. It wouldn't be long before the damned trench filled in again. Damn you, Pacini, and your damned excuses!

Calvert tapped the comm pad irritably. "Pacini, how much longer?"

"One sweep's almost finished. Another hour for the suits." Pacini need only complete his, so Calvert told him. "Ah, yes, sir," he replied tentatively.

Had he expected the rest of them to troop outside along with him? Was he afraid to go out alone? "How long will it take you to finish your own suit?"

"If you want me outside, that third TRAX will have to wait."

Calvert muttered obscenities beneath her breath. Of course. Danby needed her suit to be ready first so she could take the sweep out. Why did he always seem to be one step ahead of her? "Finish Danby's suit first. Corporal Danby, you'll take the sweep out."

"Aye, sir." Danby's reply was in its tenor like his.

Within the engineering bay Marco was saying, "You heard the boss." Uncoupling the diagnostic harness from the male version of the suit he'd created, his sour pucker went to the section of bulkhead past the rig he'd fixed the suit into. It would take five minutes to completely disconnect his suit from the diagnostic harness and reconnect the leads on Danby's, and another thirty minutes to run systems' checks, provided the assembly and download turned out right. He'd had at the least another seven minutes to complete checks on his own suit. He would have to start over again with his after Danby's checked out. Except Calvert wanted him to prep the next TRAX. While Danby was outside, on her own, and should anything go wrong, the only way he might rescue her would be to run outside in 45 Celsius heat and voracious wind in cap and coverall. He'd have to hope he didn't pass out before he could attach a cable to the ring on the back of her respirator pack so he could winch her back into the ship.

"No sweat, Pacini," said Danby and he grunted angrily. She must not be appreciating the danger Calvert's rushing them through procedures created. He decided right then and there he wouldn't give in to berserker zeal. Danby would not be going out until he was entirely certain the suit he'd created for her did everything it was supposed to.

Polyphemus had four fabricators: two for garments and located within each of the crew quarters decks, a smaller industrial model within the annex outside Secondary Electrical one deck above Crew Deck aft and the industrial within Secondary Engineering next to Main Equipment Storage and one level above Boat Bay. He could make practically anything he wanted out of the main fabber: consoles, circuit boards, engine components, hull plate, cabling, framing. All he had to do was input the instructions from a menu and supply raw materials to the hoppers.

The EVA suits had been woven about a virtual form. Vacuum suit shell with interior absorbent liner, fluid reservoir and salt accumulator, cooling plant, and filtration systems for both water and air. The respirator pack drew outside air in through filters into a bottle where it was cooled. Exhaled air accumulated in a second bottle until flushed out at mid back level. Too much dust and the collection system shut down. In that case the operator still had an emergency backup with at least a half hour of breathable air inside.

The ship's industrial fabber consisted of a 7.2 metre diameter suspension, moulding and assembly cylinder, hoppers and a control console. Additional attachments were in lockers nearby. The wrist-thick conduits that characterized most fabber installations were absent. This installation had its power runs incorporated within the deck. Other ships he'd served on had had their fabricators installed after commissioning or been upgraded. Both of Polyphemus's industrials were latest tech and the best he'd worked with.

The sturdy little dust collector stood where it had disgorged at the top of the short ramp at the front of the fabricating chamber.

"I think it's ready," said Danby. She set about testing sweeper functioning from her handset.

"Did you test the breakdown sequence?" He'd formed Danby's EVA suit over a 3D virtual form accessed from the ship's records. Next he'd created a mannikin based on the same image to check the fit. He hadn't realized the moisture transfer liner was so tight and revealing until after he dressed the flesh-toned model in it.

"Um, no, not yet."

"There's too much dust out there for one sweeper to handle." Calvert again. Annoyingly intrusive, distant in tone.

He was in midst of a crucial coolant systems check. If the system didn't check out, Danby would not be going outside, because, should it malfunction, she wouldn't make it down the ramp before passing out.

"Did you hear me, Pacini?"

"I'm in the middle of something."

"I said we're going to need more than one sweeper out there!"

"Got it," said Danby, stepping to the fabricator control panel.

"Wait. You have to fill the hoppers first. I only put in enough stuff for the first one."

"Oh, right."

"Leave it," Marco whispered tersely to his companion. "I'll get to it, in another five minutes or so." The process too involved and complicated to explain which components came from which bins, while he concentrated on the crucial checks he was at the midpoint of.

"I've got this," Danby replied. "The recipe's still up." She'd seen him collect material for the first sweeper and knew where the component parts and raw materials had come from.

"All right then. Check the template for readiness before you start 'er up." While engrossed with his checks, he heard the reception trays open. "All the components have to be in correct orientations before start up or the procedure aborts. Should that happen you'll have a wreck on your hands."

"Got it." Danby kept her sudden consternation out of his line of sight. Positioning had not been a step she paid attention to.

"What was that?" Calvert asked.

"I was telling Danby about the fabber."

"How much longer are you going to be?"

"Ten minutes more for Danby's suit. We're just starting on the second sweeper now."

On the bridge Calvert watched another load of debris trundle past, the voracious wind ripping its associated cloud to tatters. Wind speed was definitely up. Calvert checked settings on all the pressure fields over all ship's shutters and frowned at their representations. The power output stayed all the time within the high range. What if one or more pressure fields failed and dust poured into the ship? All sorts of damage would ensue: filters plugged, fans overheated, relays shorted. Internal circulation could shut down and they'd all end up dead. After a calming gulp, Calvert made herself take a closer look at the displays.

Her imagination played tricks on her. Polyphemus possessed all new equipment. The energy requirements were large for the task of sealing the ship, but nothing their power generation couldn't handle. They barely used seven percent of the full amount available. The energy peaks were not serious. Poly's system checks had found no impairments. She'd made herself upset over nothing.

Her attention resumed on the excavation. TRAX #1 industriously removed earth from the side of the excavation, and ignored the drift in the centre. By the time Danby got the sweeper out it couldn't possibly handle so much accumulation. Calvert tapped her comm pad. "Pacini, you've programmed those TRAXs wrong."

"Beg pardon, sir?"

"TRAX #1 ignores the drift gone through the centre of the excavation and it's getting bigger all the time!"

"Send 'reset'."

Of course, she knew that! She'd the power to remedy the situation any time she wanted. The tech had shown her up again. Calvert applied herself to her comm pad, found the command Pacini had initiated the dig with, and sent it. Calvert supposed she'd amused him with her show of ignorance. To find out if he indulged himself with a belly laugh at her expense, she accessed the view that showed the two of them hard at work downstairs.

"Hold still," Marco was saying as he tugged at the front of the suit Danby had managed to snug herself into. The cover had to be a close fit. To match it the marine had disrobed entirely.

"This feels like giving form to a sheet of plywood," she complained. It had taken significant coaxing on his part to get her to strip bare. The system of fluid transfer would not work properly if anything blocked it from the wearer's skin.

"You'll get used to it." Marco sealed the second liner, integral to the suit. Now he'd the shell to close, which had a fastening strip in front. Despite the opportunity presented him, he was not going to touch anywhere but along the business part of the closure.

"I don't like standing in this thing in the nude, in the see-through body stocking you put me in," groused the marine. "You're sure the fluid collection won't work properly otherwise?"

"Just think about it a moment, can't you?" Marco was becoming more than a little agitated himself. He ought to have used a current 3-D model. Danby had put on weight, which was why the fit was so snug.

"You didn't make the shell too stiff? Isn't it going to chafe?" The combination of suit and liners was close, hot, and dense. Danby perspired profusely into it already.

"The fabric takes a while to work into shape. No, it won't chafe. You've got two layers of fluid transfer liner in there. I might add some strategic padding, but, hum-m-m, not at present."

"You're implying I'm fat?" A sour look capped the complaint.

"No, of course I'm not."

"Then you made this damn thing too tight on purpose."

"I didn't do that either. I, ah, used an old 3-D model from the start of the mission."

"No wonder everything is so damned tight! That model has to be six months old."

"Sorry."

"You figure you'll even be able to get in yours?" He had gotten a little pudgy himself.

"Ah, sure." He made an adjustment to her hood that left only the oval of Danby's face exposed. Her suit shell was dark blue. His was green. Calvert's red.

"Am I gonna be able to move? How come this is a hot suit and not a cold suit?"

"A hot suit?"

"Yeah?"

"The circulatory system's not on—wait a minute, don't touch that." She'd been about to turn on something. Marco had set all main suit adjustments in a row ahead of their chins. They could also adjust suit settings through their handsets. Once suit power was up, they made adjustments to suit systems through directing a look.

"Why not?" Danby asked irritably. She suffered swift-forming pearls of moisture flowing beneath her mesh hood.

"I've yet to charge the system. You'll burn out the compressor if you turn on anything now."

Perspiration perversely dripped into her eyes to make them sting. "Argh!" preceded squeezing eyes tight shut.

"Sweat in the eyes?"

"Yes, damn it!" She couldn't even wipe the sweat away. Her hands were in abrasive covers.

"Hold on a sec. Try this." He reached behind for a plastic jar filled with blue fluid and pressed its attached tube to her lips.

"Hey, what's this? Am I supposed to drink antifreeze?" She maintained her eyelids closed snug, which helped to keep the sweat from running into them, and only peeked.

"It's an electrolyte. You drink it, you sweat it, the suit recycles it and uses it for coolant. Neat huh?"

"Yeah, sure," she grumbled through a sip. "Am I gonna get some relief here?"

"Right now," he said and applied a damp cloth to her face.

"Gawd, that feels heavenly!"

"You could even urinate into the liner if you wanted, although I wouldn't recommend it."

"No thanks. I think I'll wait until after I'm out of this thing."

He grinned at her. "You're a little tall for what I have to do next. If you'll sit down a minute, I can do final checks."

"Pacini, I'm dying in this thing." He moved a chair into place for her, and she sat down gratefully, making a squelching sound. "What was that?"

"You didn't have an accident, did you?" He fumbled with the controls in front of her jaw.

"Of course I didn't have an accident. Am I leaking?"

"Not that I can tell." He pressed a pad and the suit responded with a gurgle.

The result cooling. "Ah-h-h-h!" Danby responded.

"Like it that much, huh?"

"Much better. Oh, man, that feels weird." She could feel flowing against her skin and especially her intimate places.

"Good weird or bad weird?"

"Good weird. It's cool."

"You can control the temperature setting by pressing the second pad." He tapped the pad with the end of the stylus he was holding and a jolt of cold passed into her body.

"Stop that."

"Stop what?" He tapped the pad again and she caught his wrist.

"Stop that—I don't like it." She glared at him. His grinning made her feel like grinning back.

"You aim your look the other way if you want it warmer."

She hadn't noticed how bushy his eyebrows were before. "Okay, so what else?"

"The next is air circulation. You adjust the flow the same way you control your temperature. There's a reservoir on your back that connects to the same pump that runs the coolant system. The air reservoir is triple chambered. The first chamber holds air from the outside, the second cools the air, and the third provides you with air to breathe."

"When I breathe out where does the air go?"

"Out of your helmet, through a shunt, and into the material covering your back. Motion forces it out. You have to check for dust buildup before you suit up. I've got a supply of replacement filters set aside. I'll be making more once I get caught up on the rest of this stuff.

"Always flush, treat and recharge the coolant system after you take off your suit. That avoids bacterial buildup. The bio filter is a delicate little bastard and hard to take apart. I'd just as soon avoid maintenance on it."

Danby arched her brow at him. "Am I ready now?"

"One thing more." He showed her a helmet resembling a paint can. "This," he said as he placed the helmet over her head and turned it over the collar ring to lock, "is adjustable."

The sunlight filter function was too dark for her to see out of. "How come the tuning is so dark?" Her voice came at him muffled.

"Has to be—you'll know why once you're outside. You can adjust the shading this way." He helped her find a pad incorporated into the collar beneath the helmet. "Press and the helmet loosens. Use your other hand to square up your sight lines." For a joke, he turned the helmet entirely around so the faceplate aligned behind. "That ought to do it."

"I can't see a damned thing."

"You should probably wait until you get outside for final adjustment. The last chin pad controls the amount of light let in through the visor—try it."

"I still can't see anything."

"You sure?" Marco watched the visor to observe whether the shading worked the way it should and noted it had.

"What's with this thing?"

"Maybe if you weren't wearing it ass-backwards you'd notice it works just fine?"

"Asshole," muttered Danby while she loosened the lock pad, turned the helmet so it was orientated the correct way, and locked in.

"Okay, so how's that?" he asked.

Danby was grinning and hiding it. She didn't mind his little joke. Letting him see how amused she'd become would be encouragement for more of the same. "I think I've got the idea."

"You're all set then. Let's get you down to Boat Bay."

Danby struggled to raise herself from the chair.

"The additional mass will take getting used to. The stiffness should work itself out," Marco said from behind her.

"How much extra mass?"

"Twenty kilos—considerably less than a suit of armour, and quite a bit less than a vacuum suit. Of course in vac, you never notice the extra mass."

Danby grunted a reply.

"Don't forget you're even heavier once you step outside."

Planet surface gravity was 1.05 Standard. Ship's was .75 Standard. She was about to weigh half again more than what she was used to.

"Maybe we should go on diets." What he just said she heard directly. Marco had put on a communications headset and no longer shouted at the back of her head.

He was the one who ought to go on a diet. His figure chunky. Both she and Calvert were svelte. She wondered idly what exercise he preferred, remembering vaguely he had told her what it was once. "I'm feeling like the Tin Man in here."

Get used to it. We're going to be here for a while." Months, a voice in the back of his head told him, which was absurd.

"Yah, ah, should I be taking my handset outside?"

"They're sealed against practically anything. I don't see why not. How's your dexterity?"

"Hum-m-m, like everything else, stiff."

"Attach handset to belt with this lanyard." He showed her what she ought to use. "The wind's pretty fierce out there."

"Yah, kay, am I ready?"

"Just let me do a final check of the respiration unit. Take a minute." They rode the lift platform between decks, the new sweep with them. At the interior airlock hatch he hesitated. Marco suffered the feeling he'd lived this moment before.

"Aren't I ready now?" Danby asked after his wool gathering had gone on longer than it should.

"Yah, stand by." He'd left the inner airlock hatch retracted. The outdoors ramp was down. Dust entered the ship only through the lock. The air circulation system would carry dust throughout the ship eventually. The slurry beneath their feet was owed to the TRAXs going out. Marco motioned Danby into the lock, the sweep following. It wouldn't do her any good, if he was to pass on his misgivings. For better or worse they were committed.

"Am I going to stand here all day?"

"Right, sorry." He closed the inside hatch behind her, opened the outer hatch, and saw the wind crash in. Danby was staggered over her feet.

"Criminy!"

"How you doing in there?"

"Ever try standing in a hurricane!"

"That bad?"

"Damn near. Ah, crap, it's getting hot in here."

"How bad?" He reviewed her suit readings in the console by the hatch.

"I'm sweating like crazy again."

"Use your inside control."

"Oh, yeah, cripes, forgot all about it."

Her interior suit temperature peaked temporarily between 27 and 28 degrees Celsius. Now it slid down to 22—they'd been spoiled with a cosy twenty degrees along with their three-quarters Standard gravity. "There you go."

"I just wanna get this done."

"Keep replenishing fluids." Two litres to go through before reaching recycled.

"See you in a bit." A ninety metre walk. Whatever waited couldn't be as bad as they imagined. Once the sweep was working, Danby thought she might stay and watch the dig for a while.

"Take care." Marco muffled a curse. Madness to land. Madness to risk valuable equipment in a corrosive environment. Madness to put their lives at risk. The Navy had specialized teams and equipment for just this sort of thing. It might take a year or two before they made it out here, but once they did everything would get done proper. With just the resources on hand, he couldn't see how he would do everything his idiot commander wanted done. He envisioned a great deal more than his orders called for. What was Calvert about to fling them into?

"Pacini, where's that other TRAX?"

Still in the stall, where it should remain! "Danby's just gone out."

"I see that. She's almost to the excavation. What's the hold up?"

Calvert must watch what he did through one of the cargo bay cameras. "Taking a break."

"Take a break when you merit one."

"How's the suit working?" Danby heard. Even beneath Polyphemus, in its shade, she felt the heat pour through the soles of her boots. Walking was like striving underwater against a current, with occasional gusting that threatened to knock her onto her butt. "Good," she replied. Everything seemed to work. She breathed without strain, was not too warm and felt moisture whisking away. Except for the capricious wind and the effort required to shift her augmented weight, she ought to get used to a strange and exhaustive environment eventually.

"Don't get complacent out there."

"Yes, mother." The effect of full sunlight on her formerly happy self was like stepping into a furnace. "Argh!"

"Danby!"

"I'm okay." The marine stepped up her cooling and shading, angled her body into the wind, and closed her eyes to avoid creating more spots in her vision.

"Give us a report, Corporal," came all-business from Calvert.

"I'm okay. The transition to full sunlight is harsh. I wasn't ready for it. The suit's working okay. I'm waiting for my systems to adjust."

"How's the visor working out?" Pacini sounded anxious still.

"I see fine. I'm resuming my mission." The air had a peculiar metallic savour. Danby took a sip from her throat tube, fumbling with the shaped end before bringing it into her mouth. The water cool and bland. Another sip. Too warm still. Step up the cooling. The adjustment seemed to have little effect. She felt moisture bead and flow across her forehead.

She was becoming too hot. The cooling already up as far as it would go. Pacini's suit design not as perfect as he thought. She was only hot, not dizzy or disorientated though. Another long sip. She'd drunk generously by now. The water supply temp went from cool to tepid. She felt wet accumulating between her legs. Some of her recycle was going to come from there. She perspired as if in a sauna and she'd barely gone fifty metres from the ship. The loyal little sweeper trundled along by her side as would a timid child. "Ah, Pacini . . ."

"Yes, Danby?"

"I'm way hot. I can't tell if anything's wrong."

"How's your status display?" Concern evident in his tone.

A neat column of square idiot lights in the helmet wall beside her left cheek informed her how her systems operated. They all showed green. "Fine, I guess. They're all in the green."

"You should be okay. Do you feel dizzy?"

Dizzy, hot, wet, fatigued. She put a lot of effort into pushing one foot ahead of the other. "A little bit."

"I'm monitoring you from here. You're okay. Just take your time. You may have gone too hard at first. You're getting used to the suit, heat and extra weight all at once."

"Ah, yeah."

"You're almost there." The loader TRAX emptied its bucket onto the trailer attached to its brother machine ten metres away. Standing at the edge of the excavation, she noticed how the wind stirred the dust about inside the excavation.

". . . the matter?"

"Nothing. I'm inserting the sweeper now." She unclipped her handset. Pacini had positioned the sweeper menu on the front screen so she wouldn't have to touch her way to it. Setting her cursor over the drift in her screen and 'execute'. The sweeper trundled right over the edge and fell five metres straight down.

Danby's heart leapt into her throat. She ought to have babied the machine into the pit. Yet, it had landed upright and set right to work, unharmed, scooping dust into the hopper incorporated into its base. Next it went to dump into the excavator's bucket. Oops, she hadn't submitted the sweeper subroutine to TRAX #1 so it know what the sweeper was up to.

"Sweep in place and in operation," Danby said. Some dark, fine powder the whirlpool wind lifted and forged into a gigantic head, broad flange behind, knob beak forward, that Danby stared at open-mouthed. For seconds it wallowed in her sight before shredding away.

"Pardon me, Corporal?" said Calvert.

"I thought I suh—" She'd made a noise. Gulp, gasp, or squeak.

"Danby, you've been out long enough," Pacini said. "Come in now."

Now and then she saw glittering, due to the wreck. Silver on black, resembling hieroglyphics. "There are letters. Silver letters on black." Too much dust. Squinting helped not at all. Danby needed to get closer.

"Danby, you need to come in now."

"What did you say, Beth?" asked Calvert.

"I'm seeing what looks like writing," Danby said as she lowered herself by swiftest direct means, down the near vertical side of the pit. The highest light inside her helmet blinked amber. The silver pattern had a cursive look. A closeup examination might reveal something important.

"Danby. Beth, listen to me. Stop what you're doing." She knelt to touch the spot beneath her knee. If she couldn't feel them, she would take off her glove, though it was integrated into her suit.

"Marco, what?"

"Beth, you need to come home now."

"But it's . . ." Beautiful. Not really. Tragic. And not precisely that either.

"Beth! Stop what you're doing. Back away." Where her hand hovered, the script, which the wind obscured everywhere else, was bare. A voice, insistent and small, warned against touching.

The amber telltale had stopped pulsing and was now red.

What about this patch attracted her so? She held her breath and felt herself shrink and shrivel. The water tube nudged her lips. The script writhed as if alive. The space over it preternaturally calm. Sweep and TRAX were worth no further interest. This here was important; this was the whole thing, in these letters. They writhed, they changed forms, an exotic form of communication. They tried to tell her something. A warning. If she could decipher it, she ought to be able to convince Calvert they mustn't stay. The danger too great.

"Got you." A grip arrived out of nowhere about her shoulders tightened and pulled.

"Hey," she said soft.

"You all right?" Marco's helmet bumped hers.

"Yeah, what the hell? How duh—how did you get out here so fast?"

"Rode, come on here with me." He'd ridden out in a counter grav sled. "I'm going to have to tear this turbine apart once we get back."

"You shouldn't have ridden it out then," Danby said dreamily. She was glad he'd come though. She wondered how she would've gotten all the way back to the ship, which seemed a distance to be measured in kilometres rather than metres, otherwise.

"Come on." He helped her into the canoe-like conveyance. "Let's get you home."

"Good idea." She very much wanted to be home.

Marco sat her down when they were back inside the ship. "How do you feel?"

"Beat up." Danby waited for him to twist her helmet off the collar ring.

"Had you been drinking?"

"What?" Drinking? Did he mean alcohol?

"Your water—you have to constantly replenish fluids."

Her thoughts were coming into focus. That was what she'd done. She'd stopped drinking, dehydrated herself, and hallucinated.

Marco pushed the mouth tube to her lips. "Here. Drink."

She took a sip of recycled, tepid liquid with thick metallic taste. "Blecch."

"You were on your own—I had to go out without finishing suit checks."

"Sorry."

"Not your fault," he grumbled. "Keep drinking, I'll get you something better."

"Please," she said and watched him go to an emergency aid locker. "Hey, you're not supposed to—" He returned with a big shiny thermos, tearing seals off along the way. "Weren't you supposed to prep that TRAX."

"The damn—never mind." Marco shook his head and pulled out a cork stopper. "Drink as much as you can. I can deal with that later."

"Damn it, you rescued me. You may even have saved my life," said Danby, realizing what must have happened and was amazed. "I could've died." She remembered the blinking amber light. Had it turned red and she not noticed? It might have.

"You may have been in some trouble. You're okay now."

"I think so." She felt wrung out.

"We'll be taking things easy from now on," he said emphatically, as though he intended not just for her to hear.

"Is, ah, everything all right down there?" they heard tentatively not much later.

"For the moment." Marco straightened and stood.

"When can I expect that third TRAX to go out?"

"When it's ready," he replied gruffly. Julie Calvert had nothing more to say. After a heartfelt sigh Marco turned to his shipmate. "Idle hands are the devil's workshop—you feel able to stand?"

"Ah, yeah," Danby said, but wasn't sure she could just then.

"I'll going to rig a sled to take the second sweeper out. I don't think either of us need expose ourselves any more to the outdoors conditions than is necessary from now on. Do you know how to hot charge a TRAX?"

"No, but if you get me started, I could maybe figure it out."

"Hum-m-m, how's about we work on it together?"

"Sure."

"Finish that up now." He nodded to the thermos she held in both hands.

"You've got to be kidding. There's like four litres of fluid in this bottle."

"I bet you could use every bit of it."

"That bad?" She was feeling much better.

"I need you to drop by the infirmary after for a checkup." She pulled a face. "No excuses."

"Yah, all right."

"We've a long day ahead of us."

When they returned to the engineering compartment, Danby was more than just relieved to be out of the snug EVA suit. She sat, sprawled, near naked, drinking from the overlarge bottle. She watched as Pacini stripped. She'd never seen him nude before. What she noted particularly was how hairy he was: legs, chest, shoulders, back. She didn't look into his groin but still noticed how dense was the hair there as well. Without transference happening, the two of them perspired freely into their liners, making them more transparent, more slick, and more comfortable as their bodies cooled. She experienced a condition of lassitude, and then uneasiness when he took her suit to hang up. "I should be doing that."

"Just sit there and drink your bottle like a good girl." He hid a smirk.

"Jerk," she said without malice. He'd done a rare, brave thing. He'd not, as he should have for his own safety, completed suit checks, but had come out precipitously, and put his life at risk. Danby, realizing what he'd done, had to respect it. She'd never appreciated how competent, self effacing, and thoughtful he was. He'd just been a guy they'd had to have around. Eight weeks and they'd hardly spoken to him, she and Calvert had ostracized him, and yet he had proved himself to be an incredible guy who could put together practically anything and saved her life besides. Danby felt deeply ashamed.

"Damn it, Pacini, what's the holdup?" Calvert demanded from somewhere above. She had to have used a roundabout route in order to show up where she was. Danby glared at the young officer, who had no idea how hard Marco had worked to bring the mission so far already.

"The holdup, sir," from Marco, from inside his transparent liner, "has been entirely necessary."

"Nuh—ah, necessary?" replied Calvert, her gaze shifted to the side.

"An emergency had to be dealt with." He was in the midst of flushing and recharging their suits' cooling systems.

"Oh, well then," said Calvert, at a loss for words owing to his condition of undress, both their conditions of undress. The fabber opened and a sweeper trundled out. "But everything is all right now?" Her tongue was very near to tripping over itself. She'd only glimpsed his sex before averting her gaze, yet her mind retained a startlingly accurate image, that stayed stamped over her vision. Size, shape, texture. Her body warmed and lubricated. If she didn't get herself out of there, she was going to embarrass herself with stuttering, and perhaps worse.

"Look, you," Calvert said, forcing sobriety upon herself. "I've got a report to communicate and I need to know what's out there before I can complete it."

Why should that concern me? Marco thought. He was just her flunky to do all the grunt work for her. Marco remained by the tool station where the TRAX conversion kits were stored. "I'll try, but I've only one pair of hands."

Calvert struggled to maintain calm. He could stand on his head and her voice wouldn't waver one note and her focus not one centimetre from straight. "How soon before all the TRAXs are out there?"

Was she gone insane? He stood still and quiet. She was a kid, raw as red meat. She couldn't know what she was asking for. He felt inclined toward educating her to a better understanding of things, but knew the attempt must fail. For the first time in his life, Marco Pacini wished he didn't do so well all the things he found enjoyment in. "I haven't even started on . . ." Explanations are worthless. Why bother? "The rest of the day, at least." He realized afterward he had neglected to factor in the time needed to beef up filter systems.

"By nightfall things should be easier," Calvert said, leaning on the railing before her.

"What?"

"It'll be dark in a couple of hours. The TRAXs won't need upgrades after the sun goes down. You can finish the one now, and send out the rest just as they are after dark."

"I won't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because that wouldn't be wise. Our TRAXs are brand new. You don't operate brand new machines in a hostile environment without a thorough prep first."

"That sounds like bullshit to me."

"You ever run heavy equipment?"

"No, of—and don't you—"

"Then you don't know squat about it. Let me do my job, and we'll end up a whole lot happier in the long run."

"Don't you tell me how to run my mission, Technician," said Calvert tersely.

"Pardon me, sir. I thought I was filling you in about a valuable piece of information you ought to know."

"Shut up." Her hands formed fists, nails pressing painfully into palms. She had no way of knowing if he was being truthful or not.

"Very well, sir."

"And you can keep your smug comments to yourself." She'd rather not write him up, but, if he continued the way he was going, she'd have no choice.

"Aye, sir."

She noticed how flushed Danby was looking. "Are you all right, Corporal?"

"Yes, Ensign."

"Maybe you should have a lie down."

"No, sir, I'm all right. Pacini needs help with the setups."

"You're welcome to stay and help too, sir," Marco added.

"I've work to do." Danby's tone had throw her off. The marine took his side over hers. Calvert was at a loss why this should be so. She took herself quickly out of there. She had a stark image of hairy male genitals before her mind's eye still. She needed to find something to do and fast.

Danby had been watching Marco's face and in particular the knavish glint in his eyes. He chuckled once Calvert was out of earshot.

"You sure you're not taking chances by pissing her off?" Danby asked lightly.

"She pisses me off," Marco muttered in reply. "You ready?"

"Sure."

"Okay then, let's get back to work."

Chapter Six - The Report

Calvert hated her EVA suit. It was like cardboard to walk in, squelched like a malfunctioning refrigerator, and made her skin smell. She showered after every use, which was the reason for her current condition of unease. The ship hadn't unlimited water. They'd reach the one hundred percent recycle level long before their relief arrived. A reliable water source had to be somewhere nearby.

Going through satellite surveillance reports, the youth sought after potential wet sites, none of which were next-door close. They'd not be staying long enough that they'd have to hunt plants and animals to refresh a dwindling food supply, yet a notation saying she had studied the matter would look good in the ship's log and in her journal.

To explore she needed the car. Pacini would haul it down from the ceiling in Boat Bay Upper when he had the time, or she could haul it down herself. He'd want to check the conveyance out thoroughly before allowing her to use it. Calvert had grown tired of him fussing over every machine like it was his pet. Once she found water they would move the ship, and flush, rinse and fill up the tanks. That would be something. Fresh water for the remainder of the mission. A delicious thought.

Calvert sat behind her desk in her cabin and on the conformable gel pac chair that along with the rest of her office suite had been her present to herself before departing home. The furnishings and artworks adorning walls and pedestals had during her time of shared occupancy languished in lower decks storage. Her teak side table and display cabinet stood along the wall to the right. Her Persian throw sprawled in the hallway between office/stateroom and bedroom. Hutchinson had been reluctant to turn over his cabin and to move his things into storage until she convinced him it made sense she take over everything. As Polyphemus' replacement Master and Commander, the ship's best accommodations were hers by right.

Her old living allocation had been tiny. She'd hated the bunk on cables, upright metal lockers, nowhere near enough room, and shared toilet and bath facilities. She'd hated being a roommate and being forced to live elbow to elbow with women she intensely disliked. She'd hated having to tell crewmen 'hello' in the corridors and to have her consequential thoughts interrupted by gossip she had no interest in.

Elizabeth Danby had been as reserved as she. They had fit right in with each other. Pacini's gregarious presence reminded her she hated having to put up with common people and to deal with them day by day.

Her work ethic had been as good as anyone's and, even if her evaluations hadn't been tip top, Hutchinson had left her in charge. Would he have done so if he'd known all of her history, in particular its painful parts?

Calvert recalled sitting in the commandant's office, the results of her makeup finals in the small plain envelop in her hand. Commandant Spengler never said whether he did or did not believe she'd cheated. He'd made her rewrite every quiz and test from her final year of studies, each redo longer and harder than its original. Each test had had a regulation time limit which she'd never failed to satisfy.

Many times she'd wanted to say: "See, I can do this. I could all along. I knew all these things. I never cheated." Except she hadn't the right. She'd begged her Uncle Jack for the chance to prove she wasn't a cheat and a liar. Her feelings of failure and inadequacy had stayed with her nonetheless.

Her final tests results were her redemption. She remembered the envelop's crisp, dry feel; next how the moisture leaking from her hands soiled it. She sat overlong, too proud and at the same time too ashamed to thank Spengler for his time and efforts. She'd never liked him, but grown to respect him. Jack had left the decision whether she should be given a second chance to Spengler. He'd surprised her by pushing the do-over contract across his desk for her to set her imprint on.

She walked out of his office with her result covered still, horribly anxious, supposing she'd done well but not believing it. She'd feared disaster had at the end consumed her hopes, and the only career she ever wanted was going to be denied her.

She'd been as good as she could be since—except for the little things she'd done to Strom and Mallory, which were justified owing to the provocation they'd subjected her to. Calvert resumed her attention on the softly lit screen beneath her. She'd waited to pen her preliminary until a sufficient amount of artifact was uncovered to take images of. An account of the landing was in her preface. Pacini had gotten in the surveillance satellites except for ones left up for weather and communications relay, and they'd landed.

End of preamble—no, wait. She had to explain her rationale for going beyond her instructions, which ought to be obvious: professional curiosity, boredom with orbiting, she hadn't wanted to sit on her hands while someone else took over her discovery, and she had understood innately that, given an opportunity, it was always better to act decisively than await instructions.

She would have done as she had one hundred times out of one hundred. Why beat around the bush? Her prose must convince the Admiralty her reasons were altruistic, she had the interests of the service in mind, and her actions derived from a rigorous and devoted spirit. She prioritized her motives into her opening after the proper salutation, instilling within the preface a proper tone and humility.

Having determined that to remain in orbit about planet BD 1028-2

might serve no other purpose than to continue as a platform for meteorological

studies, I decided that I would land and investigate for myself the source of

the mysterious transmissions.

A good opening. The use of the word 'mysterious' was, however, what one might expect in a work of fiction. She hesitated over her word choice while hoping for something better. As for the rest, it was likely Captain Willard, the nominal commander of the expedition, had he been present, would have instructed her to continue the weather studies she had only desultorily devoted time to before. She had known all along that 'weather studies' had been 'make work' and so had not spent much time and energy on them beyond some tedious summaries.

Calvert decided to retain the word 'mysterious'. She next inserted an account of her efforts to establish the excavation site and of the work accomplished thus far. Pacini had been instrumental from the initial phase of the discovery. She intended to reward him with as little credit as possible, owing to his intransigent and uncooperative behaviour.

We had determined the precise location of the alien transmitter through

our ship's scanners. Once we landed, I set about organizing our resources

and mapping the transmitter's location while my crew prepared our equipment.

She scrupulously kept track of the time she'd invested in the work and on task by her crew, and of equipment made ready and of requisitions to the ship's fabricator. All of this information she affixed to her report within an appendix.

The extraction of the results of countless thousands of wind storms took

only a few hours once our equipment was in place. So that we be able to

work in relative comfort outdoors, Technician Pacini made for us special

suits, which we wear during the day. He also created efficacious devices,

'sweepers', to remove the dust, which is always accumulating, from the

surface of the wreck.

She had given her reluctant technician credit as a good commander ought. Pacini would see when he read her report that, despite all the complaining he subjected her to, she could be impartial when it came to sharing credit. She next inserted a description of the wreck, including the up-close examination Pacini had given her along with the overhead viewing gotten from the mast-mounted camera.

It is my opinion that the glyphs, covering the wreck's surface, are so

peculiar they must resist our understanding them. I have nonetheless

assigned Polyphemus the task of analysis.

Her report was concluded. She sent an encrypted copy via satellite uplink into FleetComNet, and stored and locked other copies inside the ship's log and her journal. It amused and pleased her that she'd converted her words into code—more to the point that they be worthy to be converted. Her initial message notifying the Admiralty of the wreck's discovery had been encrypted, and disguised. A request for a particular simulation program. The title inserted inside a list according to the certainty of the find—put at the top. Captain Willard had responded right away with a query demanding details.

Her report sent, Calvert devoted her thoughts to what should happen next. Something as big as possible. The TRAXs had so far uncovered a hundred square metres of wreck, no end in sight. The problem, as always, was the wind kept shifting dust back in. With so much surface to maintain, the sweepers battled to keep up. They needed more sweepers and more power. The TRAXs ran off battery packs that Pacini insisted, regardless of specs, needed recharging every twenty hours. The sweepers, theirs, every eight hours. What they needed was a solar collection station, transmission tower, and the direct flow sequencer for charging the TRAXs so they not have to be removed from work. And a pressure fence to keep out the wind.

There were only so many hours in the day, and Pacini was only one man. She couldn't drive him harder than she already did, but doubted he'd arrived anywhere near his crash threshold yet. Calvert set her hand over her comm pad and pointed. "Pacini." She waited several moments, before calling again, "Pacini?"

He was in his cabin or he was in the wardroom eating. She pointed next at the 'all call' function. "Pacini!" Still no answer. Was he goofing off? He could be outside, stargazing. Once the sun went down and wind settled the air turned comfortable for an hour or so before going really cold. "Pa-ci-ni!"

"Sir."

Voice, no image. "Where were you, Technician?"

"Sir, in the head, sir."

Surly again. She knew the tone when she heard it. "Kindly watch your tone, Spacer."

"Sir?"

There it was again. Calvert thumped the top of her desk with the side of her fist. "Stop it, damn you!" She heard him gather a breath, but he'd the good sense not to say anything insubordinate. She hadn't meant to lose her temper. She was out of sorts. She wasn't used to long days of work and the heat, dust and pace, and no sleep, all got to her. "I want," she said carefully so that none of her fatigue-induced anger should manifest, "you to set up a solar energy collection array for tomorrow and a transmission tower with a—"

"I know what you mean," he said sullenly.

Calvert gathered a breath and slowly released it. She didn't like to snap at him. "You should do it early before it's too hot."

"I suppose—just how early?"

"While it's still dark naturally." Her order, she was just realizing, would leave him with only a few hours sleep. The inconvenience couldn't be helped unfortunately.

"Will you help me set up the array, sir?"

Help? She was dead tired. The better than an hour she'd spent in horrible heat and oppressive gravity had done her in. "Nuh-nuh-no," she said and cursed to herself. Her stutter could crop up at the most inopportune times.

"Might not the solar array and tower wait until tomorrow night?"

"No," she said firmly. He could sleep the whole of tomorrow night through. She had an update scheduled for tomorrow afternoon at the latest, and she needed something definitive to send. Pacini hadn't answered. She prompted him with: "Well?" Still no answer. She stared at her comm pad. Was he being insubordinate or had he gone back to the toilet or to his bunk? The least he could have done was sign off. She had been about to gift him tomorrow afternoon until the next morning off to make work and rest even and fair. Now he could just forget it.

Her thoughts ordered themselves for what should come next. The excavation expanded. The car brought down. Pacini would have to get up a teensy bit earlier to get it ready for her. A dressing down was owed, but she was much too tired, and a loose tongue might say something she'd regret. Tomorrow. The tech had his orders. If he didn't carry them out, that was his problem.

#

Light. Airborne drones, underbellies coated with bulbs, headlights, lights on poles that attached to cables snaking through the dark, helmet lights, wrist and gun barrel lights. They always started out with plenty of illumination. How far along they were could be reckoned by the amount of light that was left. When there were just helmet and wrist lights, the end was near.

The event sequence was not settled. Nor was settled the number of participants, who was in which team, what they did, and what happened to them. Some events were one-offs—tried and discarded. Procedures were tested. Refinement took place.

Danby travelled at the rear of a group a dozen strong, as a member of the security contingent. Calvert was ahead somewhere. Marco appeared in silhouette atop a self-propelled pallet. A two man team assembled light standards. Something significant had taken place a short while ago, which was smoke to remember. This was usual for the dreams—a necklace with beads missing. Danby dreamt often of her escort duty, feeling as much as possible she was snug and safe. Lots of light still. In the next scene, she'd be flying a sled alone, with only its console and her helmet lights to see by. In between had been critical events. She'd the feeling of having participated in some of them, but couldn't recall what she'd done or what were the results. More smoke.

The team travelled inside a tunnel of light. The environment oppressively cold and dull. Something in the atmosphere drained a body physically, emotionally, intellectually. Danby arrived even with the latest light standard assembled. The one before resembled a candle flame inside black gauze more than it did a 10 000 watt bulb on top of a post.

The corridor was approximately three metres wide, but this measure could vary by a metre or more. At either side was a storage rack like that used in a warehouse. Vertical supports appeared cables. The horizontal platforms a half dozen sheets of paper in thickness. Yet the structure supported multi-tonne objects with no visible cracks or warping.

The racks were also variable in width. No part of an object protruded into any aisle. The variety of objects was remarkable. Types were not stored together. Each was under cloth. The next one as anonymous, larger or smaller, as the one before. Danby had walked past a great many artefacts already, and noted not one duplicate.

The racks were, cables and trays, dove grey. The covers ink-black and sparkled under light but were dull as old motor oil elsewhere.

Danby glanced at her primary weapon, an assault rifle with integrated grenade launcher. Her right index finger rested over the trigger guard. She wore desert pattern camouflage fatigues, knee and elbow pads, jungle boots, torso armour, helmet, and gloves. She carried reloads, both types, on crisscross bandoliers. A pistol and her handset were attached to a belt along with clips of pistol ammunition and a canteen.

They were going to walk this way a while longer. The light guys put together another post: base set over deck, post applied to base, cable slotted through base, turn light on. The duo rushed the procedure though they didn't have to. Both were nervous guys.

Mission expectations matched time and place. They weren't far in. It was early. Personnel, other than the light team, behaved upbeat and confident.

"How far in, Pacini?"

Within Boat Bay Upper, Marco answered in a mutter, "About one twenty metres," and looked up, brow raised, from his fabrication chore. Creating solar panels wasn't complicated. Each panel had to be fabbed separately though, and the entire order was taking a lot of time.

The lights in the fabrication dock had brightened momentarily. He'd check connections when he had a moment spare.

Using the fabber in Secondary Engineering would have sped up the process, but required shuttling raw materials up and completed panels down. He might have saved some time, but not enough to be worth the trouble. He was getting punchy. His imagination playing tricks on him. Two hours more of fabbing and he'd rack out.

#

Calvert had overslept but Pacini had not. The solar panels and transmission tower were in place and operating. The youth made no comment about what she saw in the near distance. She'd forgotten to mention the pressure fence, but on his own initiative Pacini had put up two sections of suppressive barrier to oppose the prevailing wind. Another V of fence protected the power station. "So what did you want me to see?" she asked the back of his head. Danby followed in their wake. Pacini had asked them both if they would come out to view some little discovery he'd made.

"It's better if you see it for yourself, sir."

Calvert grunted irritation. She might have consulted the surveillance compiled overnight and saved herself a trip. They used flight-capable drones for scanning and recording and six sweepers to keep the surface of the wreck clear. With the fence suppressing the wind, the sweepers had far less difficulty keeping dust in check. The trio came to the edge of the excavation, by now considerably closer to the ship. Calvert looked behind herself to gauge distance. She ought to move the ship. Polyphemus was too close to the excavation already. To move it would be bound to create additional hardship for her crew as they would have to travel further to reach the dig site. Pacini climbed into the basement-like hole. Calvert hesitated to follow because of how brilliant the runes showed, glistening now when earlier they put out a muted sheen. The technician went several metres out over the surface before looking back at her. "Sir?"

"What?"

"If you'd come over here, I can show you why I brought you out."

Calvert climbed down. The surface of the wreck cooler than the air above it. The system's star was freshly risen. Would the wreck stay cold or become hotter as the day progressed? As Calvert joined him, Pacini pulled the handset off his belt.

"There's a crevice," he said, marking with a blue light the feature, "near two metres deep." His blue light made a corner and continued. "It describes a shape with edges equidistant from the transmitter, with a diameter near nine metres, a hexagon."

"A hexagon?"

"I think this is a hatch."

"A hatch," she repeated excitedly. Here was something for her next report.

He pressed himself upright and faced her. She couldn't see his features owing to the dark of his visor. "If you were looking for something to include in your report . . ."

Forget how big the wreck was turning out to be, a way inside was a discovery of genuine worth. "We have to prise it up," she said earnestly, walking onto the cover. Who knew what lay right beneath her feet?

"Sir?" he gargled. She might have laughed had she been able to see his expression. She could imagine it well enough all the same. A 'you've got to be kidding' look she'd been visualizing a lot lately.

"We've sufficient counter grav. We should be able to negate the weight easily enough."

"No, we don't," he said flat.

"I beg your pardon?" She would really have liked to have seen his expression now to know why he thought the way he did, or if he was just being obstinate. She was staring at his visor—just as he appeared to be staring at hers—and seeing nothing behind it.

"This material scans as incredibly dense, hence the hatch is incredibly massive. I've tried taking a sample for testing and haven't been able to."

"Bull shit. Nothing is that dense. You haven't used the proper tool."

"This is," he reiterated firmly.

"Even if it is, that doesn't mean we can't prise it up."

"You have no—what if it's latched or pinned? What if this is a plug and not a hatch and even more massive than I think it is? We could apply maximum power and not raise it a millimetre."

"We lose nothing if we try."

"Except some valuable equipment—look you, ah, sir, I've experience moving heavy objects. I could strap every piece of counter grav we have on this thing and the ship's tractor for good measure and I can practically guarantee you it won't as much as wiggle."

"The tractor . . ." If her hands hadn't been in abrasive covers and her head in a paint-can helmet she might have pressed fingers to lips. Polyphemus' tractor capability had more than enough pull to move just about anything, for sure a mere hatch—tugboat power. Combine that pulling effort with the counter grav and the thing could be done. "We'll do it."

"Sir!" he gulped and Calvert smiled in secret back at him.

"Start bringing out the equipment." She set off for the edge of the excavation. "Now that we've got our power station up and running, we have all the power we need."

"You haven't—"

"Oh, yes I have!" She marched right back to him. The toes of their boots collided and their visors hovered centimetres apart. She was sick of his whining about precious equipment. It wasn't his equipment, it was the Navy's equipment, and the Navy, meaning her, as embodied in her authority, could do whatever it damn well pleased with it. Until he'd shown her the hatch she'd intended to give him the day off. She'd been grateful for his drawing her attention to it, but this crossing her will at every turn had to stop. The sooner he learned that lesson, the better off he would be.

"You will strap every piece of counter grav we have onto that hatch, just as you, yourself, said we might, and we will raise it. If a few pieces of equipment fail owing to the strain, then so be it. We lose nothing for trying, nothing critical anyway. I want all of whatever we need in place two hours before nightfall. At one hour before dark is when we shall make the attempt. Are those specific enough instructions for you, Mister Pacini?"

"Sir, I've put in a week of sixteen hour days and was up half the night and—"

"Enough! You will do this because I make it an order. Disobey at your peril, Technician!" He made her ill with his whining. They were all tired. They were all losing sleep and working as hard as they could.

"Very well, sir!" He put up a mocking salute.

Calvert drew steamy suit air through her nostrils. "Tech Pacini, if you wish to avoid the severest reprimand you can conceive of inserted into your career jacket, you will refrain from further acts of insubordinate behaviour forthwith. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"

"Sir," he replied in a neutral tone.

She'd hurt her throat with shouting, felt nauseous, and knew behind his faceplate he had to be sneering because that was what she would've done. "You may begin immediately, Technician. Soonest done, soonest mended."

"Sir?" came incredulous at her.

"Nothing." She'd spouted gibberish, if for no other reason than because she was angry, over energized, and felt like giving him a pinch. The next moment she felt like giggling and knew that she had to leave before Pacini discovered just how giddy she'd become.

"What about the script, sir?"

He was supposed to conduct a close up scan of the four centimetre high alien glyphs later on in the day. "It'll have to wait." Going over the results of his scan, adding her analysis to it, was to have been her occupation for the afternoon. Calvert decided she would instead bring the aircar down. A search for water would replace the study she would otherwise have done. They'd gone through most of the reserve with all the showering they'd been doing. The youth set off for the ship at a good pace, anxious to bring herself out from under open sky before the new day established itself, and encountered Danby along her way. The marine threw fist-sized stones into trailers drawn by passing TRAXs.

"Beth?" Calvert queried as she came alongside her blue clad crewmate.

"Oh, ah," was all that Beth Danby could manage before dropping the last stone she had picked up to throw.

Again Calvert wished that she could see through faceplates. She imagined Danby looking back with a blank stare. "Forget it. I suppose you ought to help Pacini."

"Yes, sir."

"Carry on."

"Yes, sir."

Their relationship had undergone not just revision but reversal, Calvert realized as she continued along her way. She and Danby had become too occupied with individual labours to continue the friendlier relationship they'd embarked on while in orbit. Later would be time to mend fences and bring Danby back into the fold. For now there was far too much to be done.

Chapter Seven \- Division of Labour

The main part of the ship's portable counter grav equipment was in slings in Boat Bay Upper. Gathering, testing and assembling a sufficient quantity to cover the alien hatch proved a several hours' job. Preparations done, the work team donned outdoor suits, passed through the airlock and continued down from the ship, each drawing a heavily laden sled. Anvil heat, high forties, brilliant sky conditions. Marco methodically stepped up his relief. Some discomfort when the final notch got spent remained. "Damn, I gotta beef up these cooling systems," he said, jittering over his next step.

"Sheesh!" walloped on his deadened eardrums.

"How ya doin'?"

"Just . . . great!"

"Sorry for asking." He hadn't any breath spare for a better apology while directing an activity taxing his concentration to its limit, and jarring him over every stone and into every hollow. Danby suffered equally, judging by her voluminous, albeit muted, complaints. They arrived at a spot overlooking the excavation. The time had seemed long, but less than ten minutes had elapsed since starting out. Marco knelt while Danby stepped to one side.

The sweepers scampered like energetic fairies, creating ephemeral tracts of pristine surface, molten silver on anthracite, that exhibited peculiar animation. Marco remarked this phenomenon in the part of his mind least fatigued, also remote, and looked about for the drones which ought to have been present and weren't.

Something else went on which the fairy dance distracted him from. Something which brilliant day and shrouding dust masked most of. Swatches of light the size of hand towels rippled in and out of view; bright fish in dark water. Spawn of impossible energies, seeming to have no purpose other than to be. He gazed spellbound—in his present state a bright bauble spun before his eyes would have had the same effect—long enough to accommodate three breaths taken.

"Are we going to start putting this stuff out sometime soon?" Danby asked.

The patches darted along what seemed random paths, but he thought there might be a pattern he was not seeing enough of to interpret. A kind of semaphore incomprehensible to his mere human sensibility. "Calvert."

"What is it, Pacini?" Calvert asked, her tone sharp and annoyed.

Was she still angry with him? Was Julie Calvert the type of person who nursed her anger past a reasonable length of time? At the moment he was too beat up to match her in mood and attitude. "There's something peculiar going on out here."

"Like what?"

Taking the handset off his belt he aimed it at the light show. "See for yourself. A pattern—ah, some kind of energy discharge or display." Something other directed, he might have added, but that wasn't his call to make.

"Looks structured. An automated message?"

Ah! his shattered mind notched itself. "Could be. Ah, we need to record this."

"Aren't the drones doing that?"

"They're not here."

"What do you mean, 'they're not there'? Of course they're . . ."

"Are you registering them?"

"No. When did this happen?"

Calvert's responsibility was to monitor the dig. She ought to have known exactly when the drones stopped transmitting. "You could check the record, sir," Marco said.

"What do you think I'm doing? Hum-m-m, about forty minutes ago, which was about when the light show started, I'm guessing."

"All right," he replied tentatively.

"Their transmission went dark simultaneously. I'm dispatching replacements."

"You think you should do that?"

"Yes."

"Won't they just be knocked out like the others?"

"No, maybe . . ."

"Good money after bad."

"But your handset, the sweeps and TRAXs. They'll all unimpaired. Everything else is working, right?"

"Ah, yeah." He shook his head to loosen the most recent accumulations of cobwebs gathered inside. "No idea why that's so."

"I'll send one only."

"One to draw fire. Aye, sir."

"You'd better record what happens."

"Will do. Let me know when you're about to launch. I'll set up here." Setting up consisted of finding himself a cosy mound to prop his sagging body up against.

"Can't see 'em," said Danby, who stood near enough and at a comfortable enough angle for him to view what she did and know what she was talking about.

"Can't see?—oh, they're buried by now."

"The transponders, Marco. I should be able to register their signals, but there's nothing."

"Oh? Well, that's interesting."

"Just interesting?"

"Hey, I'm going with the flow—good to go out here, Ensign."

"We could figure out where they are according to the last image they sent," mused Danby.

"Knock yourself out."

"Don't you care? There could be some important data to retrieve off 'em."

"I would, later. Right now, nah."

"One up the spout," said Calvert. "Launching now."

"Lamb to the slaughter," said Danby.

"Funny thing, I don't think so," said Marco.

"Why?" asked the marine.

"Just don't. Watch. Here he comes now." Dragonfly wings and segmented body. All purpose reconnaissance drone, atmospheric version. A flitter flyer like the terrestrial insect it resembled. The drone flew directly on, out over the excavation, into and along a first lazy circle. "Poof," said Marco.

"Huh?" went Calvert. "I'm still receiving telemetry, image signal is clear."

"Pardon, sir. Thinking out loud."

"Still a clear feed, no static even."

"Things are hunky dory again."

"Do you even know what you're talking about?"

"Not in the foggiest."

"Well, things do seem to be back to norm—oh, shit."

"Light show over?"

"I've barely a minute on record."

"Might be another one in an hour—or not."

Some vexed silence ensued before the pair heard, "Quit pulling my string, Marco. Have you started mounting the counter grav yet?"

"Just about to get to it."

"See that you do. We've a schedule to keep."

"Here, see, I've found one," said Danby. She held a drone at the join, wing to shoulder. She shook the machine gently to coax dust out of it.

"You did? Really?" Marco wasn't being facetious. He equated Danby's present attitude and mental state with his, supposing she couldn't be any more interested in the drone than he was.

"I'll put it in my sled. You can figure out what happened to it after."

"More work for me," he said whimsically.

"Ah, crap."

"Doesn't sound good," muttered Marco as he pushed himself to his feet.

"The second one fell on a heap that got hauled away."

"Well, we got the one. That should be enough."

"Third and last, same story. Gone."

"Lucky to find the one, I'm thinking."

"Well, this side's not being worked on, so not really."

"You stay up here, I'll go down," said Marco and knelt at the edge as though he intended a head first slide as the best way to proceed.

"We could go to the ramp over there." Danby pointed.

"Nah, this is quicker, easier," said Marco and scrabbled over the edge. Quicker although a whole lot messier, he observed, as the material he brought down with him spilled out over the wreck. "Well, that's cool," he said. Having ended on his knees he'd stayed that way and noticed something else.

"You figure out something about these friggin' suits that maybe you wanna share?"

"No, ha, there's—ah, it's way more obvious down here."

"What is?"

"You are not going to believe this."

"Try me," enjoined Danby without enthusiasm.

"Ensign," called Marco.

"Pacini, I am so busy right now."

Doing what? he wondered not for the first time. "I'll take an image. Look close."

"I'm looking for what exactly?" she began. "Oh . . ."

"Neat, huh?" The wreck projected a layer, near three centimetres thick, the dust floated on. Stones sank in, not much, a millimetre or so. "Is this wild, or what?" Setting his palm on the layer, he anticipated a rapid accumulation of heat. "I can press into the first couple millimetres. After that it feels no different than hull plate. Could be, ah, energy and impact absorbing, a different kind of shielding. Like gel at the start. Firms up fast. We might want to do some tests." Marco examined his palm, expecting to see residue. None.

"Is it all over?"

"Could be. No wonder the surface is so clean. Grit can't get at it."

"Well, those are some significant features to report about," said Calvert breezily.

"Yes, sir, it is. Ah, geez, that could make attaching our equipment problematic—if this is a no-stick surface."

"Oh? Oh, shit. When will you know?"

"Ah, in another five minutes or so. I could test here but I might as well try over the hatch just in case things work out anyway."

"All right," said Calvert. "Inform me as soon as you know one way or the other."

"Will do." Danby remained above him, seeming to stare off into space. "Hey, Danby, wanna pass my sled down?" No reply. "Beth, you still there?"

"I've done this before," she murmured.

"Huh, what?"

"You ready for this sled?"

"Ya, like five minutes ago. Pass it down, will ya?" Mucking about in a fog of weary is plain nuts. As the sled descended from above and to one side of where he stood, Marco fixed his handset back to his belt. Too hot, too windy, too much gravity, too much wreck, too much work. The part of the wreck uncovered already, he could tell, affected the local climate. The heat, everywhere oppressive, more so over the wreck.

The sweeps created clear streaks, snapshots, pieces of jigsaw puzzle glimpsed beneath burlap. As a piece was revealed, another was obscured. The part of him that loved order wanted to know if the pieces combined to reveal a pattern, even an image. Yet, if the wreck was as large as they suspected it was, any pattern there was could not be usefully interpreted until far more of it was uncovered.

Light show, transparent surface protection, strange lettering. The wreck should be cold and dead, but wasn't.

"Well?" Danby asked. "Are we getting started?"

"Ah, yeah." Marco gave the sled a shove to set it skimming. Following the conveyance went some gravel, whose most energetic parts skittered over a surface like ice. Could the cover be transport medium: the ship the anchor, something here sent there in good time? A neat trick. Repairs in vacuum were cumbersome mostly owing to time spent travelling from a nearest hatch to the damage. The alien, with its extraordinary skin, must rarely, if ever, suffer damage however.

At contact boot sole to metal, Marco anticipated a result like arriving barefoot over a fry pan. He paused. No stench of burning. No gurgle of coolant. No heat pouring into foot.

"Pacini?" He'd grunted and Danby queried the sound.

"This surface isn't even hot."

"Uh huh." Marco suspected he might have said his latest sip of recycled water was identical in taste to strawberry milkshake and she would have responded the same.

No matter what he felt he wasn't going to trust nature not to be nature. They needed better insulation than just boot soles. He retraced his step, and rested both feet on gravel. A sweep approached to scoop from the spill and he directed it away.

"There's so much uncovered," Danby observed, still above him.

"We may have excavated a trifle more than we should have by this stage." He'd a notion of what he ought to do next, and directed his handset to the loader TRAX working at the side of the excavation fifty metres away.

"What's up, Pacini?"

The obedient TRAX came to press its bucket into the side of the excavation near where Marco stood. Backing up, it spilled the material it took as the start of a path.

"You're making a mess."

"Nope, it's a bridge."

"Calvert's gonna be pissed she sees this."

"Better the job gets done, than it not get done at all."

"I suppose so," Danby said glumly. The TRAX, by tearing apart the bank near where she was, created a ramp for her to descend far safer to use than the near vertical drop Marco had employed earlier. For now she was content to remain where she was.

"Pretty close to good enough now," Marco said, directing his handset at the loader again. In the meantime two TRAX and trailer combinations had arrived and were queued up for loads. The long combinations about to be joined by a third.

"You're slowing the work." Danby nodded to the waiting TRAXs.

"The boys need a break anyway. 1030 and 1032 are due for drive systems' checks and air filter changes at the end of this shift."

"How are you s'posed to get that done with all this other stuff ta do?"

"Hell if I know."

A fourth TRAX joined the rest, the loader ignoring them all while it created a circle about the hatch. At the far side of the excavation gusting created grey-white swatches in the fence's transparency. Danby watched these during pauses.

"I was kinda hoping this wouldn't work," muttered Marco some time later as he surveyed the nifty arrangement they'd constructed. Scarcely was there a difference between clamping bare metal and clamping protective layer. Connection as firm as he should like. He'd thought the layer too slippery, and was appreciating how versatile it was. Noticing Danby indulging again in daydreaming he had to comment about it.

Danby sucked in a mouthful of lukewarm refreshment before answering. "Watchin' da fence." She'd long since gotten over her squeamishness about where she replenished from.

"We're going to have to put up more. Time to head back."

"Finally," she gasped. They might try climbing out the way they slid in by, but the route was far too steep and loose. Marco applied a fix by ordering the loader TRAX to lift them out. Pausing to look back, they noted the displaced result resembled a keyhole.

"We bring out the jacks next," Marco said. "After lunch."

The sweepers desultorily skirted the insulating gravel as if demoralized. Danby took more than the peek she normally allowed herself and saw dim corridors where fantastic shapes mindlessly walked.

"Spelunking?" Marco asked, slapping her arm playfully.

"What?" An afterimage remained. As it faded she saw Marco through it.

"Enough of this tramping all over da damn place. We'll use a pallet next time. We can ride wherever we want in style."

"Ah, sure." Danby shook her head to clear away a troubling image. Polyphemus' long, high, comforting flank directly before her.

#

Calvert tugged the projection mat out of its locker before spreading it beneath their sole air car—the other had been appropriated by the departed crew. As the youth set about her preliminaries she recited a precis of what she studied during breakfast: "J-9 Falcon, standard six seater atmospheric boat, wingspan five point oh eight metres, length ten point two six metres, height two point eight seven metres, mass 18 000 kilograms. The J-9 Falcon is powered by two Amstel KU64-M-608 turbofan engines capable of 15 400 kilograms thrust and has a top speed of 1050 kph. Maximum range, um . . ." The the car might be said to have no range limit, for it took energy into its onboard reserve capacitors through absorbant coatings on wings and fuselage, "unlimited—there!" She'd matched well enough the bulky counter grav pad to the template stencilled into the deck.

What next? The answer to her query presented itself after a reexamination of her work space. The terminals protruding from a corner of the pad across from where she stood were for a power source. Calvert stepped around the pad, and to them attached leads which she drew from a spool affixed to a near section of bulkhead.

Connections made and checked. She hadn't removed a boat from its davits before, but had that morning studied the procedure and was confident she knew how to go about it. A thump and gasp of air beneath her signalled Pacini and Danby returning from outside. She might consult with Pacini whether she had dealt properly with the pad, except doing so would betray her unfamiliarity with a procedure any ship's commander ought to know. Besides, what could possibly go wrong with so simple a task?

Confident she had followed correct procedures and observed safety protocols Calvert stepped to the centre of the projection pad, pointed her handset at the activation patch and pressed. The pad lurched into the air, proceeding at cart horse speed to the ceiling. Startled by the pad's response, thrown off her feet, her confusion spoiling any chance to react, about to be squashed between pad and ceiling, and an unwilling passenger of a freight train out of control. Calvert's shriek of alarm brought her crew rushing up ladders to discover what had become of her.

"Calvert!" Marco initially failed to notice dangling power lines and their terminus twelve metres above his head.

"Ensign Calvert!" Danby added.

"Ensign!" Marco again. He turned to his companion. "That cry came from up here, didn't it? I mean, you heard it too, didn't you?"

"I think—"

"Pacini . . ." How it hurt right to the pit of her being to call out to him for help!

"Calvert?" He noted conduits run half off their spool connected to the projection pad, and next the rumpled mass near the centre of the device. The pad had drifted sideways as well as up and delivered Calvert neatly into a gap next to the car which was itself in a sculpted slot.

"Is she really . . ." said Danby, peering up at a muted movement.

"Ah, Ensign Calvert." Marco, knowing it safe to do so, grinned. Her predicament the kind newbies and unpopular officers got subjected to when the thing could be managed and gotten away with. He could not imagine a better consequence for a green officer full of herself.

"I'm . . . stuck," Calvert pressed feebly against restraint.

"Yes, sir."

He was going to make her ask, as punishment for the things her sense of what was right urged her to do. Calvert gathered a fortifying breath. "Can you help me, please?"

Marco winked at his companion, whose concern for the safety of their commander had morphed into amusement near as great as his. "Can you point your handset at the activation patch?" He hadn't access where he stood. Calvert had managed to tuck the control patch wrong side up and into a corner.

"No! Do you think if I could do that I'd be asking for help?"

"We could cut the power," Danby whispered.

"If we do, the pad comes down and we have no way to control it. It would be better if she got to the control patch."

"But she can't."

"I could patch into the circuit and reduce the power to give her some slack to move in, but I'd have to injure the connections to do it. That would take a while and be tricky to pull off besides. If she could—I mean, sure there's compression, but she ought to be able to move around."

"What are you two whispering about?"

"Ensign, if you could aim your handset at the control patch, that would be best. I can get you down another way, but I'd have to damage equipment and it would take time."

Calvert pressed against the abrasive, canvas-like material as much as she was able. "I . . . can't," she gasped.

"Are you trying hard enough?"

Damn him! He has a nerve asking me that! "Of course I'm truh-trying fuh-fucking hah-huh-huh-hard enough! What the fuh-fuck do you thuh-thuh-think I'm duh-duh guh, duh-doing up huh-huh-here?"

"You don't have to force your way. Try squirming a little."

"Skah skah, squah-squirm thruh-thruh-thruh-through?" Her voice exuded pitch and fever to match her frustration. Her eyes overflowed with hot tears. He intended making her suffer. Bastard. She couldn't squirm. How could she squirm when she was firmly lodged?

"If you could try, sir."

She'd done nothing but try for minutes already and all he'd done was offer useless advice. The compression restricted her breathing; she felt about to smother. Exertion made the sensation worse. How would he like to be the fly trapped inside a folded sheet of paper? How would he like to be embarrassed, humiliated, weep like a child? How would he?

Calvert pushed her hand through a gap and, surprised by even so tiny an accomplishment, gasped gratefully.

"That's it, Ensign, keep going."

"Shut up!" She didn't need his encouragement, nor did she appreciate it. How could he see what she did from way down there?

By assuming the narrowest shape manageable, she embarked on a slither forward. Hot, close, sweaty work. The pad's undersurface chafed her horribly. She flagellated herself in order that he preserve his precious equipment.

"More to the right."

Whose right? Her right or his right? How was she supposed to know which right he meant? He stood in front of her, judging by his voice, so their orientations must be opposite. She went to her right, supposing that must be what he meant. A cavity between pad and ceiling appeared where he had directed her and she slid gladly into it.

"You ought to be able to reach the patch from there," he said.

She was nowhere near the fucking patch. Was she supposed to throw her handset at it? "How?" she asked disgustedly.

"There's a reflective panel ahead of you," Marco replied patiently. "All you have to do is reflect a signal off the panel to the patch."

Damn him for being right all the time. How did he know so much damn stuff anyway? She tugged the handset from her belt, aimed it in the direction he'd suggested, pressed its pad.

Nothing happened. Her groan the type someone without hope might utter. She covered her mouth with her free hand in the next moment.

"You have to play around with the beam."

How had he known my problem?—but he heard me! He hears everything! Calvert felt a moist heat ripple through her body. Swallowing discomfort and pride, she projected her beam and the result was additional constriction.

"You have to reverse the command!"

She'd screwed up again! She needed on her handset face the command to diminish suspension force rather than increase it. She was pinned again. Handset yet in hand, but she couldn't draw it back to see the menu. If she couldn't see what she was doing, she couldn't get the pad to ease off. She couldn't press keys blindly and hope she pressed the right ones either obviously.

"Calvert?"

Calvert hated it when Pacini addressed her by her surname. She was his damned commander for pity sake. She was owed respect. "What!"

"Ah, what's going on?"

"I'm stuh-stuck again. Wuh-wuh-worse than I wuh-wuh-wuh-was buh-bif-fuh-fuck!"

"You have to bring your hand back—"

"No, I duh-duh-don't!" Her right wrist was lacerated. If she drew her hand back she would lose her glove and with it the skin off her wrist. She was trapped against a sandpaper surface meant to keep things from sliding. That's how you can tell which side is which.

"All you gotta—"

"Shut the fuck up!"

She didn't have to draw her hand back. She would blind-fix the setting. That's what she would do and she'd do it right because, despite everything that had happened and how humiliating her situation was, she knew what she was doing.

Using her remarkably clear and instructive imagination, Calvert made adjustments and pressed the right spot. The pad lurched downward. She came down too fast! The youth felt a savage and perverse satisfaction. She had shown Pacini she would do what was necessary no matter the consequences. If she was about to injure herself, so be it. She resigned herself to broken bones and a painful convalescence.

Her plummet was smoothly arrested. Calvert discovered herself soft along the length and breadth of her body as though resting on pillows. She had closed her eyes, unwilling to view her impact directly on. Opening them, she saw Pacini and Danby in their outdoors suits, helmets off. Marco in front of Danby, his handset aimed at the patch, lowering her kindly to the deck.

Calvert was far too grateful as her ordeal ended. Marco had saved her, and done so better she might have done, had their roles been reversed. Her gush of gratitude revealed too much of her feelings and was improper for her dignity and authority. She needn't have worried about a revelation. Pacini's attention was with the control patch. He had no interest in her safety or her feelings; he just did his job.

"Hooray!" Danby cried weakly and clapped hands together.

Calvert climbed unsteadily to her feet. She knew her expression was raw and red and her cheeks and lips slobbered with tears and mucous. Intending not to draw attention to her suffering, she turned her back and used her handkerchief to wipe and sniff into. Her crew must not know how frightened and upset she'd been, nor how they'd injured her with their callousness.

Marco set about flipping the pad proper side up, and Danby, after a sympathetic look directed at her commander, went to help. Calvert watched, feeling she was in no way entitled to command.

"There," Marco said as a corner was twitched into place, "all set." Their gazes met. What should she say? That she was glad he rescued her and for the advice without which she would not have been able to extricate herself? He could have brought her down that other way. Had preserving his precious equipment been worth the strikes to her dignity he had forced her to pay?

"Thank you," Calvert said quietly. She hadn't the stomach to complete the task she started. She was weary and sore and her forearms from wrists up bled through long shallow cuts. She felt filthy and half used up.

"You, ah—your wrists." Marco noted her wounds at last.

"It's not much."

"Come to the infirmary," he said briskly. Her dignity was once more outraged and confused by his tone of command. "I'll, ah, take care of them for you."

He was their med tech too, and she was obliged to obey despite she would rather do anything but. The three of them travelled together, she feeling small and on the outside of the group. They were in their bulky outdoors suits was why, she decided, during a steadying breath. They were far bigger than she. In reality nothing had changed. She was still Commander. She was in charge, made decisions. She was boss.

In the infirmary Marco directed she sit. Danby had gone her own way, and Calvert missed when this happened. Marco removed his outdoors suit—he couldn't manipulate the knitter with his hands covered, nor administer the antibiotics she had to have. Calvert waited patiently while he disrobed and feigned not to watch, although she could hardly help herself with being in the same room with him.

His perspiration caused his undergarment to cling. It was as transparent as before. Calvert noted again how densely his body hair covered him, and the dark wedge between his legs before he removed a coverall from a locker to put on. He selected the instruments he needed and returned to where she perched.

"If you would take off your gloves, sir?"

She fumbled, wincing owing to the pain. She'd scraped her elbows and arms and bruised and scraped fingers. Gingerly she tried again to take off her gloves and he stopped her.

"Here," he said, "let me do that for you."

She allowed him to draw off the gloves and enjoyed, during delicious tingling, more tenderness as he inspected her damages. Her injuries were in the main superficial.

"You're hurt somewhere else?"

Calvert nodded. She'd discovered words would rather lodge in her throat than let themselves be used.

"I'll have to unfasten your top and draw it down?"

"Yes," she said, appreciating the uselessness of her hands in her lap. His touch was soothing and he smelled earthy and masculine. She wore no brassiere, and her T-shirt had gone transparent owing to sweat. The combination of wet and his touch coaxed her nipples to stand. She saw him glance at them before beginning his healing and her brow went up.

He held her more abused right arm away from her body and turned it slightly. "You've, ah, done a fair amount of damage here."

Calvert grunted softly. She didn't need to be informed about what she could see for herself. He left her to prepare swabs to apply to her skin.

The youth gazed all the way inside cabinets, for her amusement attempting to read the labels of drugs and name implements, however with little success. When Marco returned, she shifted her attention to the nearer auto doc. If she had been badly hurt, she would be lying inside the 'doc, unconscious or weeping with pain.

"Hold this out," he directed and took her other arm. What did he think as he touched her? Was he the disinterested professional? Did he think her attractive? Did he want to fuck her? The unexpressed word created sensation that curled over and then inside her. Have sex with a nobody? He was a troll. Hairy, big nosed, his eyes deep-set in his skull.

Plenty of women thought him cute. In her experience, cute guys blathered about things that didn't interest her. She didn't like small talk, shop talk, gossip. Discussing weather or politics was a waste of time. She didn't like men who bragged about themselves. Julie Calvert would rather do things, even sedentary things like write in her journal, daydream and read, than join in idle talk.

"Hold the other arm out now."

He swabbed both arms entirely, from above elbows to fingertips, even where they had not been scraped, discarding used swabs into a bio-trash bucket. The antiseptic cooled as it dried and she liked the feel. He used a knitter next, settings adjusted first. When had she begun to feel so safe, cosy, tingly? Why did she gaze at the top of his head with adoration? Why was she attracted to the mink of him among the wet of him? The process of mending had taken a while already. Calvert patiently suffered the process through to its end. She suffered arousal in pulses, as though someone plucked her strings. She took shallow breaths so she wouldn't take in as much of his scent. How might she react if he touched her intimately just once?

"Done." He stepped back.

Restoring her garment to rights masked her condition. He was too busy putting things away and tidying up to notice anything. Her skin glowed a healthy pink. He had fixed her injuries as well as he did most everything else. She admired the freshness of her hands before lowering them into her lap. A line of damp marked his spine through the coverall. Calvert imagined far too easily his body beneath the garment, creases of muscles and thickness of flesh, swarthiness, and the part of him that fascinated her most.

"Time for lunch," he sent over his shoulder.

She didn't share her meals with her crew. She ate in her cabin by herself. Maybe she ought to start?

"You're welcome to—"

"No," she said and slipped off the examination bench. A too cosy association with one's crew was never a good idea.

"Suit yourself."

No obligatory 'sir'? Should she feel offended? Annoyed? Calvert felt neither offended nor annoyed, only embarrassed. She was anxious to get to her cabin by a shortest route possible. She had to do something about the urges wreaking havoc with her emotions. She was a Richardson. A Richardson did not mix with common people. A Richardson was as far above common as God was above Her angels.

"You know there's another way to bring down that car," he said and all her motion stopped as though her switch had tripped.

"I . . ." Studied the requisite part of the manual, she would have ended, while a prickling gained impetus beneath the skin behind her ears.

"That pad's for objects incapable of propulsion," said Marco and she couldn't tell if he was being vindictive or just informative. He was right and she blushed the most uncomfortable sort of blushing possible. "You could have directed the car down by remote." You did know that, didn't you? I suspect not.

Of course she knew it. Now. Her face assumed the least expression it could show and yet she thought she must be radiating her imbecility like a beacon.

"Well, no harm's done," he ended.

Chapter Eight \- Water Magic

The assembly was a great grey flower with petals spread. Most of the ship's heavy lift appliances had been integrated into the mix. Although these could over time be repaired or replaced, their imminent destruction would put a large crimp into a work schedule that thus far had had little room for contingencies.

Marco sipped tepid water, his supply of fresh long since consumed. Not far away Danby tested connections with a wrench. Present now, but where did she go those times she showed so still? The technician was not immune to absent times either, forgetting which tray held which tool or whether he'd left hatches open or closed after exiting the ship.

A multi-shaded grey, black and white dust devil skittered into his work area. Marco paused to watch what it did. As the chiaroscuro entity hovered between him and and Danby, it took from earth and air mass and energy. Although it had come uninvited, Marco detected no menace nor insult in how it behaved. It grew steadily, lamb-size to pony-size, yet he did not fear what it might do when it attained its mature shape and size. Within its heart, an image strived for form. Abruptly, the spark of creation faltered and an adolescence shredded with astonishing alacrity. The determined little cyclone had kept its integrity however, and tried again.

He supposed it a product of mindless heat and air. What happened next informed him he'd been very much mistaken. Odds incalculable if by chance. Troubling, perhaps, if hallucination. Framed by writhing, constantly building and disintegrating dusty dreadlocks appeared a familiar face. Am I that punchy?

"Hello, Marco," arrived clear within his helmet. Island Beth in her sun dress and floppy hat—how stood she so dainty in the killing heat? Her smile cooled, uplifted and comforted him. "Don't leave her down there," she entreated, a piquant sadness piercing the buoyancy of the moment. She tilted her head in her characteristic way.

"Leave? Who? Beth, who?"

"What?" queried the genuine woman, standing inline with his hallucination. While he looked through one to the other, the one disintegrated, taking with her all joy. Green, blue, wet and tang evaporated from his face and lips. What was left salt and the worse sort of defeated. "Ah, time to get back to work," he grumbled after the several seconds needful for restoring a shattered balance elapsed.

"Ah, sure, if you say so." After a pause she said, "Funny but I thought that's what we're doing."

"Er, I meant done, finished. You okay there?"

"Yeah, ah, every connection I've checked is good."

"Good enough."

"You sure?"

"Ya, next."

"Oh, gosh, next. What's next?"

Next is we fucking mutiny, thought Marco with startling vehemence. He'd a juicy revenge before his mind's eye: Calvert fixed to a straight-back chair, throat to ankles wrapped in a cocoon of all purpose tape, and gagged with a sock. "Ah, set up the shelter."

"Right," said Danby, faceplate aimed in his direction, body still. He wondered, might she be experiencing another of her remote from this time and place episode? They set off for the ship, Marco's suit protesting every step with twinges and creaks and his flesh with a multitude of hurts. Danby travelled in his wake, making what use she could of his shadow for the very little relief it provided. "I ought to have kept a platform back," he muttered.

"What for? There're more in the ship."

"I need those to bring the generators out."

"Aren't we putting up the canopy next?"

"Right." If Polyphemus hadn't been so very large and right in front of him, he'd for certain have gone off in some direction not the right one.

"Can we ride the platform when we bring the generators out?"

"Yeah, sure." This would not do at all. He was hot, dead on his feet, and his brain was a melon in a pressure cooker. He'd parching in his throat and a pressure about his chest that no amount of thrice-recycled water could relieve. Ahead of him was shade he very much wanted to rush into, except his best effort was no better than a shamble-walk.

"How I hate this," Danby muttered.

"You and me both."

"When we're done, I'm taking the longest shower."

"Not if I get in there first."

"You won't 'cuz I'll trip you 'long the way." A subdued chuckle.

He came into shade at last, the difference not much. Not much, but enough that his overheated body appreciated it all the same. "Ah-h-h!"

"I don't ever want to go out there again."

"Me neither."

"Let's strike," Danby proclaimed. Despite musings wending the same way, he turned to her in surprise. "Ah, I mean, ah—I'm not serious," she amended.

"No strike," he muttered. His ISS Bee Gee experience had exploded before his inner view so vividly his motion stalled. Danby's nudging jolted him from memories he had no desire to revisit and got him moving again. File one hell of a grievance, Marco thought as he tottered forward. The two of them swaying in front of Calvert's desk and, in unison, fainting to make their protest more.

"Ha! You think she listen ta reason even then?"

"She'd better 'cuz—what?" He gasped with surprise.

"What, your own self. We're home."

"You'd just said something," as though you'd been sharing my fantasy.

"Huh?"

"When you wondered if she'd listen to us," he elaborated. "Why had you said that?"

"Eeuw, dunno. Was I talking to myself maybe?"

"I was imagining something and, judging by your reply, I'm guessing you might have been imagining the same thing."

"Haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about, but sure."

"You just came out with whatever it was you said?"

"Yeah, ah—what did I say?"

"No idea, now—ah . . . nah, forget it."

"'Kay. Is there a way to make this water taste better, cooler, anything?"

"Probably. The whole idea needs revisiting. Ah, when I get the time."

"You can make these suits better? Cuz I'm really tired of working in sauna conditions for hours at a stretch."

"Yeah, ah, we don't have to breathe the outside air, which I'm thinking was a mistake. I didn't create a filter system robust enough either, which is why our cooling and water are not as good as they were at the start—well they wouldn't be anyway."

"So that's why what I'm drinking tastes like horse piss?"

"Don't got no horses." The first steps up the variable gravity ramp were near as bad as all the ones that had carried them so far. Marco made his first firm, but shuddered onto his second.

"You never get rid of the soap taste," Danby said distractedly.

"Poly manages all right. She's not two years off the slip." During his third step an interior pin slipped, and he toppled against his companion.

"Hey, watch yourself!"

Marco apologized in a mutter as a heave brought him upright, triggering more hurts and discomforts to declare themselves. The ramp gravity, progressively less, needed more care to negotiate than its brutish cousin at ground level.

"You all right?"

"Slight balance problem. .75 up, 1.05 down."

"Yeah, no kidding."

The pair supported each other the rest of their way. "It's great to be home!" Marco proclaimed as they staggered into Boat Bay. Hatches sealed, suits cracked, helmets removed, sopping hoods thrown off. Danby's washed out blue was more so. Complexion pale, hair flat.

Marco felt head to toe slick with his own waste. Danby had no success working the seal at the front of her suit. Marco went over to help. "You know, you could have rigged a better way to get this thing off," Danby said as she watched his fumbling take up the puzzle that had defeated her best efforts.

"I had to make sure the seal wouldn't come apart in-ad-ver-tent-ly," he replied. "We'll get used to them e-ven-tu-al-ly."

"You wanna quit talking that way? You're giving me a headache." When he'd her upper seam undone she recklessly pulled the torso halves apart. Extricating herself after was peeling the banana. When finished, she helped Marco do the same. "Do we have to set out the generators today?"

"Boss says we do. We got mebbe five hours daylight left. I figure half hour to recharge suits, hour and a half to put up the canopy, another hour to set out generators, establish power runs and test couplings." Before that next series of jobs started, suit filters needed to be swapped out. Marco reached inside his outdoors cover to start that next thing.

Danby squeezed the moisture from her hair; the result splotches on the deck. "What about the jacks? We still have to fix the rest of 'em on that damned hatch."

"Yah, right. Well, that shouldn't take long." He removed his filters, examined them briefly, and discarded them into a receptacle.

"We gotta walk out and back like four more times!" Danby moaned histrionically as she went to fetch towels for them.

"Give me a minute," he said to the offer of a towel. He'd been removing the filter packs from her suit. "Ah, we can ride . . . sometimes—you wanna get the bucket so's I can flush these?"

"Can't you replace the bitches?"

"No time ta-day fer da bitches," he replied. "When there's time tomorrow. You know, the cooling would work fine except the friggin' dust gets in."

"I am so sick of this shit," muttered the sweat-slick marine along her way to the half filled bucket for draining waste water into. "Too much damn walking. One of us is gonna go bust. You're gonna go bust."

"Hey, thanks, I'm okay," he said quietly as he dragged their suits to the wall-mounted hose, tub, and two stools that constituted their fluid recharge station.

"No, you're not. This is crazy. We shouldn't be breaking our humps this way."

"One of us won't be agreeing with you."

"She should be out there with us," muttered Danby.

"Ah hem. We'll take a break." The bay's system of cameras recorded everything. One not far away looked right into their work space. "Couple hours, and if she doesn't like it, too bad."

"Hehn," went Danby as she pulled her suit upright. "How do I do this again?"

"I got it," he said and coupled the hose for her. "Stop cock open this end. Oh, boy, are these babies starting to ripen up."

Danby trialed the atmosphere inside of her suit with a sniff. "They don't smell too bad."

"You must have a high tolerance for that kind of thing. I recall you saying something about horse piss?"

"I've never had to drink piss," Danby replied ruefully.

"An acquired taste," he suggested. "After a while, once you're used to it, you're thinking Char-don-né, Cha-blis, Beau-jo-lais."

"A who? A what? Where?"

"You know, wine."

"Nah, I've never drunk much wine."

"Never?"

"Hardly ever. Beer. I stay away from the hard stuff."

"I've done some brewing in my time. I'm pretty sure there're makings in stores."

"What else can you do?" Danby ventured a peek into a lap as transparent as her own.

"Oh, just about everything. You want an appliance fixed or a chair built, I'm your man."

"I've hardly enough room to move around in now."

"Oh? How do you, ah, like the suite?"

"I dunno. I'm hardly ever in it except to sleep. It's bigger and there's a bed instead of bunks. Calvert's is lots bigger."

"Hutch's old place," he said and took up the towel she'd offered earlier.

"I miss Hutch."

"Me too. He was a good shit for an officer."

"Except for being a suck up," muttered Danby sourly.

"Huh?"

"Why else would he leave her in charge?"

"Yeah, right." The pair observed a silence while Marco held out the hose. "After you. It may not taste like your prime horse piss, but I'm betting that after all the sweat you've drunk you'll swear it's ambrosia."

"Ambro what?"

"You serious?"

"About what?"

#

Calvert coasted along an elongated arc that approached the edge of the plain, not expecting anything of note within her screens. The motion capture created along the way would form part of the appendix attached to her next report. Humps and hollows not very high and not very deep suggested the wreck extended to the escarpment. A lowest possible passage made the traverse interesting, rock at either hand near enough to count cracks from. Next were grey and brown hills to the horizon over which uninspiring vegetation struggled for survival.

A part of her journey ought to be something more. She would not endanger the car, which was, after Polyphemus herself, their only other in-atmosphere transportation. It wouldn't be out of line to engage in some robust aerial exercise, a test of her craft's power and aerodynamics.

A selection of potential test sites was dashboard-delivered and one nearby chosen. An initial run was done cautious—only idiots flew full speed through unfamiliar landscapes. Second and third passes set her vehicle on edge as often as right side up. Flushed with pleasure, Calvert decided her next trip would incorporate more of such activity.

Secure were this morning's embarrassment and its unsettling aftermath, which had been a lapse in a normally stable personality. Anxiety, fatigue and hurt had combined to trigger a vulnerable condition. Time, distance and exercise had soothed the upset away. Nestled within her couch, surrounded by comforting lights, screens and instrument murmur, flying yoke in doeskin-covered hands, Calvert felt restored and in her proper element. "Polyphemus, I read one hundred klicks to potential water source."

"Affirmative, Julie. At our current speed we should reach our destination in less than nine minutes. Do you wish autopilot assist?"

"No, thank you, Poly." Piloting was something Calvert considered herself expert at no matter how often her supervisors called her habits lazy. She just hadn't the patience to study every part of every manual thrust under her nose.

The tactical monitor ahead of her right elbow displayed an overhead view of a tiny J-9 Falcon coasting over patches of pale green and brown in an undulating grey field. Calvert, gazing at the representation, waggled her wings to see the image do more.

Ridiculous to suppose she could be turned on by a nobody. Her feelings had been out of tune and her intellect blunted. When upset her mental process got disjointed, and sometimes lost touch with its proper functioning. Her arousal had been as her stuttering, something to be brought under control. Blame isolation. Blame frailty. Pacini was no one to take seriously, and never into her bed. Jack would say she played at a relationship, as cats tease mice before killing them. Tony would point out how immature she'd behaved.

Yet hadn't her mother done the exact same thing?

A sideways drift, owing to a gust, was corrected with a light touch. Eliot Calvert had not been the man for Sophia Richardson. Why had her mother married him? Why had she stayed in an unsuitable relationship, when divorce would have been an easy option to exercise?

"One minute out, Julie," warned Polyphemus.

Since her mother's death, her father had visited her exactly twice, neither being an occasion of note—no birthday, anniversary, graduation. In Calvert's estimation a fuzzily remembered funeral did not count. It must have been a relief for Captain E. G. Calvert when his marriage ended along with all those nettlesome parental obligations.

"Thirty seconds," Polyphemus warned.

Calvert executed a mild flight correction prior to stepping down power with her usual economy of thought and action. Her destination was a box canyon. During final approach she noted an overhang beetling over a deep shade. Sunbaked earth, clumps of desperate grass, and grey-white trees with pale green leaves. Calvert set her car to a hover over the thicket. "Polyphemus, advise me. Where is the best spot to drill?"

"Ahead and to the right, approximately 31.4 metres." An illustrative blue line appeared in the dash monitor, extruded from the Falcon icon. Calvert followed the line to its end. "We are now over the best spot," Polyphemus announced.

"Underground stream?" queried the youngster while measuring clumps of grass for potential threats. What animal life was down there? Did it have fangs? Was it aggressive?

"Yes, Julie. Do you not prefer this location?"

"It's fine. Notify my crew we have arrived and what we're about to do."

"Done."

Calvert descended to a spot near the spot Polyphemus had selected. Secure ship, disengage crash harness. Exit cockpit into passenger compartment and rear cargo bay. Pacini had strapped in the drill, travelling frame and power pack. By the time she released her equipment, Calvert was steeped in perspiration and annoyed that anyone would secure items so firmly for a journey of a mere few hundred kilometres. "Cranky old fusspot," Calvert muttered, her traitorous flesh tingling to a vagrant memory. "For the sake of Black Heaven," the youth grumbled, stabbed the hatch release, and recoiled as heat rolled over her. "Geez!"

"Julie?"

"Environment control! Polyphemus, can't you do something about this heat!"

"I was doing something. You opened the hatch."

Calvert realized she'd neglected to don her outdoors suit. "Close hatch!"

"Yes, Julie."

"Would you remind me, Polyphemus," The sopping youngster pulled down the stiff outdoors garment from the hook it attached to, "to make sure I'm properly dressed before I open any more outdoors hatches?"

"Of course, Julie."

Despite best efforts, Calvert failed to get the front seal of her suit right. The fabric resisted like cardboard conforming to her contours. Hatch again opened. Support frame, drill, and power pack lugged out. Next an instant of perplexity. How did the drill assemble? Consult schematic Marco had installed within her handset while the thirsty wind siphoned up filth from the surroundings to coat her with. Back to work. Assembly completed, she stepped back.

"Snakes?" she enquired of the grove.

"I detect none, only insects. They're harmless," Polyphemus replied.

No part of her anatomy must come into contact with the beam that streamed beneath the drill once it activated. Pacini had said there would be no recoil but, as soon as she remote-activated the drilling tool, it embarked on a jittery walk with her as its focus. "Idiot!" she shouted as she shut the tool off.

"Is something the matter, Julie?"

"Pacini is a blockhead. This stupid drill is not supposed to jitter like that."

"I need a moment to assess the situation. You've neglected to set the anchors."

"Anchors?"

"There is one at the foot of each leg of the tripod support."

"Oh." Had Pacini told her about the anchors? He might have said something about them. Pink-faced, she returned to the drill, set anchors, established her watch post well out of range, and from her handset instructed the drill to turn itself on again.

No more chasing. The beam gushed into earth, vaporizing stone and dust and creating smoke and stink, which Calvert told herself was perfectly normal. The girl took in her lower lip to suck. "How's it doing?" she asked. Pacini hadn't specified how long the drilling would take. Minutes? Hours?

"The drill is performing optimally."

She checked progress by consulting her handset. The drill bore width was five centimetres and the beam had ground its way by now through two metres of earth and stone. The youth nodded at the representation. Having grown used to the stink and smoke, it no longer seemed ominous.

Next no more smoke. The last greyish-white pollutant drifted into the trees. This happy change seemed strange despite how much cleaner, and better to view, the drill operation was. "Ah, Poly, what's happened?"

"The drill appears to have cut through to a subterranean chamber."

Why is the ground trembling? Could it be the precursor to a seismic disturbance? What's going on? Why? What consequences might be about to ensue?

"Julie, I advise turning off the drill."

"Why?" she asked, doing as instructed.

"You may have to run. I advise giving yourself some distance from the drill site. Danger. Imminent danger. Danger close."

"What!" The girl ran in the clumsy suit and grasping gravity from rumble-roar and ground shaking. Next a geyser of flash-heated water erupted through drill and frame, catching and sending it aloft. Its trajectory fortuitously terminated nowhere near where its operator had fled; nor where she'd parked her ride, Calvert realized after.

"You have found water," Poly said.

#

Marco and Danby staked down their tent. Next up: test as a viable shelter. "Wad'ya think?" Marco crept inside, exhausted and feeble-tongued. Danby stumbled in after.

"S'good," she muttered. With the system sun having set the day was cooling. The temperature had not yet reached what one might consider a comfortable level.

Marco lay full length. Danby stood a moment longer before settling alongside him.

"Ain't it . . . a bitch?" Marco asked.

"Wah?"

"Dis whole sing. I cain' 'magin worse place. Can you?"

"Naugh, can't." Danby sighed and drew blood-warm water into her mouth. He had to come up with his better type of suit and soon. She was too hot, too dizzy, too dry inside, too wet outside, and too damn tired.

"Ni-ice break," said Marco with eyes closed. Good shade, cooler than outside, no wind or dust, good nap territory.

"Yah."

"Gonna take 'ice long showah. Much wadda. Lots."

"Yum."

"Cavert betta fine lots wadda. G'wan needit."

"Yup."

"Zat all yuh can say?"

"Whad?"

"Yah, yup?"

"Yah, yup, whad?"

"Nebbermine." He might slip into a sleep with no trouble at all, except he'd too much left to do. With an effort Marco thrust himself up into a sitting position. "Ah, geez."

"Wassamatter?"

"I so bush. I cain talk. Cain even—I cain even siddup!" So saying, he let himself fall back with a thud.

"Tha's funny," Danby said and applauded him with a giggle.

"S'funny? S'seri-ous. I cain gehup."

"Shure you can."

"No I cain. You wanna try?"

"Try whad? Hep you up?"

"Pacini," Calvert's crispness was the splinter in their amiable cotton cushy existence.

"Waddisit?"

"Speak English, can't you?—I've found water. Enough for all our needs well into the future." Her triumphant tone wholly missed by the pair of dull-witted spacers.

"Gud. G'wan needit," said Marco and giggled.

"What are you into? Have you been drinking?"

"Shure." Snort and giggle more. "Lots. G'wan need drink lots more, you see?"

"I see you're in deep shit, Technician. Why aren't . . ." Calvert arrived over the excavation and saw how far their digging had progressed. The part of the wreck exposed glittered hugely, eerily. "Where are you?"

"In da cabana."

"Where?"

"Da cabana, changin' inta my swimsuit."

"You drunken lout. What in hell do you think you're doing?"

"I's not doin' any-ting. Ass Damby."

"Danby, where are you two?"

"Ausside. In da canapee."

"God in Her Great Starry Heaven, not you too!"

"Wur tire, sur. Cain hardy gehup."

"What?"

"Come geh us," Marco crooned. "We cain move." A fresh spate of giggling ensued.

"What?"

Hours later. Water, deliciously cool, smelled and tasted and felt nothing like the kind subjected to long storage. Danby ducked herself into the flow and gasped delightedly.

"I's gonna haf ta design betta linahs tah," Marco commented from his naked sprawl beneath her. "Da blen's ca work besser tink."

"Uh huh," Danby replied, not caring to come up with a better answer.

"Sumthin' dat'll 'lau moistcha ta pass dectly inta da 'lection foss."

"Did you finish attaching that counter grav gear?" Calvert asked from the hatchway. She'd assisted her crew into the ship: Danby on foot, Marco inside a sled. Next she'd flown them to the well, undertaking the flushing, rinsing and filling of the water tanks on her own, Marco had supplied muddled details requiring deciphering before application. The condition of her crew had been troubling, but they'd recovered most of their strength, mental acuity and energy since.

"Huh?" was Marco's reply. He was faking. Danby certain this was so.

"The sleds? Did you attach them?"

"Nah, din' geh 'round to 'em." The generators had not been brought out, nor the power runs established, but everything else was in place. Danby gazed now and again into Marco's crotch but with no more interest than for an odd mark on the floor. Mostly this was due to her view being so low as it was.

"When can you finish the rest?" Calvert asked, directing her gaze to a corner away from her nude crewmen. It had been a difficult time getting the two of them into the ship and out of their suits. They'd been as toddlers to coax along.

"Affer rest," he said.

"Yes, the rest?"

"After I geh sum rest," he said.

"Oh!" Calvert exclaimed, turned and stalked away.

"You enjoyed that," Danby said after sufficient time had passed so that their commander was well out of earshot.

"Yep, shure did."

"She's gonna miss her deadline," Danby mused.

"Dat's gonna be too ba-a-a."

"Dat so?" she replied affectionately: a tone, in his muddled state, Pacini failed to register.

"Yep. Dat's so." Marco pushed himself to his feet, using the wall to brace himself against. "I was beginning ta feel like a squashed bug on a hot plate out dere."

"Me too," Danby agreed.

"Next time, I say we leeb da back door open, leh her know how feels."

"Fine by me," Danby said and chuckled.

Chapter Nine \- Removing Hatches

Polyphemus's shadow, originating from one hundred metres overhead, swamped the excavation all the way through. Marco checked power generation and couplings a final time. Satisfied he could do no more about either, the technician nodded to his handset monitor in which Calvert's image showed sober and composed.

"Apply power to counter grav," she commanded.

The twin generators, within their flimsy shelter forty metres back from where he stood, awakened with a rumbling that rose to an atmosphere-numbing hum. "Counter grav powered up, aye."

"Applying tractor," she said. A column of energy, joining the alien hatch to the belly of the ship, generated and filled with a flutter of invisible leaves. Marco had expected the hatch to shoot out of the ground or do nothing, as now. Power level readings checked. Plenty in reserve. The cover remained obstinate. The tech signalled the generators to increase output, and again, and again, each step matched by a boost in operator trepidation. The sturdy hum became at the end of all he dared a desperate whine.

"What's happening?" Calvert's voice sounded as brittle as glass.

"Not enough pull." He shifted his attention from her 3D representation, ominous numbers beneath, to the centre of the tornado blackening his work space. Enough power was applied to raise a fully loaded Mauser Class assault shuttle. Were pins, as he'd speculated, holding the son of a bitch in place? He had no way of knowing. Gritting his teeth, Marco called for the last of all he dared, and the generators screamed. "More pull!" he shouted.

The tortured air rippled. Marco glanced to the handset holo. Calvert stared with large eyes out of it. She saw the same numbers he did, and knew the large danger the ship was in; that she was in. Her confident look had evaporated, and been replaced by trapped animal features. "Puh-Pacini . . . We've guh-guh-guh-going to haf-have to cuh-chuh cuh-cut puh-puh-power."

Marco nodded grimly. His opinion about to be honoured at last. They would go no further. The hatch could not be raised. A caretaker job from now until their relief arrived.

His attention was split three ways: ship, generators, artificial storm. He missed the start, when the hatch shot out of the wreck, like a cork out of a bottle. The damn thing smiled at him.

The plug, he decided it was, had his full and amazed attention, he went stupid for a time, his thumb hesitated over the first step back in power. Better than two metres thick and nine metres across, the giant stopper had risen at last as though greased. Beneath it, the fresh-made cavity exhaled a puff as though long ago it had seized a breath it rejoiced now to let go.

The situation was deadly precarious. The plug rotated—a thing impossible. Marco stared openmouthed at the wet sand metal jewel, next up the fountain of virulence connecting it to the power node full exposed between quarter-metre thick hatches hanging open.

"Forward, go forward!" His child commander stared back. The block rippled before the start of a ramming run as he threw his eighty kilos of mass at it. Ropes of energy coiled and snapped maliciously over him. The gelatinous air thrust back and Marco heaved again, encountering a stubborn solidity, giving all he was worth. The hatch, apparent weight zero yet massing thousands of tonnes, seemed bound to shrug off his puny effort yet, with so much mass and power poised in such a delicate balance, only a tiny inertia had to be overcome. He felt shifting; whatever held it in place let go. Next a slide as if onto ice, his overbalanced self falling after.

Buffeted and blind he dropped through air thick as water. "Power down," he groaned as his hips struck the edge of the abyss. Marco attempted a writhing self-rescue, back muscles protesting stridently. He but delayed his personal catastrophe. Teeter became a totter. Along the way down, he'd have the pleasure of viewing Calvert's wide-eyed consternation. Let her carry on without him, if she could.

A pair of strong hands gripped him at knee level, locked on, and dragged him back. "Were you going to check how deep it is?" Danby asked as she helped him sit.

"Maybe, ah, sure." Marco swallowed his risen gorge. Shuddering, he pointed his handset into the cavity.

"I didn't know a horse's ass could fly," continued Danby wryly.

"Pacini!" Calvert cried.

"Give me a minute." Marco frowned at what his instrument revealed.

"Pacini!"

Ten metres down and then something seeming solid. Depending on how he landed he ought to have survived with not much worse than bruises.

"God damn it, Pacini. Answer me!"

"What do you want?"

"What in the hell did you think you were doing?"

"Doing?" he mused to her image. "Doing? I was saving our asses."

"You jerk. What makes you think I didn't have the situation under control?"

Her frozen look. The panic in her eyes. What else? The fact that the hatch was about to take off like a rocket for the unshielded power node? Where should he begin?

"Well?" she asked.

With Danby so near, it would be impolitic to enter into a debate with their commander over her inability to act decisively under pressure. Wasn't she supposed to be an inspiration to the rest of them? He snickered instead.

"What was that? Pacini, you sonovabitch, what in the hell was that?"

"Nothing. I thought of something funny. That's all."

"You'd better be prepared to explain your actions for my report."

"Fine. I'll have it all figured out by the time you're ready to debrief me." Marco squinted into brilliant sky. Polyphemus soared downwind to a landing behind a windbreak two TRAXs industriously dug and piled. Between here and there the alien plug, abandoned on a mound of earth, appeared a giant, discarded toy block.

"I just received a transmission from Cuirassier. Captain Willard wants an analysis begun of the surface characters."

"I've got the preliminaries in my handset. All I have to—"

"I need an in-depth study of the characters, what they're made of, everything."

"I've got all that in my handset."

"I don't care if it's etched into your forehead. I need a precision scan of the hatch and its surface features. For that I need an INV45 imaging and processing scanner."

Like one of the forty-six INV45s left in their satellite carriages, each he'd had to IMPACT-pack before landing. "Aye, sir," he said. Nothing else could he say.

"You're going to have to mount it on a land frame."

As if he hadn't known what he would do, and that it would take him an hour or longer since he'd have to fab a land frame and assemble it first. Everything needed to be sealed so that the scanner stood a chance of surviving long enough to perform the task Calvert wanted it for.

"It's going to take a couple of hours to assemble a land frame and reconfigure the imaging package. I'll get on it first thing tomorrow." He'd TRAX maintenance and counter grav and power generation equipment to uncouple, clear and put away, and he'd worked twelve hours this day already.

"That won't do, Pacini," Calvert said implacably. "Captain Willard wants this stuff ASAP. You can go off watch when my scanner is out and running, not before."

Of a sudden he was back in Borgun's Rift, when the react squadron, of which ISS Bee Gee had been part, had gone in full power to shields and weapons charged, unsure whether or not the mutineers would dare fire the massive on-base weaponry.

As the dust of her landing was settling, Calvert lowered the ramp. She wasn't wasting any time. All time was his time. Dispelling a vivid and troubling memory with as much physical effort as of mental will, Marco staggered away from the fresh-made cavity, feeling as though the very great effort he'd just expended had been all for nothing.

"Come on, Marco," Danby said fussily, taking his arm. "Calvert wants the stuff set up so we better . . ." Her hand slipped. Her faceplate aim informed him she looked into the hole.

"Now who's spelunking?" he teased. "Come on, Danby. Like you suh—"

With surprising force Danby clutched him with both her hands. "Don't leave her down there, Marco!" she said fiercely. "Damn it, I can accept what happens to me, but you can't leave her down there!"

"What?" She'd caused the hairs on the back of his neck to both stand and salute. "Come on, Beth. Nobody's gonna die." He marched the two of them away from the hole, faceplates bumping, their connection as intimate as a kiss. "It's just a hole."

"Not a hole. You know it isn't, Marco! There's a chamber, it's huge, and there are things in there. It makes you into one! You know it does."

"One, ah . . . you mean . . ." Not possible. His dreams only seemed real, were far strange, but they were only dreams. Danby and Calvert now and then visited in them along with others he'd recognize if ever he met them in the flesh.

"Things . . ." Danby ended with a gasp. He knew she wept, but not owing to what he could hear.

"They're dreams, Beth!" he protested, despite how unsure he was himself.

"No," she continued passionately, "they're not. You know they're not. Don't leave her down there. Promise me you won't. Promise." He appreciated the strength in her grip despite the several layers of exceedingly tough fabric between her hands and his arms.

"I promise," he said as he applied gentler pressure to coax a release. "I won't leave anyone behind but, Beth, you're not gonna die. None of that shit's gonna happen. For us to get so far, it'd take a crew ten times our size. It isn't gonna happen."

"She'll do it." Danby must know Calvert listened in. "She can't help herself. She'll go ahead and do it, and you're going to help her every step of the way."

Calvert, bathed in the hums, whirrs and clicks of technology, had zeroed the mast cam on her shipmates' intimate standing. It felt voyeurism to eavesdrop, but she couldn't stop herself. They'd had the dreams too? Hers she'd discounted, sending their accumulating account to a remote corner of her mind, to rest under lock and key during waking hours. While asleep she had nothing like as good control.

The youth longed for specifics to take comparisons from. By sharing experiences, they might avoid the bad parts. Calvert hovered before an interruption, but no nearer. Shame over what she was doing, and for earlier stopped her. Blushing, she slid down from her chair.

Shared hallucination. Must be. Entirely rational explanation. She must speak to Danby in her capacity as Captain. The marine took her part of their shared illusion too far.

Danby was saying, "They do things to the dead—I can stand dying, but I could never stand to be that." The marine laughed in a way to chill Marco's flesh through and through.

"That's not going to happen, Beth. I won't let it."

"You won't?" Her next laugh was marginally better, but had kept a slick of hysteria. "You barely know how to fire a gun."

"I'll learn. Come on, we've got work to do." Always work. He'd said so to distract her. Because he felt emotionally adrift besides fatigue-drunk, he had to ask, "You didn't happen to see a certain somebody in a sun dress?"

"What?"

"Forget it." He shouldn't have asked. In his present state he would've confessed to murder without a qualm.

"A sun dress? Who? Calvert?"

The temperature within his perpetually malfunctioning survival suit rose uncomfortably. "No, no, ah, I don't know, just somebody." The pair walked side by side toward the ship.

"Somebody?"

"Yeah, ah . . . you."

"You saw me in a dress?"

How could he explain her double's dust devil visitation without spilling the beans about what he'd done in the tropics sim? "I saw you in a sun dress when we were installing all those clamps." The half truth didn't sit well with his conscience. Since she couldn't see his face, he knew he was safe from her discovering the guilt he was showing.

"What kind of dress?"

"White, thin, pale blue and yellow flowers about the edges. You were wearing a floppy hat."

"I'm into some kinda beach thing, huh?"

"Yeah."

"What am I doing?"

"You're telling me not to—ah, shit." He had to stop because she'd stopped and taken another grip of his arm. "I thought I was hallucinating. Maybe we're both hallucinating and that's all. I'll admit it: you gave me the same instruction then as you did a few minutes ago." He mentally crossed fingers she'd not press him for details. "What about yours?"

"My what?"

"Your dream?"

"I . . ." She wanted to tell him about the monsters, but couldn't. Her visions had been like night terrors and what adult would admit to night terrors in the daytime? "Maybe later." They stood before the alien hatch, which, in spite of its many attachments, was starkly beautiful. Near two metres high and nine across. A slightly raised dot in its exact centre. Marco directed his handset to the dot. "Still transmitting."

"Internal power source?" Danby said. "But the block's solid, isn't it? Where's the electronics? We have to take all this stuff off." Sleds, clamps, conduits. Hours of work.

"Embedded. Maybe in the lettering. We can do the disassembly later." He directed his handset along the nearest vertical surface. "Can't get a reading of what this material is. It's very dense. No reading at all. Like battle plate, only denser. Must mass a thousand tonnes, possibly more." Its great weight caused the plug to sink into the ground. He noted an incremental lowering as he watched. "I don't get it."

"Don't get what?"

"When the plug released, it just did. Right before we were applying all that counter grav and tractor and nothing was going to happen—you could tell it was not going to budge—and then it shot out of the wreck."

"So?" Danby said uneasily.

"It was like some outside agency wanted us to get to the next step, as if we'd passed a test—that's nuts, forget I said that. All I'm saying is, the way it happened was not at all like I'd expected it to go or it should have gone."

"Why?"

"Well, this is a hatch or we assume it is. Over there is an entrance or maybe it isn't."

"What?" Danby applied to her response a chuckle of confusion.

"Your typical hatch is a door that retracts along a rail or operates on a hinge. This is not that. It's a plug or a cork."

"I guess so," Danby replied uncertainly.

"Plugs seal things in," Marco elaborated as he brought himself upright. "Could be that whatever's down there isn't meant to be let out. We might have made a serious mistake."

"Damn it, Marco, didn't I tell you that!"

"Yes, you did, sorry, just thinking out loud."

"They don't want invaders to go inside, but they don't stop them either."

"All I saw was about ten metres of depth."

"You know the shaft's a lot deeper than that. This is kinda pretty." The vertical surface glistened a patterned granite grey. At the top, where the glyphs were, the surface was a light shade of charcoal. The glyphs liquid mercury.

"It does have art," Marco agreed and felt for and registered the same repulsing layer as before, which ended at the edge as though sliced by a razor. "Still there, despite the connection's broken."

"What?" Danby stepped back.

"I don't get this. You'd think with the main contact gone the cover would collapse, but it's still here—you should feel this."

"No thanks."

"Pacini?" Calvert asked. "Where the hell are you?"

"Our master's voice," Marco muttered to himself.

"What was that?" Calvert responded acidly.

"I'll be there in a couple minutes." He would have to adjust the communication filters so that not every little thing got heard, otherwise some feelings and two hard working crewmen might end up suffering as a consequence.

Many hours later, standing without swaying difficult, but since Calvert hadn't invited him to sit he had to stand until she did or dismissed him. Within her screen the girl commander reviewed different views of the hatch extraction and its aftermath. Marco saw himself running into the energy stream and leaned precariously toward the representation as a consequence.

"Sit down, Pacini," Calvert said finally, indicating the nearer of her two visitor chairs.

"I'm, ah, ready for my debriefing, sir." Actually he was ready for sleep. He was hungry, dirty, tired and aromatic. He hoped she was getting a good whiff because he was making no effort to keep the miasmic atmosphere his body lived in out of her range.

Calvert had watched the hatch extraction to its multifaceted conclusion several times already. "I'm entering all visual records of the event into the official log. Polyphemus?"

"I am ready to receive depositions," the ship's entity replied.

Calvert began, "I was about to move the ship when Technician Pacini impetuously threw himself into the energy stream, preempting the motion of the hatch and ship out of . . . er, hazard. The danger to the ship was momentary, and manageable under the circumstances. As I said, I was about to remedy the situation when the technician made his precipitate action." Calvert ended by staring at Marco.

"My perception of what was going on," Marco said wearily, "was that Ensign Calvert had frozen at the switch." His next breath included a whistling sigh. "I responded as I did so that the ship not be struck by the plug which appeared about to move up the tractor connection."

Calvert pressed the spot on her blotter that paused recording. "Your perception was in error."

Marco, summoning a belligerent spark from somewhere, put his lips to a stern line and replied, "At the time I didn't think so."

"Might you state a clarification of that for—"

"No, I won't. I said at the time I didn't think so. I still don't think so." She was pissing him off. She wanted to keep her squeaky clean reputation intact. He understood her desire for doing so, but didn't sympathize with it. They needed to clear the air between them. Calvert had made a mistake and taken serious chances, which she ought to own up to. She had imperilled the ship and as a consequence their lives. Had Polyphemus' living spaces been compromised, they might not have survived until a rescue ship arrived. She ought to own up, instead of try to paint a self-preserving gloss over the matter.

"You put yourself into peril when there was no need," Calvert stated flatly.

Even as tired as he was, Marco thought clearly enough to disagree. "When did the ship begin to move, sir?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Did the ship move before or after I gave the block a shove?"

"You know damned well the ship didn't move until after you shoved, but I was poised to enter the instruction. I was about to move the ship, and I did move the ship. I didn't need you interfering. I-I." Feeling a stutter on the verge of erupting, Calvert lapsed into silence.

Marco rested his eyes by closing them. He opened them again to the sight of her coldly angry face. "I submit you can't prove my action was precipitate, just as I can't prove you froze at the switch." He couldn't prove it, but knew his instinct was right. Also he knew the contents of the video records Calvert was so anxious to refute hinted at the same conclusion. There was no doubt in his mind that she had froze at the switch and no amount of verbal gymnastics on her part was going to change his opinion.

"Humph!" Calvert realized he could not be made to see things from her perspective, that he would cling to his version of events, and this would be trouble for her in future. "That is your final word on the matter?"

"It is."

"Very well." Touching her pad, resuming the record, she continued, "Do you have anything further to add, Tech Pacini?"

He debated himself what else he might say and, although the record was ambiguous as far as an analysis of another's thoughts and actions, anyone could interpret the truth for themselves. Calvert had to have realized this, too, for her gaze had fixed on the flat of her desk as though in defeat. "No, sir, I don't."

"You are dismissed," Calvert said, her gaze remaining where she'd put it. How much trouble is this going to be? she wondered as the waft of his leaving struck her cheek, delivering his stink. Forcing her nostrils closed, breathing small until the aromatic reek dissolved, she maintained her seat and pose. She had been so uneasy as this on one other occasion, and suffered injustice every bit as much as she just had the stench of Pacini's leaving.

The hatch event would get interpreted according to the slant her superiors decided to apply to it, no matter the truth. She'd been poised to move the ship; as Pacini thrust himself at the block her hand directed the ship forward. How could he think his puny pushing had influenced so immense an object?

"You are a fool," she said, meaning both of them. If she hadn't experienced controversy before now, if the consequences hadn't been so dire, would she be second guessing herself? No matter how her superiors interpreted the hatch event, she would not escape censure. Her career and reputation about to be chewed on yet again.

Sucking absently the inside of her mouth, always that in the back of her mind, the memory of which made her self-destructive one moment, anxious the next, bitter always. A hell of a thing to start a career on.

#

Danby saw through her glove the skin-coloured appliance snugly wrapping her hand. I was hurt. How? The darkness was pushed away by hard working lights mounted on stands. Someone was humming cheerfully. Marco. In her dreams they were far more devoted to one another than they were now.

"Just about set," he declared.

He did another of his technician things. He was infectious in his cheerfulness and Danby knew she loved him for it. "He shouldn't make so much noise," she murmured cautiously before directing her attention where it belonged. The others with them, strangers yet also familiar, were doing as she and Marco were doing, working or watching.

"Ensign, we're ready for you now."

A girl disturbingly frail appeared and yet she exuded the unmistakable aura of command. This Julie Calvert very unlike the present Julie Calvert. Grim, mature, far more sure of herself. It would take months for her to arrive to the condition she was in. All the months between now and then, Danby thought as she gazed with strong affection at the youngster. We'll like each other. Good. She must come to her senses. Calvert knelt to put out her hand. As though on cue, large and sinister movement erupted at all sides. The alien cargo hold event ceased abruptly as though whomever had charge of it was determined not to reveal too much too soon.

Danby arrived in a far better place. She stood staring at her feet in ankle deep surf. A wide-brimmed straw hat covered her head, a white dress hemmed with blue and yellow flowers wrapped her body, and her feet were bare. Overhead was gentle sun. Forest behind her. Before was sea and sky richly blue.

No place she'd ever been to before. "Where is this? Why am I here?"

So you might be comforted, she seemed to hear from far, far off. Laughing, her eyes made water. "Assured of what?" The ocean sent a larger wave at her. It struck her shin-high.

In a different part of the ship, another dreamer was in the place she had many times before found herself. Surrounded by friends and entirely sure of herself, she'd been as her uncle Jack was when he was at his best, and her heart had risen high and pumped hard. Next cruel irony! The same woman later on, pruned of proud feathers, tired, sick and lost and as near to death as a next breath taken. "Marco?" Calvert called tentatively, hating the longing in her voice. Only Marco could save her. Where was he? How would this happen to her? How would she become separated from everyone else?

"All right," Calvert declared and set hands on hips. By challenging whatever controlled this environment had to be the way to win. "What am I supposed to do? Why do I always end up here? What's the way out?" Her dream as real as life, yet it absolutely had to be false.

You always knew when you were in a sim and you could terminate play whenever you chose. This was no sim. Where she ought to be, where she had to be, was in her bed, asleep. Right flank applied to mattress, wrapped in fresh sheets, right cheek pressing pillow. That had been the last position she remembered assuming.

The clicking not far away was owed to sentinels walking on their knuckles. Nonretractable claws. One swipe took off a head in four neat sections. Calvert was peculiarly unafraid. Knowing her weapon useless she'd discarded it along with all the rest of her paraphernalia except her handset. A nub of something was in the pocket over her breast. She knew the time for its use was not yet. In the interim she took comfort in its feel and in warm remembrance. Whomever gave it to her had meant to be kind. A while longer she stood while waiting for an answer that was not going to come. Her weary walk resumed.

Marco's was the only entirely pleasant dream of the three. He was on his hut's veranda watching the sun melt beneath layered gold and pink sky. Beth was someplace near. The hot and humid forest gathered its last breath of sunlight. The night would be full of noise—a day's worth of inhaling about to be released. He looked forward to the nightly symphonic, but not as much as footsteps he listened particularly for. Had she gone to collect fruit? Funny, if she had. What need had she of fruit or any other food?

Marco was tempted to call out her name, to find out would calling it work, but didn't, sensing she was on her way to him. A pleasant surprise would be to sit quiet and unexpected. Emotions argued with intellect until fatigue decided the issue. Marco closed his eyes and drifted toward sleep. Danby came upon his dozing. Her hand cool on his feverish skin.

"What are you doing here?" she asked gently, brow posed interrogatively.

"Hum-m-m, waiting for you," he said and grinned goofily at her outline that was on fire to the waist. Did she know she was transparent down there?

"How did you know I'd come?"

"Ah." He was feeling peculiar restraint. Something not right, but he'd only the feeling this was so. "You live here?" he said tentatively.

"I do? Since when?" The crescent of broiling sun and streak of fire it painted over the water was good entertainment. It seemed she stood at the near end of the streak. A turn and she could walk out to the horizon on top of it. What might happen when she reached the horizon itself Marco didn't care to think about.

"Ah," he went, his sense of unease renewed.

"Well, here I am. In the dress." The garment's sides held out illustratively. "I haven't worn a dress since I was seven—you didn't put me in this, did you?"

"Ah, no?" he ventured.

"Scootsch over, willya?" Not waiting for him to move, she sat, her hip colliding friendly with his. "Well, it is nice here." Taking a knee to hold, she continued, "I haven't anything on under this, which is why I asked."

"Oh? Oh." He blushed.

"You're acting kinda strange. Am I missing something?"

"No." He was reluctant to engage in sober conversation despite feeling she would be willing to discuss things they couldn't on the outside. Whatever they did in a dream could not impact reality. He might have kissed her had he not been so tired.

"You're a wreck, you know that?" she said affectionately.

"Yeah, I know." She took his head on her shoulder and he took his opportunity to pull himself up and kiss her. A tentative reply and then another whole shades better were his reward.

"Look at you two!" bounced in from someone they knew very well. Marco resented the intrusion intensely. Here was the fruit he'd anticipated, in the basket the youngster carried: bananas, pineapples, a melon, orange-red plums. Julie wore a midriff baring, cut down white Tee, brown shorts and sandals, and was brazenly tan. Her glare stern enough to heat the air as she stepped past their sprawl into the hut.

"Hello," he said to the door swinging shut. No need to be adversaries here. No need to show respect for rank either.

"I've neither forgotten nor forgiven your attempting to erase me," said Julie from deep inside the shack.

"Erase you?" preceded a chuckle.

Her plum hit him above his right ear, which he appreciated for the pain first, and the dent in his hair second. "You little bitch," he muttered dangerously.

"Which you deserved!" she shouted, still inside the hut.

Julie could pelt pretty hard, her plums perfect for it. Marco retreated, Danby clutching his arm, the two of them laughing while running away. He was almost grateful for the distraction of the plum attack. Distance and dark diluted the youngster's aim. She clipped his shoulder with her fourth missile, nothing after.

"What was that about?" asked Danby.

"Ah, nothing really. She's pissed off about today, I think."

"That's not what she said."

"Oh? Well, I really don't have a clue or give a fuck." He mentally crossed fingers. "It figures, though, doesn't it? She's always on my case. It doesn't matter when or where or how."

"Yeah," said Danby while watching out over the water.

A light approached the hut from deep within the woods. While Danby was looking out he was looking in and wondering: what could that be? Unsure about the light's cause, mildly disturbed for potential consequences, he gathered Danby from behind to walk them up the beach and away from the shack and the light.

Beth's arrival on the veranda encountered strange yet familiar scents. Sun-dried sweat on male skin. Marco! Her heart beat faster. Traces of Julie also, but . . . her lips fell apart, she slanted her head a little to the side, and remembered. Snap went her fingers, the light she'd travelled by extinguished at once.

"Is he gone?" came from inside the shed.

"Not yet."

"I hit him. With a plum—well, several."

"Good aim," said Beth, smiling.

"Chickenshit ran away. I didn't hit you, did I?"

"No, honey. You missed me entirely."

"I won't tell him I'm sorry."

"You don't have to," said Beth carefully. When Julie was in a mood, she was close to tears or to dashing into the woods, or both. Stepping into the shack Beth thought how small it was. Cosy for the two of them, easy to keep clean, sufficient for their basic needs and comfort, but not enough for Julie, whose restlessness and irritability had grown incrementally since they started. Something, Beth thought, bigger, louder and ostentatious, was what Julie was used to and had to be missing. "Are you hungry?"

"A little."

"What would you like?"

"Pizza? Barbecue chicken?"

"How's about barbecue chicken pizza?"

"Perfect!" cried Julie. Helped by candlelight Beth could see her friend's sulk had only submerged itself. Her precious girl had been wounded too deep, her doubt remained, the long years just started.

Danby had gone. They'd settled on a palm log to watch a gorgeous moon rise, the great orb seeming about to roll over them before it could gain any altitude. He'd one arm about his girl, leaned to the opposite side of the log to pick up an interesting piece of driftwood, came upright again, and stroked vacant air. Flinging the piece of wood angrily into the sea got rid of it. "Well, it is a spectacular view."

"It is, isn't it?" Beth said.

"Oh! I hadn't seen you get up," he said, smiling. Where is that other light coming from? It ought to be too dark for them to see each other so clear.

"Are you having a good evening?" Her brow made a cute curl for him to adore.

"Ah, yeah?" he said, unsure. Something was still not right, but he'd be damned if he could put his finger on what caused him to think so.

"I've brought you something." A napkin covered plate was slipped into his hands, its aroma had him salivating within seconds.

"Wow, hey."

"Bon appetite." Beth smiled conceitedly. "Wine for later." While taking her seat next to him she showed the bottle. Would he comment on the blue sweater she wore over the dress she'd replicated perfectly from memory, that was a detail different from before?

"Ha ha," he went, enjoying his pizza immensely, only a little bothered that tasting while dreaming was a thing impossible. "That's my girl."

She was going to tease him hugely when he finally came to his senses, when his deeply rooted ignorance ended. For now she would have a little fun, and sew some seeds. "Julie was a mite put out."

"Should I care?" He'd been short with a dream character whom he'd picked to be the twin of his commander, who exhibited the original's same short temper, impatience and inflexibility. It would be more fun to tease it than appease it and especially since he couldn't do the same in the real world. Why apologize to a being who doesn't exist?

"But she does exist."

"Yes," he agreed. In a form artificial and as vaporous as thought.

"Can you feel this?" Beth pinched him. Hard.

"Ye-aah! I should pinch you back. That hurt." All that he'd been doing and continued to do was carry on an internal conversation with himself.

"Now you're being far too rational."

"I suppose I am." She'd handed him the wine, a sweet red which didn't go well with the chicken pizza, but which he appreciated all the same.

"You can't leave her behind, Marco." And so he knew that old saw had been at the front of his brain the whole time, even though he'd been enjoying the cooling evening, the scent of her hair, her looks, and especially her tight blue sweater.

"Leave her? Leave who? Calvert?" he teased.

"You still don't comprehend what I'm telling you, but I'm not going to spell it out for you any plainer than I have already. You wouldn't believe me anyway. Some things more I am allowed to say. If you leave her behind, Julie will be stuck here, with me, to the end of time."

"Really?" His lips puckered while he pondered what the consequences of Calvert's marooning, both good and bad, might be.

"While I would enjoy her company, I know this would be a very bad thing for all of us."

"Us? The three of us?"

"All of us, Marco. The human race."

"That's a heavy consequence." His smiling he meant to please her with.

"Julie is a good person, just misunderstood and hurt and confused and far too young. We've been getting along very well. I know you wouldn't mind helping her, Marco, except that what she's been doing to you and I has set you against her."

"Sure," he said, once more humouring the lifelike image of the woman he adored.

"Years, you idiot," Beth replied crossly.

He supposed to her it must feel like years, decades, centuries—millennia even. A half hour in the continuous company of a pompous little shit would be enough to knock anyone into next week. "You're getting by all right?" he asked.

"I suppose so, yes. It's just the waiting. I don't know what I'm waiting for."

"Godot?" he said and chuckled.

"Go what?"

"Never . . ." He stared at her and she stared back. "Beth?"

"Yeah, what?"

"You had me going there for a minute." He indulged in another chuckle.

Chapter Ten - Making Mistakes

What mysteries lurk beneath this thing? While Calvert pressed her baton into the gel-like layer it pressed back equally. Press more, it resisted more. Stupid question, I know what's down there. The moment the youngster sensed she was about to feel a difference she stopped probing and withdrew her baton. Not ready for that. Where's the interface? Nothing informed them how to turn the barrier off. Six high walls uniform and unadorned contained between them an ink-black essence, which was suspended over a drop of about one hundred and ninety metres.

The surface she peered into for a time sufficient to measure three slow breaths by. You can see through it. You have to be attuned to it.

The layer was a smidgen less than five and a half metres thick. How do I know that? Pacini had recommended the baton be made of non conductive material. Wood. Overhead a gasp of dust-laden wind assumed a monster shape. She gazed at its reflection while her shipmates remained oblivious to the horror hanging over them.

"I'm coming up," she said. Pacini's visor aimed her way as Calvert guided her sled out of the shaft and then sideways into a hover over the mess he'd put down. "I, ah, couldn't press very far in." Not so. I was afraid to try. There was a way through the layer, they hadn't discovered it yet, and it was relatively simple.

Dark visors all around. They might have scowled, grinned, made antic faces. Calvert watched across a metal meadow with an entrancing effect and continued, "We need a more forceful approach."

"A probe," said Marco.

"Yes. What kind?" The air over the wreck always was active. Combining with ever present dust, it created shapes. These assumed recognizable forms. At night, while the air was calm, images, it must be by other means, formed. Ghostlike, ephemeral, transitional.

"I'll see what I can come up with," he sighed.

His response Calvert registered with minimal attention. Dust monsters were dynamic as opposed to static. They interacted with their environment, and the observer.

She couldn't be angry over every little thing. She had to appreciate how hard he was working and his limitations besides. "I should like something ready by this afternoon."

"How sophisticated would you like it to be?"

"We have to see what's down there." Quit staring at me. Calvert directed her gaze away.

They'd already tried driving a drone through. The insect-body too blunt. Faster impact speeds had increased penetration depth a little bit more each time. The drone, with cable affixed for retrieval purposes in the case of crippling damage, had stood up fine to the punishment.

"A projectile. Shaped and sized like a bullet."

"There'll need to be a launcher. That's several hours of work."

"Why can't you—"

"Pull a schematic out of ship's records? Won't be one. I'll have to whip up something special."

"Then whip up something special."

Another sigh. "I've been repacking counter grav equipment all morning."

"Give me a straight answer."

"After I square away the last of our counter grav equipment, renew the programming in the TRAXs, and fix the glitch in the transmission tower. I'd say by dinner time at the earliest."

"I've another report to submit."

"Do you have to send so many reports?"

"Captain Willard wants them day by day."

"'Day by day' doesn't mean there's needs to be something new each time to pass along."

"Just do the work."

"I'm doing the work. I keep telling you there's too much of it."

"You've acclimated, right? Things aren't as bad as they were." With the wind knocked down, and dust virtually eliminated, they could use sleds to get around without worrying about clogged filters and overheated turbines. Pacini did his programming and adjustments in Boat Bay. The new body liners and outdoors suits worked far better than the old ones and the really hard work was done.

"That doesn't matter. When are you going to comprehend that we've not enough energy by ourselves to apply to this project?"

If she could put in extra hours, so could he. "We're getting along fine." Calvert set her sled in motion, the plug her destination. Until she was sure her efforts were being appreciated, she had to drive herself and her crew extra hard. A commendation ought to come soon, with a promotion attached. The data she'd submitted so far might fill an encyclopaedia volume. Not only did she expect her career to take off, but that she would become famous. The lion's share of the credit for the discovery of the wreck and cataloguing of its unique features hers as on-site commander.

Pacini would receive a share of fame and notoriety, equal in proportion to that bestowed on the dark little man who accompanied the first white man to the top of Mount Everest on Old Earth back in ancient times. A line or two.

Her part would be paragraphs. Pages! Calvert was grinning as she arrived alongside the plug, which was a plug and not a hatch—no slots or hinges. On top of it an INV45 scanner inside an articulated tripod recorded symbols.

With all the counter grav equipment removed its top surface was on full display. Impulsively Calvert stepped from sled to artefact. She didn't worry about electrical discharge or excessive heat. The plug was disconnected from the wreck. Not plugged in, it couldn't hurt her.

The plug had sunk by better than half its thickness. Dust floated on the cover layer like sawdust on water. The youth cleared the part beneath her knee. Willard had told her she ought to attempt an order scheme for the glyphs—more fake work.

No letter looked exactly like any other. How was she to figure them out? Had the aliens left a Rosetta Stone with side by side English and Alien somewhere?

Headquarters Orion had linguists keen for a mystery to bash their brain cells together over. Julie Calvert wasn't conversant with any language other the one she'd been born into. Any attempt to decipher this gobbledegook was a waste of her time.

She couldn't do tech stuff or she might have helped Pacini with setups. She'd done surveys, found water, and penned two lengthy reports in three days. The site was up and running despite Pacini's grumping. Her work, other than supervisory duty, was done.

Images appeared one after another in her screen, and beneath her knee. The quicksilver letters writhed as though with life. Maybe they were only decoration.

Marco peeked at his girl commander. What did she do over there? He made final adjustments to the platform taking the generators back to the ship. The present task the latest of many needing to be done this day.

Danby cleared her throat emphatically.

"Corporal, ah, maybe you could finish this up?" He supposed that to do something was what she had in mind.

"Sure. What do I do?"

"Make sure the hover strength is constant. If the levels show amber you'll need to boost from the reserve." He showed her the setting to maintain, and started the generators moving.

"I'll catch up with you in the hold. We're going to have to partially disassemble the equipment once we get it in, and clean everything before we can store it."

He watched Danby follow the generator platform, predicting ten minutes of babying the one hundred metres to the ramp. Ten minutes was enough time to visit the transmission tower and see if he could correct the glitch that had been triggering intermittent power outages.

"I want walkways laid down."

"What?" He skimmed over uncovered wreck toward the tower, located past the southern end of the excavation.

"Walkways," Calvert repeated.

Where in the hell was she? The plug was vacant. She could be anywhere, in front of him even, which he couldn't know owing to the dust. "What for?" They had sleds. What did they need walkways for?

"Access."

"We got access."

"Better access. We can't depend on sleds for everything. I don't like dirt on the wreck."

The rubble around the shaft let them stand and not burn their feet. Calvert didn't like the mess because the wind spread it around. Where was he supposed to find material for walkways and the time to make tiles and lay tiles down?

"We ought to be able to walk wherever we want without having to worry about burning our feet. We're using the sleds too much."

They used the sleds a lot. He had things to do. He didn't need walkways to do them from. He didn't want walkways. No fun walking in 1.05 gravity. "Sir, I don't—"

"Ceramic ones so they're insulation. There ought to be some clay deposits somewhere."

More work for him. "Sir, I haven't the time to set up a kiln."

"I'll do it."

"You will?" Let her. If she occupied herself with making tiles, she would be less inclined to think up other projects for them to have to do.

"I'll need you to manufacture my equipment."

The manufacture was half the work. How could he have been such an idiot as to forget that? "When?"

"I'd like to get started right away? It won't take you very long to fab what I need, will it?"

Why couldn't she make up her mind? Priority to this or that or the other thing. Not a dozen things at once. "A couple of hours. Can't this wait?

"You've cleared off all the counter grav equipment."

"I have to store it."

"The storing can wait."

If there was something he knew, it was not to leave fouled equipment lying about. "Sir, your kiln can wait." Hadn't she another report to write?

"I need something to do."

She had her damned report. "I could use some help."

A grunt. "That's not what I had in mind, Technician."

"All right, when?" He hovered by the tower's high-sited control and diagnostic panel. For the moment he couldn't recall what he was supposed to be doing.

"I've told you already. Now."

Surrender was in his tone. "I've got this transmission tower to check out. Then I have to help Danby haul the generators into Cargo Bay. Give me twenty-five minutes."

"Twenty-five minutes. I think we're going to need more pressure fence put up."

Of course more fence and another transmission tower. "Aye, sir," he muttered.

Calvert grinned silently. How had he earned his hotshot reputation, if all he ever did was mope and complain? She drifted toward the shaft. Another hundred metres of fence for now. They ought to strive toward a complete enclosure. Soon, she'd have to decide how much of the wreck they were going to uncover. The TRAXs worked the west side of the excavation. Most of the dust they generated poured away toward the escarpment. West would be best. "Pacini," she called, and elaborated upon what she wanted.

"When?" he grumbled.

"Not for some days yet." Calvert felt that by being reasonable she showed sympathy for his limitations. She wasn't able to interpret his reply. Something muttered beneath the breath, a rant of some sort. When they met next without visors in the way, she would address him as the disciplinarian she was required to be.

Some hours later a long range conversation was at its midpoint. "You've accomplished much in very few weeks." The image of ISS Cuirassier's slender, brown-haired captain appeared far less enthusiastic delivering his praise than a hard working junior officer reckoned he ought to be.

"Yes, sir," Calvert said cautiously, careful not to reveal what she was feeling.

Each part of conversation, via subspace Faster Than Light channel and satellite uplink, was delayed minutes. "What progress have you made with the script?"

Her heart sank. She'd made no progress with the alien writing. "I've been cataloguing symbols and looking for similarities." The alien text had no punctuation and no spacing. She couldn't tell where one word left off and the next began.

"You might include a more detailed analysis of the text in future reports. How is everyone holding up?"

An odd question. Calvert paused to come up with a safe answer. "Well, sir. We've lots to do. We're all a little tired."

"You might cut back on the pace."

A suggestion from a superior officer was as good as an order. "Yes, sir."

"Lieutenant Hutchinson's return will be delayed by several months. We're collecting equipment."

"Yes, sir." No need to drive her crew so hard as she'd been doing if her timeline was months instead of weeks. Willard's image peered out at her. Calculating, she supposed. Their communication ended with no mention of a commendation. Frowning at the safe-glow screen, she'd hoped the purpose of the face-to-face was to inform her of her promotion. Her larger than normal exhale ended in a shudder.

Drumming her fingers aided her thought process. Their faces had browned despite the shade in their visors while the rest of them continued pale. A shelter for sunbathing would be a diversion and healthy and soothing. Climate-controlled and sufficiently proportioned so they could all enjoy the recreation at the same time if they wished.

"Pacini," she said genially into her comm panel. No answer. Where was he? He seemed always to be puttering away somewhere. "Pacini?"

"Sir."

"Where are you?"

"Boat Bay."

"Doing what?"

"Cleaning equipment."

That precious counter grav stuff of his. "Is my probe ready?"

"Yessir. Anytime you want it."

The gasp of gratitude she'd been tricked into was swiftly suppressed. She might as well collect and launch the probe at once. "I'll be right down." Calvert found her shipmates in Boat Bay Lower, surrounded by pieces large and small of sophisticated equipment and a great deal of mess. Dust puddles everywhere. "Pacini, what have you done to my ship!" Calvert cried as she came upon the pair.

His response was a scalding look, later put to a corner. He needed a shower, a shave and copious bed rest. "I'd do this outside, if I could," he managed in near to normal voice after some internal adjustments.

"You're cleaning this all up, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," he replied, of course. The tech heaved himself up. Danby hadn't shifted her focus from what she was doing.

"Can't you program menials to do this stuff?" Calvert asked as she accompanied him out of the work area.

"Too complicated. An android could do it, but we don't got no android." He showed her the probe and launcher on a work bench, brought down from his usual workstation within the level above this one. "I've attached a link, that way you're guaranteed contact all the way down."

"All right—where is it?" She picked up the stubby launcher by the stock careful of the trigger.

"Already inside. The receiver and data recorder are in the stock. You can view progress in your handset during or you can view it after."

"Illuminated?"

"A light's in the nose of the projectile. You ought to have good visual to at least ten metres."

"Okay," she said and nodded to him. "Good work."

"Beg pardon?"

Could she not pay him a compliment and he not make an issue of it? "I said, 'good work'. Maybe you and Danby ought to knock off for a while."

"I would, sir, but I really need to deal with this equipment before I take a break. There's a corrosive constituent in the dirt that attacks our electrics. I don't dare leave them as is."

"All right, ah, tomorrow . . ."

"What about tomorrow?" he said, aggressively squinting.

She liked neither his tone nor look. She'd been about to tell him they could have tomorrow off. "Nuh-nothing. I, er, think we ought to put up more pressure fence."

"Aye, sir," he sighed.

"An enclosure," she said impulsively.

"Wha-what?"

Why did he respond as if he'd never heard her mention an enclosure before? "An enclosure all around the excavation site. It's the only way to keep the dust out."

"Sir, are you sure?" Another inappropriate tone of address. "Do you realize how many metres of fencing that is?"

She hadn't thought things out. A few hundred? They'd uncovered what? Eighteen hundred to two thousand square metres of wreck? How much more could they manage? "We don't have to put the enclosure up all at once," she replied defensively.

He seemed to have a grip over his emotions again. "Will you help, sir?"

Calvert hesitated. Danby paused her coaxing particles of grit out of a seam with a small brush to listen. "Yes, I'll help."

He grunted in derisive fashion. She'd transported his kiln parts to a clay extraction site, and supervised the menials that assembled it. She'd done no fabricating, programming or assembly, not having the experience, aptitude, or patience for such tasks.

"Ah, we'll have to inventory raw material first," she added.

"We, sir?" he sneered.

"Yes, we!" she replied hotly, having been provoked beyond endurance. She wasn't much good at programming, but she did know how to compile a raw materials manifest.

"Aye, sir." He shuffled back to work. Calvert wondered: was he always insubordinate when given orders he didn't like? How had he managed to accumulate so many commendations?

Outside was the fleeting time when the air was calm and the cold not much. She might go about in an insulated coat. A trio of sleds were by the airlock. She chose the one allotted for her use, verified its power levels were up, ordered the dual hatch open and ramp lower, and exited. The full suite of stars greeted her appreciative gaze. Goose bumps came despite her heavy coat.

The TRAXs worked at the far end of the excavation. They displayed no lights, not needing to see what they were doing. She knew where they were by their noise.

Pacini had pissed her off when she had been about to show her crew how magnanimous she could be. Now was she guilty and ashamed. She ought to have given her crew the day off they deserved. What to do? Should she bring Pacini into her office for a face to face? File a discipline report? Complain to Willard?

Jack had never talked about a best course of action when a subordinate got on his nerves. She wanted to ease up, but Marco wasn't cooperating. Calvert peeked over the edge of the sled. Below was a black splotch surrounded by glitter.

Calvert intended to fire the probe straight down. Was she holding the launcher correctly? "Pacini?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is there a way to preset the trajectory on this thing?"

"Just aim and shoot."

As she'd supposed. "I'd like to fire straight down."

No answer.

"Pacini?"

"You're not dealing with exact science. Take your best guess."

"Best guess," she murmured and leaned over the side. Straight down was pitch dark. She had nothing to aim at, and no sense for depth. Aim and squeeze the trigger. Nothing. No flash. No recoil. "It's not working."

"What's not working?"

"The probe won't launch."

"Safety's on."

Where was the safety? She had neglected to bring a wrist light. Set cumbersome launcher on deck. Examine with handset light. Was that the safety lever? Had to be. Press opposite from current setting to cancel. Aim and squeeze trigger again. Nothing again. "Pacini."

"Now what?"

His abrupt tone was way disrespectful. "It's still not working!"

"Safety's still on."

"I released the safety."

"If you had, the probe would be launched."

"Well, I did, and it's not."

"Are you sure you released the safety?"

"Yes, I'm sure," she muttered angrily. "Where's the damn safety?" She set the launcher down to reexamine. Pacini directed her where the safety was. A different lever. Why two levers? She changed the second lever setting. This time pressing the trigger launched the probe. Flash, swallowed by blackness. She checked her handset. No telemetry. The probe hadn't sent any back. "Pacini!"

"For Black Heaven's sake. Now what!"

"Don't you talk to me like that!"

"Like what?" he replied testily.

"Like you just did. Your damn probe didn't work."

"Waddaya mean it didn't work?"

"It didn't. No telemetry. Zip. Nothing."

"You must have done something."

Something? Something stupid? Is that what he meant? "What are you talking about?"

"Bring the launcher back. We'll take a look at it."

"I want to know what you're insinuating!"

"What do you—you want to come back here with the launcher, sir?"

Damned right she'd come back with the damned launcher. She found Pacini and Danby where she'd left them, cleaning equipment and making muck. "It didn't work," Calvert declared as she held out his incompetent piece of equipment.

"Let me see," he grumbled, taking the launcher in hand.

"The probe launched, but it didn't send anything back."

"You see this?" He showed her the lever she pressed first.

"Yeah? What about it?"

"This severs the cable. That's why you didn't get telemetry. You disengaged the probe from the spool before you launched it."

"It . . ." A blank look. Tingling begun in fingers and toes went everywhere fast, transforming warm to hot, tan to pink, conviction to confusion. Her emotion skirted an edge that got more slick the further along it got. "How was I supposed to know it cut the cable? You duh-didn't tell me which lever was the suh-suh-safety. You never said I had to be careful which I pressed!"

"You didn't ask."

Though it cost her conviction and momentum, Calvert paused to take a settling breath. "How was I supposed to know to—know that lever did anything!"

"If it's there, it serves a purpose," said Marco pedantically. "Did you think it was a decoration?"

"I didn't—oh, fuck this!" If he'd informed her about his sneaky cable cutting lever in the first place, her mistake would never have happened.

"Didn't what? Are you going to say you didn't trip this lever? Couldn't you read the tag? It's right here. How about now? Can you see it now? Can you read this?"

"Of cuh-cuh-course I cah-cah-cah-can!" Black fucking letters on a yellow patch, barely fucking legible, what had been incomprehensible gibberish in the fucking dark. He'd rendered her a child with his badgering. She could not help but blush owing to criticism she felt powerless to refute. "Oh, for Sweet Heaven's sake!"

"Do you realize how long it took me to fabricate that probe? Have you any idea how precious the components are? You wasted the whole damn thing!"

He had no right to shout. She'd made a mistake and would own up to it if he'd stop shouting at her. The mistake hadn't been entirely her fault either. His dinky little tag also to blame. "You're juh-just guh-guh-going to have to muh-muh, muh-muh-make nuh uf nuther—fuck!—wuh-one!" She bit her tongue, by accident and on purpose. How could she be the steadfast commander she dreamed of when even little controversies spun her vocal instrument out of control?

"I will have to, won't I?" he snarled.

She drew her next breath forcefully through her nostrils, flaring them. "I'm sus-sorry I lost your duh-damned probe." She glanced to Danby. The marine feigned preoccupation with her cleaning. "When will the nuh-next one buh-be ready?"

"It would be ready tomorrow, except we have to build your damned enclosure tomorrow!"

"Very well then." Calvert firmed up what parts of herself she could. Crossing the deck, she felt Pacini's gaze and a fool for her inability to control her emotions.

Marco ought not to be able to intimidate her, no matter how off kilter her feelings went. The trouble was he knew a lot more about what he did than she knew about what she did. The disparity was undermining her confidence. She must repair her ignorance, from now on be always forceful, and never, ever stutter again.

#

"The rod installation starts at ground level," Marco explained. Morning, next day. Calvert, determined to show how competent she could be, despite lingering resentment, listened gravely. He demonstrated how a projection rod inserted into its ground level bracket. "Don't worry about orientation. Once the whole thing's together, we'll adjust it the way we want."

Calvert hadn't slept well and awakened exhausted and nauseous. To avoid comment on her appearance, she'd changed into her outdoors suit in her compartment. Her concentration and energy ran on fumes.

Unused to manual labour, Marco concluded, as he watched Calvert struggle to seat the end of the custom-shaped rod into the bracket.

"It won't go in," she grumbled.

"You've got it in place. Leave it as is and go to the other end." The rods were six centimetres thick and ten metres in length. They might warp or even shatter if handled incorrectly, owing to a crystal lattice construction.

Marco led her to the other end of the rod. "Lift here." He lifted and rotated the rod until he felt a click. Next, supporting the rod by its seated end, he directed his sled forward and up to when the rod was vertical. "It won't just slide in. You have to jiggle it." He gave the rod an expert twist and it seated. Middle brackets were in a satchel inside Calvert's sled. Slip the first one over the rod and into a slot in the post. Let it drop. Halfway down the bracket met the flange it mated with. Secure connection with a pin.

The top bracket, with cap and ring shaped liked a figure 8, was easiest to attach. Calvert finished installing the rod. Four rods per post, two to a side. Ten metres high of wind resistance fencing a step closer to done. "There," Marco concluded, verifying the rod was secure. "Best to work fast before everything grits up."

He left Calvert to her work and went to where Danby finished the assembly of the next to the last post to put up. "How's it going?"

"Almost ready with this one."

"Looks like we get to bump off early."

A sibilant: "Yes-s-s."

"Tired?"

"A little." Danby nodded at glitter that just kept getting bigger and bigger.

"Mosaic," Marco said.

"Huh?"

"You know, decorative flooring. The kind the ancients liked. Romans."

"Romans, huh?"

"You know Romans?"

"I wasn't born in a barn, only next to one."

"Pardon me. The Romans appropriated art and technology from other cultures. Greek, Egyptian, Persian, Jew. They were technicians, not artisans."

"Like you?"

"Guess so."

Together they hoisted the last post into position and anchored it. As Danby transported her counter grav jack to the work platform, Marco noted Calvert had inserted all the rods in all the other posts and approached the final one, which he remained parked by. "You work fast."

"When I know what I'm doing. I was thinking."

He drew in a breath. Another project about to be sprung on him.

"It would be nice to have a place to relax in—for all of us. I'm not saying we need to assemble something right away. I'd help with the work."

As she had so ably this day. Maybe he'd been too hard on her. The sim theatre was great for exercise, diversion and instruction, but not the genuine article. Sharing a comfort would bring them together, and help with relationships too. "I could probably whip up something—when we get ahead of ourselves."

"That would be great. I thought I'd run us out to the oasis when the fence is done. We're low on fresh again." Lengthy showers. Three very large thirsts. They used fresh for everything, including laundry and swabbing Boat Bay. "What do you think?"

"Sure." He just had to grin. Taking on fresh water was as a holiday compared to everything else they were having to do. Maybe his kid commander was beginning to see the light. Together they completed the last post and coasted to where Danby waited.

"Done?" Danby queried.

"Except for the alignments," said Marco. "That's my job. You two get the ship ready."

"Fresh water," went Danby. "Yum-m-m."

#

As he lay down weeks of weary drained from Marco's back and legs. A fan whirred somewhere, a gurgle somewhere else. They had slipped deeply and easily into holiday mode. He might not even bother undressing.

"Hey, sleepy head," Beth said affectionately.

He grinned even before he opened his eyes. A golden aura was about her as though the air was made luminous by contact. "Hiya, Dah . . ." Not Danby. Beth in white dress and shoulder length hair. An older, softer woman than the Elizabeth Danby he worked side by side day by day with. "I'm dreaming fer sure."

"Why do you say that?" Beth selected a portion of his bunk to settle on.

"You." He chuckled. She looked about to demand an explanation, so he gave her one. "You are not you."

"I'm not, but then I am too."

He took her hand to squeeze. Hard.

"Ouch! Why did you do that?"

"I—it, your hand." Her feel was more reality than he'd expected, but was totally fine with. "I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"

"Not really. Goof."

"Sorry." His chuckle refreshed. "I am real punchy right now." He decided he'd go with the flow.

"Punchy?" Beth echoed, putting up a brow.

"Tired—"

"I know what it means, idiot."

She seemed out of character. Since he only imagined her, it didn't matter whether she followed the rules or not. "So what have you been up to?" he asked genially.

"Never mind what I've been up to. You have to inform Poly of an emergency."

"I do?"

"Um hum."

"Why?"

"Julie's fallen asleep and the ship is about to run out of standby power."

"Holy shit?" he said genially. "Really?"

Elizabeth Danby stared at the smooth surface of the stall before her, wondering what was it she could've been thinking about. Water streamed down her flanks and back and she barely felt it. Marco flat on his back, a bemused look on his face, was what she remembered before her return from wherever she'd been.

#

"Julie! Ensign Calvert!"

The bridge was dark. She'd ordered it so. The book she'd been reading glowed before her, and the music queue she'd compiled beforehand had arrived at Schubert. She was too befuddled at the moment to recall the queue's order so had no notion of how much time had passed.

"You fell asleep." An accusatory tone.

"Poly?"

"I am recharging."

"The primary generators are stepped up?"

"I've authorized an increase in power generation."

"I fell asleep. Thank you for your vigilance."

"You're welcome."

"Oh gosh." A full body stretch was indulged while seated. The stretch was repeated at deck level, finishing on toes and with a smirk. "No harm done, hum-m-m?"

"None at all, Julie. We are as right as rain."

"Good thing you were watching over us." Calvert stepped to the rear for some running on the spot.

"I wasn't," said Poly.

"You . . . weren't?"

"You neglected to inform me I was to act as your secondary watch-person. I would not have responded until much later, once the situation became dire.

"I didn't!" gasped Calvert as she dashed back to her perch to verify settings from hours earlier. "Heaven damn it!" Poly was right. She hadn't conscripted the ship into her watch party as she should have. She had endangered the mission, the ship and their lives through sheer stupidity.

"There was no emergency, Julie," said Poly soothingly.

The ship might have hovered another hour before the klaxons sounded. Thanks to Polyphemus's timely intercession, she'd avoided filing an after action report for a perilous situation she would have been the author of, and about which she would've had to record her negligence. She stood five seconds without moving, not even her eyes. "If I never asked you to help, Poly, how did you know to respond before the power situation turned bad?"

"Marco told me I should."

"Muh-muh-Mar-cuh-cuh-co?"

Chapter Eleven - Day Off

Tinted glass, curtains capable of remote adjustment, insulated walls, robust air conditioning, and a battery of humidifiers provided protection against the fiercest sunlight and heat the land and sky could generate. On the small round table next to Calvert's padded, synthetic-leather couch stood a plastic pitcher of water and ice.

The floor was of the wood from the trees at the oasis, pulped and pressed into planks. Several clay pots housed samples of a fast growing plant species native to the planet. They gave little scent, no colour other than brown and green, yet were soothing to view near or far. The opaque sheets hanging from rods slung from the rafters were for privacy.

Calvert sipped her glass of water and ice. She lay on her side, naked, propped on a pillow. The covers she'd worn to come here hung near her couch. On the screen by her elbow alien symbols revealed and replaced themselves regularly.

That symbol looked very like one displayed earlier. Calvert paused the parade, split the screen, recalled the other glyph, and put the two side by side. Because the images were too small for a cosy eyeball analysis, she transferred them to the much larger screen on the wall ahead of her tanning bed, rolling onto her back to view the result more comfortably, albeit upside down. Each exhibited a like central shape, resembling a capital 'T'. The same number of strokes on the left of the T. The previous symbol had an additional dot at its foot on the right.

The dot was not punctuation. Calvert was certain her decision about dots was right. Dots showed up left or right, at levels and spaces neither fixed nor consistent. Dot and stroke locations must have purpose other than separating one symbol from another. She'd no idea what this might be.

The two symbols were alike except for the dot. The strokes, although same in number, five, weren't same lengths in same positions, which Calvert confirmed by inserting a gird to see measurements in.

Did differences in stroke length signify anything? Calvert had catalogued many like pairs already. Always something extra or different and never the same thing extra or different. Eight Ts were selected and put into a two by four array. Centre symbols the same, but different numbers, spacings and levels of slashes, squiggles, dots.

No two symbols were exact twins either, or she hadn't found any that were. Thicker, thinner, more left, more right, less curved, more curved, shorter or longer one than the other. How could a method of writing use a symbol, no matter how simple or complex, but once?

Where were all the ands, thes, its, buts? The connection words? None could be before her.

Similar must mean something. Similar symbols—she would call them primes—might occupy the same general location in a massive alphabet. The same meaning assigned to the prime except some nut of a scribe had decided to adjust, add to, or change every prime to confuse and annoy a representative of another species, and so keep things secret. Except, knowing what she did about the extent of the wreck and the letters covering it, there had to be hundreds or thousands of primes, and trillions of symbols altogether.

Similar is same. Calvert directed a compilation of all symbols approximating a capital T, discovering within moments hundreds. Every T, no matter how densely or sparsely accompanied by dots, lines and squiggles, represented the same prime. This made sense. She could as easily be wrong as right—no matter, here was a start.

Symbols would be organized according to their approximate rather than specific appearance; an alphabet whose order would be based on the order of the English alphabet. Complexity would determine the placement within each prime category from least to most complex. Primes not resembling English letters would be ordered by complexity also. Some primes resembled Arabic numerals, and who couldn't count from zero onward? Calvert inserted those at the start of her alphabet, which she thought proper to do.

"Ensign?" A discrete knock.

The robe was taken down and slid into. "Come."

The interior of the sunning hut resembled outdoors laundry owing to its fabric walls and space. Inside was separated from outside by a system of hatches, which protected occupants, equipment and furnishings from outdoor heat and dust. Pacini stood a little ahead of the inner door, helmet off, outdoors garment open to the waist.

"The TRAXs are as near to the fence on all sides as they can come," he said hopefully.

"Does it seem we're near to the edge of the wreck anywhere?" Calvert asked, despite they both knew what the answer to her question must be.

"No, sir, the mosaic appears to continue on all sides," was what she'd expected to hear.

"Mosaic?" She queried the word, not its meaning.

"It's what I call it, sir."

"Oh, well, I suppose." Calvert barefoot paced, which aided her thinking. Near five thousand square metres had been uncovered, now that the TRAXs had arrived at the fence line. Time to reflect. Turn and pace back. "You'll want to perform equipment maintenance?"

"Yes, sir."

With so much accomplished she could afford to be considerate of his efforts, and she owed him for the timely intercession which had preserved her reputation, and for the wonderful shelter he had built for them. "Very well, we will now pause and take stock of what we have done." He grinned and she smiled cautiously back. A good commander ought always to exhibit a cautious sort of restraint.

"Aye, sir!"

"When you've done your maintenance you might take time off and, ah. . . ." Recover was the word she thought of but dare not voice aloud. "I don't suppose we need any of our equipment out besides the styluses?" The INV45 scanning packages mounted on self directed frames that recorded the glyphs, she meant.

"Definitely not, ah, and the sparrows." The current flock, besides providing a visual record of their progress, patrolled to give warning of potential crises, strange phenomena and abrupt changes in local weather conditions.

"Right, carry on, Technician."

"Yes, sir."

She'd done all right that time, Calvert decided while hearing the thumps of his footfalls as they passed out of the shelter. Removing her robe, she returned to the couch. What about primes that don't resemble either numbers or letters? I'll need an order scheme for those next.

#

Danby hated tech stuff. She hated assembly and disassembly. And cleaning. She particularly hated cleaning. The INV45 scanner in articulated tripod positioned upright between her legs was the sixth worked on since morning.

The puddle of grit in her work area contributed an unpleasant extra to what carpeted the stylus park which the boat bay menials had yet to deal with. Danby removed the protective housing from the scanner package and heartily sighed. Grit had penetrated the seal. The inspection plate had a hairline crack. All of the covers developed cracks eventually. This one not as bad as most. Danby removed dust from the inside with a non-static, soft bristle brush, replenished the seal, set the housing aside, and started teasing grit from the frame's motion points. The work wasn't difficult or hard, just tedious and time consuming. The frames had plenty of crannies and notches into which the dust crept. By the time she finished with the stylus and was snicking its housing back into place the first TRAX trundled up the ramp outside.

"Yo, Beth? I'm coming in. Got all the big boys out here and I'm opening the lock in about a minute."

"Yeah, okay." Danby gathered up tools, boxed them, and scampered to the nearest lift. She would avoid the inrush of superheated air accompanying the TRAXs by evacuating to Boat Bay Upper.

Interior hatches slammed shut. Fans cranked to highest settings. The airlock hatches opened. Six TRAXs plus five trailers entered in their train, Marco following. Danby observed his progress in a monitor upstairs.

Dust needed to be kept out of the airlock hatch channels. It degraded the seals. Marco had for the purpose of bringing in the TRAXs attached a plastic sphincter to the outer hull and ramp which shut out the wind. Until all the dust deposited in the channels was suctioned up the airlock hatches could not be closed. In the meanwhile heat poured into Boat Bay Lower. "Maybe you wanna just go for lunch?" Marco suggested while supervising the suctioning.

"I'm okay. I can wait."

"I've just about got this. Another ten minutes for things to cool down once I get the doors closed."

Danby looked about herself. The smart thing would be go up and begin lunch. She hadn't anything upstairs to do. The fabber squatted not far away. The raw stuff bins were considerably depleted, especially of metals for trailers, fence parts, frames and fasteners.

"Closing exterior hatch now." They couldn't use the launch bay for bringing in the TRAXs. The aperture was fifteen metres above ground. The launch bay was easily large enough to accommodate a TRAX and trailer combo. Danby went bin to bin, examining levels.

"Down to plus thirty degrees," said Marco. "Give it another five minutes."

"How's it going?"

"Troops are lined up. Best I can do for now." Everything needed a thorough cleaning. The trailers would be dismantled and their constituent parts rendered back into pellet form. "The outdoors bladder worked fine. There's only the crap falling off our machines to contend with."

"How's about my styluses?"

"They're looking okay. Menials are in there, scooping up."

"I'm coming down."

"Temp's at twenty-seven, so's you know."

"Summer day."

Marco had the cowling up on the foremost TRAX, and was peeking inside. The 2nd gen outdoors suit was a vast improvement over the 1st gen. They didn't worry about filters anymore and water for drinking stayed cool. Marco had carried forward the moisture collection feature, which cut down on fluid volume and weight.

Danby resumed a shirtsleeves environment much warmer than she was used to or liked. "How's Happy doing?" She knew the lead machine by his wind-scour pattern.

"Running a little hot. They all are. I finally have time to do complete work-ups on these guys. They really need it."

Since Calvert began behaving reasonably, they no longer wasted time, energy or breath disparaging her schemes. Everyone had been getting along.

"We're done digging," Marco said.

"Hooray," was returned with mock enthusiasm. The amount of maintenance left to be done would be considerable for as long as it took to put the equipment to bed.

"How are you making out?" she asked as Marco walked his outdoors suit, himself still in it, to the recharge station.

"I'm good." Just want to kill some weak-assed little bunny and eat him raw.

Danby imagined that very thing, right to the blood dribbling down her chin and the slippery feel of raw meat sliding down her throat.

"What?" Marco grinned uncertainly at her. "Did I say something?"

"Something about a bunny, which is weird because . . ." Danby gasped a smile and saw herself as if reflected: bloody mouth, teeth, chin and upper chest. "I've no idea what you're talking about."

"Sure thing." His features drooped. Although Calvert had let up on them, there'd been many long, brutal days.

"Let me help you out of that suit." Despite how tempted she was to tell him, in detail, how out of sorts she was feeling, Danby stayed mum as they cracked the suit and he emerged, near naked, off balance, and worn out.

"I, ah, would appreciate help with the TRAXs. I can cook up the programming for the menials to remove the external stuff, but the internal accumulations . . . well, you know."

She knew. Although under no obligation to help him with his maintenance, she'd done so because there was always so much of it. "Yeah, okay. Not right now, right?"

"We'll break for lunch first." He went to hang up his EVA suit and take down his coverall to put on. "After lunch I'll help with the styluses."

She'd learned a great deal about caring for many types of machinery during the weeks since landfall and achieved a substantial respect for the amount of effort required to keep everything up and running. She'd been inclined to agree with Calvert about such things before.

Pacini led the way to the lift. It wasn't long before his attitude shifted from anticipation of a moil of work to be done to that of a juicy sandwich.

His companion was incapable of the same. "I'm so sick of it all," Danby muttered angrily, her functioning, balance and concentration muddled and off key.

"What?"

"All we ever do is work! I've no time to train. I should be doing my heavy weapons upgrades. I've barely lit a manual in weeks."

Marco slowed to match steps with his shipmate. "You should have some time off soon," he said reasonably, his intention to soothe and console.

"I know. I'm just . . . tired." Complaint was not a Danby family trait and its youngest daughter was ashamed for having unburdened herself so expressly. Yet the root of her unease was not burdens or opportunities missed, but recurrent dreams and their troubling themes.

"You should take the day off," Marco declared.

A day off shifted all the work she would have done onto him. Tired and out of sorts she might be, but his state was whole levels worse. "I'm okay," she amended. "We got time off coming. I can wait."

An inarticulate grunt substituted for the note of gratitude that otherwise would have vented itself. They came into the wardroom where Danby insisted Marco settle while she went to prepare for them food and beverages.

"You do this often?" he asked.

She'd never prepared meals for anyone other than herself, not even as a child. "Not at all." While assembling their meal she mulled over what felt equivalent to a confession. She'd been a youngest child. Her mother and sisters had done the cooking and cleaning. She'd never done the same for them, having never gotten the chance.

"Beth?"

A deep breath settled her mood besides helped her climb out of the disturbing place her thoughts had plunged her in. Her thinking amended as she exhaled. Fatigue and unwholesome rest had rendered her susceptible to vivid imaginings. "I'm okay," she insisted and drew in an even larger breath to effect a better repair of her mood and feelings.

Marco nodded. "I thought in a couple days I'd send out a couple of the boys to do soundings. We ought to find out how far the wreck extends." He continued: "Should have despatched a surveying party long before this." His attention and energy had been devoted to excavating the site, nor had he had the time to prep any specialized equipment for additional projects.

"Sounds like a plan to me." Danby set down their plate of sandwiches with a clatter, and went back into the kitchen for the pitcher of orange flavoured drink she'd mixed up for them.

"Calvert can include the results in one of her reports—she was working on the letters."

"She actually works in there," Danby murmured to herself.

"What? Oh." He chuckled. "She's brown as a coconut. The rest of her is close to matching her face."

"Was she naked?"

Through energetic chewing came the reply: "She had on a robe."

"You think we'll ever get to use that thing?"

"Possibly tomorrow." After they completed their maintenance tasks for the day. "Good sandwiches."

To enormous appetites even stale tasted fine. She'd used everything available in her construction effort. Lettuce, tomato, onion, coleslaw, carrot, cucumber and portions from the deli stock which weren't meat but an imitation protein that looked and tasted like the real thing and was healthier besides.

"You should try my coffee some time." She didn't mean it. Pacini made coffee for them. His far better than anything she might brew herself.

"Maybe you want to whip up a pot tomorrow morning?"

"I-I was kidding. Yours is way better than mine." She smiled to her glass. She could mix flavour crystals in water, anybody could, but the mystery of a great cup of coffee eluded her. They consumed first sandwiches in a rush, belched, and tucked into their seconds at a sedate pace. Danby was well aware of how worn down her companion was. While passing by his cabin she saw him sprawled on his bunk, never reading or engaged in domestic chores. His normally tidy environment and personal hygiene had suffered as consequences.

Face propped in hand, he gazed bemused at her. "What is it?" she asked gently, while before she would have been annoyed.

"You ever grow your hair out? I sometimes imagine it longer."

"How much longer?"

"Shoulder length. Maybe a little more."

She'd been thinking of cutting it. During childhood her hair had always been long. All of her family had hair gone well past shoulders. She'd become accustomed to short since. Short suited her career and lifestyle and, she thought, her adult personality. "I suppose I could." She wanted very much to please him and remotely wondered why.

"Yeah, ah . . ." He was picturing Danby as Beth, and Beth as Danby, and liking the comparison either way he approached it.

"What are you into, Pacini?"

"Nuttin'," he replied. She sometimes mistook his sleepy appearance as sleeping on his feet, but she had yet to catch him at it. "Man, I so wish this was over . . ."

#

Speckle-grey wall. Landscape uniform top to bottom. A depth roughly one ninety metres. Diameter a uniform nine and a teensy bit more metres. Composition of walls the same as the plug and possessing the same extraordinary density—they presumed. No stencilling, glyphs, attachments, slots, recesses. Only wall.

The butternut-brown youth included her preliminary analysis of the shaft with her conjecture about the symbols. The length of her report amounted to a screen and a half double spaced. The amount of associated data was considerable. Likely Cuirassier's analysis team would come to the same conclusion as she. Grouping the symbols according to appearance was no better than a half-baked organizational scheme.

Eyes closed, Calvert eased into cushioned comfort. Stupid glyphs. With no means of comparison Alien to English, they could never be deciphered. Decorations then, now to forever. Of course, it wouldn't be wise to pen so glib an observation inside an official report.

To judge by the emphasis Willard applied to the glyphs, he must have little interest in anything else. Weren't the strangeness of the alien's metal and protective layer, along with the odd phenomena manifested at the surface, also worthy of study?

Comfortable couch abandoned, Calvert padded into the sun hutch's foyer. Liner and outdoors suit donned. Outside was an odd quiet. Within the excavation sweeps kept the mosaic free of dust, just in case another light show erupted.

A stylus, recording symbols, worked with two others in a triangular formation. An equivalent group catalogued this side, but was occluded from sight by the side of the excavation. A dragonfly drone hovered ten metres above Excavation Dead Centre, which was not where the shaft was. It was a third of the way in from the southern end and a quarter of the way in from the near side.

The glimmering was beautiful at night. Although tempted to suppose otherwise, Calvert had detected no emphasis nor synchronicity—no symbol showed more brilliant or pulsed in time with any other except coincidentally. Viewed from on high, glimmering became glowing. Once the entire wreck was exposed, its surface ought to be visible from space—pearl in an Ethiope's ear.

The girl gazed into the patch of luminosity, noted where the shaft was, next the plug on its mound of dirt, and was displeased.

The mosaic's surface was far less hot than the air above it. Hot flowed in, came into contact with it, and was substantially reduced. Cool air flowed out the sides. Calvert had measured temperature and flow patterns at various points, mapped the result, been fascinated by the results, and included them in a report.

Pacini had first noted the phenomenon. She'd given him full credit for the discovery.

The wreck was an energy sink. By removing its trash cover, they'd enabled the collection feature to fire up. What if all that energy flowed into a busted capacitor, that would eventually overload and blow everything apart?

Inside Boat Bay, she discovered Marco tinkering inside one of the TRAXs. The parking lot of INV45s she'd looked into already, and at the heavily articulated, dog-sized menials swarming over the other TRAXs.

"Are those styluses ready to send out?" Calvert inquired as she arrived beside her crew, top of her suit undone, paint can helmet pressed to hip.

Marco answered without looking up. "I'm rotating them. Six in. Six out."

"Oh?" He hadn't informed her of a decision to platoon the machines. Although annoyed, in an even tone she continued, "How's it going?"

"This TRAX is half way done."

"You're doing them all today?"

"No. I'm sending two TRAXs out tomorrow for soundings, to determine the extent of the wreck. I'll complete two rejuvenations today, two more tomorrow, and the final two once the scouts are back."

The scouting mission another project he'd neglected to tell her about. Just who is in command here? On a hunch she asked, "I'm doing a survey of surface absorption rates. I thought there might be something useful there."

"Already underway. Analysis Mosaic EX One."

"Oh, for fuck sakes," she muttered. Having registered her comment's tone and feeling, and peripherally its content, Marco paused what he was doing. "Who instructed you to conduct your survey, Technician?"

"No one, sir," Marco said cautiously as he drew himself out from the TRAX, and glanced to a preoccupied seeming Elizabeth Danby before setting his full attention on his commander.

"Did I tell you to do soundings?"

"No."

"Or to rotate the styluses."

"No, sir, but those machines weren't needed."

"If you say so, Technician, but, you see, the thing is, I'm in charge."

"Aye, sir." The obligatory answer.

"Is there anything else you're up to that I ought to know about?"

"No, sir."

"Are you sure, Pacini?"

"Yes, sir."

They'd been getting along fine, except for things he did behind her back that undermined her stewardship and diminished her authority. He embarrassed her, deprived her of opportunities which were hers by right, and overstepped his position. Hadn't he enough to do already? She was angry enough to hit something. Her hands inside their gloves hurt from the pressure they exerted against the collar ring of her helmet.

She would neither shout nor curse, she'd matured past childish petulance, and so she settled for a tone and text appropriate to the situation. A simple reprimand could not do. "I've been thinking I should like to see the enclosure extended."

Marco became as stunned and manifested so. He'd been looking forward to his time off as essential to relax and recharge not just his energies but his enthusiasm. The hard knot in his stomach was the kind likely to trigger ulcers. He stood speechless while internally debating himself whether or not the projects he'd initiated required her permission. Danby's gaze stayed with the styluses in their park. "You would?" he managed finally.

"Another fifty metres."

"Fifty?" He was beginning to realize how angry he was becoming. "We haven't the material to expand the fence fifty metres."

"Then I suggest you prep our prospecting equipment because that is what we will do."

Her intention was clear. He would have to manufacture more posts and rods—after mining raw materials because their depleted stocks could not manage so ambitious an expansion. They would need more panels for the power station and more coils for capacitors, in order to supply the necessary additional power. He enumerated these facts staccato fashion in the ensuing moments, but he might as well have saved his breath. "Why?" he asked finally.

"I need it for the study I'm doing," she replied in a manner she intended should sound reasonable. "I might have discovered the key to interpreting the symbols and I need to see if I'm right." A lie, which she blushed while expressing.

"You've thousands of symbols already." Had she forgotten he'd saved her career from ruin not so long ago?

"Not enough. I've yet to note a single repetition. It seems to me that doubling the mosaic surface area is a sure means to bring about that result."

"That's a load a crap!" he shouted, his patience at its end. He was heartily sick of her insane game of 'work the help to death'. "You've plenty of symbols already. You don't need any damned more!"

"Maybe I underestimated my requirements," Calvert replied, brow fully arched. "I think instead of fifty, another sixty metres. I need to be absolutely sure I've a sufficient number of symbols for my study."

"You self-centred little . . ." A clamping of jaws. He'd known better, just he was too tired to think straight and maintain control.

"Self centred little what?" She'd show him just how dangerous she could be.

"Nothing, sir."

"Self centred little nothing? Is that how you think of me?"

"No, sir. That's not what I meant, sir."

"Then maybe you ought to explain yourself." Her tone ominous enough to inform him beyond any doubt what consequences might attach whether he did or didn't explain himself. He would lose either way.

"I meant nothing. I regret it seemed I insulted you. Such was not my intent."

"What was your intent?" She would not be mollified so easily.

"All right, I had intended to insult you. You made me angry. I think you're being unreasonable."

"Still?"

A breath was consumed, and he said, fatalistically, "Yes."

"Let's understand each other, Technician Pacini. I am the officer. You are the crewman. I give orders. You obey them. No more projects without my knowledge and approval first. No more questioning my orders. I'm sure you'll agree we all have more than enough to keep us busy the several months that have to pass before Lieutenant Hutchinson returns."

"Several months?" he croaked. A prison sentence twice the length, whatever it might turn out to be, could not be worse.

She had neglected to tell them. Her two crew might have been expecting Hutchinson to return tomorrow. Blushing, she elaborated, "Er, yes. The lieutenant's buh-been delayed. We're not to expect him back for, ah, several months. They're retrieving equipment."

"Yes, sir," he replied sullenly and damn you straight to hell for keeping significant information to yourself.

She saw the resentment in his eyes and felt warmth growing in her cheeks. Very much she regretted not telling them, but that was a minor thing compared to what he'd been up to. "Cuh-carry on," she said, winced and hurried out of Boat Bay.

"Did she mean it?" Danby asked, her expression mixed of anger and disbelief. "Sixty more metres?"

"Yeah," he replied disgustedly. "Sixty more fucking metres." As Danby moaned he added, "But she didn't say by when. I'll talk to her. Grovel if I have to. We got days off coming."

"Months," Danby continued. In aggrieved fashion: "She said months!"

"We'll get by."

"Not if she works us to death."

Marco's next morning was devoted to fabricating a smelter, next the extra large trailer needed to transport the smelter parts while Calvert set off in search of iron deposits. Danby did cleaning and maintenance on her own. Supervising the delivery of the smelter to the ore site preceded second, third, fourth and fifth trips to transport out additional equipment needed to mine and process the ore. By the time the mining site was up and running, day had turned to night had turned to day, and the technician was too beat to pilot himself home.

He camped out instead, sleeping the night and most of the next day through. That afternoon Marco transferred a load of fresh minted pellets from an on-site storage hopper to his sled and flew back to Polyphemus, passing over a TRAX he'd sent to do soundings along the way.

"You're back," was Calvert's plain greeting as the technician uncoupled his trailer prior to directing its load to the receptacle in Boat Bay Upper.

Distance had applied a stop to bad dreams. Despite the additional work, Marco Pacini was grateful for the respite. Almost cheery was his: "Aye, sir."

"How did it go?" Calvert joined him on the between decks heavy lift.

He was certain her overly genial mood presaged something he would not like. Where was Danby? "Mine and smelter are up and running. We ought to have all the metal we need in a couple of days."

"You'll collect material for the rods next?" Calvert had marked carbon deposits from which they would synthesize plastic for the rods. The refinery which would produce the raw stuff in bead form was already fabricated.

"Yes." The big lift arrived at Upper Level. Docking pins fixed the platform in place. Marco directed the sled to the ceiling-high iron bin opening.

Calvert sauntered after, her clasped hands pressing against the small of her back. "Preliminary soundings indicate the wreck extends in excess of seventeen kilometres in all directions. That's as we surmised originally. A gigantic flying disc."

Incredible news, which he replied in congratulatory tones. He hoped this was the reason for her geniality and nothing else. "So you realize there's no possible way we can uncover the entire wreck," he said cautiously.

"Just so," she said, watching with him as the elevated sled tipped and the metal pellets clattered down. "I've decided we'll devote the next part of our study to the shaft!" she shouted over the noise.

"The shaft!" His tone incredulous.

"After we've completed the enclosure and uncovered the next section of the mosaic we will investigate the shaft! Figure out a way to penetrate the energy curtain!"

The unloading ended. His irritation on the boil, Marco asked, "What's the point?"

"We've several months ahead of us. It won't take us more than one to complete the expansion. After that there's little for us to do besides wait for our relief."

He sighed. She was overly ambitious, overly insecure, or just plain nuts. "Sir, I've plenty I can do. I'm not saying we should sit on our hands, but—"

Showing him her palm, Calvert continued, "I've heard all your arguments and I . . . sympathize with them. I just think that a study of the shaft will be nowhere near so onerous as what we've done and will do, and it will be a worthy endeavour to cap our investigation with."

"Of course," he muttered.

"You can, ah, take a break after you've coupled the sled back on." She nodded to the container performing a downward oblique path to resume the lift. "I'll fetch in the next load. Beth is in the sunbath. You might join her if you wish." After sober reflection, recalling how tired and out-of-sorts she'd been, and he must have been, realizing she'd overreacted, this now was making amends.

"All right," he said, feeling uncommonly grateful for even small concessions. "Just let me finish up here."

"All right," Calvert drawled. "I'll suit up in the meantime."

He watched her saunter away, the sled settling on the heavy lift platform. "You sure you know what you're doing?" he called before she reached the personnel lift in the opposite corner of the level.

How complicated can hauling metal pellets be? "I do." She half turned, presenting him with her profile.

"Don't overload the trailer. The pellets have a lot of mass. The volume is deceptive. You could damage the hitch."

She didn't need a lecture, kept her own council, and did not much attend his instructions while he continued giving them.

"It's far better to haul small loads," he ended.

"I'm not an imbecile," she muttered.

"I didn't say you were, but people do sometimes make errors in judgment."

She'd made plenty of mistakes already, but was not in the mood to be reminded of them. "All right, I get the picture."

"Trailer no more than half full."

"All right!" He ought not to make her angry when she was trying so hard to be reasonable. For next time she'd know better.

He watched her pass through and disappear beyond the smaller lift's doors. His warning might have been unnecessary, he might regret making her angry, but he felt he'd been right. Not even Calvert could be so stupid as he imagined, could she?

Danby slumbered so deep that when Marco arrived, she took no notice of his assuming the bench next to hers. She wore a one piece swimming costume and dark glasses despite the interior's diffuse light rendered eye protection superfluous. Removing his liner he stretched out over a towel on the neighbour bench and in a short while was as asleep as his companion.

While they slept Calvert completed a run. And another. She'd been anxious for a job requiring she exert herself. Loading and unloading was unpleasant but piloting made up for that. She might do all the raw materials' hauling from now on. She'd transported tiles for walkways. This job very like that one.

It would take many loads to fill the bin. Twenty or thirty, Calvert estimated. More like thirty at the rate at which she was going. The half loads barely made a difference to the depth she wished to impress the ship's log with. She took three quarters of a load on her third trip while keeping an eye on the coupling and on power consumption and was sure that nothing was unduly stressed. The fourth load carried a little more, with the same result. She'd made much more progress with the last two loads than the first two, and so her next contained a little more. Her hitch status measure warned it was being stressed. The next two loads were significantly less, and she was satisfied with those results too. The level in the bin indicated a significant rise compared to the start. Pellet production only just kept pace with her exertions, thus she knew she accomplished something worthwhile.

The next trip she only managed to deliver her rig without catastrophe by cautious flying. She had incurred some damage, about equivalent to what normal wear and tear over days would have wrought. Taking her time with lunch let production catch up. When she arrived at the smelter again, a full load was ready, which she took, intending to exercise great care along the way home, despite Pacini's warning blaring clarion-clear inside her head.

Marco wondered how long his handset had chimed at him. "Wha-what is it?" he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Where were you? Ah, it's me. I've got a problem."

A freshet of sweat erupted fully across his forehead. "You overloaded the trailer, didn't you?" What they last talked about. His premonition come true.

"A little. It, ah . . ."

"Where are you?"

"I'm hung up, in the escarpment."

"How bad?"

"Not bad. The car's okay. The hitch twisted. It . . . um."

"Show me."

Inside howling air she showed him where the rig had come to rest, inside a crevice. Next the view of the twisted, overstressed wreck she made of the hitch. She showed him last the sled filled to the high mark and heaped. The young idiot!

"What do you want me to do?" he asked sourly.

"I can't raise the sled without the hitch coming apart and I can't uncouple because the mechanism's jammed. I'm stuck."

"You're going to have to unload the trailer."

"I can't do that. I told you I can't raise to unload, and, and the alternate means is jammed or something. I can't access the manual release either."

"You have to unload by hand," he said implacably

"By hand?" she squeaked. Tonnes of pellets were in the sled. Because she'd ruined the coupling she would have to physically lift out most of them.

"The only way."

"Can't you come here? With Poly? Er, cut away the hitch and free me?"

"The wind's risen, hasn't it?" He could see it had, but waited until she confirmed the weather situation out loud. "I'd have to set anchors when I got there, which will take great care with the wind so strong as it is, not to mention I'd be imperiling the ship. I can't just cut through the hitch by the way, it'd damage the AI link. Your pellets have to be taken out by hand."

"I'm by muh-muh-self. It's going to tuh-take me huh-huh-hours tuh-ta unload thuh-thuh-thuh slud-sled buh muh-muh-muh-self!"

A crisis of her own making. "I couldn't get out there for at least two hours." With the wind picked up, he'd need to bed down equipment first. "As I said, owing to your location being exposed, I would need another hour once I got there to a safe anchorage. Well before then you ought to have removed enough pellets to enable you to raise the sled."

"Thuh-three to fuh-fuh-four huh-huh-hours!"

"At least." He'd warned her. Owing to personal conceit she'd thought she knew better. Her teary look filled his screen a second or two longer and she severed the link. He absolutely had to chuckle after.

Danby, awakened by his noise, supporting her torso over an elbow, asked, "Wha's happened?"

"Calvert did what I warned her not to do. She's got three to five hours of heavy manual labour ahead of her and she's not the least bit happy about it."

"How did it happen?"

Marco explained, and the two shared a chuckle together.

Near four hours later Calvert pitched another handful of pellets over the side, to clatter off into darkness. Her back ached. Her arms ached. Her legs trembled. She was sore everywhere and hot, thirsty, and hungry. She'd unloaded a quarter of her load and tried to raise the sled but couldn't. Another quarter and couldn't. Three quarters gone and the much weakened connection still could not bear the stress. She was pitching the whole load away, by herself, in the dark, the wind howling about her ears.

"Calvert?" came after hours of not checking back with her.

Referencing her by her surname had to have been on purpose. "What is it?" She was far more angry than her tone implied, but hadn't the energy to make the snarl she would have liked to use.

"Are you done?"

Parts of only a single layer remained. She might try again except she'd been so conditioned by failure she suspected it would not do to permit a single pellet to survive culling. Her next attempt must succeed and so all must go. "Almost," she replied, groaning softly while she scooped up another handful.

"Leave those. There aren't enough left to make a difference."

"Shut up," she muttered.

"Calvert?"

"Stop it, goddamn it!"

"Stop what?"

"Just leave me alone."

She tossed out the ugly little musket balls until the very last had been discarded, crawled out of the trailer, and sank to her knees over ankle-thick pellet litter. She had never felt so tired and beat up. No one not her could in any wise appreciate how tired she was.

"Calvert?"

"Shut the fuck up!"

"Captain Willard wants to talk with you."

Oh, shit! "I'm indisposed." She couldn't think right of any other excuse to use.

"I'll tell him."

A very junior officer dare not tell a captain she was indisposed, Calvert realized during her next second of life. "Nuh-no, wait. Ah, could you, pluh-please . . ." Swallowing her misery, she continued, "explain that I cuh-can't talk to him 'cuz I've had a minor accident?" She would rather make up any story at all and might have except she was wholly incapable of thinking of one.

"Very well, sir."

Willard would be bound to find out she'd screwed up. She'd put a polish of strategic omissions over other mistakes, but he would eventually find out about those too. It had to be because she was a screw up that she was not being promoted—because Willard had realized what an idiot she was. This time she'd been helping her crew out. Doing Pacini's work for him! Caring for her crew and good intentions ought not to land her in to trouble! Before she knew it she was sobbing inconsolably.

"Sir?" Had she been less miserable she might had noted his concern.

"Nebber-mind!" Pushing herself up abruptly hazarded a fall over iron marbles. She minced her way to the car and inside. Climbing into her couch, power applied to hitch, she expected to see the short column of red lights renew, and was intensely relieved seeing ambers instead.

Finally! She needed a bath and massage and to sleep through the next day. Pacini could transport his own damn pellets. She was going to mind her own damn business from now on.

The not quite storm had shifted dust centimetres deep over the wreck which the sweeps laboured like galley slaves to remove. Calvert hadn't expected her efforts to be so thoroughly defeated and was sick to her stomach as a consequence. "Pacini!" A drift of dust passed through a section of fence that appeared to have been turned off. "Pacini!"

"What is it?"

"Where are you?"

"Power station."

"The wind is blowing straight through the site. What's going on?"

"I've shut down the capacitors. Some kind of glitch. I'm running power from the ship for the time being." As she approached the ramp she saw twin cables snake down, across and into the base of the transmission tower.

"When did this happen? You didn't tell me!"

"I can't go running to you for permission every time I have to do something."

"That's not—you know what I mean, what I asked you to do!" She slipped through the curtain of energy protecting Launch Bay, waited impatiently as one hatch closed and another opened, entered Boat Bay, skimmed over the deck, parked her rig in the first area large enough to accommodate it, and slipped out of her harness. "What are you doing now?"

"The panels got silted over. I've had to shut down the station."

"There's too much sand coming in." Hating that there should be anything more to do, dead-tired and trembling violently over her feet, she was going to go outside because he was forcing her to.

"Can't be helped. I've siphoned all the power I can out of the ship's circuits."

"Auxiliary generators?"

"That's what we're running off of now."

"That's more than enough power to run the fence!"

"But not the sweeps, styluses and pressure dome too."

"What pressure dome?—oh shit." She noticed his dome nestled against the ship beneath the port wing, manifested as a hemispherical-shaped shimmer. He'd moved the power station out of the path of the wind. The dome extended metres past it in all directions. He needed the protection so that he could work on the array and not be hampered by the weather. If his suit hadn't been 2nd gen he would have needed to take additional air. The solar array was much too cumbersome to bring into the ship. It had been built over time and coupled together in sections. "For crying out loud, Pacini. I need to be told when you're up to something like this!"

"You were busy."

Calvert arrived at the foot of the energy bulb he'd put himself in, desperately tired and muddled. Her suit temperature was rising. She would need a recharge if she intended staying out any longer. He had done it to her again, done essential things without waiting to be told. All she could think of to do was stand and stare at fuzzy outlines.

"Do you want to come in?" He'd have to shut down his shield to let her in, creating more mess to deal with, which he had to be reluctant to do.

"Nuh-no." Why does this continue to happen? Why is it, every time I have a legitimate cause to be angry, he turns things around and makes me feel the fool? "Huh-how long are you guh-guh-going to be?"

"This is a several hours job. I'm sorry, sir, but it can't be helped." Dust flowed freely into the excavation. The sweeps fought a battle lost. Calvert saw the styluses standing in two widely separated and forlorn little groups.

"I'll bring our equipment in. They can't work in this dust."

"That's a good idea." He had a radio link to the outside, embedded on a cable. She didn't see it, but knew it had to be there. He couldn't transmit through a sheet of energy.

Calvert ordered an evacuation of the dig site. Next she called for a rescue party from the ship. Danby, consulting with Pacini remotely, sorted things out inside, despatching a TRAX and trailer for transport duty and four TRIKEs for lifting.

Calvert watched the further-out group of styluses bull through roiling dust. Machines rescued other machines. The wind was not much more than usual, except was unrestrained, and seemed eager to reclaim lost territory.

Provided Marco effected his repairs in good time, the site might be restored to what it had been tomorrow or the next day. A dizzy Julie Calvert rode the trailer laden with styluses up into the ship, feeling, when inside, a defeated general having undergone an extended retreat.

It was unreasonable to expect Danby to drop whatever she was doing to provide her with a greeting. Calvert discovered her crewmate replacing the hitch she had ruined.

"Junk," Danby pronounced, indicating the removed twisted ruin. Though she had stayed in Boat Bay from when the rescue went out to when it returned again, the marine wore her outdoors suit. She finished with the repair and seemed cheerful.

"Have a good day off?" Calvert asked, her syllables shaking. She conjured a smile from somewhere to paste over her face. What was keeping the youth on her feet was the lesser gravity the ship provided. The train of equipment remained where it had stopped. The machines were in standby mode.

"Yes, thanks. You had a bit a problem last night?"

"I overloaded the sled," was coupled to a breathy sigh. "A stupid thing to do."

"Everybody makes mistakes." Danby seemed hardly concerned. Calvert stared fixedly at her companion in amazement and because of how tired she was. "What is it, sir?" Danby asked when she realized what Calvert was doing.

"You, ah, know what you're about? What you're doing?"

"Sure. There isn't a lot to know. Pacini fabricated the replacement parts this morning. All I had to do was assemble them."

Calvert felt a headache building. She needed to set her attention elsewhere and hide what would be bound to be a revealing look. It occurred to her that most, if not all, of Pacini's advice and directions had been correct, including the things he had done without consultation.

"All done," Danby announced, putting her tools into a nearby kit.

"I suppose one of us ought to go out and collect the smelter production."

"I'm not much of a pilot," Danby confessed. "And you look like death warmed over. I think that task can wait. We can't do any fabricating without our power reserve anyway."

"That's true."

"Marco is going to do maintenance on the car the next time he gets the chance," Danby said as Calvert walked as steadily as she could to the corner lift.

Calvert decided she would remove her outdoors suit in her cabin and, if she could stay awake and upright long enough, shower before going to bed. "When?"

"Oh, whenever. No hurry, I guess. So much else to do."

"Yes, there is," Calvert agreed, and went the rest of the way into the lift.

Chapter Twelve - Explorations

"A single shot." Calvert's face glowed with more than plain zeal. She had slept the sleep of the dead, and did not remember a single moment of any dream she might have had, bad or good. "Fired straight down."

If she was careful how she moved, her body didn't protest very much its condition. A half hour in the auto doc had done wonders for her abused muscles. Any pain and stiffness she would have been feeling had been alleviated by drugs and therapy, and her youthful, elastic fibres had responded well. Poly had recommended the treatment, or she might have gone straight to bed after her shower and been unable to move the next day.

"Then what?" Pacini asked, his calm no more than surface deep. Their strategy session took place in the sunbath, Calvert's preferred hangout. "There's no guarantee the black medium will collapse, or if it does whether it will remain so long enough to let the probe through, leave alone for us to bring it back. We could be throwing more equipment away."

"An INV45 on a tether." Calvert stood, braced mid back against the tanning couch. Her imagination was supercharged as though she'd taken hallucinogens unaware. She imagined Marco naked and saw him so. "I think we can afford that." Her amused gaze was directed to a spot off to one side and its smile covered.

"We already know what's down there. Why bother with this?"

"Because without a comprehensive survey my study of the shaft is incomplete and meaningless. There might be informative panels, maybe even a linguistic key, on the wall somewhere. Even a hatch to the inside." She imagined him in a clown suit, but refrained from adding frizzy, multi-coloured wig and round red nose, which would have been too much and caused her control to slip. Her smile persisted, but she was now able to look at him directly on.

"We haven't the resources to investigate an area so vast."

"Oh, pish tosh." Imagining him a horse made him one. Next a centaur, which levered him up, too, otherwise a toy centaur was ludicrous. He ought to have dispensed with his concern long ago. The ship's machines were hers to do with as she pleased. "We can do this." Calvert realized she addressed the space above his head.

"All right." He capitulated because he had no other choice. "But you should forget about using one of our cannon to force a way in." Polyphemus was mounted with four energy cannon in her bow in pairs port and starboard.

"Fine, we'll find out where the projectors are and disable them with explosives." She saw the fireball and felt the tremoring. The imagined result negligible. The shaft resisted even soot.

"No!" he cried, genuinely dismayed, not realizing she teased to see his centaur reaction. "You've got a resource of incalculable worth, and you want to blow it up? I don't think the Admiralty would be very pleased with you after."

A mock serious look, and convert him back into himself, except in white tutu and tights. Fortunately their conversation was not being recorded. She was far too giddy and apt to laugh. All Danby had done while the pair discussed options was occupy her couch, dangle her legs, and sip ice tea. "What do you think, Beth?" Calvert asked.

Danby had not expected to be asked her opinion. "The first two probes got through because they were small. An INV45 in a bullet capsule has a great deal more frontal area. Taper the nose, really punch it, it might get through."

"Worth a try. Well, Tech Pacini?"

"I can build a casing, taper it, even strap on an engine. You don't want another mad rush to the bottom, do you?"

"We'll have to brake the package after penetration. A chute? All we need do is to get past the barrier, and we're home free."

"A catapult might work," suggested Danby. "Or an air cannon?"

"Sure." Marco grinned at his helpmate.

How would he look in demon skin, horns, tail and hooves? Calvert wondered, and viewed him as such.

"I'll rig a launcher, put it in a frame, and add a parachute."

"Good," capped the discussion. "Inform me as soon as your preparations are complete."

"Aye, sir." Pacini had kept on his outdoors suit, only doffing his helmet. Danby and Calvert each wore white bathrobes over their liners. Their outdoors suits hung on pegs next to the door. Calvert stayed to watch and be amused by his devil self clip-clopping to the exit.

Danby sighed, doffed her robe, hung it up, and resumed her bench. She enjoyed an infrequent day off, intending an hour of lounging before resuming acquaintance with a fitness simulation she had been proficient at not long ago.

Calvert assumed the bench next to the marine's, after hanging up her own robe. The liners had opaque gussets and were everywhere else sheer. The light weave facilitated the wicking away of sweat that a second layer, built into the suit, collected. Calvert, when alone, usually sunbathed nude.

"You're very brown," Danby said.

"Thanks. You're not doing so bad yourself."

Danby's skin was patches owing to different sunbathing costumes. It was with the intent to blend her shades that she was as she was now.

Calvert had assured her crew she was satisfied with the latest expansion. The shaft examination wouldn't require much time, or additional resources. The survey, now done, had confirmed a slightly more than seventeen kilometre radius for the wreck.

Calvert nestled her chin onto the cradle of her crossed arms. "I was never a good student. I suppose that's why I've gotten nowhere with the glyphs." During her time at O.B.A., she'd never been interested in accumulating facts and knowledge. When something interested her, or when she wished to prove a point, that attitude changed.

"Could be decoration," muttered Danby drowsily.

"I don't think so. Civilizations throughout the ages carved into their monuments accounts of the exploits of heroes and kings. I think we can assume the wreck doubles as a monument. If the aliens are at all like us, assuming we're typical sapients, they think and behave like us, hence the script must possess meaning."

"Oh kay," Danby murmured.

"Without an understanding of order and sequence any interpretation is bound to be no better than guesswork. The Rosetta stone connected three languages, Greek, Egyptian and Hebrew, and was essential for deciphering hieroglyphics. Without something like that . . . I've stared hours and hours at those letters, if they are letters. I can't reason them out. I doubt anyone ever will."

"Are you sure you're supposed to?" Danby's reply was delivered in a much different tone and sense than the muddy comment which preceded it.

"Huh?" Calvert coupled to a tolerant smile.

"As you've said, it's likely the glyphs, if studied in the traditional way, will never be understood since we've no means of comparison with any of our languages. Maybe you shouldn't try to read them. Maybe you should just try to understand them."

"Huh?" was coupled to a now puzzled look.

"They're not really letters so they are not the type of communication we've been conditioned over millennia to suppose the only means to store and transfer information."

"Huh?" with now frowning.

Danby elaborated in a voice even more strange, its manner assured and non deferential: "Each location is not text but a sequence of sensory triggers that portray images, sounds, feelings, smells and tastes, the personality of the author included, to whomever experiences it."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"No idea . . . what did I just say?" Danby's expression changed from serene to blank, frowning, thoughtful, puzzled, and worried over a span of seconds.

Calvert chuckled giddily. "Are you serious?"

"Er, what were we talking about?"

"The glyphs, Beth! You just explained how they work!"

"I did?" Danby added a gasp of disbelief.

The pair stared at one another. Calvert, with recent improvements in memory and imagination, was able to recite word perfect Danby's explanation.

"I said that?"

"Can you elaborate further?"

An open-mouthed gasp prefaced: "You've got to be joking!"

"Damn it," grumbled Calvert and stared into a corner. "If the glyphs are sensory triggers, then it can't be possible to read them since our species didn't create them. Our experiences, backgrounds and culture are where we get our language and understanding from. We have nothing in common with the alien except basics."

"That makes sense."

"Your theory explains why no two glyphs are the same." Confident she was right and a perplexing mystery had been solved, Calvert continued with: "As amazing as it sounds, it must be the surface of the wreck is a library. Well! Wherever your insight came from, thanks for it. Other than to finish my, stupid and waste of time, cataloguing there's nothing else I can do with the glyphs." A thoughtful cast overcame her youthful features. "I have now to hope that Willard, and whomever else is pushing for a translation, will accept my—your explanation."

"I'm not sure I want the credit for that," said Danby dubiously.

"Well, if you prefer not? But, Beth, if you're right, even if you're not, it's your theory. You deserve the credit for it." Calvert had a sense of an anonymous third party approving, a notion which she set aside as something tagging along with her conscious feeling. Cementing her troth, she added, "My next report will have your synopsis with my endorsement attached. They can't shoot the messenger, us being so far removed. We're safe for the next several months at least!"

"All right," said Danby sheepishly.

"You and I," said Calvert while rolling onto her back to come at a perspective better to converse from, "will have such fun when this is over."

"Not Marco?"

"Well, certainly we shall invite him," replied Calvert charitably, and felt tingling in places which she ignored.

"I think we'll be going our separate ways once the mission is over."

"That won't happen until after the debriefs. They'll want to keep us together for those. Could be Charybdis, but most likely OP. We'll have our moment of fame you can be sure of that."

"Fame," Danby repeated quietly and capped it with a chuckle.

"Fame and fortune—well, who knows about fortune? I can't see anything practical coming out of this." The lie lodged in her throat owing to her hope for promotion. Calvert segued into, "I'll be seventeen next month, ship's time. I thought we could have a party."

"Sure," agreed Danby. She wondered if Calvert expected a cake and presents. Next if her limited expertise with kitchen procedures would be up to a job of baking.

"This is the strangest place to celebrate a birthday."

Danby rarely marked birthdays. Her latest had been before she joined Polyphemus. She hadn't celebrated the day and, because she'd been in transit, no acquaintance who knew of the milestone had been on hand to encourage or help her observe the event.

"You're twenty-six."

"Yes," Danby replied uneasily.

"You don't look twenty-six."

How old did she look? People always said she appeared younger than her age. "I haven't spent a lot of time in full gravity." Full gravity aged a body. She'd been fortunate in her postings. Service within two ships and a space port in three quarters Standard. Her life expectancy had been extended by five years, she'd concluded. By similar reasoning, Elizabeth Danby suspected an extra year of aging had added on since planet fall here due to the conditions and the better than full gravity her body was routinely being subjected to.

Julie Calvert, whose forebears had benefited mightily through genetic modification, including tweaks prolonging youth and health, meant she thought Danby appeared older. "Have you lived on the frontier all your life?"

Danby had been born and raised on a farm in a star system formerly Imperial but which had been conquered by, and then absorbed into, the Rebel Alliance. "Yes."

"I'd never been to the frontier," Calvert elaborated, blushing when she realized that what she was confessing Danby must already know. "My family lives in the Berkshires. That's in Massachusetts, Old Earth."

Danby had no notion of how such an area might look like. "My folks lived on a ranch."

"How big?"

"Thousand hectares." The homestead had been a lonely, two storey, three bedroom, two bath prefab over a fast-form concrete foundation attended by a barn, corral and machine and tool sheds. "All the places thereabouts were a thousand hectares."

"That's pretty big."

All properties seized by the conquerors had been reassigned to new owners after the last war. Danby had no idea what was the status of her home now, whether it had reverted to wilderness, others had taken it over, or it had been merged with other properties.

"Your folks raised animals? What kind?"

"Cattle. We were about to start raising horses. Big ones. My mom ordered the embryos, and then we evacuated." They'd left the livestock to fend for themselves: cattle, pigs, chickens, dog and cats.

"Do you ride?"

"We didn't get our horses." She'd ridden a Guernsey cow once when she was seven. A tawny old beast with a bony back. Falling off, she'd torn her jeans, which had been passed down through her sisters. There'd been no good reason to spend the extra they earned to buy clothes for the youngest family member; there being no one to pass them on to.

Bitter cold in the winter. The drifts high as the corral. Whenever the wolves howled Tina cried because she had the chore of milking, which she had to go outside to the barn to do. A warrior father was seldom home. Right before he was to retire, the rebs invaded.

"When this is over, I'm going to visit every nightclub wherever we end up. Outside the very last place, right before sunrise—real or fake— I'm going to take off my shoes and leave them on the street, side by side, in plain sight."

Danby's gasp was in appreciation of a ludicrous sacrifice which she saw crystal clear before her mind's eye. "Why would you do that?"

"No reason. I'll just do it. They'll be pumps. Red velvet ones."

Danby saw the pretty shoes melting in hot weather, and herself rescuing them despite she'd be embarrassed to. "Someone would take them."

"No, they won't."

"Sure they would. A guy for a souvenir. A girl to wear, sell or trade."

"Who'd wear soiled shoes?"

Danby snorted softly, remembering hand-me-downs too numerous to accurately list. Never once had she owned velvet pumps. "Someone would. They'd begin the night brand new, wouldn't they?" And horribly expensive.

"But I will have worn them. Nobody wants shoes that someone else wore."

Danby thought she might want those shoes herself—except she'd never have an occasion to wear them, and they wouldn't be her size. Just to look at then. "As souvenirs, like I said. They'd be expensive, wouldn't they?"

"Sure they'll be."

"Someone will pick them up." Danby was vaguely angry and unsure why.

"That would be ignorant. Somebody would have to be really hard up to just pick shoes up from off the street."

Danby imagined her mother doing just that.

Calvert had imagined the shoes standing by the kerb for days, engendering all sorts of delicious speculation from passers by. "I'm going to do it."

Danby supposed Calvert wouldn't feel the least twinge of conscience. The difference between them was as wide as between Frontier and Core. Danby peeked at her toes, comparing them with Calvert's. Even their toes were different. Calvert's smaller, stubbier.

"My feet are so small," Calvert said, noting the gaze. "And my hands." She held up her hands to show. "I inherited these from my daddy, I think."

Danby had never heard an adult refer to her father as 'my daddy'. Her own father had been big and gruff, good natured and affectionate. He carried his tomboy on his shoulders the infrequent times he was home. She'd called him 'dad', 'pop', 'pa'—usual nomenclature for fathers often absent. Never once had she called him 'daddy'. Del Danby hadn't been particularly handsome, smart, or good as a marine—she'd seen his service record. She excelled at the things he'd been just average at, and wondered about that, too.

He hadn't been much of a dad. A guy who came by now and then, to sit in the corner and smoke, and give his girls a holiday by just being home. Outside of providing the funds to maintain a roof over their heads, he'd been a non presence.

Del had seemed to like all his girls, but something hadn't been right and Danby had never known what. Maybe he'd had someone else on the side or her mother had someone else. Theirs might have been a marriage of convenience: him liking a place to hang out during furloughs, her a home for herself and their kids. Could be they hadn't needed to be in love to get by. Danby had been too young to figure out the flaw in their relationship. Her sisters were seven and eight years older. At the time of the evacuation Amber was engaged. Beth had been nine. Their mother was in her late thirties, a robust redhead. The nearest neighbours had seven kids. The next over five. Beth remembered hoping for a little brother or sister so she'd no longer be the baby.

"What do you think?" Calvert asked.

"About what?"

"I just asked what you planned to do after the debrief?"

Danby felt her mind shift gears. "I'll probably go out, loosen up, get ready for the next thing."

"We could go out together?" Calvert asked hopefully.

"I'm not going to leave my shoes anywhere."

Chuckling prefaced: "You wouldn't have to do that."

More quiet time passed. "Sure, why not?" Danby hoped Calvert would relent and allow the third of their crew to tag along. "Marco could come too."

"Sure," said Calvert, her smile too easy to be genuine.

Great, thought Danby, we'll go out once and then go our separate ways. If we ever bump into each other after, we can pretend we're still friends. The night on the town Calvert imagined for them was never going to take place.

"You've drifted off somewhere," Calvert said and, because it was true, Danby looked away, setting her eyes to slits. Her internal clock informed her the time set aside for sunbathing was half spent. Abruptly Danby pushed herself up. "I've got to go."

"Already?"

"My first real recreation in weeks," elaborated Danby, slipping off her bench. Donning her robe, she proceeded to where her outdoors suit was hanging.

"All right," Calvert drawled as she slipped off her own bench. "You going to be around later?"

Where was there for her to go? "Yeah, sure."

"Maybe we could get together for a game of chess?"

Danby shook her head. A peek appreciated the blending gone on back there. "I don't play chess."

"Cards?"

"I've got stuff I haven't lit up in weeks. I've an upgrade for when the lieutenant gets back." Danby wasn't inventing excuses. She'd been planning her day off for a week.

"Oh," Calvert said irritably.

"If I have time I'll drop by your cabin," said Danby although she would have to sacrifice part of her planning, if she carried through with her offer.

"Forget it. I've another report to pen, which will have some substance for a change thanks to you." Always there was a report to occupy her time with if nothing else.

"See you later then."

Calvert resumed her couch, selected a best pose for rest, and closed her eyes. She didn't intend to sleep. She didn't want to sleep. Last night had been a departure from the usual. Wholesome sleep without a price was not to be got. Nightmares only, the kind that gripped her by the throat and frog-marched her through horrors. No, she would rest her eyes, breathe soft and low, and do no more than lay a while longer.

#

That evening, in baths of artificial light, each member of the crew stood well apart from the other two. The probe launch apparatus in its oversized appearing frame was sited above them and poised to shoot a third time into the void. "Firing now," warned Marco.

The projectile, bullet-shaped, scanner package in ceramic casing with radically tapered tip, walloped into the dull as pitch barrier. The trio watched a trail forged, and simultaneously backfilled. The probe reached maximum penetration after 1.73 seconds. Momentum spent, it drifted back as though pushed out from underneath. It had achieved a depth of 1.03 metres; each observer consulted his or her handset for verification. At the surface it bobbed, as a fishing float might, not in water rather in oil, and remained as it ended, half submerged, tip down.

"It's come back again," said Calvert whimsically before indulging a feathery laugh she seemed barely able to restrain.

"Son of a bitch," Marco muttered, his admiration for the effect. Despite he'd stepped up the muzzle velocity before successive trials, the depth reached had been identical in each. Squinting at his fey commander, he wondered if she'd recklessly self-medicated. Her mood not at all in keeping with the matter at hand.

"Again?" queried the smirking youth. She adjusted the angle of her gaze by stages until it lighted on him, cringed, and she laughed again.

"What in hell is wrong with you?" Marco asked before observing the third of their team for her reaction. Danby regarded their kid commander's behaviour with no worse than a tolerant smile.

Calvert by then was bent over double and punching her thigh with the side of her fist. She looked away before answering in strangled tones, "Nothing."

"Have you been taking drugs?" She'd recovered remarkably fast from her pellets ordeal.

"No, I haven't. Are you . . . going to try again?"

"A larger recoil will damage the anchors and the scanner might not survive the impact. Did the two of you record how far it sank?"

"Same as the time before and the time before that," blurted Calvert, who'd managed for the time needed to voice her observation a sober attitude.

Her hilarity was highly distracting. Marco directed his handset's scanner to the projectile which was buried to the join, cylinder with nose cone, the exposed butt-end straight up and down. A transparency in the medium ringed the projectile a uniform 1.2 centimetres around.

"Can you . . . beef up . . . resistance tah-to impact?"

"To do that, I'd have to increase the frontal area. Despite the tapering that's too much resistance to overcome. This is like shooting into a vat of glue. Without a substantial redesign this method is not going to work."

"Could we blast a hole in the medium first, and send the package through after?" suggested Danby.

"Maybe. I'll have to redesign, build heavier, add more anchors, install a bigger launcher." They could not use one of the ship's cannons, which were dangerous to operate in atmosphere owing to the immense heat side effect when fired. "It took me six hours to put this rig together. All of it will have to be changed out. I can't guarantee it'll work. The wake closes while the probe is still moving."

"Be-eth?" came from the girl commander, grinning idiotically again. "Is there a better way?"

"I think so," replied the marine thoughtfully.

"What are you two talking about?"

Danby with a strange calmness declared, "I can take it through."

"What? Are you nuts?" Marco peered at the starkly lit profile of a dear friend, which was all she offered for her to look at. A trio of hovering lamps threw light through the support frame onto them. With its eerie glitter the mosaic replied as far as the lights reached. "No way are you doing that!"

"I can do it." Danby understood how the barrier worked. She'd just been told or she'd just informed herself.

Marco chuckled nervously. "Nobody is asking you to risk life and limb. I can get the sensor through. All I have to do is build a heavier frame and add—"

"That would be a waste of time. We're going to—I can save us a lot of bother." And spare her own dear friend a great deal of work, which was the larger reason why Danby had volunteered.

"Calvert." Marco pitched his voice sharp in order to pierce through her wandered and seeming intoxicated condition. The ensign smiled absently at the stalled capsule. "Tell her she doesn't have to do this."

"There's no danger," Calvert said, glanced his way, covered her mouth with one, and then both hands, and seemed to gag. "Nuh-none at all," came out of clutching strangled.

Danby watched into the energy layer. The plug had protected the shaft from impact damage and unauthorized entry. The black layer's function was different. It sustained the separation between inside and outside, and something else besides.

The black layer was hatch and shield in one. Energy shielding protected hatches, especially in vacuum conditions. Pressure fence was same tech. The upper portion of the black layer protected the lower layer which gave access to the ship below. Engineered differently, of course, yet it worked according to principles humans were familiar with.

Danby gazed to where her commander stood, bent over and shaking with barely restrained mirth. The girl's attention was with the oily transparency surrounding the capsule. Far below and away is a whole lot of danger, Danby thought. None is here.

"You're both—forget it," said Marco angrily. "You're not going into that. If anyone's gonna try to punch through, it's gonna be me."

"You?" Calvert said inside a lemon-sour look, through which she dared to view him directly on. At once a fresh paroxysm of laughter overcame her and this time she went to her knees.

"What in the fuck is the matter with you!" he shouted.

"You don't see it, do you?" asked Danby.

"See what?" The two of them were creeping him out.

"I'll do it," said Calvert abruptly and hiccuped. "Haul up that piece of shit. Where's a tether?"

Marco was no less concerned about Calvert volunteering for what might end up a suicide mission than he was about Danby doing the same. How were they certain they could take the capsule through?

Danby insisted, "I got this." She directed her handset at the probe's take up reel.

"Stop right there!" cried Marco. "This is nuts from page one. We've no business pottering around down there. What in the hell are we doing?"

"We didn't have to start this at all, but we're here now and might as well see things through to the end," said Danby.

Marco gaped at a crewmate aping the same blather as their dangerously deranged commander. "You're siding with her now?"

"Yes, damn it, Muh—er, Pacini. I am. Hook me up. It's starting to get cold out here."

"Ensign, sir, can't you just let me renovate my equipment?"

"There's no need," Calvert said, gazing along a line that had him nowhere near it. He'd just addressed the back of her head. "Help Beth with her harness, can't you?"

Marco tried one last time. "Beth, you can't know."

"I do know. I can get through." Even if she'd never dreamt this, even if her fear was so fierce that, if her stomach hadn't been empty, she would have vomited in streams, she had to do this. She was tired of being afraid.

"Danby, you—"

"Shut up, Pacini," Calvert said harshly. Danby by volunteering had removed the responsibility from Calvert's shoulders, the youth was thinking. She'd not dreamt Danby getting through the barrier, but she had seen many events gone beyond this one. It must be that what Danby intended was safe. They would get by in the way Beth said because it was meant to be. Pacini might tinker for days, wasting time and resources, to try to force a way through when the solution was right beneath them.

"You've had your say, now stay out of this," Marco growled. They stood on opposite sides of the shaft. Danby was far closer and he set off with the intent to argue his side at close range.

"Stop right there!" Calvert shouted. She had not turned to see what he did. She'd heard footsteps and surmised his intention. Marco took another step and she shouted: "I mean it. Stop!" He did so reluctantly. "Determine what Beth needs: rope, harness, whatever, and provide her with them. Tie her to a TRAX if you want to."

"You don't know what you're doing," he muttered to Danby as he neared, with his commander's permission, meaning what he said for both of them. As for Danby, she hadn't reconciled fully with her fear, but was committed.

Marco chose his equipment carefully. Ordinary rope might snap or its strands separate. A metal cable, if the volunteer became hung up, could cause serious injury as it tightened. His most flexible rope. A TRAX to serve solely as an anchor. A variable speed winch equipped with a brake and clutch was applied to the line. "Beth . . ." he tried a last time. She pressed her fingers against his lips to stop the rest.

"I don't want to hear it. There's danger only if I hang up. If that happens, release the tension in the rope and let me fall." Her mind was made up. Danby flew her sled down to the top of the barrier. Moments later she would step off, probe in arms.

"Are you ready, Corporal?" called Calvert from a position of safety.

"Yes, sir."

"Execute." The order necessary to be given. Danby took a breath to hold, hopped out, fell into sensation like liquid, except not at all wet, felt herself gripped and cold. Her body was drawn in irresistibly. Pointing her toes seemed appropriate. Closing her eyes less so, but she did anyway. Not much later the pressure about her body released as though poured from a bucket. She hung free, twenty metres down, exposed, and in open air. Looking up she was dazzled. The lights above, remained full on.

"It worked!" Calvert whooped.

"Let the scanner go," said Marco tersely. "I'll reel you up." She held the capsule as she would an infant against her body. Danby released the device, and it fell as far as the slack in its line allowed. On all sides she saw dull grey metal. Danby had the impression the shaft could assume any size. Next that the alien ship contained no single intelligence but many.

One prime intellect advised the others, however. Its purpose—goal actually—was achingly close to her understanding. She sensed its presence. Something about it was as familiar as it was strange.

"Beth! I'm reeling you in!"

"Sure thing." The barrier resumed and the light she'd counted on for connecting to friends and home was gone. An urge to scream was swallowed. Abstractly she wondered how the two of them had reacted as vomit-like panic scalded the back of her throat.

"Danby, can you hear me?" Marco asked anxiously.

"Yeah," she replied.

"I don't know what to do."

"Yeah, you do. Up is as easy as down." One need only trust. Her faith had a firm root. A voice inside her head pressed against the surface of her panic to repeat: up is as easy as down. She discovered her breathing unimpeded. "Reel me up." She let her eyes open. A creature, nude yet lacking genitalia, swam beside her. It had a humanoid shape, taller and thinner than human, and its gaze was kind and reassuring. It welcomed her. It was glad she'd come. Did she understand that only things living were let through the barrier?

"Yes," she murmured. What about the little probes before?

I was informed to make an exception.

"By whom?"

"You're okay?"

Danby saw Marco gazing anxiously down on her, the pulley grumbling as it drew her the rest of the way out. He stopped the rope so that they looked directly at each other.

She let go a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "I'm fine."

"Take this." He extended a telescoping rod for her to grab. "Are you okay?"

"You asked me that already. Are you receiving telemetry?" The barrier ought not to have collapsed. Maintaining functionality was essential to preserving the shaft's integrity. The alien had let the barrier drop to demonstrate to her nothing was to fear—as a courtesy and gesture of understanding. Danby gazed at transparency where the tether connected to the probe pierced the barrier. She understood a great many things now, although only generally.

"Just great," Calvert grumbled. "Nothing all the way down—so far, I mean."

"You knew that would be so," said Beth.

"I guess I did."

Having brought Danby beside him on her feet, Marco was reluctant to release her. "Let go, I've got this," said the marine and set about uncoupling herself.

"That's it for tonight," said Calvert, using the flat of one hand to block Marco from her sight.

"Yeah, let's leave this," grumbled Marco.

"We're a lot further along in what we know. That's something."

"You . . ." Marco said to Danby. His hesitation was owing to the stain started at her crotch level.

"Spilled my water bottle," Danby said, hurrying off. "See you guys later."

"Well that turned out okay," Calvert mused while frowning into her handset.

"No thanks to you," Marco growled, a tone she took exception to.

"What's the matter with you?" she replied delicately, her gaze straight ahead, and in no mood for a brawl.

"You didn't have to let her go in there!"

"I didn't let her. She volunteered." He was a rabbit. A big, stupid looking, pink rabbit with lopsided, floppy ears and ridiculous whiskers. He appeared different each time she looked. Ant, dinosaur, leaf, toilet. The images hallucinations. She was not going to mention anything about what she'd seen and continued to see in her next report.

"You're supposed to look after us before you look after yourself. Just whose interests are you serving?"

His accusation had sting. Calvert could feel herself blushing. "You know very well I serve the same authority we all do."

"I wonder," he said, no muttering this time.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You figure it out!" he snarled, racking the tether coils one-handed about his opposite shoulder and hand.

"I'm not going to respond to that." She'd been shaken by the tears standing in his eyes. Hadn't he the same insights? Hadn't he known the danger was nonexistent?

She did regret accepting Danby's offer without considering consequences as she should have. "She volunteered," Calvert repeated uncertainly. She trembled because the night was gone colder and for no other reason, and gripped her elbows and squeezed. "I didn't want her to go. She decided she was going to. She was determined."

"You think that's how the exercise of command works? Somebody volunteers and you say 'go ahead'? Starry Heaven, you're naive. No, you're dangerous."

"That's not fuh—what's that supposed to mean?" Calvert was unable in that instant to think of something better to argue her side with.

"Exactly as I said," he replied as the coiled and knotted tether was dropped into a sled. "You drive us on without a clue what you're after. You haven't a plan and so you wing it day to day, mistaking zeal for duty. That's not what the exercise of command is about. You have no concept of what being an officer is."

"Who are you to tell me anything!" Her anger being hot, her doubt and insecurity were for the moment in check. "You're the washout. You're the dope put in three years at Mars Academy and then chucked it all!" He'd ceased being a rabbit and the other funny things.

"I'm the dope, and you're the privileged brat who was let to rewrite her finals after she ought to have been expelled because her uncle is Grand Admiral."

Calvert was feeling every bit the cold she stood in. Her insecurity was back and intensified. Her breath went startled puffs. "Huh-how duh-duh-duh-do you knuh-knuh, knuh-know buh-buh-buh-bout thuh-thuh, thuh-thuh that!"

His laughter was the cruelest she'd ever heard. "I didn't know. It occurred to me out of the blue. You cheated and they let you pass anyway?"

"I didn't cheat!" she screamed back. "Yuh, you, yuh er buh-buh-bastard."

"Nice stutter." More laughter. "You ought to do something about that. Buy treatment for it. Buy yourself some smarts while you're at it."

She'd been standing as far away from him as was possible at the start of her run. In the next moment she was halfway there. Upon closing with him, Calvert swung her fist, not expertly.

Her punch slid across his shoulder because he ducked. She intended to impose a stop to his amusement. When she attempted a second swing, he caught her wrist, turned and twisted it, and then forced her arm behind her back. His other hand gripped her by the back of the neck. She gasped surprise, upset, perplexity, pain. "You've nuh-no ruh-ruh right tuh-talking tuh me that wuh-way! Leave muh-muh-me go!"

He shoved her, which was worse than the twisting of an arm. She'd been stunned by his strength and violence, or would have attacked him again. "I don't have the right," he said, "but I don't care, so write me up, bitch about me to Willard, shove another memo in my file. I don't give a shit."

"I'll do that. I'll duh-do all thuh-thuh-that!"

"Good."

"Good!" she shouted, glaring because she couldn't think of a thing better to do. She doubted her ability to effectively argue her side or to challenge him physically. He'd ripped into her over nothing. She carried away her anger and frustration, and hurt and embarrassment. She wished he'd fall, and then feared her wish had come true. The image before her mind's eye was too vivid not to be true. She had to look back, to see he was safe. It was good he didn't know she wept, nor the reason why. She was heartsick, dizzy, hot and cold. Calvert gazed uncertainly at his silhouette for a time, and then trudged wearily the rest of the way to her ship.

Chapter Thirteen - Restorations

No knobs nor recesses. Bare metal all the way down. When the tether moved up or down, the tiny bit of transparency encircling it expanded a noticeable amount. Energy was being absorbed or transmitted. Should he care? Calvert could include another titbit of information in her next report. Something to make her day. What would she do after they had dug all they could dig? Suggest another luxury for the three of them, which only she would have the time to indulge in? Tennis court, pool, go-cart track? Why not an amusement park? He had no choice but to obey her wishes, for as long as there was no one to exercise control over what she did.

Three hours of dreary after another night in another awful nightmare. Marco stared into the depth, the sun baking the back of his neck. Calvert would appear soon, along the way to her climate-controlled hutch. His day another of the hot, dry and dusty variety. If he hadn't been constrained by helmet and visor, he would have spat.

A different way would be do the job just to get it done. Let the machinery take care of itself. What use all of his hard work if it enhanced the reputation of an incompetent officer? An officer destined, through stupidity and arrogance, to put herself in a situation perfect for throwing lives away. Why not do things that other, easy, slack way? Hours less. Work easier. Stuff would break down, tasks wouldn't get done, but they wouldn't be doing things they shouldn't be doing.

If only he didn't care.

He shouldn't have gone home after his dad died. He wouldn't have alienated his brothers. He wouldn't have suffered through months of uncertainty, isolation and inadequacy. He'd done then as he did now: buried himself in the work, followed orders, tried to do the right thing while hoping for results that never came about.

Marco gusted his breath while pushing himself to his feet. He had never been good at confronting personal demons. He would knuckle under, swallow hard, soldier on. Things went to shit because they'd been headed that way to begin with.

The TRAXs worked at the mosaic's edge a hundred metres away; the dun-coloured vertical wall of the cut risen beyond them. He realized Calvert was near when a tile clattered. He assumed an immobile pose and fixed his attention on what was before him.

"Here's a tile loose," Calvert said, her tone neutral.

Fix it yourself ,why don't you?

"I see our scanner is doing well. Ah, why do you think—"

"Think what?" he interjected.

Sucking against the insides of her cheeks, Calvert wished he'd let her finish, even if it cost her a stuttering. Her mood was tuned toward apology, or at the least an explanation. She'd tell him no record was being kept of last night's incident. They had both been tired and behaved badly. She'd been giddy because of her hallucinations. No consequences had accrued except for the awkwardness that begged for resolution. She saw the transparency about the tether, as if a ring of lighter oil was tolerated by the big pool of darker. The effect strangely compelling.

The tether was far out of reach or she would have jostled it to see what might happen. Marco had just said something she'd not registered.

"What?"

"You don't care what I think." His tone harsh. "You never do." His complaint was harmonious with his new attitude.

She decided she would not let his sour mood diminish her charitable intent. Next she ceased to care. Her tongue pressed past her teeth. She was drawn to the pit, yearned to test her theory—to do so would be as easy as falling.

"Yes-s-s." She saw the shielding layer in operation. Machines rose out of it within transparent envelops, covers that flowed delectably away at the surface as the objects emerged. Her amazement entire.

Marco gazed at his companion. She began to topple, cliff diver style. He watched her, fatigue and preoccupation inhibited his response, and longer than was right once he realized what was happening. He shot out his hand, seizing her lower arm, her momentum pulled them to the edge nonetheless, and with an effort he wrenched them back.

"Little idiot," he gasped as he held her upright in a two-fisted grip. She did not grip him back, but stayed precarious at the edge of the abyss. "What in the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded as he half-carried, half-walked her back from danger.

Her response was long in coming. She strained against him, one hand gone out. "No," she said, shaking her head.

"What in the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

The images which had so entranced her had ceased. She wept for this being so.

"Don't you have something to say to me!"

She sat abruptly, slipping through his arms along the way. With a grunt he shifted his position and stance to catch her again. "Calvert!" he shouted to the top of her head.

She'd glimpsed the shield layer's modus operandi. Its mechanism was strange, beautiful, elegant and fascinating. Energy curtains sometimes were substituted for locks. When you opened one gate of a lock, the other stayed closed to maintain system equilibrium. The alien layer was a gate that neither opened nor closed, yet allowed machinery to pass through it while keeping environments at both ends separate and in equilibrium.

"Do you remember falling?"

Can you not interrupt me while I'm thinking? The technology within the alien 'lock', should its mechanisms ever be understood, would revolutionize shipbuilding and related industries. Except how could she relate what she'd been shown? Where would she say her information came from? Wouldn't it be wiser to keep her understanding of the layer's operation to herself?

"No," she replied sternly.

His humourless chuckle prefaced, "Then I just saved your skinny brown ass for nothing."

"That's disrespect, Mister Pacini," Calvert said, her thoughts tugged two different ways. Had she been about to fall? If so, her recollection was vague and overwhelmed by what the alien ship's intelligence had revealed to her.

"Disrespect? If I had let you fall, would that be showing respect?" Peering into her visor, he saw but the outline of her face. He waited for a reply, for staccato sputters. Instead she struggled to rise, he would not help, and when erect she turned and walked back the way she had come. She climbed out on the stair she'd insisted he build, continued on and turned at the junction to proceed to her sunbath.

'Coward' he mouthed to her back.

#

Danby listened to her wake-up chimes with eyes closed. Her bedroom responded with turning on its lights at low illumination. She'd slept deeply, felt refreshed, but realized she'd slept too much. Opening her eyes, she noted an amber dot on the console sited at the head of the bed. "Pacini, you didn't have to monitor me."

His reply was delayed. "You're awake."

Awake and ravenous. "Did you jimmy my alarm?"

"How are you feeling?"

"Don't dodge the question." Danby pulled on her ship suit. "My bedroom display informs me it's hours past my regular wake up time."

"Doctor's prerogative. You haven't forgotten who's chief medico, have you?"

"Aye, aye, sir." She put up her salute in the direction of his voice.

"Don't move until I get there."

She frowned to the control pad. "I'm up and getting something to eat."

"I'll join you." A pad attached to her biceps was a type used for administering medication. Its reservoir was dry. She remembered him gripping her arm last night.

Her malady wasn't the kind to be monitored or dosed. The patch went into her pocket, and she grinned, imagining his unwarranted dismay.

Pacini swept into the mess in his now typical muddled and stained condition.

"I'm not sick," she protested mildly, just feeling used up.

"Colour's better." He took her face between his calloused hands. She grimaced tolerantly. "Show me your tongue."

"I will not. What's gotten into you, Pacini?"

"Our joint headache," he grumbled as he released her.

She sipped from the glass of juice she'd prepared. She preferred his coffee, and would hint he make some soon. "What's she done now?"

"She almost—ah, it's her attitude. As always." He had neither the desire nor energy to gripe about the rest. He wouldn't mention Calvert's suicidal behaviour.

Danby grimaced behind her glass of orange flavoured liquid.

"No matter what she intends for us next, I'm putting my foot down."

Thoughtful frowning answered him.

"You don't agree?"

"Marco, are you going to eat anything?"

"Ah, sure, I could do with a sandwich."

Her smile was for what followed. "And coffee, too, please?"

"Ah, sure." He set off for the kitchen. Danby watched the intervening hatch after he'd passed through, her feelings wrapped comfortably about their relationship. "I had the strangest thought," Marco said as he came out again, a steaming mug in each hand.

He obviously begged for prompting and so she gave him some. "What about?" She accepted her beverage one sugar, two creams, as she liked it.

"Last night the barrier collapsed. That shouldn't have happened."

Danby knew she'd suffered no hallucination. The presence in the barrier, its genie, was real. The encounter too strange and intimate to share, for now.

"There was no reason for the barrier to collapse. It ought to have stayed up. The only reason I can come up with, and I know this is going to sound weird, is that whatever controls it wanted to show us you were all right."

"Is that a question?" Danby made her look bigger.

"Not really?" he said.

She wanted to tell him of her experience in the barrier, except he appeared too near to collapse to take in the implications. She worried he might obsess over it. Something was down there, a lot of things, but he didn't have to know about them yet. "I was as surprised as you were. That about sums it up."

"No other experiences?"

"Not a one." Danby sucked against the insides of her cheeks, her best poker face on.

"She'll want one of us to go down and check the damn thing top to bottom next."

Danby rubbed the side of her nose while his excellent coffee warmed her insides. She watched him when he ought not to notice. He looked to be all but sleeping over his chair. "You need a day off."

"Don't I know it," he muttered.

"Really, you do. Why don't you take one?"

"Happy needs his hydraulics flushed, and there are a hundred other things to do."

"Today?"

"Yes, today. As soon as they're finished, I have to start the thousand hour clean and maintenance on all six. You know how corrosive the dust is."

"I'll help."

"Beth, that kind of stuff—besides showing a light there's not much else you can do." He abruptly closed his mouth. He'd been about to suggest something, but didn't want to spoil her day along with his own.

"What is it?" She smiled, and he knew absolutely he loved her.

His spirits recharging, he replied, "Nothing. You should take the day, do whatever you like. I can manage."

"You're a liar, Marco Pacini, and not a very good one. I can twist a nut every bit as good as you."

"Beth." He looked down, and shook his head.

"We'll have something to eat and get started. No matter what we're doing when end of shift comes, we knock off. No arguments."

His shift had started three and a half hours earlier. "You got it, toots." A beery smile. "But, like I said, Happy's hydraulics are a one man job."

"Don't call me 'toots'," she replied with mock severity, restraining herself from the affectionate punch or pinch she would have otherwise have given him. "You'll call me right after you're done with Happy. For now sit and I'll make us sandwiches."

"I got a thing to do before I get started," he said through a mouthful of whole wheat, lettuce, bacon and cheese later on. "Won't take fifteen minutes."

#

Calvert lay on her side asleep and bare. Marco had called out before coming in. He didn't voyeur, merely did he stand. He'd lost enthusiasm for viewing his boss's body in any condition of dress or undress, in motion or at rest. A while longer he stood, eyes half closed, appreciating the ambience, Calvert's bronzed body part of the scenery, before retreating to the exit. As loud as he could he shouted, stamping the floor at the same time.

"Give me a minute." And then: "What is it?"

He told her cosily covered self his plans for the day while she exhibited polite interest.

"I suppose you intend checking out the shaft." He knew he stated the obvious.

She seized and held her breath a moment before saying, "Yes."

"In a couple of days? I've equipment needing to be put to bed."

"By all means." A shrug. "All right."

"Anything you want me to do?" He watched her through eyes half closed.

"No. The excavating will finish on schedule?"

"We'll be done tomorrow early."

"Very well. Carry on."

Walking out, he thought she hadn't fooled him. She'd plenty of cockeyed whimsy in herself yet. She'd resume her true colours in no time. When she falls the next time, I won't even try to grab her.

#

Danby squeezed harder, the effort to get through those few more millimetres triggered a tremble byproduct. The tension held as long as she was able. The result, its red suspended accusingly before her eyes—fifteen percent beneath her former peak strength.

She'd been neglecting her workout regimen. Too much trudging, sitting, scrubbing, scraping. Muscle mass was being lost. What remained was going slack.

Sim booth #2 her destination. "Polyphemus, Obstacle Course Beta Rho Alpha Tau, Difficulty Level Three." She'd been stalwart at Level One. Now was not the time for hubris. She'd estimated her condition as two levels down from what it had been. A path twisting between trees, over ruts, roots and stones on legs uncomfortably stiff. Heaving herself along, Danby realized after the first fifty metres she might not have the stamina for even this easier form of her favourite workout, but carried on anyway.

Her breathing uneven and laboured, the sweat poured from her body, pounding through a stream she ought to have leapt across in a few strides. Next she forced her flaccid self up an incline, angrily, trembling, pulling herself along, her balance persisting as precarious.

A little past the summit was a vertical wall four metres high. Skirt it or launch into a climb that, if taken right, required no more than five leaps-and-pulls. The first barely landed. Her second failed to find its right slot. Scrabbling furiously she arrested a slide, and then forged her way up grimly, bruising fingers and toes relentlessly. Her confidence at the top in tatters.

No matter how hard she trembled, how much she perspired, or how many times she fell down, this bitch course was not going to beat her.

Trestle bridge next. The spaces between ties were matched with the level of difficulty. At level 3 this was 68 centimetres. Ten evenly spaced ties over a hip-deep mud wallow. Her leaps spot on for the first three ties. Flatfoot landing on the middle of the fourth tie, toes on the edge of the fifth. Teetering, her destiny seemed a headfirst mud bath. Force feet together. Her momentum had bled out and she was stopped. Balance off. Windmill arms. Just drop, her traitorous next thought. No effing way! Hopscotching the rest got them done.

Over-and-unders stumbled and plodded through with no joy. Ridge line. Rope bridge. After those, standing, hands on hips, chest working like a bellows.

Danby drew air in through her clenched teeth. Trembling, nausea, headache, sweat, hot. Drag herself up the next obstacle, twist over, fall into a heap, and that was it. Not another step. She wouldn't be finishing the course, two-thirds done just, not even at the lower setting.

"Polyphemus end." Uneven earth went bare floor. The bleating red numerals in her upper view accused and condemned. How could she do her job, her real job? Her stamina and fitness so low?

The fatigue, guilt and anger aftermath she would have to tolerate. Flat on her face was a wrong pose for exiting. "Suspension field on." Bring feet under herself. "Booth open. Blow me, Poly."

A stumble during her exit—of course! Baby steps to the prep room. The sim suit ham-fisted open. How had she turned into such a wreck! Gravity, heat and dust. Hours and hours of debilitating work, and never a decent rest. Totter from prep room to change room to shower. Every movement and muscle out of tune and in a crippled condition.

Along way to her cabin, the solid metal bulkhead pressed against.

"Beth!" Calvert called cheerily, alert, tan and fit. "You just get up?"

No, I haven't. Danby abandoned her support to push the dampness from her palms onto the fabric over her thighs. She drew in a long breath. "Ensign . . ."

Calvert jogged the rest of the way to a meeting. "Are you all right?" she asked with concern. "You look done in."

"I'm fine," Danby replied irritably, self-disgust in her tone. Also was she angry owing to the meddling attitude Calvert greeted her with.

Calvert responded as if spurned. Her lips parted in protest. She continued on her way.

Danby, determined to continue without support, managed one step before the fainting spell which ambushed her. A boneless fall. She was unconscious before she hit the deck.

Calvert realized an emergency when she heard the thud. Look behind. First an unkind thought—leave Danby as she was and continue on her way. Kneeling over the unconscious woman, she put hands to hips. "What's come over you, Beth?— Pacini!"

He grumbled, "What is it?"

"Danby's fallen. She's unconscious."

"Where are you?"

"Crew Deck Upper." She'd heard an accusatory breath drawn. "Pacini?"

"Make sure her breathing stays unobstructed. I'll be right up."

An unconscious person might swallow her tongue and choke, or vomit into her windpipe and choke. Danby had fallen directly onto her face. Delicately Calvert moved the victim so the weight of her head was supported by her cheek and not her forehead and slipped fingers in to feel for her tongue, ensuring it did not block her breathing. There, the girl pronounced to herself, certain Danby was in no danger of asphyxiation.

Shifting aside a lock of hair confirmed a bruised forehead. The youth eased herself to a seat next to the unconscious woman that would be comfortable to wait from. Minutes later she looked up with a guilty start. Pacini emerged from the near lift drawing a stretcher. "She's still unconscious," Calvert warily said, pushing herself to her feet. He might be about to blame her for what had happened. "Breathing okay. I repositioned her so she'd be more comfortable."

Pacini grunted, knelt, examined the unconscious woman, and applied a diagnostic patch to her throat. "Hold the stretcher steady," he said.

"She looked unwell before her collapse."

Marco appeared not to listen. Gently he took the patient into his arms. Calvert was impressed by how easily he managed it. Remembering when he treated her for scrapes, she tingled. "Are you taking her to sickbay?"

"Yes." He lay Danby within the stretcher. The youth envious, excited and guilty all at once.

"She probably wouldn't want to go to sickbay."

"What she might want is irrelevant."

Calvert nodded, hands made fists at her sides, the crescents of her nails threatening her palms with their sharpness, and followed as he set off.

"You don't have to tag along." The stretcher floated by his hip. He steered it by a handle.

"I want to." She fell into step with him. She wasn't angry owing to his abruptness despite she felt entitled to be. She minded him less when he performed doctor tasks for them. Even she was envious of Danby being the focus of his attention. Marco was remarkably caring for someone so coarse and hairy. They didn't speak, not even while he took Danby from the stretcher, and prepped her for insertion into the auto doc.

"What are you doing?" Calvert had to ask. "She's not hurt as bad as that is she?"

"This way she gets the rest she needs."

"How long?"

"Twenty-four hours." He directed the padded tray on which his patient lay into the gleaming interior of the auto doc and sealed the transparent partition. On one of the low consoles a row of lights came on. "She's in a controlled sleep. Should come out one hundred percent."

Calvert nodded.

Marco glanced into a screen, rubbed his eyes, peered a moment longer, and turned away.

"What's up?"

"Eyes playing tricks on me."

"Are you very busy?" She intended volunteering her services for whatever needing doing. Even she'd try her hand at teasing gooey grit out of cracks. He gazed at her with such raw intensity she drew a defensive breath.

"Yes," he replied in a hostile enough manner that she could not help but take umbrage.

If that was to be his way, he could forget about her helping. She knew how busy he was. She needn't bother asking. He'd a heap of work waiting for him in Boat Bay. She'd asked to be sociable, not to be cruelly rebuffed. "I think we should carry on with examining the shaft."

"You said we were going to wait."

"We might as well. We are enough, just the two of us, after you've finished what it is you're doing. Tonight, when it's cool. We have to retrieve that scanner capsule, don't we?" He had to agree, owing to his obsession for the welfare of his precious equipment.

"Aye, sir."

"Do you think you can have what we need ready for tonight?"

"I've a full day ahead of me," he protested, brittle calm coating his anger, a condition she took note of with no difficulty at all.

"An hour to survey, which I'll do." No danger lurked in the shaft. All of the monsters were in the chamber beyond it.

"You will?" His expression went from petulance to surprise.

Why is he surprised? She'd always done whatever it took to further the mission. "I will. Finish up what you're doing in the BB, rig what we need, and take the rest of the day off." He smiled. Something she rarely saw. Did he rejoice because she offered to put herself at risk? Did he anticipate an accident befalling her? Did he hate her so much he wished her harm? What kind of a man would desire such a thing?

"All right," he drawled, his expression neutral as mud. No talking her out of it? He'd been stridently opposed to Danby doing the same thing. Didn't she rate one tiny protest at least?

"I'll watch Duh-Danby in the muh-muh-meantime." Damn. His indifference had thrown her vocal apparatus out of sync.

He gazed into the auto doc. "That won't be necessary. The 'doc will look after her."

Her cheeks were far too warm. "I guess I'll guh-go then—I've a ruh-report to fuh-fuh-finish." This one would be the preliminary to tonight's investigation, including what happened when Danby went into the barrier. Calvert had debated herself whether she ought to include her other impressions, which would be bound to seem strange or suspicious, and decided not to.

Calvert turned to go, expecting Marco to follow. "Didn't you say she'd be okay?" He scowled, and she wondered what she'd said to annoy him.

Hours later, not long after nightfall, Calvert tongued moisture to her lips. She'd thought things through and decided the reason why she tested a dangerous environment was to wring from Marco the respect which was her due. He stood nearby, whistling a sea shanty.

"All set," he called.

"Okay," she called back through a constricted throat. No hallucinations this time. Marco was Marco and not some ridiculous man-animal. The mosaic, however, did something it hadn't done before. Made images. Ghosts of things were everywhere, silvery white and dancing in a thousand places at once.

Calvert was nervous. To stand as though nothing she saw was worthy of comment would have challenged a saint. She'd trained ballet as a child, for exercise and confidence building. It had helped her control her stuttering too.

The girl looked through support frame to starry sky, and then into the inky black she was destined for. Pacini had rigged a bosun's chair. All she need do was swing out and fall a little. Pacini controlled the slack in the line attached to her harness.

"Ah, sir?"

"Okay," she repeated. A hop put her over nothing, eyes closed.

"I'm going to lower you to just over the barrier for now."

Down until her toes were poised at the surface. Close up the layer appeared neither liquid nor solid. It was a device created by beings similar to her.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes," she replied, concentrating so her reply should have no flaw in it. "Lower away."

"Lowering away, aye."

The surface resisted her not at all. A gentle tugging feet, ankles, shins, knees, thighs. Immersed to the hips, she took a big breath in case she'd need it. An impulse to scream was swallowed. Next under all the way. A drifting through oil.

Here you are! Welcome!

What? Who are you? Her eyes remained closed. She wasn't going to open them.

Why are you afraid?

I don't trust you. This experience is very strange. How are you communicating with me?

Mind to mind. I've waited a long time for you, Julie Calvert.

Past the barrier's far side and still she would not open her eyes. It had been unpleasant to hold her breath. Hallucination was friend to panic. She knew nothing was here to harm her. The passage through the barrier had been molecules passing between two membranes. Pacini continued the lowering. She was metres beneath the barrier by now, and he hadn't asked how she did. Annoyance contended with fear. She'd hallucinated owing to novelty and disquiet. Calvert opened her eyes and cautiously peered side to side. Powerful lights cast four shadows to four patches on the shaft. The lights travelled with her.

"How's it going down there?"

Finally! "Just fine!" she snarled. Her chest hurt—she only imagined it did. Breathing was without stress, discomfort or pain.

"The barrier stayed up."

She squinted and, although she ought not to have been able to see anything, the lights' dazzling, Calvert saw the barrier remained intact, but was she seeing it or imagining that she did? "Well, we didn't think it would drop this time," she muttered.

"Notice anything interesting?"

She wasn't going to confess she'd communicated with a phantom or that she'd seen through glare. "Nothing. I'm good to continue."

"Roger that. Lowering. You're thirty metres down."

"If you say so," she responded tartly.

"You see the scanner?"

Always fussing over his machines. The INV45 was parked not much further down. Of course she saw it. Its motion, energy and biological sensors observed her approach and sent the particulars to his handset. "It's right beneath me."

"How would you like to proceed from here?"

She could end her little foray into the unknown as soon as she had the scanner in hand, duty and honour satisfied. "Lower me," she said instead.

"You're the boss."

I'm nuts, is what I am. Another breath was taken to hold. No voice crooned more about how safe she was. They'd examined the shaft top to bottom by remote already. If anything lay in wait after hundreds of thousands of years of inactivity it must be microscopic.

Pacini lowered the scanner at the same time, supplying her with light below as well as above. "Would you like to spiral?" he asked after a dozen more metres of descent.

She didn't need to be made dizzy. Each of the walls was identical in colour, texture, width, and lack of feature. Examining one examined all. "Just lower me." The air had a tang, gritty and acrid. What if she was being poisoned? "Pacini, stop."

"What is it?" He paused her descent.

"The air tastes funny."

"I'm not registering anything noxious."

"I'm getting a headache."

"Do you want back up?" Whiner.

"What?"

"What?"

"Did you just say something?"

"Do you want to abort?"

"No." She squinted sourly. "Continue."

"Aye, sir."

She couldn't be reading his thoughts. She only imagined she had. He should try breathing 100 000 year-old air. Descending, the tugging at her centre persisting, as if combination of chair, rope and pulley was impediment. She would do better free falling. A hundred metres of space beneath her yet. She would not survive a fall from so great a height.

The hundred metres were passed through unremarkably and she arrived over a floor no different in texture than the walls. She could not help but feel disappointment.

"You're there."

"I'm here."

"Do you see the bullet probes? Should be parts of them scattered about."

The probes were in view: one with filament snipped short and the other beneath a tidy coil of fine line. She saw them when she looked, near each other. "Found 'em." Only after would she be amazed by her clarity of vision. The probes the size of thimbles, the light ought to have blinded her, she'd seen them clearly. They were intact and appeared operational.

"I'd like to salvage the parts if I can."

"Oh, you can do more than that."

"See anything worth picking up?"

"Give me a second."

"How long do you intend staying down there?" Calvert's feet grazed the floor. A simple bend, scoop and scoop, and she had his precious devices in hand.

"Ready now." A few seated steps set her by a wall to which she put her palm. Neither warm nor cool, a temperature near her own. An insistent tug drew her back to the centre. "Hold on a second!"

"I thought you were finished. Did you find something?"

"Give me another minute." Calvert resumed her communing with the wall. She saw inside as if metres of metal were millimetres of glass. An enormous beak thrust at her, its act of primal curiosity appreciated with wide-eyes staring. "God in Her Great Black Heaven," she murmerered, stumbling back.

"Calvert?"

"Get me out of here."

Minutes later she was sitting owing to a trembling too significant for standing, and was comforted by almost human surroundings, one hand knuckles-deep in her hair. She stared straight ahead, and ignored the play of ghosts before her.

"What did you see?" from a man anxious to be told something.

She mulled a five count what her answer should be before removing the perfect probes from her pocket and handing them over.

"What's this?" He stared amazed at what he'd received.

"I'm going to bed. Give me a hand up?"

Marco levered her to her feet by a handshake. He watched her totter before catching her elbow and setting a supportive hand against her back. "What did you see?" he asked again.

"I'm really tired."

"Take the sled."

A restorative breath. "Gib me a 'nuther hand up?"

He got her into the sled. She could ride it all the way to her cabin if she wanted.

Marco watched her go. The amazing gift of intact probes made dents in his pocket. He brought them out, turned them in his hand, put them back. The barrier beneath him dark and quiet.

The Imperium had similar, far less effective technology. A version nowhere near so thick required huge amounts of energy to sustain. The R&D geeks would go nuts trying to figure it out. He was curious to know what his commander had seen. His status that of a hireling, yet he was also an essential member of the team. Calvert should not be keeping secrets. He regretted, for only the second time he could recall, he'd given up on becoming an officer.

A snort. Fatigue fogged his thought. He'd gone that route and thrown it away as unreasonable expectation. The officer class was rotten with privilege and favouritism. Far happier was he as a tech, despite the many times he'd known he could have done things better than the girl in charge.

The moons were out. The planet had two odd shaped satellites that circled at distances of eighty and one hundred ten thousand kilometres. So insignificant they were unworthy of names.

"We're running low on fresh," he said into his comm, knowing Calvert couldn't be in bed yet. They showered twice a day and her sunbath leaked tremendously into the parched air. In less than four weeks they'd gone through as much fresh as a full crew would have in six months.

"We can go tomorrow or the next day," was her reply.

"Aye, sir."

He returned to the ship, and all the way into med lab where he touched the part of clear cover nearest the face of the woman he loved. Her bruising was healed. "You've got to take it easy, girl." Another sixteen hours in the 'doc, light duty to follow. "Don't have a lot of time to visit," he said as he pulled up a chair. "Hitting the sack pretty soon myself."

No end to the moil of work. The long hours and continuous effort took their toll and fouled his wits. He looked upon her sweet features and sighed. "What do you say we go off somewhere just the two of us when this is all over?"

Barely he'd closed his eyes. The breeze fluttering in beaded his glass of lemon and ice with moisture. He didn't mind heat that was comfortable, the swing swaying beneath him. Beth crossed in a cloud of delectable scent. "Hey, you, when did you start wearing perfume?" he said muzzily, one eye half open, the other closed. He opened both to full and grinned. She'd come from somewhere on the run, her white dress and its flowers clung to her in places.

"Vanilla extract. I've improvised, for you."

"Hum-m-m?"

"I've one bottle of vanilla extract and another of lemon. I've flour, baking soda, cocoa, flour, yeast and a whole lot of other ingredients. Do you intend I cook for you?"

"Why would I want you to cook? Come here, you." Snagging her arm, drawing her down to the seat, he kissed her cheek, and next her mouth, which he liked better.

"I don't know," she muttered against him. Drawing away, she said, "I could try."

"Sure," he said amicably. Even should her bread turn out bricks he'd try eating them.

"I'm going out." Julie in sarong and halter top emerged from the hut. His scowl was not easy to fix nor disguise.

"Take a light?" asked Beth.

"I'm okay. Plenty of moon glow." Cautiously, she said, "Hey, Marco."

"Hey, yourself." The nature of his gaze changed from fuzzily angry to neutral.

"Don't be long," warned Beth.

"He's not staying?" Julie asked.

"No," Beth replied.

Julie shrugged, moved off, and was absorbed into shadowy forest.

"She's reconciled," said Beth. "And not happy about it."

"Reconciled with what?"

"You know what."

"Why would I leave her behind?" He nine-tenths hated the kid, but even should he hate her all the way, he wouldn't leave her or anyone else in a life or death situation if he could avoid it.

"You can't have any doubts."

"Doubts about what?"

"Oh, Marco. It's so important she survive, we can't even contemplate our own safety."

"Oh, really?" He felt the renewal of his anger.

"That attitude will destroy us all," said Beth as she extricated herself from his arms. "You have to trust me about that."

The porch lights applied softness rather than harshness to her features. The old Danby was in her, as stern as ever. "I won't leave her," he protested.

"No matter what. Say it."

"No matter what." His answer was as firm as he could make it.

"Damn you, Marco Pacini," she muttered.

"What? What have I done?"

"Just think things over, okay?" Beth rubbed the side of her nose, which made him laugh. "What?" she asked irritably.

"You rubbed your nose."

"So? So what?" He'd annoyed the ephemeral girl, which amused him afresh and so he laughed afresh. "What are you doing?" Beth pushed herself the rest of the way up and stood over him.

"You—you're doing things that, well, I find them amusing."

"Amusing?" She twitched her lips—another Danby trait. "What is with you, Marco? You . . . you don't realize . . ." She looked at him in a narrow, speculative way.

"Realize what, sweetheart?" He loved talking cosy to her.

"You don't and you won't," she grumbled, crossed the porch onto bare ground, and ran, her feet raising sand tails—realism, shapes, textures just right. He looked after her a moment, and got up to chase. "Beth!"

"Wake up, Marco," she growled over her shoulder.

"I don't remember entering the sim booth."

"You're not in a sim booth, imbecile." Beth abruptly turned from beach to water, forging her way through shallows until she stood hip deep.

"How else could I be here?" he asked, catching up.

"You are here," she said, splashing back to him. "Right here!" She poked him in the chest with her finger, hard. "The reason you don't comprehend that fact is you won't or you can't believe. Which is why Julie is in danger for her life. Do you get it?"

"Julie is here because she wouldn't go away when I brought you in to replace her."

"Argh!" Fists were raised. Marco watched, fascinated by her emotion, animation, and the clutching from the waist down of wet and gone transparent dress.

"I must be dreaming?" he tried.

"You're a freaking idiot." Beth peeled out of her dress, tossed it at him, smack, and plunged into the water.

Despite how amazed he'd been by his hallucination, he wouldn't dive after her. He was going to wait for her to come back up. Night, moonlight, water and surf confused his sight and hearing.

"Shut up, Marco," Danby hissed at him.

The change in lighting scheme startled him. Marine Corporal Elizabeth Danby ought to be right in front of him, but he saw nothing owing to the glare. "Cripes," he breathed. He'd left cosy dream for crushing nightmare. What made the transition endurable was that his girl was nearby. He peered eagerly forward.

She emerged from darkness. Despite she wore bulky battle gear and her visor was down, he'd no difficulty identifying her. "I heard a noise," she said, swinging her rifle along an arc. Next she pointed with her chin and said, "On the other side of that spot."

He hadn't heard a thing and told her so. They stood in an environment too alien to classify as other than hostile to life—a death zone. He'd been here many times. Objects beneath black as midnight cloth surrounded them on both sides. Rack upon rack kilometres deep and hundreds of metres high. "What's with the light?" A sled, whose belly wore multiple lights floated a handful of metres above their heads. The light was a great deal dimmer than it ought to be.

"It's gotten weaker. Hadn't you noticed?"

He chuckled. "Nah, I just got here."

"For shit sake, Marco, this is no time to screw around."

"I'm not screwing around." The sled followed him, being programmed to do so. He was near enough to one of the artifacts to touch it, its cover sparkling as though rimed with frost.

"Quit wasting time," Danby grumbled. "We have to keep going."

He couldn't tell how thick the cloth was. Ridges and projections had neither edge nor point. Press with a finger and it dimpled, but would spring back as soon as contact ended. He would appreciate its sable feel better if he took off his gloves.

Something large quivered on the other side of the artifact. He came upright with a jerk, backed a step, and then retreated as an inky flow gushed onto the portion of floor he'd vacated.

"Starry Heaven!" He was fearful, also fascinated. He'd never seen this effect before. The tarry liquid heaping up ahead of his toes was an undead guardian. No plain liquid flowed up and over obstacles, in defiance of gravity and rules of fluid dynamics. He'd started with a metre of separation. Now he had none.

"Come on!" Danby snagged his harness in a fierce one-handed grip, hauled him across the aisle, and through the rack they must already have crossed. Red threat icons in his heads-up display pulsed frenetically.

"What in hell's going on?" he asked. Danby tumbled them into another aisle, the obedient light having to find a sufficiently large gap to pass through before it could follow.

"I told you, this is no time to screw around," Danby growled as she ran the two of them at another obstacle not much different from the one just crossed through. "Get your butt in gear!" She tossed him through a gap barely sufficient to accommodate his stocky build with all the junk he had on. He ended on his hands and knees on the other side. Danby crashed into him as he tried to rise, knocking him flat.

"Watch it," he grumbled as they untangled.

"Get up!" Another fisted grip and pull. "It's right behind us. Get the fuck up!"

"All right—hey, take it easy. Where's the exit, do you think?"

"You've picked the stupidest time to get cute." They entered side by side gaps in the next rack.

"You think I'm cute?"

"Keep moving!"

Soon he would bail from this hallucinatory nightmare. His straps were cutting into his shoulders and his pack felt full of bricks. He discovered grenades attached to his harness. "Hey, what are these for?" he mused, appreciating the novelty which hadn't been in his other dreams. He'd several palm-friendly bombs attached. Why not pluck one off and toss it? Before he could act on his impulse Danby was gone. "Beth?" Had she run beyond the range of his sensors, or was she entirely gone? "Beth? Hey, Babe, where'd you go?"

"Pacini?"

"Beth?"

"Pacini, that is you, isn't it?"

He staggered to a stop. He was going to peel out of all his crap, and even shuck his goddamn fatigues and go naked. He was sweating like a horse after a race, dizzy, and suffered the worst headache ever. "Who's that?" He knew who it had to be.

"You know damned well who this is," Calvert muttered.

"Don't register you." Nothing in his heads-up. This is what Beth meant. I need to find Calvert wherever she is, and bring us both out. How in the hell am I supposed to do that?

He fumbled for his handset. The floating lights were no more, having lost him or run out of power and crashed. Neither of those outcomes apply in this instance, he decided. He'd jumped time. When he'd been with Beth was hours earlier. Pack, grenades, sidearm all gone.

"Pacini, you've got to get me out of here."

"I've no idea where 'here' is." Maybe she wasn't really out there, he couldn't tell for sure, all he heard was her voice, and her presence didn't register at all in his handset.

"Where are you? You've got to help me."

"You're not there. This is a dream. In a minute I'm going to wake up. I'm not even sure where I am at this moment. You just go on and find your own way out."

"Pacini! Don't you dare leave me!"

"I'm in the middle of something important right now, so, if you don't mind . . ." Oops, there it was. Calvert's representative icon popped up in his HUD and handset both. "All right, I see you."

"Thank Dark Heaven. I don't have a lot of time left."

"You and me both," he muttered. He had her pinpointed, location ahead and right. Three racks between them, the first of which he was about to cross. "Have you seen Beth?"

"Of course not. I haven't been with anyone other than Steve since the ambush."

Steve? Who Steve? "What ambush?" Had she seen Beth and concealed the fact so he wouldn't leave her to go after Beth instead? Many people were down here, in jeopardy for their lives, and the reason why was Julie Calvert. He found a gap in the next rack with just enough room to crawl through. A check of Calvert's position discovered it no longer where it had been. Four racks between them when before his handset had registered three and he'd crossed one of them.

"Quit moving the wrong way," he growled as he jogged through brief open territory.

"What in the hell are you saying? I've been standing still the whole time."

"You have? Well, you're three racks further out than you were before." He peered along the next rack, saw where he should go and hurried as much as he was able to the next crossing.

"I didn't move! Haven't you got a sled?"

Squirming through a really tight fit was a birth experience. "Who's Steve?" he asked as he landed headfirst hard. "Whoa, fuck!"

"He came after me. You were there, idiot—did you swear at me?"

"I'm not swearing at you. I landed on my head."

After another examination of his heads-up, he realized the little idiot had moved again. Four racks between them again. As he watched, she added a fifth.

"You're going the wrong way!"

"Don't yell at me!" Her voice fainter, despite its hysterics.

"Stay still!" She'd moved again. To catch up, he would have to run like an insane person, bashing himself silly—effort, strain and punishment he didn't see any point in unless she cooperate and quit going the wrong fucking way! What was she thinking? Didn't she see him in her own visor? If she'd stayed put, they would be linked up by now.

He renewed acquaintance with his heads-up, anticipating a further increase in distance, and wasn't disappointed. Her icon gone from his displays. She had passed beyond range of his failing sensors. Would rescuing her be this hard? "Calvert? Ensign Calvert?" He had little hope of renewing contact. No trace of her in his heads-up or handset. She was gone. He'd missed his opportunity to rescue her.

"Beth? Calvert?" Though it made no difference he held his handset at arm's length. "Come on kids. Playtime's over." Their beacons were not functioning or they were beyond his range. "I guess I'll head on home." He'd a faint idea in which direction 'home' might be. Beacons had been set out. He couldn't be far from the nearest. As for Calvert, she would be lying somewhere in a condition of collapse. He saw her before his mind's eye surrounded by a mob of silently mourning tar giants. The image troubled him deeply. He'd the vision of a failure to regret all the rest of his life.

"Dammit. . . ." Regret and sorrow pulsed through him. He'd failed, but he hadn't tried hard enough when he should have. When this was for real he would rush to her as though chased by a holocaust of fire. Unless she helped he'd no chance of succeeding, he also realized. They'd never link up, she'd die, and he'd be an emotional wreck with no career, hopes, life worthwhile after.

He travelled down an aisle like any other aisle. Ghostly outlines as boundaries right and left. He saw no better than fifty metres ahead and was weary beyond description. If this was a sample of what awaited him, he couldn't imagine bringing even himself clear. "Need pickup," he muttered. "How's about I go back to the beach?"

"Marco, is that you?"

"Who's this?" No voice he recognized. "Where's Beth?"

"I've got you in my screen. I'll be right there. Have you Ensign Calvert with you?"

"I couldn't get to her . . ."

The anonymous voice resumed. "There's no time. We're evacuating right now."

"Yeah, I know." A pain sharp and concentrated struck his foot. "Pacini!" impacted vicious on his ear. Before she could further abuse him Marco snagged her wrist. Calvert glared at him. "You were sleeping," she protested while twisting her wrist free. "Have you gone out yet?"

"Gone out? What? When? What time is it?"

"Thirteen hundred hours." He'd squeezed harder than he'd meant to, but then she'd kicked him damned hard to begin with.

He hadn't even left sickbay. "I was tired."

"Your TRAXs are lined up for maintenance."

"Yeah, they are, why should you care?"

"Jerk," she said under her breath, which he heard clear as a shout.

"Screw you." He checked the doc's displays and log. Danby slept on and would continue in that happy condition for several hours more.

"Bastard son of a bitch," Calvert murmured, hands on hips. As before, he heard her as clearly as though she'd spoken normally.

"Fuck off," he growled. "Don't you have to go brown your ass some more?"

"Fucker," she snarled, tears standing in her eyes.

"I don't know why you're so upset," he grumbled back. "You're back, aren't you?"

"Buh–buh-back?" She'd gone very still.

"Yeah, back. I told you to stay put. You wouldn't listen and went off on your merry way. It's your own fault you got left behind. Next time pay attention to what you're told." He smirked vindictively owing to the mood she'd put him in.

"I duh-don't know a suh-single thuh-thing a-buh-bout what you're suh-suh-saying."

"Fine." He waved a hand in dismissal. She backed out of range as though he'd meant to strike her. "What in hell's eating you any way . . ." He'd realized the source of her disquiet. She'd shared his dream. He stared long at his commander, next at Beth in her box, and at Calvert again.

"What are you doing?" Calvert's colouring was far out of tune.

"You know. You were there." He recalled something that ought to have alerted him to the reason behind her off and on peculiar behaviour well before now. "You're having the same dreams, sharing them with us, me and Beth. You're in mine and I'm in yours."

"Whuh-what? That's insane." Her fake incredulity fooled him not one bit.

"You're lying. What's worse is you knew we've been sharing dreams, and you never said word one about it to either of us."

"I don't knuh-know what you're talking a-buh-buh-buh-bout."

"Oh, shut up!" He took a step. She backed away. Because of how angry he was, he followed after, matching her step for step. She finished against the wall with him against her and breathing deep of her scent. "Why the secrecy? Do you intend excluding us from all chance of reward? Do you have an agenda that's even worse than the one we're operating from now?"

"No!" She leaned as far away she could from his unwashed condition and stale breath. "You're crazy to think that!"

"Crazy now. A son of a bitch moments ago. What else? Oh, yes, I'm also a prick."

"You, I, ah—I have to go."

"Sure," he said, "go make yourself seem busy. You're good at that." During her retreat a waste container toppled, its contents spilling across the deck, which both of them were far too upset to do anything about.

Chapter Fourteen - Orders From on High.

Calvert's gaze was prone to wander. Her lips were not firm enough. As the pause between transmission and reception of each part of the conversation was several minutes in duration, and she hadn't arranged anything for herself to do, the youth struggled to keep her concentration, and her anxiety, under wraps. A slip, if not inevitable, was likely.

Captain John Thorpe had anticipated what to do with his in-between times, filling them with mundane activities. A screen peered into. Documents received and signed. Extra taken into his coffee cup. He had at one time left to attend some matter—she supposed, hand over smirk, to make use of his commode. After the most recent pause, Thorpe's question was, "Have you determined if it is possible to cut through to the shaft?"

He'd begun with several questions at once. Without needing to consult the replay, she'd responded, with detail meant to please him, and she'd not stuttered.

"Not yet, sir. We've tried soundings, but they're inconclusive." Calvert had known since first touch how thick the barrier was. Imagining a tape measure inside, she might state a measure accurate to the millimetre. Marco had attempted to come at a result with sonic and seismic tests, his attempts dissipating not far past the surface. "The material is very dense. As for how thick it is, we're unable to tell."

"I didn't ask how thick it was. I asked, 'Can you cut through it?' If you haven't made the attempt, I recommend you try," was his response.

Calvert's expression turned thoughtful. Despite how incredible the notion would seem to anyone else, she had intuited the shaft was permeable. Objects might pass through as if through water. Its function was like that of the black layer, textural differences no matter. Having no basis for her observation other than 'supernatural', she'd decided not to mention it. "Aye, sir," was her sterile reply.

"Our passenger is anxious to enter the wreck." Thorpe showed annoyance after this declaration. Calvert supposed he and his passenger did not get along. "I suggest an attempt be made. If successful, you are not to enter the wreck yourselves. Our arrival, by best estimate, shall be sixty-four days from hence. Necessary tasks create the delay, otherwise we would arrive sooner. In addition, you are no longer to report to Captain Willard, but to me."

Willard removed as overseer? Calvert blinked rapidly to banish the surprise and dismay from her features. Willard was a junior captain, in command of a minor warship. The derelict, being huge and portentous, rated a larger authority. Thorpe was much senior to Willard and that nearest larger authority. His heavy cruiser Hyder Ali, was diverting from its regular sphere of operations to guard the discovery. Without doubt capital ships would follow.

Her 'aye, sir' acknowledged his last instruction. She waited anxiously in case he intended asking anything else. After several seconds, she asked: "Is Lieutenant Hutchinson not returning? We—you know there are only three of us?" Her gaze went to his widow's peak, which he inclined toward her. Thorpe was small. 1.70 metres, 70 kilos, slim and small-boned. He more than made up for small size with a work ethic all navy, hence all business.

As John Thorpe was now her commanding officer, she must really mind her step. His image roused itself to say: "Have you anything else to report or to ask?"

Despite having already asked her question, the dutiful subordinate conducted a survey of her thoughts for further matters for query or remark. She and her crew were in caretaker mode. With regards her study of the alien alphabet, she'd made no progress beyond her prime symbol catalogue. Beth's revelation that each symbol was a whole book had yet to bear intellectual fruit. "No sir. My reports are complete and up-to-date." Thorpe had her reports. She suspected he'd reviewed portions of them between comments, questions and responses. She did have another question, that she dare not ask: whether she could expect to be informed of her promotion when he arrived.

"Lieutenant Hutchinson is reassigned." Her lips formed an 'O' of amazement. Hutchinson was going to be missing his nicknacks and furnishings a great deal longer. No Mallory and Strom returning either? How would this news impact her promotion? Who was taking over Polyphemus? She suspected someone on Thorpe's staff, a favourite, an older and seasoned officer.

Thorpe's final remarks were unsettling. "You've an excellent man in Marco Pacini. See you don't abuse him or his talents. That is all for now, Ensign." The screen reverted to standby midrange blue, Admiralty seal in gold superimposed.

Calvert sagged from an upright posture which had been difficult to maintain. When had she abused his pet? What made Pacini so special? Her internal debate bumped into a curse, which got vented. Afterward she realized the deep-space comm link with Hyder Ali had continued.

Her gasp preceded a rapid disconnect. Would Thorpe hear her surly comment? Had the Ali shifted out of line its long range antenna? Calvert crossed her fingers and said a prayer to Dark Heaven the latter should be the case. She ought to have known better. Marco Pacini and John Thorpe went back a long way. Pacini had served under Thorpe in ISS Bee Gee. Thorpe's evaluations of Pacini's fitness and professionalism were liberally salted with praise. The Captain had even urged Pacini to accept a commission as an officer.

Thorpe must have examined her reports for mentions of his pet. Many were there. None overly critical of Marco's work. Her complaints were not in her reports, but in log entries. Observations concerning Pacini's attitude, far from flattering, were set down in both the ship's log and her personal journal. She couldn't rewrite them. Once an entry was made, it must not be tampered with. After the fact alterations, if detected, could be used as a basis for disciplinary action against their author.

She would not tamper with her entries. They were the truth. She had embellished no parts of them. They'd been written in the matter-of-fact way the manuals recommended. Thorpe was bound not to like them. Nothing she could do about that.

Might he withhold her promotion owing to her criticisms? Calvert felt a moan well up. She couldn't afford to wait any longer for her step. Near all of her classmates were lieutenants junior grade by now. Some, she'd discovered, were senior grade. A few were even junior commanders. Excluding classmates gone direct to civilian life and careers, she had to be the only member of her class still an ensign. Six months held back, a year and a half in stasis. It was high time she got her promotion. Since her disgrace she'd done everything right.

Calvert swallowed to settle herself. She'd started late, but was on track for a successful career. How many of her classmates had been awarded command during their very first assignment? A shiny new starship to look after and an important mission to complete. She would do all things well from now on. If Thorpe would not grant her the step, she must petition for reevaluation. She'd get her promotion, and a transfer to somewhere as far away from dust, heat, nightmare and worry as she could get.

Calvert expelled her fog of depression with a firm exhale. "Pacini?"

"Aye, sir."

She asked Polyphemus to show her where he was and export the image to her screen—Boat Bay, deep inside one of his beloved TRAXs. "I require your presence in my stateroom at once," she said to his lubricant-stained back.

"I'm in the middle of something."

"This can't be set aside." He ought not to offer excuses. She was his superior and her word as compelling as that of Zeus.

"I'll be up as soon as I can."

"Now, Technician." She was about to lose her temper. Again. As usual this condition was owing to his attitude.

"Sir, I have to finish this coupling. If I don't, there will be coolant all over this deck."

Did he make up an emergency? Even if he didn't, he ought to have explained himself right off instead of goading her into anger. "I've something important to speak with you about," she said, her syllables clipped as she struggled against her stutter.

"I'll be up in five minutes."

Everything he said was with his back to her. She pressed off his image. What was she supposed to do while she waited? Commanders did not wait for subordinates. He ought to appear at her pleasure, never the other way round. Inconvenience never hers. He hadn't shown proper respect. If she hadn't been so new at command, she would have known what to do to put him in his place.

Pacini arrived fifteen minutes later, not the five stated; however, in a reasonably clean ship suit, which he must have changed into. The garment she'd seen him in had been badly smudged. She noted gunk under his nails and his forehead had a smear.

"Mister Pacini . . ." Calvert thrust herself to her feet, having to wait through his tardiness had added fuel to her agitation. She needed to work off accumulated bad energy and frustration. "I don't think I should be made to wait—"

"Sir, I apologize, but I had to get cleaned up first."

She didn't like to be interrupted either. "Pacini, you . . ." The words she'd been about to use too imprecise. Her thoughts stumbled toward better ones.

"I am sorry, sir. You caught me in the middle of recharging a coolant system. I couldn't just drop things and come."

Did he suppose arguing a priority he thought valid excused him? "Mister Pacini, I, you, I wuh-want . . ." No good. She couldn't discipline him properly through a stutter. She'd tried so hard not to. She began to pace in the manner her uncle employed while lecturing his young ward about some indiscretion or other. "Mister Pacini, you must be more forthcoming with reasons for not answering my summons in timely fashion. How was I to know you were in the midst of a crucial repair? You didn't explain yourself until I pressed you." She'd arrived upon the correct tack. She was right to be angry with him and had presented the reason why in unvarnished form.

"Aye, sir. You're right."

"I am?" Startled by his reply, she stopped to see his look.

"Yes, er, I wasn't . . . thinking." He gazed at her face, whose frank, amazed expression she'd failed to mend.

"Right," she said and resumed her motion, presenting to him only the profile of what she was thinking. Her thoughts cleared once more. "Captain Thorpe is now in charge of the mission."

"Captain Thorpe, sir?" he said inside a broad smile, glimpsed in full during a turn.

"I just ended a conversation with him. He's taken the mission over from Captain Willard."

"Aye, sir." His enthusiasm showed broader than before.

"You're acquainted with the Captain?" Of course she knew he was.

"Yes, sir, I am."

"He wants us to attempt to cut through the shaft wall. I assume you can fabricate a device of sufficient power and efficacy to accomplish the job?"

"I can try, sir," he replied dubiously. "We haven't tried cutting the metal yet. It may not be possible."

She thought it generous of him that he stated 'we' when they both knew he meant 'I'.

"We'll have to bring our equipment through the energy barrier somehow. That could prove difficult. Perhaps impossible."

"It has to be tried," she replied implacably. "Those were Captain Thorpe's instructions."

"Aye, sir. If there's a way, I'll figure it out."

She fumbled her next step. Why so confident? Hubris or the desire to please his former and once more commander? Now keen to perform the impossible for Thorpe when he would have had no enthusiasm to do the same for her? "We have sixty-four days to create an opening. At the end of which time Captain Thorpe and his entourage will have arrived." There. She had not made the earlier mistake in not informing him of information he needed to have.

"That should be enough time."

She dismissed him. Still pacing, she marvelled how neatly her thoughts aligned when lubricated by exercise. No wonder Jack paced while correcting or instructing her! Remembrance brought the smile to her lips which she carried to Danby's cabin.

"Beth?" Calvert called softly as she crossed the threshold, her intent to preempt Pacini with her news. "Beth . . ." Danby had exerted herself too strenuously in sim play, was recovered, had received an admonitory lecture from medic Pacini, and vowed to practice moderation in future. None of them ought to exert themselves as hard as they had in former times. Marco, in his role as ship's doctor, had dictated this conclusion sternly to his two-person audience.

Danby had grumbled and Calvert merely shrugged. Little sleep and long hours must take their toll. Danby lay on her bed clothed, a glowing manual by her left hand, sweat coating her face and soaking her hair, her limbs in action. The marine moaned and Calvert, despite an inner voice advising caution, crept closer. She put out her hand with the intent of gently shaking the sleeping woman awake.

"Nuh-no!" Danby shouted, seized Calvert's wrist, and squeezed, hard.

"Beth!" cried Calvert. Her eyes went wide, the pain given her through the grip exquisite. She strived, but could not wrench her hand free. Levering with her other hand managed no better result. Danby's hold was so strong and desperate it frightened her and really, really hurt. "Leave me go! Please!"

"Get back!" Danby shouted. A tug wrenched Calvert off her feet.

"Let go, Beth! Wake up! Please, you're hurting me!" Calvert felt bones being crushed. Should the contact continue, she might suffer lasting injury. All other efforts having failed the youth made her free hand into a fist and struck Danby squarely in the face with it. Still Danby did not awaken. Nor did she let go. Calvert struck her a second time.

The blows split Beth's lip and flattened her nose. The marine awoke at last. Calvert had her wrist back. "What? What's going on?" Danby asked, felt the injuries she'd been given, touched them and winced.

"I'm sorry. You were hurting me. I struck back to make you stop," explained the teen.

Danby did not register any part of Calvert's explanation. "How did you get back? Where's Laurel?" she asked. "Who hit me?"

Calvert's complexion turned ashen. "What are you talking about?"

"I saw you . . ." A puzzled look enveloped Danby's features, which seeping blood masked insufficiently.

"Saw me do what? Beth?" Danby's expression was now guarded. She looked past Calvert's shoulder at nothing. Unwilling to risk further injury, Calvert retreated from the bed.

"Awk," went the marine. Blood dripping from her face stained the front of her ship suit. Her lips and nose were gone puffy.

"Er . . . are you all right?" Calvert asked from her more distant place.

"Yeah—that smarts. What the hell happened to me?" Danby stared at blood got from her lips and nose.

"You fell out of bed," said Calvert, ashamed to offer so blatant a fabrication. Her own injury swelled and throbbed painfully.

"I did?" Further probing preceded the declaration: "I think I broke my nose."

"It looks so," agreed Calvert. She would not offer to help her comrade to her feet, and made a feeble wave instead. "Come on, let's get you to sickbay."

"What's—ah, geez, that really smarts—up?" Danby's hand trembled as it passed over her forehead.

"Up? . . . Oh, right." She gave her news which Danby received with neither comment nor expression change. "What's the matter?"

"Besides this nasty headache?" Danby attempted to spot the site of the collision she'd been told about, floor or wall. Swallowing nervousness, Calvert momentarily left the room to fetch a damp towel for the marine to swab, cool and press her injuries with. "Nothing I feel like talking about."

Calvert wondered if she should volunteer what she'd experienced in the dreams they'd been all sharing. Pacini must not have gone into detail about his to Danby. Was he waiting for one of them to further broach the subject? Since their confrontation, Calvert had written what she could recall about her dreams into her journal, and compiled a surprising amount of detail. She would include in her next entry the name Danby had spoken. As she preceded Danby out of her cabin, Calvert asked, "You wouldn't happen to know anything about some guy named Gless?"

"No," Danby replied, scowling.

"Laurel?"

"What?"

"Never mind." Once Danby was on her feet, she was remarkably steady. The two women arrived inside the infirmary whereupon Danby, noticing how gingerly Calvert held her wrist, asked her what had she done to it?

"Bashed it on a hatchway." Calvert deemed it best she not tell the truth. Danby had attacked a superior officer. The youth wished to avoid any unpleasantness the revelation of that fact might lead to: disciplinary report, investigation, hearing, demotion and/or forfeiture of pay. While she'd little doubt the marine would be exonerated, any consequences, no matter how slight, would not be good for either of them. By staying mum, she saved them anxiety and disruption. Her injury was not serious, nor had it been intentional. When their hurts were repaired, both would go their own way and forget anything happened. Except, despite her best efforts with the knitter, Calvert was not able to restore Danby's face to its normal, healthy appearance.

Calvert looked on perplexed. The marine persisted showing as though fresh from a fight. It must be they hadn't gotten to the repair soon enough. Discolouration remained and her lip stayed puffier than was right.

"Let me do you now," said Danby, taking the knitter. The medically trained marine was a great deal more proficient with the mending device. Not only did she remove all bruising and discomfort, but she restored a brown so it kept only a residual pink. "You'd some bruising on the knuckles of your other hand from somewhere."

"Clonked that, too," Calvert tried while gasping uneasily.

The other hurt was seen to. "There, you're good to go. The best I can do."

"Thanks," replied the guilty youth, as pleased with Danby's repair as she was displeased with the product of her own efforts. She might try again and was about to suggest doing so when Danby abruptly put the knitter away. "I aw . . ."

"Sir?"

"Nothing, I should get back to work." She had prepared a checklist of systems efficiencies she intended working her way through. Danby had no scheduled task to perform and might do as she pleased. They parted ways in the corridor. Calvert, heart hammering in her chest, noted Danby turn in the direction of Boat Bay, felt a protest well up, but was unable to put any sound to it.

"What's happened to you?" Pacini demanded at once. He was in the midst of manufacturing parts for the cutting implement they needed.

"I fell out of bed," Danby muttered.

"You did what?"

"Fell out of bed." She suffered one mother of a headache. Calvert's repair job had fallen far short of her expectations of what a good repair ought to be.

"Who—did you do this?" Marco asked, taking her face in his hands, regretting the smudge he made on her cheek, which she would have tolerated in any case because the pain from her maltreated injuries made her miserable.

"Calvert," she said.

"What a mess. Let's go."

"You going to fix me, Marco?" she asked hopefully.

"Yes."

"Good." She'd come to him with the hope he might do a better job than the one Calvert had performed on her.

"Did Calvert say she knew what she was doing?" Pacini asked as they came into Crew Deck Lower. The infirmary was sited aft within this deck.

"Well, no. I just thought she did."

"She got the surface damage, but she missed the deeper stuff and your nose is broken."

"Yes," she agreed.

"She's done nothing with your nose at all. What she did was superficial. I doubt she's qualified for this kinda stuff. I'll have to talk to her."

"Oh . . ." To get the kid into trouble when she'd been so kind had not been Danby's intention. Marco drew her into the infirmary as though she was a child, his grip comforting and distracting her from the pain.

"Okay, sit," he instructed, directing her onto a stool, and fetched a probe with a long forked end.

"You sticking that up my nose?" Danby asked with trepidation.

"I have to reshape the cartilage. Calvert's fused the top."

Danby was feeling a strange alignment and unpleasant tugging; more reasons for why she'd wanted Pacini to examine her. Before using his probe he applied patches to her cheeks and brow, two above and two below. "Is this going to hurt?"

"You won't feel a thing." The patches activated and her pain was gone.

"Ah, man, that is so-o-o much better." She gazed a little fearfully at the probe as he made a final alignment prior to inserting its ends up her nostrils. "What's that do?"

"Softens the cartilage. So when I reshape your nose I won't have to break it again."

"Good."

"This won't hurt a bit."

It didn't hurt, just felt strange—as though she picked both nostrils at the same time to second knuckles. She thought she must look funny. "Wha's go-hink on dow?"

"Shh! You're mucking up the process."

She submitted herself patiently to the rest. Minutes later, when he was finished, she attempted a trial sniff. "That's not bad."

"Feel about right?"

"Yeah. Hurts a little."

"Where?"

She touched her lip, still puffier than it should be.

"Jesus H. Murphy, she did your lip wrong, too?"

"I guess so."

"That little imbecile—I'll drain some blood first. She's trapped it beneath the skin. I've really got to talk to her, set her straight."

"Okay by me," Danby said whimsically, her mood and feeling whole degrees better than they had been minutes earlier.

"If she doesn't know what she's about, then she shouldn't be doing this stuff."

"Uh huh."

He gave her thigh a comforting pat when he had finished with her lip. "There, now don't go running into any more hatches."

"I didn't run into a hatch. I fell out of bed."

"You fell out of bed?"

"I told you that, didn't I?" She was pretty sure she had.

"I guess you did—how do you know you fell out of bed?"

"Calvert said I did."

"Calvert said?"

"Yeah, ah . . ." The last thing she remembered before waking was the dream she'd been in. For a time after her thinking had been muddled. While dazed she had to have fallen out of bed. Calvert must have helped her back onto the platform after.

"Calvert saw you fall?" he asked after she explained what must have happened.

"Ye-um, I don't know. She might have, or she might have come in after."

"You didn't fall out of bed."

"I didn't?"

"Judging by what I can interpret from your injuries, I'd say you were in a fight. You had bruises that appeared the result of someone hitting you with her fist."

"So either I walked into a door or Calvert slugged me while I was sleeping?"

"That's about it."

"What did she hit me for?"

"You should ask her."

Calvert's impulse was to deny she'd struck her friend, except a pair of stern looks rendered her speechless. "Yes," Calvert said instead and looked away and felt a very small child.

Neither looker said anything. She knew she had to explain, so she did, telling them urgently about Danby seizing her wrist and squeezing so hard she became incensed by the pain and, because she couldn't think of anything else she might do, she hit back until she was let go.

Danby grunted, recalling details rising out from the mind fog she'd been in.

"I'm really sorry, Beth. I didn't mean to lie, but you were upset and acting weird, and I didn't know how you would react to the truth." Calvert did not mention the necessity, should she adhere to the rule, of a disciplinary report, despite that with not having initiated any account of the incident by now the teeth were out of that reason.

"Is that why you fixed Danby up with the knitter?" Pacini persisted in a strange tenor.

"What?" Calvert gasped.

"To hide what you did?"

"What in hell are you insinuating? I only tried to help. I wasn't trying to hide anything. I would have told her eventually what I'd done—when she was feeling better." He was being unfair and insulting. She hadn't tried to fix anything besides a consequence that needed to be avoided.

He snorted indelicately and she hated him for it. "You did it all wrong." He explained the mess she'd made of Danby's repairs.

"I-I was going—no, I didn't do it on purpose. I'm not very good with a knitter." Good enough for cuts and bruises. She'd never had to repair a broken nose before and hadn't realized there could be so much more to it.

"Then don't use them!" Pacini shouted. "You can create far more harm than good if you don't know what you're doing—which is exactly what you did!"

"Buh-Beth, I'm sus-so sus-sorry a-buh-bout every-thuh-thuh-thing!" She told herself she didn't care what Pacini insinuated about her motives. He was a brute and a loud mouth. He had no right to shout at her. "You've guh-got to buh-buh-believe I duh-didn't muh-muh-mean to hurt you, buh-but you were hur-hur-ting muh-me, and then I duh-did just truh-truh-try to huh-huh-help." She'd never been so humiliated! Pacini was treating her like a criminal.

Danby stared at the deck and said nothing. Pacini turned to go and Danby went with him. Calvert watched them leave while feeling wrecked over the whole stupid incident, which hadn't even been her fault.

#

The change in the mosaic would be noted should before be compared with after: lighter grey, brighter silver. The substantial drop in heat over the wreck was missed by two humans rendered oblivious to subtlety, owing to intellects dulled by tedium.

One, however, registered the reverse. The mosaic ghosts crowded each other in their zeal to be noticed. The girl walked very quiet and stiff past them. She knew her companions saw not what she saw, otherwise they'd have said something. They gazed about themselves normally. Calvert could not do the same thing.

The night was grainy owing to a storm many kilometres south. The little moons had not yet risen. The trio stood two on one side and the one on the other of the well-lit shaft, peering with interest, or pretending to, at a platform and its sinister burden, resting in blackness to a depth of a few centimetres beneath slack cables.

"It's not going through," Danby announced, which was no news. The bear-sized, slender barrelled plasma torch stolidly waited for what might happen next.

"Someone's going to have to help it through," said Marco, pointedly not looking in her direction.

Damn him. "I'll do it," said Calvert. After their confrontation in the bridge she'd agonized over the 'slugging the sleeping marine' incident, and concluded she'd been not as much to blame as she'd been painted as. After referencing cogent sections in the medical manual, she understood now the correct procedure to repair cartilage. Her intentions had been honourable. She had withheld information out of concern for a subordinate's well being. Danby had been upset, confused and disorientated. An abrupt dose of facts would have been bound to heighten her distress. She would have explained what really happened when Danby felt better—or not. The event should have turned out nothing. Pacini had gone out of his way to explode it.

He'd been too swift to condemn. He ought to have accepted her side of the argument, and he ought not to have shouted at her, which constituted an attack on her authority. She had not merited his disrespect and ought not to tolerate it. He had no right to lecture his superior officer and overstepped his bounds. She would not have been so contumelious herself.

After donning her safety harness, Calvert suffered without comment his examination of its buckles and straps. Less than a minute later she stood lightly on her toes beside the torch on its platform.

"All you have to do—" he began.

"I know what to do. Just make sure you're ready for what happens."

Looking down at his commander and the seemingly immovable implement she stood with her back to, Marco wondered if she could do anything with it. The torch massed a great deal more than the scanner had. "Ready," he called. Calvert hopped off the platform and performed a neat half turn in midair. Toes pointed, she entered the barrier, her acceleration upon doing so noticeably more than what the native gravity supplied. She caught the sled when just her hands remained visible. He marvelled at her balance, athleticism, skill and courage. The torch vanished so abruptly, he was tempted to rub his eyes. All that remained was the transparency about the lines to which it and Calvert were attached.

"I'm through," Calvert announced.

"Wow," went Danby. "That was slick."

"It was," agreed Marco. "Sir, since you're there already, maybe you could accompany the torch to the bottom, making sure it doesn't hang up on anything along the way?"

"Yes, fine," Calvert replied irritably. She climbed onto the torch's platform, while immersed in inky dark. "I'm aboard. Lower away."

"Lowering," Marco replied.

"I haven't a hand light," Calvert grumbled as she curled into the limited space available to make use of.

"Oh, that's right," said Marco. "Ah . . ."

"Forget it. I can manage." She had her handset for company. From its few centimetres square of screen she could project any image or motion capture she wanted at the nearest wall. Calvert chose a slide show of three dimensional vistas—mountains, lakes and castles—accompanied by something Mozart, and relaxed her eyes.

"I wonder if there's a protocol that permits nonliving objects to pass through the barrier?" asked Marco.

"No," Calvert murmured, cheek nestled on arm.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because," Calvert elaborated, "nothing below is nonsentient."

"What?" A disbelieving chuckle.

He was so much less intuitive about alien related matters than they. Calvert wondered if the difference in gender was to blame.

"How do you know?" asked Danby.

Or am I the only perceptive one?

You flatter yourself.

Her gasp was owing to an interruption. Humanoid or monster might this instant hover over her. Cautiously she adjusted the aim of her gaze to above the slide show. She imagined a horny beak and broad bony armoured fan and saw them, her imagination to blame. She cringed until hearing: You're frightening yourself for no reason.

"Leave me alone," she said in a whisper.

"What?" from Marco. "Are you all right down there?"

What would you rather see? The monster backed into black and was gone.

My mother's face, smiling down on me. She vaguely remembered seeing her mother smile. An increase in the local light could not have a natural cause. Calvert was an infant, on her back in her crib. Her mother was smiling down at her, albeit in an uncertain, tentative fashion. The sight of her mother, looking so like herself, rendered her sad. Feeding time. I'm hungry.

Interesting.

Shut up. Who the fuck are you, anyway?

You know who I am.

That's not possible.

Why?

Because you'd have to be hundreds of thousands of years old.

Well over a million of your Years Standard.

Am I supposed to be impressed? You're a machine intelligence, aren't you?

Yes, although not any kind you're familiar with.

How do you know what I'm . . . A stupid question. The alien had been sampling her thoughts, memories and experiences a great while already.

You understand. Good.

Calvert intuited a step had been passed in a selection process. Her candidacy, though, had been determined long since, before they landed the ship. You! An annoyed gasp and scowling. You've been forcing the nightmares on us!

They're not nightmares. You know this to be so.

Marco was saying, "It must be there's some kind of door incorporated within the shaft wall. That being the case, we ought not to cut into it at all. We may ruin the mechanism, seal ourselves out."

"I don't remember," said Danby.

"Hum-m-m?"

"Nothing."

Marco gazed sternly at his companion for several seconds before continuing, "I've had them, too, the dreams. You, I, and Calvert wandering around in there."

"I figured you had," Danby said quietly.

"You duh—really? The island, too?"

"Island? What island?" The deception in Danby's reply Marco wholly failed to detect.

"Ah, no, not really," replied Marco guiltily.

"What have you been dreaming that's different from what we dream?" Danby asked.

The drill platform arrived at the bottom of the shaft.

Where does the light come from? Calvert wondered. Since her conversation with the alien began, she'd been accompanied by light sufficient to bathe her and the platform and to spare.

The ability to produce light wherever I wish is integral to my structure. As you've guessed the walls of this shaft are protection and conduit both.

I saw through it, Calvert mused.

You might step through it too should you wish.

Calvert climbed off the platform. I don't want to see inside you just now. I won't go in there until I have to.

The time isn't right, and they're not to know.

I beg your pardon?

"We'll talk more about this later," Marco promised. "She should be at the bottom by now. Ensign?"

"Er, yes," was Calvert's somewhat shaky reply.

"You've arrived?"

"Safe and sound."

"Sorry about the dark."

"That's not a problem. I'm ready to come up."

Marco pantomimed climbing hand over hand. Danby chuckled. "Right, sir, whenever you're ready."

"Oh, fuck's sake," Calvert muttered crossly. She could've sent the instruction through her handset to get herself started. You're okay with us cutting our way through?

A simple yes was the alien's reply.

Won't that damage the transiting mechanism?

Yes, but, no matter, it may easily be repaired.

"Ah, sir, you're coming up a mite fast," she heard Marco say.

This will be a lot of trouble for us, was Calvert's thoughtful reply.

Would you rather be singled out for your uniqueness?

Hell no! If her superiors found out she controlled the shaft, she would be made to stay months or even years more.

"Sir, the bearings are smoking!"

Bearings? What are bearings? Calvert had but an instant to decipher his warning and what the implications to her personal safety might be before the tension in her line went soft, turned slack, and released. She fell. Rapidly. And mercifully fainted.

"Oh my god!" went Danby, the colour drained from her face, having watched cable pour through pulley at pernicious speed. Calvert had not merely fallen, but sped. "Dead?" she gasped when the line stopped and drooped.

"Must be," muttered Marco, staring perplexed at where the cable—without the insurance line he ought to have attached—make transparency in the layer. "She must have fallen right onto the torch." A macabre chore of scraping up and wiping off added. He could barely comprehend her death. Alive seconds ago. He'd wished she fall on her face both figuratively and literally many times before now but never would have wished on her so terrible an end as this.

"We have to go down. To get her," said Danby numbly.

"I'll go," said Marco.

"You need to manage things here."

"I'll go." Guilt oppressed him. He ought to have attached a safety line. A simple precaution, which he hadn't deemed necessary, and now Julie Calvert was dead. He would have to assume command of the ship. He envisioned complications, impediments, consequences. The end of his career. A prison term unavoidable should there be a wrongful death ruling. The Richardsons would demand retribution, and he'd no money and no high-sited friends to help him.

He had to collect as much bone, tissue and blood as he could. Likely her family had kept cells from when she was a fetus. For a family so wealthy the huge expense of cloning and raising a replacement would be as nothing.

"I'll need a recovery kit out of med lab," he heard himself say. His motions and thoughts were stilted. He was shaken to his core. She'd been like a sister—an annoying, overly demanding brat of a sister he had liked after a fashion.

"I'll get it." Danby trotted off, streaks of tears shining on her cheeks.

He wondered, after donning harness and safety line, how soon it would take before Danby realized his culpability. His thoughts blanked. Until Captain Thorpe came he was boss of the two of them. No joy did he feel over the boost in status. Beyond the pressure fence and its occasional bursts of turbulence was air as cold as here.

"Here," said Danby, startling him. She passed him the satchel with body bag, vacuum and vials inside. "What do I do up here?"

"Monitor me. I'll let you know when I get there." Passing through the dark layer for the first time, he marvelled at its efficiency. His fascination was such he near forgot his sad purpose.

None of what had happened was Calvert's fault. He ought to have warned her of the danger in ascending too fast. The winch was solid construction, rated for five thousand kilograms of load. The take up reel ought not to have spun free, nor the motor burn out. Was the equipment defective? He'd checked everything out thoroughly, he'd thought. Had he missed something?

Owing to her penchant for recording everything, Calvert had arranged the event be filmed. He would have to seal the record without examining it, for the investigators. The damaged winch also would be sealed, and cut away but left attached to its part of frame. Marco shone light into gloom. Her death ultimately his fault. He accepted the fact and was prepared for consequences.

Three brothers, three wasted lives.

Beneath coils of cable, lying at one side of the torch, on her back, her face turned a little to the side. A face whose cheeks kept their roses and whose eyes moved beneath their lids. She slept, he realized. Marco gazed in wonder, and chuckled out of relief, out of joy.

"What's going on?" asked Danby.

"She's alive. Alive. Unhurt. Totally unhurt."

"How can that be?"

"Only Great Black Heaven knows," muttered Marco and began shifting cables and connections so he could bring her out.

Within the infirmary not much later, Calvert appreciated a perspective small and fragile. Almost she drew thumb into mouth to suck. Pacini babbled. She hugged herself, protesting in a quiet voice she was perfectly all right, despite she scarcely believed it.

"Do you remember falling?" Marco was asking.

"No." Her thoughts stayed dull. She remembered beginning to fall, and must have passed out.

"Have you any idea how you managed to miss the torch?"

"Miss the torch!" She'd been directly above the implement. She ought to have fallen on it. Why would he not shut up? Her imagination supplied her with a view of how her body ought to have responded at the instant of collision. She didn't remember one blessed thing!

"I need to check you over."

"Forget it." She didn't need him prodding her just now.

"Regulations."

A scowl put to a corner of the room preceded a cross-toned, "All right, then." He was fussy and intrusive, an attitude that at present she'd no patience for. Danby stood within the hatchway and wore a glad smile. Calvert decided she could pretend the invalid a while if by doing so she would restore some valuable credit with her companions.

"Would you draw down the top of your suit?"

"Oh bother," she grumbled, and lay still while he measured outside and inside temperatures, heartbeat, respiration, circulation, brain function. His 'hum' and frowning into the monitor swung about so she wouldn't be able to look into it annoyed and distressed her. "What is it?" she asked.

Danby, who performed as his assistant, was peering into the same representation and also displaying strange curiosity.

"Could be nothing," said Marco. His tone implied different.

"Tell me!" Calvert growled.

"Your, ah, brain function is not what it should be."

"You're qualified to make that assessment?" He was a medic, not a neurosurgeon. How would he know if her brain processes had been altered? Besides, even if they were, why should that impact her health and mental conditions?

"I can assess. Diagnosis is beyond my ken."

"I'll say it is. I don't feel any different."

"Serotonin levels are higher than normal," he muttered.

"Which is a good or a bad thing?"

A shrug preceded: "I don't know."

"Do your tests indicate that I suffer debilitation in any way?"

"Borderline exhaustion." An appropriate diagnosis for them all.

"You're finished?" Calvert slipped her arms back into her ship suit.

"Yes," he said and added a shrug.

"I've another report to write," said Calvert, coming off the examination table. She hopped in place while closing her suit and, because Marco hadn't moved, bumped hips with him. She'd put them in kissing contact and discovered him gazing into her eyes. He feigns disinterest, Calvert thought as she took an ungainly step within a limited space back.

"I'd like to add something to your report, if I may?" he said, sending his gaze somewhere else.

"You're serious?" Why should he contribute to her ramblings? He'd never offered to do so before. Was his intent to suck up to Thorpe? She'd have to include any useful recollections of her mishap and rescue he had to submit anyway, provided they be written in the appropriate form. What might he submit that could contain useful insight beyond what she penned herself?

"I've some observations the Captain might appreciate."

In the most neutral tone possible she replied, "Submit your observations to my desk. I'll determine after I've seen them whether they ought to be included."

"Fair enough."

Did he suppose his admonition during the knitter incident had currency still? "Good night to the both of you," Calvert said and took herself away. "Any comments to make?" she queried to the alien once she was beyond the range of two sets of curious ears. By the time she entered the welcoming glow of her cabin, Julie Calvert was certain the alien had saved her. The how was not beyond her ken. She wondered about the why.

"Well?" she demanded and received no answer.

Chapter Fifteen - Ingratitude

The berm began south, making a three-quarter twist at the equator before continuing northeast. Displaced dust from its variably eight to nine metre height perversely floated back over the ten metre pressure fence. Calvert, fists on hips, puckered her lips at the view. The TRAXs ought not to have piled so high. A considerable return of detritus was happening. Hardly could the sweepers keep up; near one third of mosaic was dust-coated. She saw shoddy workmanship and planning, even neglect. "Pacini."

He didn't answer right off. He was always busy, which was his excuse whenever he wished not to answer in good time. Her irritation mounted. No one could be doing something every waking minute of every day. "Pacini."

"Sir?"

What was it this time? Tinkering, repair, or toilet? He worked no fixed interval. The reduction in equipment set out gave him time to do other things. She didn't think 'recreation'. They all put in long hours, which was justification for the fourteen and sixteen hour work schedules he'd been submitting to be recorded. The dreary pace was a drain on the physical resources of all of them, but this time soon would have its end. When the styluses were done, that would be a large burden lifted from her crew's shoulders.

"Dust is constantly drifting in. We need to reduce the height of the berm."

"The berm relieves the pressure on the fence on two sides. If I reduce the height, the increase in wind pressure creates additional strain on our power generating and transmission equipment."

"Half the mosaic is covered." She felt justified in a modest exaggeration.

"In less than a centimetre of dust," was his reply. "If we lower the berm, there'll be a whole lot more."

"Why?"

"I just—I'll put it plain to you. I could remove the top metre or so, but if I do the chance of an overload increases by a factor of two to four. So, you make the choice, either put up with a little mess now or the potential of a large mess later."

He ought to know better. "Reduce the mound height." Once a decision was made, even should it be a bad one, it was always better to carry it through than to change one's direction and appear indecisive.

"Sir, I've put four of our TRAXs to bed. If you want the mound reduced I'll have to wake up and recharge at least one of the four and send him out."

"So? Do it."

"Aye, sir."

Her disinterested shrug accompanied his muttered reply into oblivion. When the styluses finished, they would let the excavation silt over, and then dig out like crazy just before Thorpe arrived so he and the dignitary could be impressed. After that she wasn't going to care; the responsibility for the site will have passed on to someone else.

Her next few steps brought her above the stair and a location overlooking twin power towers. She found it hard to believe that the fifty by one hundred metre expanse she could see—its ghosts less visible during the day and easier to ignore—was but a tiny part of the whole wreck. Setting the plug on its side made it far easier to examine the script on top, the disfiguring earth it had rested on gone. Calvert jogged down steps, resisting an impulse to hop off the final one. A brisk walk to the tile junction, turn, and on to the plug. Standing before it, certain her efforts to organize the symbols had been a waste of time, she gazed at mercury-gleaming. How could one symbol be an entire book? She gazed at the nearest. Looks the representation of a tree, a frame, a fence. Architectural plans? As she watched, strokes shortened or lengthened, became dots or swirls or disappeared altogether, rising or falling. She was in lecture hall, riding its foremost seat, the lecturer gazing right at her with big brown eyes and flattened nose, narrow mouth, thin lips, square even teeth, a mildly jutting chin.

His alien features not at all grotesque or frightening. Scalp hairless, mottled lighter and darker browns. Face and throat the colour of cured leather. His eyes had an additional membrane as defence against dust and harsh light.

The females wore snug caps of feather, hide or cloth and in warmer climates wore nothing over their tattooed chests, modest sized breasts swaying free. Warm blooded, bipedal, five or six fingers—either number normal to their species. Tendency to thinness and tallness. The very young and very old were as thin and active. They ate what humans ate. Cereal, meat, vegetables. Their society gregarious and egocentric. No central government or single authority. Congregations were by affiliation, familial predominantly. Whole planet populations were devoted to certain beliefs and/or lifestyles. No civil wars, but long ago had happened a great schism. A substantial portion of the population had split off to go adventuring and never returned.

Highly advanced technologically. Smallest communities in remotest areas were well off in terms of material comforts, courtesy of remarkable machines. Sentient, self effacing, subservient was the common machine type. Other types were guardians, for security. Vast armadas of sentient ships and whole planet weapons platforms. Defence against what?

Not part of the lecture. Everyone in the hall knew what those ships and weapons were for, so no need to elaborate about them. Calvert shifted her gaze and the hallucination she'd been seduced into experiencing ceased.

"Gosh . . ." Dry swallow. Sip from water tube. Should she include a synopsis of what she'd been shown in her next report? If she did, she'd have to confess she'd been allowed to understand the alien script, the only one of her species given the ability, the consequence being her career would be converted into that of a librarian, transcribing texts to the end of her days.

"No . . . damn . . . way," she said through grit-together teeth. Someone else could have that honour. Yet two steps later the impact of the great gift she'd been given fell on her full force.

Patents. If the entire aliens' history, including technological accomplishments, were embedded in the mosaic, as the only person capable of reading it, she was entitled to receive remuneration for each and every renovation and device.

Family Richardson through the Richardson corporate conglomerate was the premiere financial entity in the galaxy already. The grand library she had been granted sole access to would assure her family's predominance to the end of human history.

Standing over bucket-sized shadow, Calvert contemplated serious consequences. Within extreme power lurked the potential for extreme evil as well as extreme good, and her new ability held the key to the greatest power ever.

Jack had often told her their family's great wealth was both a gift and a curse—she had only to think on her own sad history while growing up. So much additional power might easily destroy her. It would make her a target for every greedy asshole in the galaxy to chase after.

Amazing and many innovations awaited transcription, but she knew, understanding as well as she did the dynamics of the civilization she lived in, that the vast majority of humankind would never benefit, if she attempted nakedly preaching a new gospel of technology. Many rich and influential men and women were determined to maintain the status quo. She would be forced to surrender her gifts to the ghouls and parasites, or be murdered by them. She dare not reveal the truth. She would be signing her death warrant if she did.

Now, that is interesting.

"Oh, shut up," she muttered.

What will you do?

About what?

You cannot resist examining the texts. Even though you realize there's danger in doing so, you also know that I've provided you with knowledge your society deserves to have, if only you can sneak it past the others of your species who oppose you.

I can't make a separate record. It would be unethical. I'll be severely punished if I'm caught.

Unethical according to whose opinion and standards?

Look you, the moment I publish one article I'm screwed.

There are ways to take this information away that you haven't thought of yet. If you won't take it, no one else of your species will, ever. It is a gift for you alone.

It wasn't obscene wealth, she contemplated. She'd always had more than enough allowance to do with as she pleased. The alien was right. A great deal of suffering went on in a great many places that she would be able to remedy. Humanity might realize a society like the aliens had. She must create her own library. All they recorded went into an on-site archive. She'd sent only samples away. As soon as the recovery team arrived, access to the archive would be allowed only the eggheads from Fleet R&D.

What else you ought to have realized is that your cataloguing was useless from the start.

Huh? In a maddening way the alien goaded her to figure out the rest. The styluses recorded single symbols, not whole texts, which she ought to have realized right after Beth revealed the nature of the script. What they'd been doing was collect snapshots, single lines, single impressions, single images when they ought to be collecting volumes. "Crap!" Calvert looked to where the styluses mindlessly skated.

They'd thought they were near finished. They weren't even started. "Pacini."

"Still recharging."

"We have to redo the surface transcriptions."

A long pause preceded: "Are you serious?"

She explained her revelation, standing in front of the plug, watching the alien text and seeing it change.

"Change?" he asked stupidly.

"Yes, change. That's why it glitters. The glittering could be a byproduct of the energy absorption happening at the surface." She knew that wasn't the case. The energy absorption phenomenon was only peripherally connected to the malleable script.

"You're sure this is going on?"

"It's been happening the whole time. We just weren't realizing it." Noticing, just never looking long enough to figure out what was happening.

"The equipment is just about worn out."

"I don't need to hear that. It will have to be refurbished or replacements brought out of stores."

"That's not our stuff." They'd been lent two score INV45s for the initial planetary survey.

"I don't care whose it is. The transcriptions are—they're no good. None of them."

"Don't you think that task can wait until the recovery team gets here?"

His same old argument deserved her same old answer. "No." She would be getting only a small part of the library. That would have to do, for now. In future she would strive to gain access to the rest. The luxury of having the entire archive to look into she couldn't for now imagine.

"I'll see what can be salvaged from the original crew, but I'm not hopeful." He'd been sending survivors out in shifts. He would just have to send them all out and leave them out until they went to pieces.

"No," he said. "I won't do it. All the cases are cracked. The internal deterioration is too severe for that kind of abuse. They wouldn't last another week."

"Then they'll have to be refurbished or retired, and their replacements taken out of stores, as I said."

"You're taking responsibility?"

"Absolutely I will."

"Very well," he grumbled.

He'd only let himself be convinced after she insisted what was obvious to them both. All was her responsibility, which had always been the case. Calvert arrived by the shaft where power conduits snaked down through the barrier. "Um, when can we get the breach started?" She'd floated a big lie in not confessing her ability to simply walk through the wall into the chamber. Since they would be damaging the transit mechanism, she was uneasy. She'd been reluctant that Pacini start the cutting.

"We would have started it a half hour ago."

She frowned to the barrier's opacity. She was always stepping into the middle of his work, giving him extra chores that delayed other chores. The TRAX recharging ought to have waited until he'd finished with the torch. She supposed he intended to uncrate and set out the new styluses next.

"Actually I'd thought I would get the cut started," he said.

"I could do it." She stared at the transport harness on its hook and swallowed nausea.

"I'd prefer you didn't."

"I'm right here."

"What do you know about cutting tools?"

Not much, but what is there to know? Aim, turn on, make sure all telltales show green before leaving it to do its work.

"What about beam strength and diameter? Can you tell if it's running too hot?"

"Won't the status pad tell me?"

"Not unless I've set the parameters first. I haven't, which is why I have to do it."

He'd probably left out the preliminary programming on purpose. Something he ought to have set up before sending the torch out from the ship. She'd a vested interest in the process. It had been by her efforts the torch went through the barrier, and she'd almost been killed. "You could talk me through it."

"No way, forget it, I'm half dead on my feet right now and I need to see what happens."

"Then you should—" take more time off. She wasn't demanding he put in fourteen to sixteen hour days. He'd been doing so all on his own.

"Should what? Look, I'm another fifteen minutes here and then I'll be out. If you want to go down and prep things while you're waiting, that's something you could do."

"Prep how?"

"Check the couplings and power levels. Fire up the panel—but don't turn on the torch itself or mess with the settings. I'll be down as soon as I can."

She couldn't foresee fifteen minutes of fiddling with coils and panels, but if it should help things along—help him along—she'd do it. "I'm on my way down."

"Don't . . . er."

Fall? She worried about a repeat of her accident, but wasn't afraid—much. She'd continuously monitor her rate of descent, and make sure it didn't get away from her. Eventually they'd find out what had caused the former build to fail. Pacini had replaced the winch and cable and put a governor into the apparatus so take up or let out speed not exceed design specifications.

"I'm on my way down." It wasn't until her descent started, she realized she would be once more entirely alone. A moment of indecision was appreciated before the soles of her boots touched the barrier, and she was being drawn down. The cable she attached to demanded a slow pace while the barrier tugged her through. She felt squeezing all over and the breath forced from her lungs. She would have screamed if she'd been able to. When she arrived at the other side, shaken and disturbed, she knew this, too, ought not to have happened. "Pacini."

"What is it?" he all but growled.

"The cable must run free from when one of us enters the barrier to until he or she arrives beneath it. I, ah, it's not—the medium shoots you through and the cable holds you up." The rest he could imagine for himself.

"Oh. Are you all right?"

Besides feeling about to vomit? "Er . . . yes. I'm through, but the experience wasn't very pleasant."

"I can fix that."

"Thank you." The tugging resumed. Gazing sternly into her handset, Calvert was assured by a sedate turnover of numerals that her descent wasn't about to fly out of control. No accident might happen as long as she was vigilant. The miracle that saved her ought not to be expected to repeat itself. This is uncomfortable, Calvert thought, I feel as though I'm being pulled out of my harness. The unpleasant sensation had the dubious advantage of diverting her attention from the dark during the descent. We need a better transport system in here, lights, and numerals pasted on the walls to inform the depth.

She was about to pass on her opinions, the breath just taken would propel it, before she stopped herself, anticipating first the resistance Pacini would be bound to voice, next the postponement to the crucial stylus reform that absolutely needed to be undertaken right away. When there is time. Their efforts needed prioritization to create best opportunities for a thorough research—phraseology she would employ in her next report. Her feet met an obstruction and practically was she stood on her head before correction could be applied. She'd encountered the torch, and finished on her back, with feet on the panel. Pick herself up, unsnap and extricate, send the harness back up.

She would be alone and cut off until Pacini joined her. Swallowing disquiet preceded a tonguing of moisture onto her lips.

Calvert removed her helmet. She estimated less than five minutes of prep. Check connections, bring the torch to standby status, verify power levels. The air dry and cool with a mild acrid taste due to objects and substances introduced into the shaft: herself and the torch, its metals, hoses, connections, and lubricants. A shirt sleeve environment, which she indulged in by opening the top of her EVA suit. Additional light would be nice, she thought hopefully to her surroundings.

You wish him to know?

There you are.

I am always here.

Of course you are. I'm the only one of us you've taken into your confidence?

No.

Not Pacini? Beth, then. But she doesn't seem to know.

Not her now.

Not her now? What does that mean? The youth sensed something like amusement.

You'll know eventually.

Know eventually? What kind of crap is that? Beth had spoken the true nature of the script. How could she know that and not be familiar with the source from whence that knowledge came? The alien was wholly disinclined to enlighten her. Gingerly Calvert seated herself on the floor with her back to the wall, aware that its slightly better than two metres of thickness was no impediment to an Alice of Wonderland-accident of discovery.

"Right above you."

"Yes, all right." Looking up, she saw Pacini's silhouette within the light he brought. She looked away at once. He'd given her vision spots to appreciate.

"All right, let's see what's yet to be done," he said fussily and applied himself to his task. Because the walls would not support magnetic anchors, he used suction instead to clamp with. Calvert watched him, from not quite the limit the space allowed. He doesn't know? She ought to feel superior, but was thoughtful instead. It is because he is so preoccupied with his machines.

Beam diameter, intensity, and focus settings selected and inputted. Power, plasma flow, and connections verified. Standby thumbed to auto. Marco gazed at lightly speckled wall past the cutting torch barrel. Where to begin? he thought. Does it make a difference? He needed to make an opening large enough to accommodate what might be sent through and brought back in terms of personnel and equipment. He was able to imagine what they might bring out, but knew owing to a mission's anticipated limitations that he ought not to be ambitious—anything more must be left to a future recovery team. An opening three metres wide by two and one half high with a camber to assist the cutout's removal when its considerable mass was freed. "There," he remarked when satisfied, and toned up the shading in his visor. "All set."

"Who are you talking to, Pacini?"

He grinned. "You." At the penultimate moment he thought, This makes no sense. Why isn't there a hatch? Why install so elaborate an entrance topside to a basement dead ended? Have we missed something?

"Something wrong?"

He saw her head was bare. "You need to put your helmet on and step up the shading."

"Oh, right."

"This is screwed up," he muttered. Calvert readied herself. He activated the torch. The tool rose and swivelled within its heavily articulated framework to orientate itself and spat out a pencil lead beam of white-hot malevolence. Movement and result sinister in appearance. Final adjustments to focus and temperature and he had the beam about right and as he liked it. "Looking good." All representations were green or blue tints and regions.

"Air circulation?" asked Calvert as an up-orientated fan by her shin came on.

"Ah, yeah, but it's still gonna get hot in here."

"We should leave."

"You first."

"Ah, no, you have things to do." She was feeling charitable.

"I gotta watch this a while. By the time the sling returns I'll know if everything's gonna go shipshape and proper."

"Oh, okay."

Marco squatted below the torch barrel and squinted at the target wall. "Son of a bitch," he said and shut down the beam. Because the rise in heat made him punchy, he locked down the panel as an additional safety precaution.

Calvert had just inserted herself into the sling. "What's going on?"

"Checking progress." With the light behind him and examining the target zone from as many angles as he could invent, he saw no groove, mark, not even a scorch line. "Damn me." It wasn't that he hadn't anticipated what he was now seeing, just his novice knowledge of metallurgy hadn't prepared him for it. Gingerly he touched the cut line, on toes to make the height he wanted. The target region wasn't even warm. Armour plate would have glowed cherry red and plain metal would have melted and run like butter. "This is incredible."

"What's incredible?"

Could be the wall was impervious to injury, constantly renewed itself, or dissipated efficiently and fast the energy put to it. He took a step back. Was there a mark or did he only imagine one?

"Can't you cut through? You should be able to cut through."

"I don't know." Try a hotter, more concentrated setting, run the torch longer at the current settings, or give up?

"You have to be able to cut through."

"What? What makes you so sure?" Same setting, longer, he decided.

"It, ah, just makes sense, is all."

"You think so?" He sensed something peculiar about her answer, but was unsure what it might be. "Firing 'er up in three, two, one." The countdown gave Calvert warning and time to adjust her visor's shading if she'd stepped it down. "You don't have to stay." He looked down and away, and crossed fingers.

"I need to know if it's possible."

He indulged in a thoughtful pucker. "I may be tinkering for a while. Could be an hour or more before I know for sure."

"Oh? Oh, all right."

"I'll comm you when I know one way or the other."

"Thanks. Ah, let me know as soon as you do."

I just said so, didn't I? A glance behind as she began to rise. He couldn't see her expression but thought she must be anxious. He wouldn't be sorry if the cutting failed to work, he'd be relieved. She ought to be relieved, too. How could she get herself lost, if she never went in?

"I'm not doing it. Either the torch works or we forget about the whole damn thing."

"Doing what?" Marco idly asked.

"Nothing," Calvert said quickly. "See you topside."

"Ah, sure."

Calvert arrived to the surface and summoned the retractable rod useful to tug her to the encircling tile platform. She paused to look about, admiring lofty earthen walls while disliking unrelenting dust, heat and sunlight. "Marco . . ."

"I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"Well, I do intend us to prioritize better."

"What is it?"

"First, any progress down there?" The styluses were on their old program still. Her frown followed their arthritic gliding.

"I'm still trying settings. I'll let you know."

"We need a better transport system within the shaft."

"Oh, Black Heaven . . ." I am for sure not going to like this.

Hurriedly she added, "Not right away."

"You know the materials gathering will be a bitch, don't you?" They'd exhausted all the nearby metal and carbon deposits.

"I'm thinking convenience as well as access," and peripherally the display of industry and zeal she wished to impress Captain Thorpe with.

"You have something in mind?"

"A lift."

"Free or enclosed?"

"What's the difference?"

"I could rig something with cables, a platform suspended off a beefed up frame topside, probably the build wouldn't take more than a few days. The other kind requires a framework anchored top to bottom. A car on a rail inside framework and considerably more stable. A week, nearer two."

"That kind," said Calvert impulsively.

"Sir . . ." he tried. She imagined him gritting his teeth.

"I'll help," she sent his way with as much energy and enthusiasm as before. "Gather materials, help with the installation. I can twist a wrench not as well as you certainly, but I can help if you'll show me what to do."

"You're serious?"

She wondered about which: the type of lift she wanted or that she would help?

"Absolutely I am. Ah, no rush. I'm thinking about when the, er, Captain comes." She hoped he wished to impress Thorpe as much as she.

"Sir, we're barely holding on with fingers and toes as things are."

"Leave the berm as is." Despite what she'd said and thought before. "Ah, you haven't sent out that TRAX yet, have you?"

"No, not yet."

"Forget that I said anything about the berm. Ah, you'll probably need that TRAX for something else now, right?"

"Ye-ah," he drawled.

"The styluses only need to work a portion of the mosaic at a time, not the whole thing. They'll not be moving about nearly so much, so we only have to maintain the status quo as regards the dust." A sigh was put to her surroundings. "Could that help you with your maintenance routines and schedules?"

"A little."

"Well." She was pleased with herself for having responded reasonably to his concerns. "Ah, can you think of anything else we might need?"

"The elevator topside terminus is going to need a cover. The installation won't be much of a problem with the frame that's up already."

"A tent?"

"Er, yes." He probably thought she'd envisioned something substantial with second story cupolas and a widow's walk.

"A tent would be fine," she coupled to a modest smile.

"Aye, sir."

"How's the breach coming?"

"Not sure yet. Another hour and I should have something to tell you."

"Right. Carry on."

Inside Boat Bay Lower Calvert discovered Danby opening an INV45 crate while up to her shins in impact webbing, cut away with an utility knife. The Swiss cheese-like material was entirely recyclable, a hardy pliable plastic that applied in liquid state out of a nozzle. It could be any colour—civilian cartage companies used a rainbow of them. Naval standard was bright orange. Barely did Danby look up, slicing with one hand while the other rhythmically squeezed something Calvert could not see.

"How's it going?" Calvert asked while peeling out of her outdoors suit. The removal of the suit, the exposure of one's moistened body in the transparent body stocking, was nothing to attract notice, and ought not to have triggered any. Calvert realized Beth watched her peripherally and the barely there pause in her exertions while doing so. It is because I've become so thin and brown. Calvert knew she was right.

"We were wondering how many of these you want to put out?" asked Danby.

All of them. "We'll double what there was for now. We ought to have spares." The ultimate number would depend on the average time it took to record a text. Intuitively she knew she would want all the styluses out, but to spare her crew some work for now they would match the present fifteen. Eventually even the wrecks would be tasked until they were wrecks entirely. A deadline of sixty-three days was a horribly constricting one. "On second thought, I think we better put them all out."

"Aye, sir," preceded not even a sigh.

"Give me five minutes to rinse, towel and change and I'll help."

You will? That's a switch. Calvert heard Beth's thought as clear as had she spoken out loud. She hadn't said a word, which Calvert knew for she'd watched her shipmate. Danby continued slicing and unpacking. A pair of dog-sized menials took up and stuffed the bright orange trash into a recycle bin.

"I'll be just a minute," repeated Calvert as she tugged down her undergarment. They'd been using a hose to rinse off sweat while standing in a tub. The rinse water was filtered and returned to the system. She stood in her round puddle, grit under her feet, delicious cold pulsing over her. Wringing out hair she'd let grow and hadn't coloured for weeks was next—honey blonde and past shoulder length. The voluminous hair, combined with bronzed skin, showed her as the Amazon girl on the cover of an ancient dime novel.

Plain cotton briefs, socks, T-shirt, ship suit and soft-soled shoes. Calvert presented herself before her shipmate without resentment for an insult she dare not acknowledge in any case. Taking the knife Danby handed her, Calvert noticed the small, grey squeeze ball the marine switched from left to right hand. The next hour was spent in mindless labour, with no more than a dozen comments shared between them. Calvert understood Danby resented the menial work she had to do. She singlehanded maintained the stylus flock. Pacini dealt with all intricate and specialized technical matters. Beth's thoughts were in sync with Marco's over matters of maintenance and labour distribution. Danby resented with the same obstinacy as he the tedium, and with special feeling the lessening of her professional edge. She was extremely angry in an unfocussed although wholly controlled way.

Calvert several times in the hour began an explanation and even an apology, each time pressing her lips firmly together again. The work was necessary, it was essential, the real truth could not be relayed, and she hadn't the heart to lie to her friend.

Pacini came in while Danby was arranging some INV45s on a work bench, still in gleaming metal and glass cases. Calvert was gathering the last large bits of orange debris to be recycled, leaving the flecks and crumbs for the menials to deal with. Wiping her hands on the cloth over her hips, she saw Pacini's death-warmed-over stare, that he seemed unconscious of, and Danby's concern.

"Your report, Technician?" Calvert asked sharply, plucking him from a reverie.

"It's working." Marco looked away, sighed, and tried looking at her with better focus. "The bad news is, the process is going to take far longer than I—ah, we thought." He explained that a single pass excavated not even a millimetre depth of material. "Could take weeks or longer."

"That's fine." Calvert felt the cellophane-wrapped stick of celery in her breast pocket intended for munching between breakfast and lunch. "The entrance will be ready when the Captain arrives?"

"It is? Ah, should be."

A shrug alerted her to the presence of the treat as it was tugged by the fabric of her ship suit. "Then it matters not how long it takes. I don't intend leading us in there beforehand."

"I didn't expect you would." Unwashed, unpleasantly aromatic, his hair plastered to his head and his skin layered with fresh and old sweat. His expression drooped. If he was that instant to be made a dog, he'd be a bloodhound, floppy ears and loose skin.

"You may take the rest of the day," Calvert said impulsively. How could she not be sympathetic to his condition? "And tomorrow, too."

"Sir?" he gulped.

"Relax and refresh yourself, Tech. That's a direct order."

"Sir, you wanted the styluses set out," he said tentatively.

After licking her lips, she answered, "We two can deal with that." He was in a ruinous state. Anyone could tell that a few more days like the ones he'd been experiencing would destroy him utterly. She would begin the process of the proper recording of the alien texts herself, instructing the in-operation styluses to report to her from their fruitless orbits, give them the updates they needed, and unleash them to the proper execution of the task. Danby would oversee the manufacturing of the travelling frames—the boxy INV45s inserted during the fabrication process. Test for seal, operation, and programming, and release outside. Anything they needed they could find or figure out for themselves.

"You're sure you know what you're doing?" Marco persisted.

"I know what to do," said Danby sternly. "Get your butt outta here. We can figure this out on our own."

"Don't mess with the root program. You can dupe it from any of the in-op styluses."

"Yeah, yeah, got it. Let's get you squared away." Danby supported him to the wash station, helped him out of his outdoors suit, hosed him down, and helped him dress. Calvert, amazed by the care and solicitation Danby evinced, watched while tucking herself into her 2nd gen outdoors suit, which, owing to weight lost, was far easier to fit than her first time inside a 1st gen. While she stepped into the lock, the crew moved at a crawling pace across the deck, Danby with her arm about Marco's shoulders and half holding him up. As the inner hatch grated along its rail, Calvert knew something so sure it had to be truth. Beth and Marco were become a couple, and she was set firmly outside their compact. They would never again think, act, or feel as individuals, and even death could not separate them. Calvert frowned as the implications conjured by this revelation swirled around her along with the omnipresent dust.

Chapter Sixteen - Work days

A recipe for stew, bare-breasted chef beaming, the expression Calvert knew to be equivalent, pride. A savour so strong she'd no trouble melting in her mouth the chunk of dried celery inside. Much of her preliminary studies were thus. Small texts, intimate and kind. Original authors. I shall open a restaurant when home again, Calvert thought, and pressed a giggle. She'd formulas or schematics for a pliable plastic impervious to extremes of wet, dry, hot and cold, a super high density storage medium, a deodorizing compound—a clay shaped and coloured to appear better than itself—actually able to remove odours and not just mask them, and, best find so far, an organism able to separate noxious chemical soups into constituent elements.

Each renovation or innovation worth millions. Except who would believe a girl, with no ambition for research, star of society, accused of no better than surface intelligence, to understand, leave alone expound upon, efficacious designs and techniques—the same girl recently returned from a secret mission and obligated, under threat of fine and imprisonment, to give full disclosure when called upon by her superiors?

I shall distribute marvels behind layers of the most secret corporate structure as can be devised, and all profits go to works for the betterment of humankind. She would not do philanthropy to win fame and fortune; she'd her naval career and family for that.

Her hands, nails pared to minimums, in neat leather covers, were rubbed together. Her light touch set the car to a hover. Autopilot engaged, the flying yoke would descend into a recess beneath the console—a configuration Calvert intended not to trigger. The data in her right hand monitor confirmed a stable coupling. Directing car and trailer through a tight inside turn avoided a pile of worn out chasses. The launch bay inner hatch opened and a puff of opportunistic dust was drawn into Boat Bay Lower. "Aircar One departing," she announced. Polyphemus appreciated the warning. Her flesh and bone shipmates did not.

Sideways out of Launch Bay, and then its energy curtain. When certain her rig was clear of obstruction, Calvert increased speed. The J-9 Falcon rose as if on a ramp over Pacini working between heaps of girders. He assembled a frame, two TRIKEs helping. "When will your pieces be ready, Pacini?" She gazed at his heat-soaked body, her vessel gliding to a cosy clearance over the nearest section of pressure fence.

"I've next the platform and winch to snug together. You'll be back in time?" So much of her waking hours were taken up examining texts besides raw materials hauling, she'd little time left over to help fabricate girders, nuts and bolts.

"I said I would, didn't I?" She was fetching him the final load of pellets needed to fabricate the final heap of girders.

"We're going to begin the assembly in three hours." You promised you'd help.

"Yes, yes, I know. You don't have to harp at me."

"I wasn't harping. It's going to take all of us to get this job done." Though I doubt you'll be of much use other than shining a light.

"I told you I will give real help, why do you disparage me?"

"Disparage you? Look, just get back on time and don't . . ." overstress the hitch again like you did the original.

"I've learned that particular lesson and will never repeat it," she growled after severing the link between them, thereby avoiding a better clue she heard and was responding to his thoughts. She was being more considerate of her crew. Neither was let to work longer than twelve hours in a day—she'd committed many extra hours of her own studying the archive.

Hours of exercise, rest and recreation had been legislated and were being observed. The sim theatre once more in use. One or both of them one or two days out of seven still put in extra hours of labour. Was he working too hard again? After moments of watching, Calvert was sure he was: grey under his tan, his hygiene not good, his body drooping as if older than it was.

Her next several days were dedicated to helping assemble the vertical frame for the lift. A secret study was being suspended. Once the lift was completed they could holiday to when their relief arrived. Pacini might do machine maintenance to his heart's content, satisfying the perverse genie he stood in thrall to. An adjustment fixed the set of the sunglasses over her ears and nose, extra was applied the turbines, and she aimed her car for painfully blue sky.

She did not do as much as they in terms of physical activity, but had put in many hours monitoring ship's systems, composing reports, and hauling loads of pellets. How many times have I fallen on the bed so tired I neglected to remove my clothes first? The escarpment loomed before her. "Polyphemus, time to smelter?"

"Approximately twenty-three minutes at current speed."

An hour would see her task done and she had three. A side trip, considering how busy and full her days had been, could not be indulgence. An hour for fun, but doing what? She couldn't run her obstacle course with the trailer attached. Landing, unhitching, take off, flying, hitching was too much bother. A recreational walk over fractured ground in oppressive heat was more chore than fun, except where there were trees and a kind of grass and inoffensive insects and nothing threatening one's safety. It was early enough she might stroll about in just her ship suit. "Polyphemus, I'm going to the spring. I, will be investigating the area to determine the extent of the underground water." A reason as good as any.

"Very well, Julie."

#

The prefabricated parts joined neatly and were snugged tight. The TRIKEs held the girders as Marco threaded twenty centimetre long fasteners through slots and snugged them again and again.

"Marco . . ."

"Yeah?"

"I'm done."

His enthusiasm floated at its lowest level. The last fastener, bolt, and rail were good to go except for the half dozen girders they waited makings for. Yank his power wrench to shoulder level, press end over bolt, brace, squeeze trigger. The bit growled and the screw advanced.

"Do you need me there?"

Marco watched the join go rigid, an interstice made infinitesimal. He grunted satisfaction to the result. "Ah, sure." He had an image of the finished result before his mind's eye, and had worked steadily without having to consult the schematic floating handily a few paces away.

"Neat," said Danby, who accessed a view of his work area from the sparrow drone floating behind and above him somewhere. "You're making real progress."

Four of five arches in place. The fifth ready to couple. The lift platform squatted convenient to his work area in a heap of numbered parts. The dome was half finished. He'd hoist, decking and cover yet to install. He watched Danby come down out of the ship. The bounce in her walk got lost halfway amid a gasp of protest.

"Welcome back to hell."

"Keep your hearty greetings to yourself. What do you want me to do?"

"Help me clamp this thing together. You can stick the bolts in. I'll snug 'em up."

"Hum-m-m." She knelt to select bolt from carton, "I recognize these guys."

"You ought to. You made 'em."

"That's what I thought."

Time passed and the work progressed. Marco suspended all other thought while pacing himself through one activity to the next. The top terminus and its cover were completed. A step back made it easier to see and appreciate the result. A stretch returned flexibility to sinews compressed by lifting, twisting, shifting.

"Shouldn't Calvert be back by now?" The taunt red and white fabric of the dome cover appealed to Danby's sense of order. Her side contained the lock-entrance. It ought to be cooler inside, she was thinking, next: Marco's due to recharge his suit. I'll remind him in another minute.

"Yeah, ah . . ." Marco consulted his handset. Their girl commander was overdue by a half hour. Being so busy, he hadn't realized it. "Calvert?"

No answer.

"Calvert?" Seconds passed in wait. "Polyphemus, where's Calvert?"

"Julie is at the spring."

A sour squint fixed on near and then far mounds of dirt. "What's she doing?"

"She is surveying the extent of the underground water system."

"In a pig's eye." Yet another of her self-appointed little tasks which were mere attempts to appear busy. She knew her help was needed, and their schedule. "How long has she been there?"

"Two hours and twenty-six minutes."

Two hours and twenty-six minutes was a nice break. Anyone could appreciate so large a rest inside an extended work day. "Is she near the car?"

"She is not."

"Where is she?"

"I have lost contact with her."

"Is the car all right?" Polyphemus might determine the condition of the car by querying it through links with the satellites they'd left in orbit for surveillance and weather functions.

"Yes, Marco."

"Is Calvert in danger?"

"I cannot tell."

He could recall the car or take the ship. "Shit fire . . ." He stared Danby in the visor, imagining her expression behind the tint. "What do you think, Beth?"

"She could have fallen into a ravine."

"Or she could be sunning her naked butt in a cosy spot somewhere. Still, if we wait any longer and she's in real trouble, we could get there too late. Polyphemus, instruct the car to search for Calvert."

"Aye, aye, Marco."

While the car searched, the pair went into the ship and extricated themselves from their outdoors suits in anticipation of what might happen next.

"Marco, the car is unable to find Julie," Polyphemus reported.

"Do we recall the car?" Danby asked.

"It'd take us far longer to prep the ship—Poly, send the car back."

"If it's a false alarm, she's gonna be pissed we took her ride."

"If it's a false alarm, I could care less if she's pissed," Marco grumbled.

The car arrived, hopper with sufficient raw material on board to complete the final allotment of girders. Trailer uncoupled and extra med gear for 'just in case' taken aboard. That Marco could so vividly imagine a girl's body in mangled condition was fuel for an anxiety he swallowed against. Concern for a shipmate was its cause, and nothing more than what was right. He glanced to Danby. How much he worried was nothing what his gal's presence at his side evoked in him. A different feeling entirely. Danby looked quizzically back.

"Nothing, ah, just drifted off for a minute."

"Good thing the car's flying itself," she muttered, scowling small.

"I'd just as soon relax." Calvert's scent lingered within the space he occupied. He'd no difficulty picking it out in spite of much circulated air. He heard fans, felt the press of air, and wondered if the system was impaired. He ought not to be able to detect her scent at all.

"That's not perfume," said Danby, sampling what Calvert had anointed herself with. Body wash, shampoo, deodorant, toothpaste, mouthwash, along with her personal chemistry. Danby was certain she'd accurately separated and identified each part of what her nostrils informed her of.

"The ventilation system can't be in such bad shape as that."

"I don't think there's a problem with the circulation." She'd an impression of her shipmate before her mind's eye, like an afterimage of flash photography, far clearer than expected. Calvert riding the pilot couch, flush with barely restrained conceit.

"I'll take a look when we get back. Does Poly have Calvert's foot route?" Marco asked.

"Yah." Danby watched into the right hand of the sensor suite her station was equipped with. "No trip wires or tiger pits along the way."

"No beach umbrella, pitcher of mai tai, and king-sized towel?"

"None of those either."

"If she's not busted into at least three pieces . . ."

"Or passed out from heat stroke." Calvert's red EVA suit hung on a peg within the cargo compartment.

"Yeah, well, that's possible too," Marco conceded.

He landed the car as near the end of a meandering foot trace as they could come. "One way," said Danby as she examined enhanced images of footprints in sandy soil. "Unless she went back by another route."

"The car would have detected it unless . . ." Minutes later he was standing before a substantial block of shade between two elephant-sized rocks hard up against a stony hillside. He was certain there was a passageway ahead despite that the contrast between light and dark made it impossible to see it. He turned to enter sideways after noting the different orientation to the footprints they'd been following.

Calvert had gone in and then what? Fallen into a crevasse? Lost her way? He sidled in. The passage lasted but a few paces before reaching a pleasingly large space. He entered far enough to give Danby the space she needed to arrive beside him and activated his lights.

"Whoa," went Danby admiringly.

Despite that natural forces had carved the inside of the cave, its interior was remarkably regular. Smooth stone all about, the ceiling sloping down at the far end to a little less than head height, and an area half tennis court-size. "All right, so she found a cave," he said. The pattern of her prints informed them Calvert had paused as and where they did, and then continued on.

"There's water," said Danby.

"Ah, yeah." He supposed there was.

"A lot of water." Danby hurried ahead.

She'd spoken as though certain. He merely agreed with her. She couldn't possibly have detected water. She was breathing the same recipe of recycled air he was. Danby removed her helmet, and he saw no reason against doing so himself.

He did smell water then, and it was a lot.

A further passage led down and to the right and was narrow enough that the pair in their suits had to turn sideways to negotiate it. They arrived into another open space, larger than the one above; its ceiling high enough for a girl not too tall to stretch her arms to their full extent if she'd a mind to. A low light glowed not far away. Within its nimbus Calvert lay in her transparent liner over the carpet of her ship suit, her head supported upon a pillow-sized stone. Asleep. Fast asleep. Their noise had not alerted her to their arrival. Marco pursed his lips in distaste. His gaze slid out to the water where it stuck.

"That's a lot of water," he said thickly. Not quite Olympic swimming but near to it.

"Yes, it is," said Danby with no less greed.

"She deserves something." He gazed with malevolent intent upon their sleeping commander.

Danby grinned agreement.

Calvert had settled in the deepest, most relaxed slumber imaginable. The shock of cold and wet, next the cupful of water taken in with her next breath was the worst possible exit from so cosy a place. She gaped in surprise and, because she could not speak through liquid, burbled and coughed her outrage and annoyance.

"You threw me in!" she growled when capable of coherent speech.

"No less than what you deserved," returned Pacini fearlessly from the impromptu bath he was enjoying. "When were you going to come back for us?"

"What? What d'ye mean? I din't . . . oh."

"You have no idea of the time, do you?"

"I fell asleep," Calvert muttered. She sat, chin to knees, in a puddle of drippings, looking out at them.

"Yeah, you did. We thought something happened to you."

As far as they knew something might have. Her embarrassed blush warmed the tan in her cheeks. Calvert frowned to the water. If she hadn't been so desperately tired, she wouldn't have fallen asleep. She couldn't remember if she'd lain a minute before passing out. Seconds. The near to comatose state I was in hadn't taken more than seconds to come to.

"You took a nap. After you promised you'd be back on time."

A flinty resentment was in his reply, which she'd insufficient defence against. She sat in her sopping liner, said nothing, watched. Danby floated on her back further in, in virtual darkness. Calvert was not sorry for her mistake. She'd discovered a marvellous resource, and remembered how pleased she imagined her crew would be when she told them of it.

They were pleased, and it was owing to her initiative. She would not feel sorry, nor guilty for having created a little worry and delay. Pacini could gripe all he wanted, her satisfaction was not diminished one milligram. She smiled, so they not see it, her cheek against her knee, her gaze down and to the side.

"Are you coming back in, Julie?" called Danby from the far end of the pool.

"Not right now." She'd been put off by Pacini's crude splashing. He swam like a lumbering land animal forced into the water by raging forest fire. An attempt of one length of the pool would exhaust so inefficient a swimmer. Pacini emerged nearby and Calvert moved to avoid his water drops. "It would be nice to have some light in here," she said tentatively.

Marco huffed his breath, his cheeks appearing those of a squirrel transporting nuts.

"No hurry," she amended.

"Sure," he said and grinned thoughtfully. Something sarcastic is coming, Calvert thought but he only added, "when there's time."

"Benches would be nice," added Danby from the dark end of the cave.

"How's about a hot tub?" said Marco.

"Sure, why not," called Danby and Calvert chuckled softly into her hand.

"I gotta go out and check on the car," he said. "You two gonna be long?"

"I'm done now," said Calvert.

"I'll be a few minutes," said Marco as he pulled the ruggedly pliable suit up over his damp, near naked body.

"Oh, all right," said Calvert. After Marco had gone she remembered she'd left her suit in the car.

"I'll get it," said Danby and began a swim-return to the near end.

"No, you stay. I'll just tug on your suit and go fetch it myself."

"I don't think you wanna do that. The inside a'mine is kinda funky."

"So's mine," countered Calvert. The difference in sizing, not readily apparent externally, was considerable internally, Calvert realized as she donned Danby's suit. Her body larger on top but shorter throughout. Feet and hands a great deal smaller. The borrowed suit had strange sags and was snug or loose in strange places.

"Marco will think you're me," said Danby on Calvert's way out.

He will, won't he? Calvert thought, but she wouldn't play such a trick on him. She supposed they would meet in the upper cave, helmets off, no chance for mistaking one woman for the other. She came within the empty upper level and thought: This is a nice space too. With some lights, decent flooring, and some padded furnishings, it could be quite comfortable. The depressingly dreary outside was resumed, the sun directly overhead, and a wind stirred and floated dust among the trees to distress them with. A view stark and severe, although nowhere nearly as bad as the dig site. Calvert appreciated differences before setting off downslope. She'd nearly lost her footing along the way up. The car floated over the nearest level patch. She approached it not expecting anything. The hatch opening startled her because she'd been preoccupied.

Marco hopped down and aimed his helmeted head at her. "What's she waiting for?"

"Suit," was Calvert's monosyllabic reply.

"The princess couldn't think far enough ahead to take it in with her, eh? Figures."

"She hadn't expected she would fall asleep so abruptly," replied Calvert in her own voice which was as good a warning as she intended to give.

"Apparently she can fall asleep any time she wants." Marco was thinking of the time not so long since, in the sun bath, a bronze body on a couch, the gentle sway of cloth, which he converted in his imagination to a harem tent carpeted in Persian rugs, over bright cushions and low couches, a tinkling fountain in a corner, brazen ebony boys waving ostrich feathers on long bamboo poles, and basins of fruit and flasks of wine. Calvert stirred from her lazy lying to accept a glistening orange peeled and sectioned. Danby in diaphanous slave costume slipped one by one the slivered parts between her lips with a napkin underneath to catch gone wayward drips of juice. "Damned convenient and no kind of an excuse."

"Oh," went Calvert and pulled up short, a little dazed and a little irked by an odd vision arrived out of nowhere. Beth and she, slave costumes, eating oranges.

"She's always thinking of ways to avoid her share of work. If she hasn't a reasonable excuse, she falls asleep. Damned typical."

"There are things I have to do. That you know luh—"

"We bust our humps day in and day out while the prima donna sits up in her cabin doing what, I ask you? What plausible excuse does she have for absenting herself over and over? Her attitude sickens and sours everything I do. As soon as this gig is over I'm submitting the fattest grievance anybody's ever seen to Command Frontier Central even if it never sees the light of day."

"I'm that bad a commander, am I?" Calvert asked stiffly.

"If she didn't have her uncle's reputation to stand on, she'd be collating stale reports in a back room databank somewhere."

"I've never stood on any other but my own reputation," Calvert growled. "And you have no idea what I'm having to do, so you'd better clap a lid on it, spacer!"

"Er, buh . . . oh."

"That's right, it's your feckless, gadabout commander. Now, if you don't mind, and feel free to include this in your essay—which you can be damned sure nobody will ever even look at—I'll just go into the car now to fetch my suit!"

"I didn't mean," he sputtered at her back.

"You didn't mean to voice a litany of complaints in front of me," Calvert said, hopping down, helmet and suit in arms. "Well, you've let me appreciate them in full. Apologize if you feel like it. The consequence will be the same."

There wasn't a whole lot more she could do to him that she hadn't already. Marco felt himself inclined to voice this observation but wisely chose to hold his peace.

"Just as I thought. There is no punishment I can think of that wouldn't impact adversely on the working of the site and our efforts. Regardless, be assured that I neither forget nor forgive. A revision shall appear in your fitness report for now. Later, you can expect a more critical eye put to your work and attitude. Carry on, Mister Pacini."

Calvert set off for the water cave far more unsettled and irritated than she ought to have owing to her feelings being hurt. She had avoided grosser labours required to maintain, improve, and enlarge the site, for good cause. That he should feel put upon, wearied, inconvenienced were minor burdens when set against the great good she intended to create.

She wished she could enlighten him, and Beth, but, despite her emotions braying in her ear, her intellect counselled caution. She must not let them stumble into the large danger reserved for herself. That she would accept no reward was justification for staying mum—she would ensure they wanted for nothing all the rest of their lives, too.

Glumly Julie Calvert stared through her windshield. When she approached the ship too high and too fast her abrupt corrections elicited grunts from her passengers. Her lips were fixed against comment. After an expert settling alongside the dome, because of her preoccupation, irritation and funk, she missed the hard look Marco put on her from inside his skin of calm.

"You'll be going right back out?" he asked.

"No, I will stay to help with the assembly." They intended building from the bottom up. The not yet fabricated final girders were for the final stage just below the surface.

"Let's get started then." He'd made what he said sound a challenge.

Mindless work was Calvert's opinion as she guided tubular supports into couplings that Marco fussed over like a hen pecking grubs. His many taps and jostling did to her nerves what they couldn't do to insensate metal and plastic. The soft amused voice inside her head commented whenever it chose and often. Times she was not ready with her mallet or a push or a pull were owing to its interruptions. Ignoring scowls and grumbles, the long hours passing with barely a pulse different from every other pulse, Calvert imagined wonders got from today's gleanings and herself inside junior lieutenant's bars.

"Break," said Marco.

"What?" Calvert hadn't heard anything snap. Only forty percent at most of her attended to work.

"About time," came from above.

"Burgers and fries?"

"How about juice and green salad?"

"I can't keep up this pace on rabbit food."

"You'd rather clot your arteries with undigested fat?"

"I'd rather restore some red to my blood while it's still possible."

"Rather, you mean, putrid yellow," and more of the same. Calvert was entirely on the outside of their play argument, as they removed suits and sluiced off secretions, and as Marco made burgers for three and Beth salads for two. Banter Calvert could not help but resent, owing to her exclusion. She then identified a subsurface tension during a burp while between thoughts.

Beth's expression became less animated, and her amusement forced. Something was wrong, a terrible secret hovered between them, which they did not intend to share with the third person in the room.

"Coffee?" suggested Calvert while she reviewed a perfect recollection to know what the trigger had been. She rarely drank the muck that sometimes appeared within the mess, but would make her own—brewed from a much diminished supply of purloined specialty powders.

She recalled the catalyst for disquiet. The common refrain, which was why she'd not remarked it. What will we do when this is over? Posed by Marco, and received by Beth with an expression gone queer. She'd looked out of the corners of her eyes—at me, Calvert realized with an internal twist and shudder. Should she ask what their dreams had been about? What information had they that she stood in ignorance of? She worried for Marco's condition. How could he execute a hard rescue with his strength and stamina so diminished?

"Sure," went Marco genially and she gazed harshly at his dreary looks before he carried them into the kitchen. It is a temporary condition, Calvert assured herself. He is resilient and strong. The soft time coming will mend him. She must quiz Beth when next they were alone together. It was her duty to enable an environment suited to support the emotional needs of her crew. What did the alien show Beth it was not showing her? Calvert followed after Marco with the intent to mine her stores for a treat for them.

"Hum-m-m," went Beth after sipping a charming mocha smothered in cream and sugar. "I thought you said this was coffee."

It was until you drowned it. Calvert replied, "It's just a blend you're probably not familiar with." She turned to Marco, who drank his beverage as did she, unvarnished, black and steaming.

#

Three days later, under russet sky, the fence sputtered in dozens of places along the eastern fringe. Monsters were in the flashes. A swallow had lodged in Calvert's throat. The dome was settled with a thud. The voice in her head seemed to laugh.

Her hands were clasped behind her, and her lips ajar. Turbine schematics, longevity therapy, better cybernetics tech, geothermal energy transfer, hydraulics, waste management, interesting structural designs, an efficacious pablum. A hundred memories internally queued. She could access any part of one with perfect clarity, despite headache and fatigue. The jolts her body reacted to were owed to anchors slamming into place.

"That's it?" called Danby from the other side of the dome.

"She's ready for her inaugural run," replied Marco, his elation fuelled by fumes. "Just gotta check the topside couplings. Damn proud of this design." Marco tested and tinkered. "Simple, elegant, built to last. Should do the trick for whatever's required. Who wants to be first?"

Calvert gazed everywhere, and perversely envisioned better. "It's your project," she said. At the moment what she wished to do was to collapse, sweat-slick and gritty, onto someplace soft, and be left alone

"You're sure? We could ride down together. Plenty of room for all three of us." A plastic skirt enclosed the lower half of the lift cart. To allow an uncluttered work space, the cart stopped four metres from the bottom. The final part of the descent was by a spiral of stair.

"Let's all three of us," said Calvert with pretend enthusiasm, preceding her crew through the gate. Danby removed her helmet. Calvert had already done the same.

"Oh, hey, yeah." Marco removed his own helmet. His eyes showed bloodshot past crinkled skin and sagging eyelids. His grin was nine-tenths forced. "Descent," he said to the mini console by Calvert's left hip. No jolt. Down they went.

Calvert's yawn was extinguished against her wrist. With all the girders surrounding them, she might forget they descended through a shaft over one million years old. Here the beam against which she'd hammered her thumb. Recollection renewed the pain, and she restrained herself from placing her gloved-over appendage in her mouth to suck.

"Did you catch the transition?" asked Marco.

"Hum-m-m?" said his companions simultaneously.

"We've just passed through the barrier. I wasn't sure the subroutine I came up with would deal with the change in speeds, but everything seems okay."

"Not your program," Calvert muttered. "The layer did the trick."

"Say again?"

"Nothing." Calvert's glance confirmed Danby had realized as she what was responsible for the compensating.

"I, ah, thought we should, ah, initial our work, for posterity," said Marco. Danby smiled and Calvert tried her best to do the same. Marco beamed at them both. "Right about . . . here." Marco, consulting his handset, directed the cart to halt. Neatly carved 3 cm high initials gleamed in the light he put to them. J. C., E. D., & M. P. above the current date in Roman numerals. Polyphemus' commander subdued a chuckle. As a tribute it hadn't anything like the impact of the records she was studying.

"Not allowed so I hid it," he said. At a peculiar depth and setting, behind a girder, and at an angle not easily referenced.

"You've done a good job hiding it," said Calvert. "My lips are sealed."

"Me too," chimed in Danby, willing to please. Calvert's tone had been facetious.

"I hoped you'd agree," said Marco smugly. Though in her own extremis, Calvert could tell he was on his last legs. His face was as putty.

Calvert protested, "Let's hurry this along, shall we? I've a steamy shower waiting."

"Right, ah, almost there." Helmets were donned owing to the heat down below. The torch in operation was grotesque and fearsome. Calvert restrained from protesting what seemed desecration. She could not for long watch the damage being wrought. She regretted she could not reveal her secret. An enormous shape stood on the other side of the wall, watching and listening.

She saw, through the double black of faceplates, Danby wearing her identical look. "Huh-how long?" asked Calvert, her attention back on Pacini. He had to notice their odd postures, but did not comment on them.

"Until what?"

"Until you've cut all the way through?"

"Should be, I dunno, weeks? The depth is a measly 23 cm. That's after two weeks' of near continuous operation. Month and a half? If nothing breaks. Should match up with when the Captain arrives."

"Good enough. Shall we proceed topside?"

"Sure. Anything you want to check over?"

"No. I need to," get out of here before I throw up, "do some things. Another report."

He beamed a rubber smile at her and assumed the rear of the queue for the stair. Calvert glanced down and behind and saw his head bowed and his face wearing the same awful smile, which he hadn't the energy to change. As the car ascended, their helmets once more removed, Calvert communed with her research, her gaze flipping over repetitive grid work, until she chanced to see her intimately silent crew.

Calvert pressed out another yawn, this time feigned, and needn't have bothered. They hadn't an instant of attention extra for other than themselves. Back at the surface, the trio exited the cart and reapplied their helmets. Calvert walked on ahead.

They soon would be sleeping together, the subtraction of two from three complete. Calvert, in her third best nightgown and slippers, paused at her bathroom before passing it by and going the rest of the way to her bedroom. After expending the energy necessary to shift bed covers she fell face-first into comfort. Mercilessly her fatigue overwhelmed her and she would be glad it had.

Chapter Seventeen - Dust Up

Calvert was distracted because the TRAX, patina of yellow dust over scoured metal, appeared to limp. Its tread, lustreless grey, was in deplorable condition. Ragged, split, worn. A private vehicle, in operation on a public highway and in the same condition, would be declared unsafe. Looseness also? Certainly there was. Might the machine run right out of its shoes?

"I've tightened as much as I can," protested Pacini, who after several days of light duties exhibited less sag in his features. Calvert arrived among an inventory of light fixtures, pipes, rods, counter grav and power generation equipment, and cutting and polishing implements. The TRIKE, menials, ladders, filtration equipment, water pump, water heater, and framing materials travelled inside the trailer. They were on their way to Calvert's cave to renovate it.

"Haven't we materials for making new treads?" The youth dodged past containers and stooped to avoid the coils intruded into her head space. Danby shrugged apologetically. Not my fault. Space is at a premium.

A silence seconds long passed before Marco answered, "Not on hand." The shaft elevator job had significantly depleted the ship's supplies of raw materials. "If you're referring to Happy, his footwear is the worst of the lot."

"I'm perfectly willing to resume my materials hauling."

"I was going to replace them eventually." In due time.

Calvert had grown accustomed to not responding to unspoken comments. "Will there be a danger to the machines continuing as they are?"

If there was, would you care? "They're okay for a while yet. I've attached a priority to the replacement project." They'll keep. Drop it, why don't you?

Grimacing, she passed his copilot's couch to her own seat where she began a checklist of flight systems. When satisfied the trip should proceed, she took the flying yoke into her hands. Pacini grinned in an infuriating manner. He thought her foolish for not letting the car fly itself. "Polyphemus, we are ready to depart."

"Aye, aye, Julie."

"We should be back by nightfall. Transfer any incoming calls to our location." She hoped there wouldn't be any calls. She'd much rather play talk-tag in her cabin, and be properly dressed, clean and settled while at it.

Calvert had accumulated a horde of documentation to give Thorpe when he arrived. Texts collected—absent translations, a visual history of the excavation, her notes and analyses. Marco's attachments were included without edits. Some grievances were within the package, including several she regretted. Thorpe would think she went out of her way to disparage his pet.

"Sir?" arrived crisp to her ear and she sent them into the shimmery air.

Seen from above the desert displayed dulcet dunes and rocky hollows, not very high and not very deep. Nowhere had wind and sand scoured all the way down to the wreck. Some quick lizards, dry, scaly, small and ugly, lived in tenuous burrows and only came out at night to pursue bugs and lick moisture from stones gone cold.

The escarpment appeared the broken teeth of a buried titan. A small gulp, determined squint, and nifty exercise of skill dealt with the obstacle. The document she'd experienced this morning had been the most enlightening yet. Humans had striven centuries to perfect teleportation tech—travel point to point instantaneous. The aliens managed a first successful test millions of years ago.

She'd whisked place to place to place, visiting vistas unlike any hitherto imagined. Volcanic fire and smoke, blue ice glaciers, fecund jungle in which rustled or splashed every shade of green, dripping conifer forests beneath waterfalls hundreds of metres high, crystal cities covering whole continents, an ocean so blue and teeming with life one could not help but weep. She had walked a tiny part of a structure the size of a mountain in which were playgrounds, shops, museums, libraries, amusement parks, theatres and concert halls—an immense gregarious space. That she had encountered beings only mildly like herself had subtracted not the least pleasure from the experience. She was used to the aliens now, appreciated their company, smiled at the play of children, enjoyed their jokes and amusements.

Feeling smug, Calvert peeked across and discovered her copilot slept. No doze but the deepest sleep possible. Neither shout nor pinch would rouse him. He might only be revived by strong stimulants. "Beth, come forward please."

"What is the—oh." A fond smile.

"The oaf has fallen asleep."

I can see that.

"We've work to do." I'm stating the obvious.

Yes, you are, so why bother? "Maybe he'll wake up when we get there?" We could always throw him in the pool. That should wake him. Revenge, if you want to call it that.

"Maybe you . . ." Calvert stared into the pale blue eyes of her marine. You can hear me.

Danby's return look was caked with amusement. "Of course I can."

"How long?" Calvert surrendered her navigation chore to the onboard AI.

"Weeks? I only realized what I was hearing was not what I imagined a little while ago. I thought the two of you had taken up muttering insults at each other."

"I mutter?"

"You seem to."

"I do not mutter."

"It seemed muttering. Like I said." Danby leaned against the copilot seat backrest, the palm of one hand on Marco's shoulder. Calvert, arms crossed, sulked, feeling entitled, while wondering whether Danby's eavesdropping had gone further than she admitted.

"Hum-m-m?" went the marine as Calvert diminished the extent and volume of her thoughts to a minimum. The women watched out the windscreen until Danby abruptly turned and returned to her seat, leaving Calvert with her comatose copilot and conundrum.

#

Marco squinted into clutter. The palms bent irresistibly to weather not much less than a typhoon. Appreciating the wind for its clean, wet intensity, he forged his way over compacted sand and windfall branches and coconuts.

"Beth!" He sensed her presence despite he was nowhere near her doorstep. "Poly, how's about toning the weather down some?" He peered into a jungle aflutter like thousands of grounded birds. "Yo, Beth!"

He saw Julie instead, squatting flatfooted, her sun-bleached hair streaming, the skin of her face cat-taut as she stared fearlessly over the crashing water. "Well, there you are!" she shouted through the roar. "At last!"

"Where's Beth?" She's responsible for this, Marco thought as he struggled to maintain a neutral look. Played with the settings, corrupted the balance, created chaos because she could, typical Julie Calvert behaviour.

"How should I know?" Julie appeared older than she remembered her as—five years or more. Her body beneath the plain shirt and cutoffs was leaner. Her features had arrived to the condition of unrelenting beauty they'd been destined for.

"Why wouldn't you?" He stood at her shoulder and looked down. He could not help but admire the shape she'd come into.

"I'm her friend, not her keeper!" She exhibited a pained look.

"All right, then! I'll just walk on to the hut. She'll be there, I expect."

"You do that! Take your time! Take your damn time, and then go fuck yourself." Julie turned her face back to the storm, figurehead daring the waves. He'd the impression she intended to dash into the tumult. He might have attempted dissuading her from rash action, except he suspected whatever he said would have no effect whatsoever upon what she might do.

"Don't do anything stupid!" He stepped around the human obstacle in his path. He imagined her casting daggers at his back as he proceeded against air as heavy as it was thick. The quaint hut, door latched and shutters on, vegetable cover ripped and tousled, had an abandoned look. He stared, speechless and sad. He'd hoped to find the house cozy and welcoming, not an empty shell.

"Julie passed on the news you'd arrived." Although she stood many metres away and obscured by foliage, he heard her speak as though she stood with him hip to hip. Plaid shirt, worn denims and neat leather boots. She, too, was older, an age near his. His observation was troubling to until her look soothed his unease from far nearer, her smile warming and gladdening him. "Everything all right?"

"Ye-eah. We're going to the cave. Renovations."

"Oh, yeah. I remember."

"You remember?"

Beth gazed fondly to the shack. "We've new accommodations inland. I was sure you'd come here first."

"Oh? Ah—"

"The weather's variable now. Makes things more interesting. It made sense to put up something substantial on high ground."

"Ah, sure."

"I left the shack up for you." Beth took his arm. "We don't use it anymore. I'd show you the new house if there was time."

"Isn't there time? I just got here."

"You should be almost to the cave by now. Next time you'll stay much longer."

"That'd be great. For sure I will." He was thoroughly enjoying his guilty pleasure. They travelled in a bubble of quiet that dismembered fronds and branches bounced against and tumbled away from. "This is something I didn't think possible." Environments within and without. Island's programming must be even more complex and ingenuous than he'd assumed.

Beth drew them to a stop. The storm ceased at once, the flutter of leaves and branches to earth peculiar owing to being as much sideways as down. "Haven't we had this conversation already? Just where do you think you are?"

"Well I, hum . . ."

Danby arched her brow. "You're punchy and not thinking straight, and I'm rushing you. We've no time left. I'll show you the house next time you're here."

Marco shrugged. "Yeah, sure, ah, sorry."

"That's all right. I've already forgiven you." She kissed him. He was surprised and pleased, and even more pleased their bodies perfectly fit together—"Pacini! Get your sorry ass out of that couch!"

Although the words 'what the hell' had to have slipped from his own lips, their echo precipitated within his own ears. Calvert, two fistfuls of his ship suit, straddled his lap. She'd screamed into his face and, to judge by her grinning, had enjoyed doing so.

"We'um hair?" His words as muddled as his thoughts continued to be.

"Of course we are. Nap time's over. Thanks for the job of navigation by the way." As if I'd needed it in any case.

"That being so, why are you complaining?"

She seemed to back a step, despite still straddling him. Next her look, which he viewed full on, went queer. He smiled broadly. Why don't you say what's on your mind?

She nearly did. Her thoughts snagged on the first syllable of a response, and then she backed as far as she could, bumping the nav console at butt level.

What are you afraid of? He studied her looks for a betraying reaction. Are there secrets you're keeping you're worried you'll accidentally reveal?

"Beth has started the unloading," said Calvert.

Answer the question, coward.

"I'm going to start measuring—" He caught her by the wrist as she attempted to slip past him. "Leave me go, Pacini." Her teeth white and even past lips perfect for kissing, but not by him. He compared Calvert now with Julie then, and liked Julie then better.

"I'll let you go when you've answered my question."

"You haven't asked me one."

"You know I have." He let her go. "I'll be listening."

"I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about."

"Fine, have it your way." Hours later, he informed his drill snake to resume its grinding ninety degrees different from the direction it had gone, and watched the result in his handset schematic. Up 0.52 metres, give or take a couple millimetres. Soft stone, perfect for shaping. The drilling, cutting and polishing was easy.

"Up on your side a hair!" Beth was saying.

"Just about there!" replied Calvert and added a grunt.

They levelled the ceiling. The slabs they cut away were intended for shower stalls. The TRIKE held the grinder/polisher to the ceiling close by, rumbling, cascading dust coated the floor and them. Marco grinned at his shipmates, the kitchen table-sized slab came down on floating jacks. The women, concentrating on the work, were oblivious to everything else. Admiring their shapes, knowing he did so without giving offense in at least one case, he smiled deeply and happily. The green spot bleating in the upper right corner of his handset screen informed him the drill snake was done.

"That's the last one," said Beth, nodding to the stack of slabs they'd created.

"Shower stalls only? There's far more than we need," he replied.

"I was thinking a common area," said Calvert. "Near the entrance." The entrance would get a dual hatchway in it to keep in cosy and keep out nasty.

"How's about a billiard table?" He added an indulgent smirk.

"There's so much good stone left over. We'd have to discard most of it otherwise." Calvert took pains not to sub-vocalize. Pacini was primed to trip her up the moment she did.

Debris from the renovations made a heap apart from that of the slabs. Marco saw an interior as it would be. Welcome area, ell of wall behind which were showers, lockers and change area, corner hot tub with room for six. Washroom with sinks and mirrors, flush toilets and urinals and attached small waste treatment plant. Along the way to the pool, a sauna planked with sweet-scented wood from the trees outside. Venting, plumbing and installation were his responsibilities while the women levelled and expanded. "Lunch?"

"Yah," agreed Beth and Calvert frowned, slapping her thighs to knock dust off. Marco could tell his girl commander was tired, hungry, and irritable. He kept his observation to himself, a conceit to cherish. Beth rubbed a greyish white spot from her fanny, fascinating him by how she did it.

"I think we should be getting back," Calvert declared.

Much work remained. Other plumbing, ventilation, and electrical runs to drill or cut. Water heater, fans, pumps, and communications set to install or connect. Back home he'd instructed the machines to park by the ramp when their shift was done; their cleaning to wait until tomorrow.

Calvert showed very anxious to be off. "We can finish this tomorrow."

"I'd like to finish the plumbing today, if you don't mind." He estimated a few more hours would see that job done. Carving and assembling walls and seating, and installing fixtures would require another day. "Send the car back after you get home."

"All right. That's what we'll do. Beth?"

"I'd like to stay, too. Continue the clean up. Get things ready for tomorrow."

Once Calvert had gone, taking their lunch over the mound of slabs serving as their table, Marco's hearty sigh of relief went out with full expression.

"What's that for?" Beth asked.

"You can't?" he asked after a chew and swallow.

"Can't what?"

"Nothing." He directed his grin to a corner.

"Just a minute, Marco Salvatore Pacini." The portion of his ship suit she snagged got a twist applied to it. "You're going to have to come clean or I might get rough."

He exhibited an even bigger grin. "I can read her mind."

"What?" Beth open-mouth smiled.

"Not every little thing she's thinking, just enough to get me into trouble."

"When did this start?"

"When we landed, but I think I might have been reading her earlier."

Can you hear this?

"Hey, yeah!" Say something else.

I've been hearing both of you far longer than that.

"Huh?"

"We realized we were telepathic while you were flaked out."

"The sneaky little brat, she pretended she couldn't understand me." Disgust was in his manner, voice and posture. "Why the hell won't she come clean?"

"She may have something to hide."

"I'm sure she does." He'd reminded himself of his own large, tropical secret.

"Whatever she's keeping to herself, I hope she has a good reason for it."

"Who the hell knows?" Marco munched his sandwich, appreciative looks put to his surroundings and companion. Getting good stuff double these days. "Are you hearing something?" He was registering a change in the tenor of the wind. The dust forced through the unfinished entrance had more energy and travelled farther. "This is not good." He heaved himself to his feet.

"Storm." Beth brought herself up also.

"Long overdue." He recalled how twitchy Calvert had been.

"Can the car fly in this?"

He checked his handset. "It's almost back. Should be okay." The wind's song had risen an octave during the ensuing seconds. "It's getting bad out there fast." The amount of spindrift coming in was noticeably more. "Calvert," he said. When she hadn't responded several seconds later, he said, "Too much interference, I'll put out the antenna."

"I'll help."

Afterward Calvert was saying, "I know it's storming. You think I don't?" She had returned the car as soon as she arrived home, when the air was unsettled and not raging as it did now.

The fence sputtered actinic-white before the line of dominant wind. Dust flowed higher than the fence could block. The excavation filled in with startling rapidity. "What you're saying, is you can't make it back until after the storm." The youth was suiting up to go out.

"You have to hurry, the fence won't hold out much longer," Marco replied. The accumulating dust and sand blocked the solar collectors, preventing energy absorption.

Polyphemus had activated the pressure dome that protected the power station, now at cost to the reserve. Good levels were in the capacitors still, but these could not last. With no energy collection happening, the fence could not be sustained.

"Yes, yes, I know!" Calvert needed to rescue her machines, and bed down the power station with adjustments and checks that could only be done on site. A simple order would bring TRAXs and TRIKEs in, but the sweeps and styluses were not capable of responding, nor could they negotiate the increasingly difficult terrain without help.

"Take care of yourself."

"I will." The danger was large, but manageable. Calvert mounted TRIKE 4, which was equipped with a padded seat, pommel and stirrups. Next she looped about her waist the belt Pacini recommended—a tenuous perch from which to direct a rescue. Swallowing unease, Calvert directed TRIKE 4 into the airlock, TRIKEs 5 and 6 followed. The trio was posed in its lowest profiles and the girl, bent double, appeared a motorcycle racer.

Through the outer hatch, onto the ramp, down into the robust canvas shelter Marco had fixed to the ramp to reduce the amount of dust coming in and fouling the airlock. Calvert paused at the lower aperture, which had a series of baffles incorporated in.

The rumbling of the storm warned of increasing difficulty. The sand scouring the outside of the shelter was squadrons, not yet hordes. Calvert bulled her way outside and was ambushed. Sail-like she and her ride were lifted and swung to the side.

"Crap!" The experienced equestrian heaved into a compensatory swing that arrested most of her momentum. A jarring contact with the rail was the result, rather than an upset with the five hundred kilogram machine landing on top of her.

"Hold!" she cried, unclipped her belt, and hopped off. The wind too ferocious for riding already. The rescues would have to be managed on foot.

Polyphemus was shutting down sections of fence where the wind was weakest, while directing a diminishing power supply where it was needed most. The ship's AI had sent outside TRIKEs and TRAXs, one with trailer attached, into the excavation. TRIKEs 5 and 6 carried tie-down straps and a tarpaulin. When Calvert arrived above the excavation, the styluses and sweeps were already loaded—balanced and neat, thanks to machine precision—on the trailer.

Poly directed what the machines did during the next stage, Calvert checking procedures were followed and connections made tight. TRIKEs had four upper appendages: lower 'hands' able to grip, upper adept at tying knots. Seven TRIKEs worked in concert. The strapping on and covering over progressed apace.

The wind was strongest out of the west. In the east, where the fence by stages shut down, opportunistic masses of air, laden with dust, rippled in, and assumed recognizable shapes. A vision of order out of chaos evolving.

A girl grown accustomed to ghosts and monsters nonetheless gazed with fascination at locomotive-sized sentries rambling along arrow-straight tracks, that ended ahead of the dome covering the shaft near where she crouched. In between the tracks were shapes which, as the storm grew in mass and intensity, gained definition and heft, and breadth and height—treasure, the leftovers of an advanced civilization, wind and dust sculpted.

The sentries, reaching the end of their tracks shredded as did ice before a blow torch, and reappeared in the distance. The model expanded as fencing failed and wind and energy increased. Calvert supposed it might eventually cover the entire plain.

Showoff, she thought.

The alien's response was nonverbal and amused, which she had little trouble sensing.

Are you getting back at us?

Not at all. My intent is to entertain.

Like the flags swimming that time when you knocked out our drones.

Collateral damage. We appropriated their energy along with everything else.

The gust that nearly toppled me came out of nowhere. Calvert massaged the bruise on her outer thigh received when she was thrown against the rail. Was that you, too?

"Julie, we're good to go," said Poly.

"Do I need to check?"

"All connections are solid."

"Let's head in then."

#

"She started?" asked Danby.

"She already had mapped out what to do." Marco looked as deep as he was able into billows of sky. "I ought to have told her to forget it. She may end up risking her life. What's over there has to be worse than here."

"Why didn't you?"

"I knew it wouldn't do any good."

Danby knew she agreed with him. Calvert risked a desperate rescue. Why? She has no choice—why hasn't she a choice?

Marco turned to go inside.

The bulk of their recording equipment had been outside: nearly all the styluses, two TRAXs and four TRIKEs. Danby remained within the threshold.

She needs those styluses. She's been banking two libraries, one for the Imperium as per orders, the other for herself—I can't have gotten that right. A hundred years from now, or a thousand, no one's going to be able to read those texts. It's ridiculous to assume she's undergone a linguistic apotheosis, but she can't be collecting the texts purely for the satisfaction of possessing them. Marco cast a questing look over his shoulder, which Danby felt, but did not respond to. They're of no use to her unless she is able to understand them . . . When her mind's calculation caught up with its speculation, Danby's gaze widened and her lips fell apart.

"Hey, what's up?" Marco resumed his place at her side in case Danby needed an assist to restart her motion with.

"Nothing." Danby leaned forward, having hallucinated a fleeting image. A woman in light clothing, serene inside a bubble inside the storm, looking this way, and smiling.

"We should settle in. It's going to be a long night."

So Marco not know how perplexed she was and how odd she felt, Danby waited until she was certain her next step would not falter. Calvert's night was going to be a great deal harder than theirs. She comes to no harm. Courageous girl, with a great deal more spunk than either of them had given her credit for.

#

Calvert moved through air nine-tenths solid and as likely to squash her flat as sail her off her feet. Only a few sections of fence still worked. Walking required concentration and energy expenditure from a reserve near exhausted. The safety belt employed earlier connected her to the trailer—should she collapse, she'd be dragged the rest of the way in. Calvert was experiencing a condition of blindness owed to the scouring done to her visor by the wind and sand.

The rescue of essential equipment neared completion. The power station waited to be bedded down on the far side of the compound. Another half hour, Calvert thought, and clenched her jaws as buffeting from an odd angle upended her. Subsequently was she dragged. Stunned, she feared a rupture or malfunction, and seemed to smother.

Only had she been stunned. Her next breath was no hotter nor its taste more foul than all the ones hitherto. She'd struck her head against Happy's flank. The blood in her mouth the result of a self-inflicted bite. Swallowing against nausea, drawn inexorably along by her wrist, the youth struggled to set her feet under herself. Her arm had been wrenched at the shoulder, the suit shielding the joint from worse damage.

You're all right, she told the gibbering inside her head. Shut up! Panic might kill her every bit as quick as the failure of any of her suit's crucial overworked systems.

"Column halt!" She'd been unsuccessful at coming upright. Now was she walloped.

She'd paused in a track way. A dust ghost had slammed right through her.

"Column resume!" Fuck it. She was fine with being dragged.

She sort of passed out after that; however, not for long. Poly bleating in her ear brought her back to her senses. Happy had stopped near to one of the TRIKEs. Judging by what she was hearing and feeling, they rested inside a tornado. Her outside vision one big smear.

"Your suit is breached," said Polyphemus urgently. "I'm picking you up."

A wire representation of her suit in her HUD depicted a tear, highlighted very red, upper left shoulder. Calvert covered the actual tear with her palm. In the HUD the spot went from red to amber. Her suit status icons misbehaved as well. Two ambers had turned red and the last green amber. She was starting to cook.

How may I help?

The belt she'd connected herself to the trailer with had shredded apart at the knot made at the trailer, which was how she got dumped, the rest of the rescue train having gone on without her. She was near the ramp, but the scarring in her visor made seeing it impossible. "Pick me up."

You'll never make it. How may I help?

Calvert indulged in some droopy frowning. She hadn't been aware the alien monitored her, leave alone might want to intervene on her behalf. "I 'most done. Why din't you hep earse-eree?"

Your life wasn't in imminent peril earlier.

"Imnent—wah-h-h?" The TRIKE seized her at the shoulders and knees and lifted. Her suit temp had dispensed with its upper left thermometer image, and pulsed red numerals instead.

23 . . . 24 . . . 25 . . .

Well before she reached the ship she would pass out again. The TRIKE rolled forward at its best speed and most stable profile, as directed by the ship.

"I nee . . . geh muh sip." She was about to cook in her own sweat. Basted, roasted, broiled. Oh, bugger, this is really it. I'm going to die.

28 . . . 29 . . . 30 . . .

I will get you there.

Hadn't the time for miracles passed? Even should she arrive in Boat Bay in shortest possible time—not likely while battling wind so energetic and perverse—unconscious and entombed in the suit, her brain would cook before she could get her helmet off.

32 . . . 33 . . . 34 . . .

The alien chided: You've waited too long already.

"Shuddup, why doan yuh?" The ramp's big, twin rotating lights flashed before her muzzy sight.

37 . . . 38 . . . 39 . . .

The wind ceased buffeting. All the roiling happened past the radius of quiet she existed in. The numeral 40 glowed ahead of her left eye. How was there calm? Calvert had no desire to speculate. She supposed she hallucinated. "I gotta geh bah . . ."

You are back.

She stood inside her shredded suit inside Boat Bay. This is one damn fine hallucination.

Helmet off, she was reminded.

If this is a hallucination, taking off my helmet will kill me in a very unpleasant way. She'd only reds in front of her eyes to appreciate. All of them pulsing.

You'd be dead either way. You've approximately eight seconds to decide whether you're going to trust me or not.

Eight seconds was how long it would take for the lack of air circulation to knock her out. Trembling hands applied themselves. Twist, lift and toss. Air not smothering-hot and metallic-tangy. Her final reserve of energy spent, came the plunge to a 'squelch' sitting, and more bruises, which she'd appreciate better later. Legs splayed, head down, her thinking and vision clearer moment by moment.

You know I'm looking out for you, don't you?

"I know no such thing." Calvert tried to spit and coughed instead. The TRIKEs and TRAXs arrived, bringing in the sand-scoured styluses and sweeps. Calvert realized the quandary the alien had wrought on her behalf. You teleported me.

I saved you.

But Poly knows. She witnessed the event.

No, she didn't.

A sentience able to manipulate matter and energy could have little difficulty redrafting a few minutes' worth of surveillance record. If you didn't help me, how did I get back?

In the same way you went out.

Calvert had that other task to complete. The machines dripping sand into puddles could wait for their cleaning. A power station needed bedding down.

Already dealt with.

You're joking—the audiovisual file?

To make the time correct, at this moment you're outside, with a horrid job of work to complete. Thank me?

"Not on your life, Buster." The next stage in her restoration would be getting to her stool within the recharge station so she could remove her ruined suit. If her alien pal would just teleport her to that stool right over there, that'd be grand.

#

"Anything to eat?" Marco was in the middle of plumbing a shower stall. Danby had left off watching what he did to rummage among crates. No doors hung yet. They communicated through openings.

"MREs. It's too bad we don't have a fabber. We could eat tree."

"You ever eat tree?" A trial achieved the hoped for result. Although he wore his only change of clothes he stayed where he was to appreciate ten whole seconds of mildly stinging, invigorating wet. "Whoa, is this great!"

"You've got a shower working—I ate bark, as a kid, on a dare. When you're a kid, and the youngest and stupidest, you do anything your siblings tell you to." Beth appeared at the stall entrance, her suit open to the waist, a tantalizing vee of thinly covered chest presented. Marco only glanced, his smile was for the image he'd be keeping for the rest of his life. "You ever eat anything gross?" He confessed he'd tried bug when three or four, and chuckled at her reaction which was: "Eeuw! Bugs? I never ate bugs!"

"I was a kid! A beetle. I don't remember eating it. My mom and dad used to tease me about it. Dinosaur, a lot of dinosaur, but dino meat isn't gross at all."

"Yeah, right." Danby added a snort of disbelief. She remained within the entrance to the stall, smiling tolerantly at him. "All right if I use this?"

"Yeah, right, really. Cost you a decicred."

"I call bullshit on both your dinosaur and your decicred."

Marco didn't know that his smile, owing to deep fatigue, gave his features a grim and aged look. "Erewhon Plantation, Planet Honshu. There be dinosaurs."

"You are serious?" She'd begun stripping out of her coverall as soon as permission was granted. At the moment she was pressing fabric past her hips while leaning into his space and providing him with another memory snapshot to treasure always.

"Honshu is not so far along the evolutionary ladder as other places, and once you accept the fact that for a time lasting hundreds of millions of years hundreds of thousands of dinosaur species evolved on Old Earth, it ought not to be hard at all to accept the fact that similar ecosystems evolved elsewhere in the galaxy. Yes, there are real live dinosaurs. I know this for a fact. I've seen them up close." She borrowed his shoulder while stepping out of the legs of her ship suit.

"So what do bronto steaks taste like?"

"Like beef. Less fat and not at all gamey."

"Really?" Danby added a downward look and more grinning.

"Yes."

"Why is it you never told me about your dinosaur experience before now?"

Marco recalled he had done just that, long ago. The bulk of his attention was preoccupied with an event far more pleasing and interesting. "Well," said Marco as he gazed in full at the woman he was very much in love with, "I would have gotten around to it eventually."

"You're full of surprises, aren't you?" Danby gazed back, and made gestures of invitation with her looks and pose. "I'm almost bare and you're just standing there."

"Ah, yeah?"

"So in another second . . ." She shifted out of her transparent cover and stood before him entirely bare and utterly gorgeous, "I'm naked and you're not."

"Oh." He chuckled and reached for his throat fastener.

"You look like you could use some help." Danby pushed his hands away. The help was as pleasurable as he imagined far more intimate acts would be. She did not comment on his excited condition. "You want to turn that back on?" She set him under the spigot while pressing her entire length into his from behind. Chin on his shoulder, their cheeks together, her arms about him, palms on his chest. Closing his eyes, Marco turned the water back on.

Chapter Eighteen - Isolation

"Polyphemus, music." Why there was no better way to tease sticky sand out of hard-to-reach joints and crevices? Why did they use dental picks and toothbrushes? A bug-sized menial could do the work far easier. Marco said he'd think about it.

"What would you like to hear?" A ten hour shift of cleaning, next read for four hours. She'd float along, each and every book a masterpiece, each new experience like a vacation. She'd yet to encounter anything on ship design, manufacture and drive systems. Her primary interest was naval subjects after all.

A languorous stretch into bed clothes preceded: "Beethoven's Fifth—no, wait." She'd chanced not long ago on a sub-directory of ancient pop culture during a random sampling from the catalogue. Attend the preamble with a willing ear. Should it please her, listen to the rest of the track. She'd come across a selection appealing, despite how incomprehensible in parts it was. Because of her preoccupation at the time she'd registered neither title nor artist. "'Dunce Hat'? I picked it out, three days ago, this time of day." Poly played five-second snippets until the one she had liked played. "That one. Play it and anything else that's by the same group."

Snuggle in. No more reading tonight. Just relax and write in her journal. She'd figure out how to make those bugs herself. There weren't a lot of micro components in stores—not much use for tiny machines during a regular mission, and the components were fragile and expensive. Surveillance drone brains were gigantic in comparison. Things really small could crawl into really tight places with tiny chisels and brushes and scrub, scrub, scrub.

Where did I leave Grugg! Since Mallory and Strom shipped off, she hadn't had any secret chores for him to do. Grugg was her special little pal. He hibernated in the ventilation system near her old living quarters. Top of the line, all purpose menial. Tell him to do something, he'd figure out a way to do it.

"What an idiot I am." She sent Grugg a wake up call, and told him what she wanted him to do. Days of tedium were about to be avoided.

All that's left, Grugg can do it. The menial wouldn't rest until it finished the task it was given to do. She'd decide after whether to keep his existence a secret from her crew.

No more hours-long scratch and tickle sessions. She could devote all the time until the storm ended to recovering her spirits and energy, and reading.

"Calm, calm." The recollection of how near she'd come to roasting alive had lurched through the back of her thoughts. Happily, she was able to shift her focus from one subject to another with ease and little or no pause. She could make two cleaning bugs from materials on hand. Four, if she scavenged the brains from the bullet probes Marco had made.

You appear to lack mental discipline.

"It's you I have to thank for having to watch out when my thoughts wander."

I don't understand your obsession over the event.

"Then you're not as smart as you think you are."

You were not badly injured. Your task was completed without serious consequences.

"You don't get it. You don't understand why I get so upset, because you can't die."

Nor can you.

Her breathing stalled and her body went rigid. "What are you saying? Have you done something else to me?" Something else besides mess with the inside of her head?

You'll have to specify what you refer to.

"You know damn well what I refer to."

My adjustments improved you.

"It's just you thinks so. Am I immortal?" Calvert held her breath while waiting for the answer to her question.

In the manner you infer, no.

"What does that mean? Have you or haven't you made me immortal?"

You are immortal in a limited way.

"What?" An uncomprehending gasp. "Are you saying the myth of life after death is true? Is that what you refer to?"

I am not familiar with your belief systems.

"Go ahead. Check 'em out. I know you've been snooping in our archives. You have my leave to do so again. Restrict your research to religions. Paganism, Judaism, Christianity, Islam, Modern Christianity, Buddhism, Hinduism, New Age Reductionism. Oh, and agnosticism and atheism. You might find the last two the most enlightening."

I have not made you immortal in the sense of which you imply.

"That's a relief or I ought to call you 'Lucifer'. Tell me what you've done."

You would not be displeased.

"Oh, I could be. Anything you did to me without my permission I have to dislike on principle at the least."

Ask your shipmates.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Requests for clarification met with an infuriating silence. A snort of disgust prefaced: "A miserable way to spend an almost birthday—Poly, turn that crap off!" Calvert debated herself whether she ought to opine against any of the things done to her. Reading thoughts, provided her victims not know she did, was a useful skill. Vivid recollection was an ultra fantastic ability. Immortality of a sort, whatever that was, sounded very nice. The intellectual treasure of a superior technological culture. It would be great to walk through walls and have super speed, immense strength and unlimited stamina. How's about witty repartee, skill at card games, and my stutter cured?

How to take advantage of her gifts? Dreams ought not to be nightmares every time in. Plenty of her childhood memories might benefit through a close and critical evaluation. She remembered very little from her time as a child. Those early memories seemed blocked out.

One such was a birthday, significant for consequences, about which she recalled only scanty details. Her fourth. A revisit might prove a revelatory experience. There were matters and impressions she'd like to know better.

Birthdays in the Richardson household, when she was a child, were scarcely different from regular days. She had all the toys she wanted, when she wanted them. When she tired of her toys, charities would take them.

By the brand new age of four, Calvert had had no contact at all with other children. She could not travel without a substantial escort. All of her physical, emotional and developmental needs were attended to at home. Politically and socially it was unwise for the wealthiest family in the known galaxy to consort with any other family and, in particular, the Imperials. The Richardson Primaries were not close to, nor did they get along with other relations, all of whom being two or more steps removed on the family tree.

Julie's fourth birthday party took place on the lawn of Wilde Marsh Manor, the family ancestral home, in a corner away from the house. A wrought iron table painted white was settled with a cake, dinnerware and party favours, and shaded by mature elms.

Jack was many hundreds of lightyears away. Tony chaired a committee, consulted with staff or colleagues, or was in sessions. Elliot had recently been given a bigger and more powerful ship to command and was away on manoeuvres. Only Julie, her mother, Sophia, and a single member of the security staff were present for the event.

Sophia reclined, legs crossed, on a cushioned chaise lounge. She had on a calf-length, pleated, pale pink linen dress, sleeveless ivory cashmere sweater, and greyish-silver, low-heel slip-ons. Her arms and legs were bare and minimally adorned—engagement and wedding bands, a thin gold bracelet, and a long necklace of dark pearls.

Covering her red-gold curls was a broad-brimmed sennit hat lacquered white. Her eyes were shaded by coloured glasses styled plain, lenses rectangular. Except for her face, neck and hands, her skin tone was light—not pale, but no healthy pink either. Other than for riding, which she did less and less, Sophia participated in few outdoors activities.

The youngest Richardson of her generation did not dabble in business or politics. Sometimes she sponsored charities, but neither in a serious nor dedicated way. An excellent dancer and much caressed socialite, Sophia had liked large parties. Since her marriage, only balls and banquets her attendance was required for received her affirmative RSVP.

Calvert studied her mother with mature thought through little girl eyes. Sophia's pose was settled, calm, relaxed. The slice of strawberry-vanilla layer cake on the table by her seat was untouched. Next to the slice, nearer her seat, was a tumbler of amber liquid soaking in ice.

Servants had set out the lawn furniture and resumed the house. Sentries were omnipresent, but mainly out of sight. The family relied on a mixed human, android and genetically modified guard contingent. Androids were latest edition, modern equipped and thoroughly versed in police and antiterrorist tactics and procedures. Panther-dogs and gorillas were restricted to specific areas, in the latter case heavy forest. For family functions human protection was preferred. The single guard on birthday party duty devoted his full attention to the little girl seated on her play mat.

Toddler Julie offered her palm-sized cookie to Snautz to see would he take it.

"Dragons don't eat cookies," said Teena. Snautz belched a powdery cloud in which were bright green, blue, red and gold bits and sparks.

"Do fairies?" Calvert asked, wrinkling her nose at a whiff of dragon ozone. Snautz had the intellect of a smart breed of dog, but was tuned for foolishness.

"Fairies like buttercups," the toy fairy replied. Teena dipped her ears in characteristic fashion. Smiling, she revealed dainty white teeth with points. Her eyes were emerald green. She was very expensive, limited edition, and illegally enhanced.

"Where around here can we find buttercups?"

Teena's transparent and veined dragonfly wings fluttered slowly as the fairy answered, "In a little dell, far far away. We cannot go there without Mother's permission."

Calvert, even at the age of four, knew it unlikely her mother would consent to her venturing beyond the front lawn. "I will have to sneak," said Calvert, and pressed a giggle of anticipation against her palm.

"One must never sneak," warned Teena. "Mother does not approve."

The bodyguard, Arlis Bohrland, stood, hands clasped, immersed in shade. The gun on his hip had become an object of fascination since a recent visit to the estate's gun range. The proximity of an armed man was common to the toddler's experience. Bohrland, and other men and women and machines like him, had inhabited her world since her earliest recollection. Julie had taken instruction as to how she should respond to Bohrland's presence from her mother, who behaved toward all individuals not family as though they were invisible.

"Would you like to play with the new cards?"

The cards she was already bored with. Most of her toys had an educational flavour. The cards showed animated images of animals on their faces and spoke a different species trait and sound effect each time they activated. "No, I want to . . ." Pressing her lower lip uncovered her gums' baby pink, "see the barns." Her mother often went to the barns to select horses to ride. Baby Julie had never been let to tag along.

"Oh, Julie!" cried the fairy. "You know it is forbidden. Mother says if we are good and when we are older we may go to the barns."

"I'm four. That is old enough." Teena could be exceedingly tiresome at times.

"When you are six," persisted Teena. "Provided you've been very, very good."

"Crap that," said Calvert and smiled at the gasp of disapproval Teena exhaled. The little girl pushed herself up to go to her parent. "Mummy, may I go in to have my ice cream now?" One scoop, plain vanilla.

"Have you finished with your cards?" drawled her mother without changing the focus of her eyes. Calvert gazed back with fascination. She'd always thought her mother read a book, but it was writing not reading she did. Julie saw words in reverse in the sunglasses lenses, which appeared poetic stanzas. Some words changed and became other words.

"Yes, Mummy."

Sophia took a long sip of her bourbon and ice. "You may have ice cream." Sophia persisted in not looking at her child. Julie had been ready to reward her mother with smiling and the anxious to please light in her eyes.

Bohrland followed the trio, little girl and toys, as they crossed the fresh-cut lawn and stepped onto the greyish pink pathway that eventually passed beneath an arch wrapped by a hybrid vine that sported white carnations in bloom. Snautz, waddling alongside his mistress, indulged himself with a self-absorbed chuckle. Teena flew, wings beating furiously, at an altitude mere centimetres above the ground.

"Shut up, damn you," Calvert snapped at the dragon. Snautz was an idiot. Times when she tried her utmost to be secret, he tripped her up. Lately he'd end up locked inside a closet somewhere. Teena was tolerated, because Teena could be quiet. Although she would wring her hands and voice voluminous displeasure, she would never stop Calvert doing whatever it was she wanted to do, nor would she snitch on her.

Little girls did not need large men to watch them while they used the toilet. A fact Arlis Bohrland had been made stridently aware of before now. Conveniently there were no female house staff nearby to supervise her bathroom activity either. The ground floor washroom Julie chose had windows higher than a little girl could reach; however, an overturned waste receptacle and the reluctant help of a toy fairy overcame that impediment. "Window close," Calvert instructed as she stood and brushed herself off. She'd put foot prints into the mulch. The trash her party dress had been subjected to during the squirm through the window could be brushed off, but its left over smudges Mummy would be angry about should she see them.

"Julie, we are not to travel anywhere without an escort," said Teena hopefully.

"I have an escort. You are my escort." Julie regretted Snautz's company. He could easily have been left behind at the toilet. His energetic side to side tail swishing was a constant hazard to be wary of, and he wasn't at all as fastidious as Teena. He'd left a trail through the mulch and more litter across the lawn any half-wit servant might easily spot and follow.

Snautz had a leathery hide, brown, and ridged belly, lighter brown, and tiny brown leathery wings attached to his back at shoulder level. When he filled himself with hot air, expanding his torso to better than twice its normal size, he could actually fly.

Both dolls were equipped with locator beacons, which made sneaking difficult. Some times the toys would have to stay in her room, with Snautz locked in a closet because he was too persistent and determined in his desire to follow after whenever Julie went.

A blue-clad security pair, male and female, strolled the path toward the mansion from the direction of the barns. Cameras and drones watched and patrolled everywhere. The surrounding woods had sensor minefields and stun traps, and automated watch towers, about which Julie Calvert knew nothing at the time, but would eventually learn how to circumvent. The huge elm at the near corner of the house incorporated a sensor command suite. Julie knew that an approach along the outside wall that ended at the corner before darting beneath the surveillance tree's extra thick foliage avoided notice. After emerging beyond the elm, however, even if she stayed off the path, she'd be spotted.

Julie decided she would behave as though she had permission to walk where she was walking and go where she was going. Everyone knew who she was, and that she wasn't a prowler, which the child supposed was a black jungle cat. That she hadn't permission, the blue people wouldn't know. She had the run of the mansion except for the offices of her grandparents and aunt and uncle. By extension she might go wherever she pleased outdoors, no matter how often she'd been told the contrary up to now.

A sharp word at Teena stoppered the anxious blather she was spewing. They moved boldly along the centre of the reddish path, as if they had every right to do so. The blue lady smiled at them as her pair and Julie's trio passed each other by. The long white, red-roofed barns loomed ahead. A dozen horses were in a near paddock. They peered in the child's direction. "Horses," said Calvert confidently.

"They are very large," Teena warned. "They could be dangerous."

To Julie Calvert's four year-old self that large animals could be dangerous was information she had yet to appreciate for consequences. Real animals had to be like animals in sims. No matter how fierce and large, never had she been butted, bitten, stung, or stamped on. A groom exercised a chestnut gelding within the adjoining practise track. The pretty, dapple white and brown mare gazing at her from the other side of the rail fence looked friendly and kind. She would go visit with the mare up close.

"Your mother says—"

"Shut up." The swiftest way to the rail fence was to cut across the lawn. The grass higher than by the house. Calvert tripped, fell onto her knees, and recovered along her way to the fence. Teena followed, her wings blurring. The sturdy dragon, capable of tramping through shin-deep mud with scarcely a check, easily kept up. The horses were larger than the ones Calvert had encountered in sims. She'd anticipated them to be sized to fit her expectations. When seen at a distance, they'd seemed to be. She was disappointed because there were no babies.

Their smells were not what she expected either. Musk, dirt, dry, sweat, horse hide, and the pungency of dung that a big black horse with a blaze across his nose added to not far away. Julie stood quietly to better appreciate his performance.

She touched muzzles, tested the stiffness of whiskers, and inhaled the mixed aroma of saliva and grass. Large blue or brown eyes fascinated when looked into, and flesh glossy and supple was amazing to touch. The gap between the lowest and the next rail of the fence was large enough to squeeze through with hardly any trouble at all.

"Please, Julie, don't," tried Teena anxiously.

"I'll be safe as houses," recited Calvert while coming upright on the other side. Her scent was sampled. Her skin, dress and hair tasted—an experience better than in sims. Contact nose to nose far nicer. Snautz impetuously roared, nothing dreadful, nothing like what a real dragon might make for sound. But it and the stink, coloured bits and sparks, which Calvert was no worse than annoyed by, startled animals which had never experienced a toy dragon's challenge before.

A dozen animals wheeled ponderously about the less than one metre tall child in their midst. Teena, fearlessly fluttering in their faces, was butted. A suddenness of motions all around, a whirl of massive bodies. A brushing contact, very slight, knocked the frightened child onto her back. Tumult, upset, confusion, panic. A hoof stamped, grazed her cheek, and the child felt pain for the first time in her life.

Calvert lay stunned for what seemed minutes while Teena cried, "Help! Oh, help! Please help!" Snautz did what was central in his programming, which was guard his mistress and meet all threats head on. From her place on the turf Calvert saw out of the corner of her eye the blue security man vault the fence—Bohrland had managed to arrive first of all—and then she was in his arms. She cried only because of the severity of his look.

Her mother did not punish her, but the withholding of affection when she needed it wounded her deeply. It would eventually become apparent to a swift-maturing mind that neither what she was, nor what she tried to be, were what her mother wanted.

This was a mistake, Calvert realized as she dashed a tear from her eye.

#

Powdered stone coated his knees. The incessant chant of the wind provided eerie accompaniment to the work. The next to last hole was drilled. Beth knelt behind him, setting out parts in best positions so that when they brought back the pegs and hinges they needed, the assemblies would be swift and easy. What the stocky tech realized, besides that he was about to run out of things to do, was that the dream he had revisited with amazing detail and clarity, he couldn't possibly have had. A hallucination then.

"Marco? You finished?"

"Ah, yeah, almost." Could hallucinations resume where they had left off, a serial of the deranged?

"Then what's the hold up?" Danby showed him a mock frown.

"Nothing, just lining stuff up." He ought to, when he returned to the ship, input the information he had dreamt to the island sim, and proceed from where he'd just left off.

"Doesn't look like you're lining stuff up, more like you're sleeping over your feet."

A placid grin backed the repositioning of his drill. To make the best use of the few blankets they'd brought they slept together in one hammock: his back to hers, the soles of his sock feet to her calves and sock ankles, the back of his head to the wad of towel that was their pillow to the back of her head. If he hadn't been so tired the erection he'd gone to bed and woke up the next morning with might have been a larger hindrance and an embarrassment.

The hard steel drill bit didn't make near as much smoke and stink as would a laser, and cut only marginally slower in soft stone. He hummed through the last hole start to end, all three seconds of it, and shut off the tool. "That's it. Done."

"You're sure? No theatre suite to install?"

"Insufficient onsite power and I haven't any of the parts."

"Okay, then, I guess you're off the hook."

Looking over his shoulder, he admired his view, in her sweat and dust stained garments, while she watched him back. "What?" she asked while wiping sweat from palms onto thighs.

You're so goddamned beautiful.

Shut up or I may have to clobber you with something.

Communicating by telepathy was far better than by spoken word. What came to his mind to say went out uninhibited and heartfelt. Nor was he likely to slur his words owing to fatigue.

"Progress report?" asked Danby.

"You think she cares?" Calvert had seemed disinterested during their last conversation, which had lasted barely a minute.

"Regs," said Danby.

"You're right. Ensign Calvert . . ."

His summons startled her awake. "I am here," she muttered. She sat at her desk. "Pacini, what . . . is the storm over?"

"Not here. There?"

"I'm socked in." A sour look went to the storm report she'd barely started and drooled on.

"We've finished all the assembly we can here."

He'd nothing to do, while she'd the mounds of cleaning to finish they did as a couple. Grugg wasn't working fast enough, despite he was the equivalent of two sets of hands. Another day for the styluses, which she helped with, owing to the corrosive nature of the sand and the necessity to scrub out every grain and smear. "We'll all have to sit tight in the meantime."

"Ah, yeah . . ." What are you not telling me?

"Calvert, out."

"Well, that's that." He'd been surprised once more by the brevity of their talk. Something's up with her.

"Is she all right?"

"So near as I can tell."

"Could something have happened last night?"

"Dunno. Whatever's bothering her, she's not going to tell us about."

"Maybe when we get back."

"Yeah, maybe." In the meantime what to do? The menials were dealing with the dust in their usual businesslike manner, the entrance couldn't be sealed until the custom-fit frame, seals and hatches were fabricated and brought out from Polyphemus, the grinding and polishing left to do didn't require supervision. No more drilling, carving or installations. He was, indeed, finished and looking forward to an abundance of free time. What more reason did a guy need to smile?

"What's so funny?" asked Beth, smiling back.

"You are," he said, "and beautiful and smart."

"You're treading on dangerous ground, dinosaur man."

"I sincerely hope so," he replied. "I'm so damn tired of ordinary."

#

The large had been dealt with. The buckets of it would be shifted outside as soon as opening a hatch didn't invite an equal volume back in. It was the small the youth struggled with. Grains packed deep into seams that suction-equipped menials were inadequate at extracting. Discharge from seals that appeared dried mucous and was rock hard.

"You're an idiot," the girl grumbled to the menial suctioning up detritus by her foot. Her gaze drifted over objects and architecture, seeing all crystal clear. She'd the ability not just to see but to imagine detail to a startling degree—god among humans, at present a slave labourer.

Grugg was the size of a cat. Dull blue segmented body, three times-articulated legs with six appendages for gripping things. His mouth was equipped with pliers, a pick, a metal cutting torch, and a saw blade. His forward hands had opposable thumbs—three fingers on one, four on the other. He was capable of a wide range of tasks, including button pushing, knob turning, lever pulling, clinging to vertical surfaces, working tools simple to complex, and communicating with and directing other machines.

Grugg had child intelligence, which made him illegal to own.

The bug, named Bug, looked a bug. It also had six articulated appendages for clinging and gripping and was equipped with a set of specialized mouth tools for scraping and scouring the most stubborn of crusts. Despite, or because of, how tiny it was, Bug did the best job of cleaning her little crew was capable of. Calvert had fabricated just one of the miniature machines so far, to test how effective it was before putting together the rest.

The chirp in her direction was from Bug. He'd finished another stylus. Four styluses were left. While she'd slept Grugg had cleaned fourteen of the machines. Since her shift started, he'd cleaned six more, Bug two and she'd cleaned four.

Two TRAXs, seven TRIKEs and a dozen sweeps remained, which was why Calvert was going to put together three more of the precious little machines. If the Navy's uptight about how I spend its resources, it can go right ahead and bill me! She was sick of drudge work, especially when she had so many worthwhile and fun things to do.

"Okay, guys, I'm going to build us some more help." All of the surface muck her machines had come in with was already removed. Only the nick and cranny stuff that had to be looked for and was hard to get at remained. Grugg and Bug were perfectly capable of continuing with the close-in cleaning on their own.

A stand and stretch, finishing with back of one hand to mouth, the other raised as high as it could go and made a fist. Breakfast had been small bowl of porridge and half an orange. Often a book featured food items and she'd sample them, which satiated an appetite despite no calories were consumed. Julie Calvert was losing weight and not noticing.

Using the big Class 2 fabber upstairs to make bug-sized machines seemed overkill. Only one bug could be fabricated at a time. The recipe was up and the fabrication rested on standby. Bulk ingredients in hoppers; the excess in powder form ended up in the discard trays. The miniature processor had to be teased into a near exact orientation before the fabrication process started. The fabber provided a 3D template to match with and a suspension field. The tray flashed green when the orientation was within acceptable tolerances.

Check status of core and ingredients. A little more than required was fine. A little less obviously was not, in which case the process aborted. Not enough or a missing ingredient would flash red in the menu screen. Calvert selected different sized pellets and patches to match the recipe with. A game was to see how close she could get to exact amounts required. 5 % extra in the case of an object so small was acceptable. Her results were 1 % or a little more or a little less.

A grunt of satisfaction was made to the screen. "Execute."

#

Marco existed in a condition as near paradisal as mortal man could come. Head propped on forearm, looking into the water, the object of his affection skimming toward him. Danby was a remarkable swimmer, her body perfect for the exercise. He watched as her head emerged, followed by her upper body, water streaming from her hair. She gasped a smile, her erect nipples aimed right at him. "You done?"

"Done as in 'too tired to chase you through any more laps'? Yah, I'm done."

"Someone could look into what we've got for our next meal."

"Right this minute?" They'd rations for a month, the uninteresting kind: pureed chicken, beef or pork, with side of potato, turnip or white rice, green or string peas, corn creamed or kernel, small dessert as date square, brownie or raisin pudding and one case each of corn meal, oat flakes and trail mix. Each full meal came in a foil wrap with a heat charge installed in its base. Scratch and glow. Peel and scarf.

A shrug came from his favourite object to view. "No hurry, I guess."

He liked how unselfconscious she was about her body and his. They'd be having the same conversation had they been clothed. "What I'd like to discuss is our sleeping arrangement."

"Oh?" A brow was arched.

"I like it." Her gaze went to where his penis draped his thigh, or so it seemed.

"You would," Danby said thoughtfully. She drew herself out of the water to sit, leaving only her legs from shins down soaking. Though her back was to him, he'd no diminishment of pleasure. Front or back was equal in pleasure as viewed. Admiring the line of her spine and its knobs, the swell of muscle in her arms, the sweet curves of her hips, the crease her flesh demanded when she looked over her shoulder at him. All good.

"You ever wonder about some great place you'd like to live?" He wasn't sure why he'd asked, or he was sure in a tentative way. The island simulation much on his mind.

"Hum-m-m?" Frowning. "Not really. I'm a pretty ordinary person."

"An ordinary place then."

"What's this about?" By her expression it seemed she'd caught him out.

"Just curious." His voice had picked up a tremor.

"Well, here is nice, and about as exotic as I can imagine a place to be."

"Water, caves, that kind of thing."

"Ah, sure." More frowning with a pensive component. "Are you hinting at something, Marco?"

"Not at all. I like it here too. Just wondering if you shared my enthusiasm."

"Pretty dumb way of asking," muttered Danby, emerging the rest of the way from the water. "I'm gonna go heat up some MREs. You interested?"

"You bet," he said, putting his hands beneath himself to apply an upward heave.

Danby pressed against his chest, her superior power holding him in place. "Just stay where you are. I'm buying. We have to build you back up. Cuh—er, you've been working much too hard for far too long."

"Hey, Beth, I'm not—"

"Shut up. I'll be right back."

"Maybe bring me my pants."

"I'll dress, too. You'll have to figure out something else to leer at."

"I wasn't leering," he protested.

"I know and I wasn't either."

Days later Calvert was saying: "I'm concerned about the sand everywhere. The excavation has filled all the way back in. A dune's gone right under the ship. I don't think I can lower the ramp."

Marco had seen the same survey, Calvert having forwarded its record. "Can't be helped. We have to wait it out. It's only sand. The TRAXs can remove it the same way they did before."

"That's near two months of digging."

Julie Calvert behaved antsy. When she appeared full of energy was when an underling needed to watch what he said. "There's no point in getting worked up. We'll get right to work as soon as the storm lets up. Another couple days."

"I'm not worked up. It doesn't seem so bad outside. If I could fire up the array—"

The array was thoroughly sand-socked. "Don't even think about it. The forecast is strong winds for the next two days. Best thing is wait things out. Don't you go near that power station."

"Don't tell me how to run this dig."

"I am telling you. You can't drop the dome. The whole works will foul right up"

"I'm not stupid." Calvert sported a look primed for anger. Marco didn't need telepathy to warn him of a mood change.

"The sand will have to be shovelled out first."

"That's right, so don't mess with it. I'll take care of everything when I get back. How are the anchors?"

"The anchors are fine. I checked for drift about an hour ago."

"And?"

"And nothing. A couple millimetres. I applied another five percent actual to the struts as a precaution when I got back. Polyphemus hasn't gone anywhere."

"You should be fine. Morning after next we'll head back."

"How's about sooner? Poly forecasts the winds dying down after midnight tomorrow."

"All right. After midnight tomorrow we'll head back, if it's calm."

Beth warmed him with her smile as he turned from the comm screen. "Another day and a half of R&R." she said.

"Including sack time, but I'm not complaining."

"Me neither." He had to try something, there wasn't a whole lot of time left, she might slug him, but he had to try. Lean forward, a step closed the gap, catch her shoulder, press his lips toward hers. Coincidentally he noticed her peculiar, mildly shaken look. Her eyes narrowed as he moved even closer. An initial soft resistance was encountered. His tongue gently coaxed her lips apart. Hesitation, shudder, moist contact. He stopped and drew back because he had to know, had to see, was she all right, with it, with him? Was it all right?

Amazing it seemed she might cry. She had that look. So much more was happening than the stealing of a kiss. She trusted him and she was surrendering. He radiated assurance and love back. He had to know. Was it all right?

"What, you dope?"

He grinned and picked up right where he'd left off.

The night of their return was cold, clear and calm. Owing to dust lacing the atmosphere the stars began far higher than normally. The duo had awakened refreshed and rested. All they needed to take back, they carried in a single trip to the car. Stow gear, and a half hour of system checks. Marco satisfied himself that no part of car, hitch or trailer had suffered significant degradation during the lengthy exposure to wind and sand. Flight path given, gradual rise, haze diminishing with altitude. Ahead beckoned the irregular line of the escarpment.

"Number one scrubber is running hot," Beth said and put out a yawn against her fist.

The impairment registered in the low range. "Spit on it. I'll clean or replace it when we get home." He felt as though he went away from home not toward it.

"You spit on it," she muttered drowsily.

"Hey, sleepyhead?" Unlike their fussy commander he was okay with letting the car fly itself. "Tired already?" Her lack of energy and zeal was in stark contrast to his own energized condition. Marco intended to plunge right into his repair schedule. He even looked forward to getting back to work.

Danby nestled deeper into her couch, eyes closed and body still. "What cha . . . doing? Beth?"

Faintly she answered, "Humph? Is it cold in here?"

"You cold?"

"Yeah, turn up heat?"

"Sure. Hang on a sec." The cabin environment control menu was conjured to appear in his right hand monitor. He touched up the heat to a shade less than uncomfortable. They'd thermal blankets in the cargo hold. He got up to fetch one. Before leaving the cockpit he took her face in his hands and felt smooth cold flesh. "Are you ill?" he asked anxiously.

"Just tired . . . cold."

"Just one minute, okay?" He ordered more heat from the console before scrambling to the rear of the cockpit. She's all right, Marco heard as he passed through the passenger section. "Huh? Calvert?" He didn't need the distraction of her talking inside his head at the moment.

Not Julie, Beth. I'm telling you Beth is all right. Just hurry up with that blanket.

"What do you think I'm doing?" What? Who? Who is this?

Marco Pacini, you know damned well who this is.

Calvert?

Idiot! Sometimes I wonder how I could have fallen in love with you.

"Beth?" Incredible if it was really her.

She'll be all right—I was all right. I was dizzy and a little nauseated. As I recall you helped me out of my seat and into my cabin—and said nothing to Julie about it!

"I did? I didn't?"

There's an energy leaching protocol at work here. I'd shut it off if I could. There's been no sunlight for days.

"What? No sunlight where?"

Where did you suppose the energy was coming from?

"Energy for what?"

Despite they communicated telepathically he felt her exasperation. Can you at all appreciate how annoying this conversation is becoming? Just clear the mosaic as quickly as you can.

"I've got the blanket." The storage locker door he'd opened was pressed back into place. "I'll be right there."

I'll talk to you later.

"Sure." He decided hallucinatory telepathy had to be near as amazing as the real thing. "Hey," he called softly as he coaxed the real woman out of her seat so he could wrap her in the insulating blanket. "Almost there. Another ten minutes."

"Hum-m-m," went Danby.

"You okay?"

"A little sick to my stomach. We almost back?"

Despite assurances given, Marco remained anxious. Could her lassitude be owing to something she'd eaten or come into contact with? They'd had the same breakfast of reconstituted eggs and bacon. They'd walked the same route to the car and no poisonous plant or animal had been in their way. "Another ten minutes."

"Oh-kay."

Beth, are you really okay?

She wouldn't answer owing to pique or because she hadn't heard him. His preference was for the former. Even with the night so dark, he could tell the excavation had undergone a dramatic transformation. Giant serpents of sand everywhere. He might have been gliding over any untouched planet in the known universe. "On final approach."

"I have you."

"Like what you've done with the place."

"Is that supposed to be funny?" Calvert replied acidly.

Marco resumed focus on his passenger, who slept deeply. He didn't tell Calvert? Why should it matter if he did? "We got sufficient clearance to enter?" He was seeing a dune gone higher than the ship in his flight path.

"I cleared the obstruction." The ramp was drifted over and unusable. The same drift had blocked the approach to the launch bay, but a part was cut down.

"Oh, right, I see it." The disfigurement to nature was illuminated by light pouring out of the flank of the ship. Why couldn't the power she needs come from the ship's reserve? Power for what, exactly?

"Was there a problem?"

"None that I'm aware of." Marco drifted over a TRAX working at the end of an umbilical and silently approved. Calvert wasn't relying on its onboard power store, which she ought to have topped off before despatching the TRAX. The umbilical was a good precautionary measure.

"I need you to get started right away."

"Thought as much," he grumbled.

"I'll be in my cabin."

Doing what?

"None of your business." Calvert pushed herself away from her desk with an effort. Her lethargy, chill and headache had come on suddenly. She'd been examining configurations for the new dig to replace the old the storm had filled in. The regions about the shaft and the plug would have to be cleared, but there was no point in uncovering texts already mined. The storm had been a blessing in that regard. She'd now a useful excuse for expanding her library. Near twenty percent of the former surface hadn't been collected before the storm hit. She'd bookmarks only of texts from earlier recordings, glimpses into places, stories, technology. The complete editions she would miss not having, but the advantage of a new field to reap from outweighed their loss. Calvert hugged herself, containing as much as she could of the heat her body madly radiated. Why was she, of a sudden, so damned cold!

The neat formations of machines drew Marco's attention as soon as he entered Boat Bay. The organization of his work spaces were as he liked them. Although the menials had done the cleaning and tidying up, he accorded Calvert high marks for orchestrating the work. Danby leaned against him from behind, the thermal blanket tight about her body. "You sure you're all right?"

"Just gotta get ta bed."

"Okay, hang tough for a sec, we'll get you there." Sled and heater arranged and organized, tuck in his girl, run her up to her quarters.

Marco was as settled in mind and body as he could be while mentally organizing himself. He'd done everything possible to ensure Danby's comfort. He'd a mountain of things to do, none of which he hadn't done before.

Calvert received him in an ankle-length coat. His thoughts being preoccupied, the tech did not consider strange the coat or the excessive heat enlivening her quarters. She'd a mug of aromatic coffee hidden between a pair of extra large cuffs. She appeared remarkably small in so large a coat. "I've decided," she began. Anticipating what was to follow, Marco gathered a breath to chew on, "there's no point uncovering old territory other than for the regions about the shaft and plug."

The logical consequence being: "You want the fence shifted."

"Yes."

"The ship moved?"

"Won't it have to be?"

"We didn't have a large portion of the fuselage sheltered before, but the berm did keep the sand from drifting under us. Until the storm, that is."

"We need the ship protected as before."

"A new berm then. How much territory in the new region?"

"An equal part."

"Equal?" He struggled to maintain an attitude bland and professional despite the twisting sensation in his gut, and feeling an ulcer might be taking root.

"That's reasonable, isn't it?"

"It would be except that with having to protect walkways and structures which can't be moved, we'll have no choice but to expand the fence. More panels and more shielding for the power station and many more posts."

"Yes, of course." She took a double-handed sip from the mufflered cup.

"Is something the matter?"

"Caught a chill from somewhere."

"You sure you're not just cold?"

"I'm having trouble adjusting to the return of extremes."

A nonsensical excuse, if ever he'd heard one. She spent her time either in a climate controlled ship, a climate controlled sunbath, or a climate controlled suit. The only extreme she encountered was when she selected hot for her showers. "I should run a bacterial scan."

"It's not that."

"You're sure?"

She responded with a non informative frown.

"Owing to the site plan you're proposing, we'll be doubling the amount of fencing." He'd felt it necessary to reiterate his concern, and added a hopeful look.

"I'll help as I did before."

"That would be appreciated." He restrained himself from a larger display of displeasure than the one he currently was getting away with, from knowing how keen she ever was to take offence. Her help would shave hours off the work schedule, if she was being sincere.

"How are you doing so far?"

"I've a path to the power station cleared. I'll put up a windbreak before I fire it up. By late this afternoon I should have things ready to go."

"That would be good."

"You'll be out later?"

"I need to finish some things up here first. Another report. I'll be out as soon as I can."

"Good, I'll see you out there, then."

"Good, yes, all right."

Maybe he shouldn't have been so anxious to pick up where he'd left off, but then she hadn't mentioned a time line. Perhaps she intended to be reasonable. Not all the signs of a dictatorial attitude were being manifested. He'd walk soft until he knew which way her wind was blowing. He knew best ways not to piss her off.

"What in the hell?" Since he'd left his suit in the car—Danby's in there too—he hadn't looked for or noticed Calvert's hanging in its slot next to the recharge area until now.

She'd applied a lacquer to it, which explained the difference in its red. A patch under the new layer had been applied the right shoulder, which looked as though someone had applied a cheese grater to it. The whole of the exterior was roughed up, and in parts worn down—the lacquer was a poor repair. She must not have known what else to do. The outer layer, at least, had to be replaced. The patch, was the suit meant for vacuum conditions, and even if it wasn't, disqualified its use.

Marco took down the garment and carried it to his work bench. Connection suit to operations panel made, diagnostics routine begun, and watch monitor for results. All resting functions were green. A power-up test flipped two greens to ambers. "Calvert?"

"I meant to tell you. I may need a new outdoors suit." She either watched what he did or she'd anticipated what he'd do.

His girl commander might not have realized that the programming the suit ran by also compiled a record. Accessing the suit's onboard memory brought up a blank screen and a zero metre reading. You erased the suit's memory. Predictably she'd no response to make. "Rough night, huh?"

Still no answer.

He couldn't cite her for a misdemeanour rules and procedures infraction. What she'd done wasn't against regs, but it was suspicious behaviour. He supposed she hid something. When he cracked open the suit to check behind the patch he found what he expected to find. A hole.

"Ensign?"

"I'm busy, Pacini."

She could not get away with what she was hiding, because of the hole, which she had to know. An accident report was absolutely required.

"If you're wondering about the hole, yes, I did."

"You filed an accident report?" He checked the repair log while asking. The report was there, dated the day of the storm's onset relative to the ship.

During the task of bringing in equipment my outdoors suit suffered

penetration damage to its upper right shoulder. Fortunately I was near enough

to the ship that I was able to complete my task with without hazard or difficulty. A

survey of the suit's condition is attached.

He gave her credit for wording that avoided an outside investigator suspecting anything other than what she wrote happened. When he checked Poly's recollection, while assembling Calvert's new outdoors suit, he discovered a match to her account, which he knew also had to be wrong. A hard bit of work got done, nothing desperate about it, according to what had been officially recorded. As he handled the old suit, however, he visualized the desperate time she'd suffered through. She'd repeatedly been knocked down and for a time been dragged along the ground.

Within the official record Calvert was shown falling down but not dragged. Okay, so what's this all about?

No answer.

I know you're listening.

Hours later, Marco watched as some specialized menials, put inside the pressure dome, suctioned up grit that had defied laws of physics to paint up his solar energy collection system. Calvert drifted by the nearer of the two power transfer towers, performing a maintenance job that Beth normally would have done.

"Almost done?" he asked.

"Got it. I'll deal with the other tower in a minute."

"No hurry on that one." They were going to have to dismantle and move the other tower once they had some fence repositioned.

Calvert had barely spoken since coming outside. She ought to have complained about the work—he would have complained himself, had there been any sympathetic ears within range. His wonder over how her protective garment had been so sadly reduced, and herself be not seriously injured as a consequence. She'd at no time made an effort to assuage, despite the many looks and thoughts sent her way, his concerns.

"Where's Beth?" she asked.

"Tired. Bed. Stayed up too late."

"Should be up by now. I'll give her a cuh—"

"Don't bother. We got this. She'll come out when she's ready."

"All right," Calvert drawled.

"Good here," he said. To his handset: "Initiate." The power station responded with a powerful hum. Standby ambers appeared within his handset and in its control panel. The capacitors' reserves had helped with the startup process. Marco drew energy from them to send into the transmission matrix, which he combined with fresh power flowing in from the panels. Each stage in the process required the one before to finish. Until the matrix was sufficiently energized, he dare not transmit to his equipment. Insufficient or uneven power flow, if the breakers failed to trip, could damage receptors and storage coils, electrical systems, engines and drive trains. He'd checked everything over twice.

The transmission tower replied with 'status ready' when he queried it.

Ambers went greens and began to pulse, informing him the matrix was sufficiently energized and transmission could commence. "You're sure the tower's good to go?" Marco supposed he ought to check the tower himself and make double sure.

"Don't you think I know what I'm doing?"

The tower blowing apart would delay uncovering the minimum amount of the mosaic Danby needed for her recovery by hours. He ought to check the tower and her work.

"What's the hold up?" She monitored his progress in her handset screen.

You'd better be right about that tower.

"I am right. You want to check it? Be my guest."

Doubting her was bad business. He had to be wary of what she might do should he give offence by insisting he inspect her work. On the other hand, should the tower blow and it be her fault, she'd be less likely to rag on him in future. He next reminded himself of Beth's urgent needs. He queried the component again. The tower replied with 'status ready' again.

He sent power first to the part of the fence already restored, bypassing the tower. The section responded beautifully and the amount of dust drifting in diminished at once.

"Ahem," from Calvert. She knew he was stalling and the reason why.

He had good greens. A breath was taken in to hold and he woke up the tower. He had anticipated Calvert would screw up and she hadn't. The green status level maintained itself. When had she ever done a diagnostic of a crucial piece of transmission equipment before?

Calvert grinned behind her faceplate. She'd known without having to be told which parts of the tower's circuitry ought to be checked and that Pacini would doubt her expertise. Some grit with the potential to create a short she'd banished with the edge of her knife. "Any problems?"

"No," Marco grumbled and went to uncouple the TRAX from its umbilical. After doing so, he'd inform it that its power supply was altered.

"I could make a run for raw materials unless you'd rather I stay and help you move some more fence?" It amused her to watch him from on high, as would a falcon circling her prey.

"I prefer you stay. I'd like to clear the region about the shaft next and I could use your help." Beth needs that area cleared. It's the absolute minimum.

"Absolute minimum for . . ." prompted Calvert.

He angrily demanded: "How's about you fess up?"

"About what?"

"Quit being so fucking coy."

Calvert realized she'd replied to his thought. Her excuse, which she made to herself, was she'd been distracted owing to how cold and feeble she was feeling. Oh, preceded the humble admission: "Yes, I can."

"Is there a reason why you've been pretending a sphinx all this time?"

"No reason."

"You're sure?" You're lying.

"Yes, I'm sure." No, I'm not.

"I was thinking we could use the new east-west dune for the start of the berm. It'll save us some time." You think I'm stupid? "Easier than shifting the top layer, though we'll be a little crowded before the new area is cleared." Just as you want.

"Good idea." I always knew you were stupid, now I know you're pigheaded too.

She hovered by the second transmission tower, the red of her suit reminding him of the time when she'd worn Danby's blue and tricked him into raging about her leadership skills. Calvert reviewed the same event, unaware she'd been coaxed to do so by his nonverbal communication. The depth of her shame owing to her behaviour surprised her. She'd not intended to deceive him, nor wanted to know what he thought about her. The hurtful exchange had been a mistake.

"We'd better start pulling posts," he said. Having replaced the cap over the end of the TRAX umbilical, he carried and kept it from contact with the ground all the way to the ship as the take-up reel drew the conduit in.

"Yes, okay. Just tuh—" She'd been about to ask him how they should go about the next phase of their job except she was distracted by TRIKEs pushing sand about, and then by the TRAX with its front-mounted attachment as it seized and pulled a post out of the ground.

"Tell you about what?"

"Ah, nothing. Shall I inform the TRIKEs to start digging?"

"You could, after I swap attachments."

"Oh, right. Meet in Boat Bay then."

"Yeah, meet you there."

Back inside the ship, before he applied himself to the task of swapping implements, Marco changed into coveralls, which permitted him a greater range of motion while Calvert, who did no more than watch, kept her outdoors suit on. Her helmet must have had a replacement visor installed and been repainted. The repairs not noticeable. Machine attachments were swapped and the altered work crew exited as a group. Digging, extracting, shifting, replanting. The sleeping power lines were uncoupled, shifted, reattached. The fence line alteration plan completed and then revised, and instructions sent to the machines. TRIKEs resumed digging, clearing walkways or retrieving tiles. The TRAXs rumbled in the new pit while the humans watched from the top of a dune nearby.

"I don't see it yet," said Calvert, hugging herself. She suffered a murderous headache as well as her chill. She ought to go in to self medicate, except she was as anxious as a cat about to birth a full litter of kittens to see the mosaic again and not questioning why.

Marco compared what he was seeing with the past, and was as anxious for the mosaic to appear himself. Seeing Calvert wobble over her feet, he realized how she suffered, and that her symptoms, which he'd barely noticed before, were Beth's, except not as extreme.

Calculation: one and one made two. They suffered the same malaise. Calvert's prevarications and lies sustained his conclusion. She was in with the island experience and, true to her habit of obstinacy, kept it to herself. Had she triggered the storm here as she had the storm there to provide a justification for uncovering more mosaic? More work for her crew? More glory for herself?

Though his thoughts were in a tempest of motion, his mind processes rapid and unfocussed, their substance touched Calvert's perception with considerable feeling. What have I done? Accused of something, not knowing what it was, and in the grip of a demon-affliction that froze, fevered and maimed her. She was in danger of throwing up inside her helmet.

Two strides brought them together. Her arms were seized. Faceplates collided. "Did you do this!" he demanded.

"Do this? Do what? Are you insane?"

"You're in the Island. You made the storm there. You triggered the storm here. It's why you left us to come back. All of it to further your agenda!"

"You are out of your mind. Leave go of me."

"Why can't you come clean? Tell the truth? Why hide what doesn't need to be hid? Why do I put up with—I'm so sick of your bullshit!"

"I have no idea what in hell you're talking about!" He gave her two good shakes, dislodging the plug that had kept her gorge from rising.

"Pah!" cried Marco and threw her down and, because she vomited at the same time, Calvert was helpless to mitigate the effects of either event. She fell. Hard. Ejected material slopped into her windpipe and lungs. "What the—" from the startled technician, witness to her torment, which he was responsible for, and about which there was nothing he could for the moment do.

Coughing couldn't clear the obstruction. Calvert couldn't draw nourishing air past the foulness scalding her lungs, foulness which, owing to light breakfasting hours earlier, was near all liquid. She drowned in stinging agony. Her thinking desperate for an escape while at the same time it immersed itself in shame. How should this event appear to posterity? So ignoble an end, the girl who vomited herself to death.

The only thing she thought to do, but must not do, was remove her helmet, which as darkness closed about her vision became her imperative. She put her hands to the sides of her helmet and started the twist which would let the abrasive wind scour and then scald the remains.

"No!" Marco shouted in her ears. His hands over hers she feebly struggled against. Oh, God in Her Great Black Heaven, I will smother after all. I am dead . . .

You're not going to die. I have you. You won't die.

"Pacini, you bastard, you've killed me," Calvert murmured what seemed a long while after. She lay on her back among a litter of torn wrappers, a medkit which she recognized by its bright red colour next to her elbow, a clear mask over her face, and sweet-tasting air flooding her lungs. She'd coughed and smeared the inside of the mask in film streaked with red. Disliking the stain, she pressed feebly at the mask to move it.

"Leave that alone," Marco said and moved her hand back.

"I am going to kill you," said Calvert and meant it.

"You've perfectly welcome to try as soon as I get you back on your feet."

"Bastard, you pushed me."

"I didn't know how sick you were. For that, I'm sorry, but you never said anything."

"What was I supposed to say?" She wouldn't challenge for now the odd accusations he'd made, despite how justified she was to do so. Offering excuses and partial facts was a dangerous strategy. She didn't want him stumbling into truths, which owing to her current state were jumbled in with her other thoughts.

He told her: "I'm sick. I don't feel well. I'm cold."

"I'm whah—I told you I was cold."

"Not why though."

"Yes, I did."

His scowling was owing to the dispensing of another half truth. "Forget it. I need to insert this." He showed her a self directed, flexible plastic device which resembled something else so she almost smiled.

"Where?" she asked sourly.

"Into your airway. Repair the damage your stomach acid did sloshing around in there. The experience will not be pleasant."

Sighing and relaxing as much as she could, Calvert said, "Get it over with." In her cabin afterward, warm cocoa in a deep mug between her hands, staring beyond the half life-size statue of naked Zeus on its pedestal, she wondered: What damned island?

Chapter Nineteen - Cures for Hard Times

His companion was more than two metres high, twice as wide as he in the shoulders, and had the rock-hard physique of a Greek statue. Beneath his fatigues his skin was a mellow chocolate brown. His great size and strength needful when driving a three and a half metre tall and thousand kilo suit of armour.

"Hey, Marco," called Danby from present reality.

"Ah, yeah?" When had he started dreaming in broad daylight? A gust swooping into a nearby part of fence created several seconds of seething, sullen brilliance. He troubleshooted while exhausted. Too much on his feet. Too much lifting, bending, tinkering. Again. All of his time work. Again.

"I'm over here with one of the styluses. I think it's had it."

"I'll be right over."

"Nah, I got it." Danby climbed out beside the spindly machine. The problem, she suspected, was the usual. Grit gone into its joints inevitably ate through the seal and into the bearings. Removing the grit loosened the joints and more grit later tightened them back up again. By the tenth or so cleaning enough seal had been eaten away to produce an arthritic condition and a machine too crippled to function.

"Second one in three days," Marco said as he peeled back a fence post inspection cover to check its status. Two greens and two ambers. Another week and the greens would be ambers and the ambers would be reds. His sigh was in tune with acknowledging that fact.

"This one's not so bad as the other," said Danby as she gently levered the quiescent machine into her sled. "The vacuum case is intact . . . I think."

"Base functions still good?"

"Sec . . . yah, checks out. I just have to replace the chassis."

"Calvert ought to be pleased."

Danby doubted their boss would reward her efforts with better than tepid gratitude. She gazed at randomly sited styluses and the sweeps skating among them. Different lengths of texts compelled the randomness. The furthest right stylus made a minute adjustment, exchanging the text it had finished copying for the next in line.

What did she do each morning that occupied her time until well into the afternoon? Marco wondered. They rarely saw their commander until midday. The two of them scraping plates and rinsing utensils, and Calvert coming through the mess hatch, clean, organized and alert, palm to back as she took coffee from the urn. Into the kitchen for dried celery and a nutrition bar or crackers. Nods were sometimes exchanged along her way out, except most times not even that. "Birthday girl," he muttered.

The day Calvert reckoned was the anniversary of her birth had arrived. Eighteen months in stasis, odd times objective and subjective, a body tuned since conception to resist ageing. She might think she was seventeen years old Standard, but an observer might argue any age from fourteen to twenty-five.

"We get to go off work early," Beth said.

Work postponed, not cancelled. He was fitting the TRAXs with steel wheels. The effort to propel an entire steel track was too much for their drive systems. Plastic samples recently synthesized had insufficient durability for the conditions. The old tracks couldn't be salvaged owing to their deteriorated state. To alleviate chronic stretching he'd taken links out—a temporary fix. The first set of eight wheels were ready to be installed, a heavy job of work for tomorrow's bright and early.

He had equipped himself and Danby with third generation outdoors suits, incorporating every improvement he could think of. More flexible fabric, better moisture collection, better cooling, better oxygen reclamation, more durable. Calvert continued with her replacement 2nd gen. Out of pique he hadn't informed her of the improvements he'd come up with. Her 3rd gen suit was his present, and apology for recent bad behaviour. "Time?" he asked.

"A little early." Danby knew other styluses were near breakdown. Numerous ambers and a few reds showed among the flock.

"Screw it being early. Let's go in."

"Yah." She high stepped one and then the other foot in. The pad she'd stood on was taken up and lashed to the side of her sled—a Pacini innovation. Despite there seemed no danger they'd ever burn their feet, he suspected the mosaic might decide to do something to them anyway. Hence the insulation. "Gotta bake the cake."

"You're gonna bake?"

"Well, I was gonna help."

You mix while I fetch the rivets for Calvert to break her teeth on.

You wouldn't do that.

I wouldn't, but I can imagine it very well, and appreciate the result.

Julie Calvert's favourite text depicted a full body massage. Human anatomy wasn't that different from alien anatomy. Today's was a second indulgence and gift to herself. She lay naked under her towel on her stomach, chin on foot of mattress, placard-sized screen ahead of her half open gaze.

Calvert had discovered she needn't look at an alien text to be influenced by it, after a first reading. When near the mosaic, she encountered snapshots of exotic places, interesting people, and artful demonstrations. Singing, counting, mental exercises, quelled the distraction. Yet she sometimes would stand next to or float over the mosaic to experience its instructive cacophony, especially at night when the air was coolest and calmest.

Calvert longed to see the entire wreck exposed, suspecting that all its books would combine into one book colossal and fantastic. A biggest mystery revealed. Why had the aliens come to the Milky Way, what were their intentions, how had they crashed, what happened to the crew?

Some activities were better than orgasm, less animal, and nowhere near so messy. Calvert had reached the part when wet-warm ripples of sensation flowed one over the other from an odd point between her shoulder blades into the base of her skull and her hips simultaneously. She existed in a condition where no concern, no matter how crucial or dire, had the power to touch her. Gladly might she die this instant.

"Calvert . . ."

"No . . ." she mouthed to the interruption. The next part was a gentle crushing of feet before an all body interval of pins and needles before came the kind of joy one associated with a face to face meeting with a benevolent god.

"Sir, we need access to the officers' larder."

"Jus a muh-in-ut!"

"Sir?"

One did not disconnect from all-body dissolution in mid stroke and not trigger consequences.

"I don't believe it," Marco muttered angrily, standing next to the counter on which were arranged beginning portions of flour, sugar, eggs and butter. "You heard her. You know what she's doing in there?"

"Well, it does sound like she could be doing something," replied Danby lightly.

"Is that what she does every day while we're sweating our asses off?"

"I doubt she indulges herself as often as that."

"I'm spitting in this cake mix."

"No, you're not. We share in the celebration. We're eating this cake."

"She could be allergic to nuts. What if I substitute nuts for strawberries?"

"She isn't." Geneered kids had every allergy trigger turned off and were immune to all but the most virulent viruses and infections. "I promised her a strawberry layer cake."

"She got you to promise her one, you mean," he grumbled.

"I like strawberries, too. Don't you?" Danby applied a playful twist to his collar. Since Calvert was pleasuring herself, they might as well follow her example, as far as circumstances allowed. The pillow softness of lips was coupled with a jousting of tongues.

"Ahem!" from the fresh-arrived officer, levering herself on toes to her maximum height. She'd come across as soon as she was able. Owing to the darkness of her tan, it was not possible to know she blushed.

"Well," went Marco, chastised neither by her noise nor authority. Reluctantly he disengaged from contact. "Glad to see you're not too busy, seeing's how it's your cake we're baking."

"What do you need?" Calvert asked briskly. Her features twitched with efforts to appear sober despite the shaky ground she stood on.

"Strawberries in syrup. I suppose you have some?"

"I do." She skipped past their prep area, glancing at ingredients along her way. So much butter and refined sugar. She wouldn't be eating much of their cake.

"How's your research coming along?" Marco asked as Calvert pressed thumb to genetic lock. The snick of a latch uncoupling told the result. Calvert hesitated. She never elaborated on what she did during her mornings in her reports or to her crew.

"Not well," she said as cupboard doors swung open. The refrigerator portion of the cabinet had another small door to open. "One tin or two?"

"Make it two. Big cake. Lots strawberries and syrup."

"How big?" she said softly, knowing that even sub vocals each of hem heard as clearly as bassoons in full cry.

"Big enough for all of us," Marco replied expansively. "Not well as in 'today not well'? Or not well as in 'always not well and it's a huge waste of my time, but I don't care because it keeps me out of the dust and heat'?"

"That's not fair, Marco," replied Calvert, her anger much in check. "I've done my share of outdoors work."

"Not lately you have."

The youth placed her plastic tins prominently among his other ingredients. Hazarding a glance into his face, Calvert saw anger and glowed mildness back. Danby, as usual, directed a mildly puckered gaze down and to one side. Still it was obvious which way her wind blew. She sided with Marco. The guilt Calvert felt, despite it being her birthday, having been caught indulging herself, added to her discomfort. "What I do is important."

"In what way?"

"I've been categorizing the texts." An explanation true in broad sense.

"How is that useful work?"

"I'm not sure. I hope it helps later on."

"If you're not sure, why bother?"

The type of work you want me for is beneath my status and position. You know this.

"Do I? It's you wanted to expand the site. You're insisting we manufacture extra posts and panels and work our borrowed equipment until it falls apart."

"I've only ordered what's necessary."

"For whom and for what? When the R&D guys get here they're going to strip the crap off the wreck like it's not even there. What we're doing is fingernails on chalkboard. Attention grabbing and annoying. Do you think Captain Thorpe cares how much mosaic we uncover? Do you think the larger the area the greater the prize? How does your mind work? I'd really like to know."

"What I do with my time is none of your business."

"So you say. But let me tell you something, I've invested a whole lot of sweat, toil and blood in this venture, and I'd like to know it turns out to be worth something more than so a bar appears on your collar."

"Are you finished?"

"For now although I reserve the right to bitch at you any time I feel like from now on."

"You're are entitled to that," said Calvert tightly and left.

"You can stuff your goddamn cake," Marco muttered angrily to the door his commander had just passed through. "And Happy Birthday, you damned harpy."

"She is right, you know," Danby said lightly.

"Not about much. Hand me the damned measuring cup."

Julie Calvert would not let herself be drawn into a state of guilt, nor was it right she feel hurt. The great good always: efficacious treatments, techniques, machines and the knowledge, by God in Her Starry Heaven, was worth every piddling pain he suffered. The great oaf, he had no right to impugn her. When humanity arrived to its zenith, helped by her gifts, then, by God, she'd tell him, may the time be ten years or ten decades from now. Only then would he be entitled to the truth. Call me 'harpy'! Gnome! Neanderthal! "Hatch close!" Calvert shouted at her hatchway, stamped to her desk, sat, and set a knuckle between her lips to gnaw.

Baking a cake with an auto-oven was measuring ingredients, pouring them into right receptacles to set up the proper sequence and ordering the process begun. A chime sounded when the baking was done. Danby, leaning on his shoulders, ruffled his hair, the warmth and intimacy of the contact as a sleeping draft to his senses. "Honey, you're putting me to sleep."

"I am?"

"In a good way. This'll be a half hour or so. When's the party?"

"We gotta put up streamers."

"You're joking? Streamers and party hats?"

Beth's shrugging against his back was another feeling he wanted more of. He would have to think of other matters as ambiguous to quiz her about. "I suppose we could crank some things out with the fabber. We got coloured paper somewhere?"

"We'll have to use cloth."

"It's coming out of her budget if we do—Calvert."

The Master and Commander of ISS Polyphemus had wished he would quit addressing her by her surname too many times already to indulge that peeve again. "What is it?"

"We need your permission, and cloth budget, for party hats and streamers."

Oh, her features went. Her favourite type of hat that moment in mind. "Yes," she said and leaned over her desk to input her permission, "you have it. I'll provide my own hat."

"You'd look good in elephant ears and a trunk."

Not what he meant to say at first. Her smile reflected out of the mirror finish of her desk top. Inspired, she continued, "Costume party. Order whatever you want as costumes. I'm paying."

"If we wear masks, it could be difficult telling ourselves apart."

"I'll wear a ribbon in my hair. You could try an eye patch and black teeth."

"Pirate? She wants you to dress as a pirate?" Danby whispered excitedly to his ear.

"Party six hours from now?" Marco caressed a muscular thigh under his thumb print.

"Six hours should be fine."

"See you then."

While they caroused, she would resume her research. Might there be another massage book in today's gleanings? Plenty of serious stuff always. Her library very large now. Hundreds of thousands of texts. The other, the official compilation, catalogued in order received, went into Polyphemus' secure data locker.

Hers, arranged by topic, went into the stand alone, high density data storage unit she kept in her credenza. Authentic skinned, including original labels, with now only its preamble intact. Everything else deleted and replacements ongoing. Gifted by her grandparents, enormously expensive. Survey of the Heavens—the latest edition before she left home. A subscription was included and several updates had come since. The cover was dated with the year of purchase, it wasn't new, and so she didn't anguish overmuch about destroying it.

That the standalone volume was near three quarters filled was a further reason for despair. She must collect and keep everything, no matter its importance. How could she jettison recipes so thoroughly enjoyable to make room for dull schematics?

A heavy sigh was given expression before she resumed work.

Polyphemus's crew had several hours of free time before the party. Time which ought not to be spent sleeping, cleaning, repairing, studying, or in plain thinking.

"What shall it be?" Danby asked, sim-suited and about to launch herself across frictionless flooring. "Pirates of the Spanish Main?"

"I haven't decided yet," Marco muttered. He knew what he wanted most and dare not select. "Why don't you pick something to start us off with?"

Cliff climbing wouldn't have been his choice. Upside down, a sheer drop beneath him, his muscles trembling and threatening to spasm, no clue what to do next. Beth grinned above him, taking in slack, cosy as a spider. "The knob to your right—no, your other right."

"This is recreation?" he squawked.

"Is there any other kind?" Danby replied gaily.

"Why don't we let a TRAX run over me instead?"

"You're really not liking this?"

"Where did you get that idea from?"

A new look consumed the one, crinkling the skin about her nose delightfully. He might have laughed seeing it, had he been even a little less in extremis. "Okay, you pick," she invited and set chin on palm while awaiting his choice. "Where's this?" she asked, picking herself up. She'd not heard him voice a selection. She arrived, as had he, in climbing gear yet, but there were no cliffs on this beach.

"Ah," said Marco, his thoughts and motion frozen. He hadn't chosen Island. He'd been thinking his way through far different options. Admittedly, the beach realm was always in his thoughts: what it really was, how the simulacra who resembled the women he knew so well could be so real, was that Beth really this Beth, what might happen were they to meet, and how much trouble would he be in should that happen?

While extricating himself from the upside down pushup he arrived in, Marco appreciated familiar sights, sounds and smells. Sand and brine, sweet rot, trees and flowers, Mediterranean blue ocean. Gazing over rippling water, an offshore breeze ruffling his hair, Marco thought he might be worrying for nothing—they had begun in a sim. They must still be in a sim.

As for the largest of his worries, wasn't there a rule one soul could not exist in two bodies at the same time? He pondered imponderables while examining his surrounding for evidence of past storms. Any detritus must have been carried out on surges or was the driftwood in heaps he saw along the beach. Otherwise he saw little evidence of upheavals.

"Looks tame. Cannibals?"

"Ah, no."

"Dinosaurs?"

"Definitely not."

While brushing off the sand clinging to the rearmost parts of her anatomy Danby said in her best Bristol brogue, "Be thar pirates hereabouts, matey?"

"Pirates?" asked that other, well known voice. "I'd like to see some goddamn pirates."

"Julie," gasped Danby as the youth stepped into view from between bushes. Pith helmet, Samoa dark tan, grey T-shirt, khaki shorts, ankle high boots. Eyes bright blue within a bronze of face. "When did you decide to join us?"

"Join you?" Julie said ahead of a scowl. "I was after some fruit. Did you cut your hair?" A green plastic net of melons and plantains was controlled by one hand and went over the opposite shoulder. "Hey, Marco, back again so soon?"

The sheepish tech was at a loss for words. It seemed permanently.

"You two have been sharing a sim?" Danby asked.

"What? Are you nuts?" said Julie, pointing her chin in Marco's direction. "When was the last time he was here?"

"You're asking me?"

"You don't remember? It was the night of the storm. Lunkhead shows up, strolls up the beach bent over double, wet as an otter, and in less than five minutes he's gone again."

"The storm," Danby murmured thoughtfully.

"Wait'll the next one. It'll be a doozie. Well, I need to take these up." Julie turned to continue up the beach. Danby hurried after. Marco trailed the pair, sweating profusely under his shirt, and not owing to ambient heat. "You guys went climbing?"

"Yeah, we, ah, just got back."

"I thought you were going to landscape the back yard."

"The back yard?"

"Yeah, you know, what's behind the house?"

"You've got a house here." Danby peeked over her shoulder at Marco.

"Yeah, it's your house."

"My house?"

"You can quit fooling any time, Beth," grumbled Julie as she stepped onto a path that turned abruptly into the jungle. "Watch out for old Amos, Marco. He took one of the goats a week ago so he should be hungry again right about now."

"Amos is a," prompted Beth.

"Pumpkin," said Julie. "We're wondering if you're at fault, Marco."

"At fault for what?" he squawked.

"For Amos and Iago. Since there's only one of each, they can't be here naturally. What d'ya say, Noah? Wanna fess up?"

"I, ah, don't think I could be responsible fer . . ."

"There's not much you are responsible for, is there?" Julie replied caustically. "Well, these go into the cooler. You guys might as well go on up. I'll be with you shortly. Beth, should I bring two melons, do you think? Extra for our guest? That's if he's staying this time."

"Sure," Danby replied uncertainly. The path to the house was well worn and wended among palms uphill. She had no idea how much further there was to go, but was anxious to discover what awaited them at the end of the path.

"Maybe I should explain?" said Marco.

"You could try," Danby growled through her teeth.

He did try, leaving out parts likely to offend. Barely he finished his preamble before they arrived in the forecourt of a large clearing hemmed in by mature palms. A substantial house built out of interlocking volcanic blocks, three stories high, reared before them. On a second storey balcony, shading under a red and white beach umbrella, Beth, unabashedly nude, reclined on a chaise lounge. "Hello, you two," she called buoyantly while waving.

Danby pulled up short at the sight of herself.

"Don't be like that, Elizabeth," called Island Beth from above. "I'll be down directly. Do come right on in."

"You're going to think this is weird," said Marco before a nervous chuckle.

"There are regulations prohibiting this kind of thing, Marco," Danby muttered dangerously as they mounted risers one, two and entered the house's substantial portico.

"Believe me, things never would have gotten this far, except for they kinda got outta control." Darting ahead, he opened the door for them.

"Got out of control?" Danby would have added a shove had he not put himself out of range. "How? How could anything begun so innocently as you claim get so out of control?"

"Things here are not what they seem." He'd arrived to this understanding at the least.

"Oh? And how are they not what they seem?" He'd gotten her full trust, gifted for the first time since she was a child. That rosy relationship much under threat.

"This is real."

"Real?" They entered a spacious foyer, light pouring in ahead through two tiers of windows and a reflected through a skylight. On the left a marble fireplace accepted homage from a pair of midrange-pink velvet sofas and a red and gold Persian rug. Potted plants supplied splashes of life and scent in corners. High gloss floor. A fanciful tapestry stared down on them: blue, gold and red, lion and unicorn, squaring off, fierce in aspect. Other wall decorations consisted of 3-D landscapes of meadows, lakes and forests. A gold-tasselled sword occupied a place of honour atop a glass-fronted curio cabinet in which were several Age of Sail ship models highly detailed. To the right, a target of indirect light, was a corner nook settled with a pale green couch dressed in ivory-white macrame and smothered in pillows.

Side by side doorways pierced the interior wall beyond the tapestry. Through the left hand door barefoot Beth, in emerald green sarong, decorative leis and an orchid behind one ear, emerged. She bore a wooden tray on which were glasses and moisture-beaded pitcher of lemonade. "Have a seat," she invited. Between the sofas stood a heavy teak table for setting her burden on. She proceeded to pour drinks and set the glasses down in places convenient for her guests, her double watching her uneasily as she did so.

"You're upset," Island Beth said.

"To put it mildly," Danby replied icily.

"I remember. I thought he'd betrayed me." A nod was put to the squirming, yet standing third of their party. "This is not a betrayal."

"How can you say that?" Danby felt herself very near to tears.

"Because it isn't. If not for his indulgence so many months ago, I would not continue as I do here in comfort and safety."

"Why should that matter to me? You're a—"

The hand of the older woman pressed the arm of the younger. "Dear one, I am you. I am your future self."

"Whoop!" sounded from the doorway. Quests and host turned to see Julie, kneeling, unlacing her boots and grinning at her toes. "Let him have it, Beth. You, too, Beth, hit him with that tray why doan cha? I'll conjure up a bat in a second and join you—oh, why do I bother?" Feet were shaken clear of boots, the laces gone loose by themselves. Next the pith helmet was tossed into an expert lodging on the corner couch, "I figured something strange was going on." Julie joined the rest. "You looked different and I should have known it wasn't you, but then you never remarked on the differences in me either," she said to the fresh-arrived and deeply puzzled Elizabeth Danby.

"You're . . . older," said Beth uncertainly. The older girl had not changed much. Her skin as smooth and supple, features leaner, hair the same sun-bleached blonde, her bounce and enthusiasm more.

"A lot older, but so's you. Or you hadn't noticed that either?"

The Beths took a moment to measure each other, cataloguing differences in body, face and hair. The older, softer, more voluptuous Beth motioned to her other self, after enough time for examinations had passed, that she sit.

"Why are you, me, why am I here?" Danby asked through a rising anxiety that required stern breathing to keep in check.

"Well, Marco, you are to blame," invited Island Beth while settling into her own seat.

"I have a theory," said Marco, and strove neither to object nor grimace when Julie interjected with: "I love theories! Especially those derived by amateurs!"

He continued stolidly: "Whatever rules this place wanted models of some of us, so it took from my, er, inspiration. It could have been any one of us getting things started."

"Like I would have conjured this place, and put you and Beth in it," grumbled Julie.

"But I didn't conjure it. The title was in the catalogue. I only requested it to play," Marco protested meekly. He wasn't going to admit, unless pressed, that he'd disguised the title so no one else could find it.

"This is a sim in the catalogue?" said Julie. "That's news to me."

"It wah—er, is. I was trying out some stuff just in. Poly recommended it at the time."

"And we, meaning sarong Beth and me, came to be here how, Marco?" Julie prompted through saccharine smiling.

"I twigged the overrides and brought you in," Marco confessed.

"Thanks so much for that!" Julie cried. "Bat." Louisville slugger materialized and, "I am going to hit you now, Marco, but don't worry, Beth will fix you right up after." A pose of a batsman was assumed, cricketer rather than baseball player. The agility and power as Calvert pushed her swing all the way from toes to shoulders, imparting maximum momentum to the top of her swing, were trademarks of her equestrian, and polo, background and training. Owing to the restrictions imposed by furnishings, her swing started low and went high. Marco sat amazed and frozen in place. He was about to be walloped by a seasoned ash club. At the last moment he reared back in his seat. What swept past his face was air the bat pushed ahead of itself. Next came an explosion, in the form of flower petals white, yellow, blue and red.

"Had you going there, didn't I?" Julie exulted within a too bright expression. "I knew Beth wouldn't let me hurt you, no matter how much you deserve it."

"He doesn't deserve it," Island Beth said patiently. The visitors were witnesses to the latest installment of an on again/off again debate of causes and effects. "We just don't know what happened."

"What happened was, dipshit left me behind. That's what happened!"

"I didn't leave you behind," Marco protested in measured voice. "I won't leave you behind."

A vexed gasp. "Don't you get it? For Beth and I the big mission has already happened. I'm here, still, years later. If you didn't leave me behind, what else could have stranded me here? Can anyone tell me?" Arms outspread and raised, Calvert's appeal went not just to inhabitants in the room but to the Universal, in whatever guise It might possess.

"Julie, you know what I believe," said Island Beth, standing. She gently pulled the girl into an embrace which had her guests staring in amazement and uneasily. The comfort provided large in its effect. Julie's mood settled, her eyes drooped. Forehead pressed cheek. It seemed Island Beth might be about to croon a lullaby to her ward.

"Ah . . ." went Marco, who discovered himself made more uncomfortable moment by moment by a demonstration of affection.

"Not now," both Beths mouthed to him.

"My power has always been more than Julie's in this place," Island Beth explained. "I think because," nodding to her younger self, "I belong here and she doesn't."

"You're here because he put you, both of us here," muttered Julie while continuing to take solace from the soft of her friend's cheek. "We remain because he won't fix what needs fixing."

"I don't know what you mean," Marco protested. Fix what? What am I supposed to fix?

She's upset, Marco. Don't fret. You'll come to know why she ends up here eventually.

I promised I would save her.

You haven't yet which is why she blames you for what's happened, but that is not all and so she worries.

I'm supposed to do something else?

No, this consequence is not within your power to change.

What consequence? What do you mean?

I can't tell you more.

Can't or won't?

Both, my darling, but for good reason.

"Can I be involved in this discussion?" Danby asked sourly.

"You're not yet where you need to know certain things," Island Beth said. "It wouldn't be right to burden you. Besides it may be you know too much already."

"I'm going up to my room," said Julie, slipping away from contact. "Don't talk about me while I'm gone. Not even telepathically."

"We won't, but Beth has questions that need answering," Island Beth called after her.

The young woman padded barefoot from the room, shoulders square and carriage erect, all others respecting her exit with quiet and sombre looks.

"The flower petals," queried Danby once the tension between them eased. "what was that about?" The baseball bat petals had themselves dissolved to nothing.

"Well," said Beth, resuming her seat, "I've been compensated. This environment," she rapped a knock from the table separating them, "is as real to me as the desert is to you. I can manipulate the environment and build structures like this house. Unlike in a sim, I don't instruct things to be changed, I cause them to be changed."

"The calm within the storm," Marco muttered.

"Yes," Island Beth rewarded his speculation with a mild smile. "You knew that was me, Marco."

"Yeah, but, oh." He gasped. "At the time I was still thinking 'sim'."

Sips of lemonade were appreciated. "You ought to have known better, Marco. You've been a sceptic all along, which is one reason why, I think, the Collector chose Julie over you."

Chose for what? "The Collector . . ." preceded a squinting unflattering in both look and duration.

What she's been chosen for is not for you to know as yet. "You've sensed it. Its manipulations are not subtle."

"The alien ship's intelligence is active?"

"Very much so," Beth affirmed, gazing at her younger self.

"For you to say that," Danby said, "implies a close connection with the alien."

"It leaves me alone. It doesn't communicate with me anymore."

"Wait a minute," said Danby, "the Collector hasn't communicated with me . . ."

"Within the black layer, the being you met was one of its minions," explained Beth. "Later on, you encounter others."

Danby crossed her arms beneath her breast. "You make it sound as though the alien is an ally.

"It is," Island Beth capped her declaration with a determined smile, "however, not the type you suppose and are used to. It has its own agenda."

"Which is what?" Marco asked.

"I can't say."

"But you've a good idea. You must, by now."

"No," said Island Beth, her expression unchanged from before.

Danby gnawed her lip. The information she'd been given more troubling than reassuring. The woman, or phantom, sitting across from her was both herself and not herself. Most of what Island Beth had said rang true however. She was becoming this woman? She was to carry on after the mission, after her death, in a fantasy island limbo? Why should this future appeal to her? "Why are you here?" Danby demanded. "Why do you endure? I'd rather be dead."

Island Beth leaned forward to press her other self on the knee, the other self flinching from the contact. "Because it is necessary," said Island Beth soberly. "Because I am needed."

"Needed? By whom?"

"That," was coupled to an arching of brow, "you will realize soon enough."

"Beth?" Marco called tentatively. They had exited Island at the same time. He lingered in his booth. The tech took shallow breaths and wondered if to stay quiet was a best strategy.

Call upon the door to open, next for Poly to push him out. "Beth?" He approached the change area, following the cast of his voice.

She sat upon the furthest bench in, sim suit unfastened to the waist, her expression the product of a mixing of conflicting emotions. Anger, doubt, unease, hope. Marco feared betrayal also. Sitting on the same bench, hoping she not slug him, but willing to accept the hurt should absolution follow. He said, "Will you forgive me?" They'd been happy before visiting Island. He'd gladly set himself over another long drop so they could be happy again.

"You could have said something," she grumbled.

"I could have, but it wouldn't have been right."

"You believe her?"

"I do. Most of it."

"There are things she's not telling us."

You're not telling us. The accusation earned him a scowl.

"We have to get ready for the party." Beth tugged down the top part of her sim suit and stood to remove the rest. A turn and install the suit into its cleaning locker. Marco admired how she did it. "You have to get ready."

"Forgive me?" he tried again.

"Too soon for that, buster. " Danby maintained herself under stern control. "I've too much on my mind to forgive anyone." Even myself.

"Say," He gasped a smile, "do you think Calvert knows?"

"We'll ask her and find out." Danby intended showering alone.

Chapter Twenty - Birthday Girl

Calvert's intake of breath betrayed how impressed she'd been by the care and effort they took to decorate the wardroom, the food table, and themselves. The bunting and streamers had been fashioned out of coloured paper fortunately found. The banner with buoyant 'Happy Birthday, Julie' included a scatter of crepe paper candle flames numbered the requisite seventeen.

Their costumes not what she'd expected. Danby wore a masculine leather shirt and leggings, shin high moccasins, red kerchief about forehead and yellow sash about waist. Tucked into the sash were a long knife in a beadwork scabbard and a flintlock pistol. The single feminine part of her costume was the gaudy gold ring decorating her earlobe.

The odd costume not something Calvert would have chosen, but, upon reflection, she decided suited a military person. The choice of coureur de bois nonetheless was obscure. Either Danby had plumbed the catalogue a while, or she had fallen upon her choice swiftly. Marco's complementary priest, heavy robe with hood, cord belt, rosary and sandals, she thought also a peculiar choice, yet wasn't he the perfect jovial friar?

Her grin was put out against the back of her hand. A dry cough made a cap over her amusement. Calvert was dressed in blue broadcloth coat, white flap front trousers ending below the knees and ribbon tied, silk stockings, black shoes with silver buckles, white vest, and a regimented panoply of gold buttons and gold epaulets. She pretended herself the British captain of a French-built 74 gun man o' war, captured personally during a great fleet action. She had entered the room, bicorne 'fore and aft', her sun-bleached, mid back-length hair corralled into a black ribbon queue. "Gentlemen," she said, "we are well met."

"Happy birthday, Julie," they chorused. Calvert felt the warmth of their reply pulse against her cheeks. She had awakened from a nap not expecting much. Costumes had added colour and warmth to the celebration and her mood. She'd sung while dressing, and her steps along the way had been light. "Thank you both," Polyphemus' commander replied and went on, Horatio Nelson-style, to inspect the table.

She had hoped they not overburden the table with sweets and saw there was not a great amount. Chocolate nougats and candies from the general supply, which could go right back into the bins in undiminished volumes. An apology for the sweets were raw vegetables in neat piles on a broad plate with two cups of dips, a white and a tawny orange. Next were bowls with chips and pretzels and a second platter piled with luncheon meats and cheeses. A dozen bottles of beer, a half dozen of soda, and three of wine. Far too much food and drink, Calvert decided, and swallowed an excess of saliva before choosing a stalk of celery to munch on. Where's my cake? She missed the confection for its decorative effect, not for eating. In the kitchen, was Marco's reply and Calvert blushed. She hadn't meant to make her query so he'd register it. Her thought had only been a thought.

"What will we play?" asked Danby, selecting a vegetable treat for herself. They'd board games and cards on another table. Calvert was pleased that her female crew be in agreement with what she thought the best food to eat.

"Our number limits our choices I think," Calvert said.

"Poker, it is," said Marco and sucked the slick of something taken from the meat tray from his thumb. His food choices were likely to trigger indigestion, Calvert observed. "What shall the wager limits be?" he continued. Limits there must be or her least bets would bankrupt the two of them within seconds.

"We should play for honour," was Calvert's suggestion.

"Good enough," Marco replied and applied himself to a distribution of tokens. "Ten thousand in counterfeit credit each. Winner, besides bragging rights, is entitled to demand a song from the losers."

"You can sing?" Danby asked with feigned amazement.

"I won't have to," replied Marco smugly.

"Common poker or an exotic variation?" asked Calvert, who was conversant with cutthroat games played by her uncle and his friends, and the cigar smoke, wine fumes, and cosy snicking of cards back home.

"The birthday girl decides," Marco replied.

"Common game," said Calvert. "A better test of skill."

"Which is what? Just so we know," asked Danby.

"Five cards, two draws, max of four then two replacements. Must have a pair or better face cards to open. Ante of one hundred before play starts," Calvert elaborated.

As soon as the play began, as Marco dealt the first of their cards, Calvert realized, more shocked than pleased, more guilt than greed, she'd been gifted an unfair advantage.

Before Danby landed, face down, the Eight of Diamonds. Before herself, the Nine of Spades. Marco snapped over his spot the Five of Diamonds. Danby received the Seven of Clubs while she bit the end off a baby carrot, herself another spade and Marco the King of Diamonds.

Calvert saw denominations as the cards sped off the deck. The deck was not marked. Its laminate was the type to defeat seeing through, yet she saw suit and value, no squinting. "We should play another game," said Calvert, setting her hand palm down to the table top.

"You called this one," said Marco. His priest finished dealing.

"I changed my mind."

"Too late. You don't think you can win?" Marco grinned broadly.

"I haven't even looked at my cards," Calvert protested. A heart and four spades. By no means the best hand. Marco was admiring his pair of kings.

"Too late now," Marco said.

Can they not see each other's cards too? Calvert wondered. Danby's woodsman exhibited bland interest in the play. Marco's monk pasted-on boredom. No. The extra tweaking done to the inside of her head was to blame.

"Bets?" asked Marco as he rapped the edge of a 100 value token on the head of the next in its pile.

"Be my guest." Calvert sucking thoughtfully the inside of her mouth. If he was determined to run on her sword, who was she to deny him the pleasure?

"What's that getup anyway?" asked Marco as he tossed two 100 value tokens to the centre of the table.

"British Navy circa 1805." The women followed and did not raise the bet.

"I didn't know cabin boys dressed so smart in those days."

"They didn't. One please." A low club was received. Grimacing preceded the card's arrival. Self chastisement followed it.

"Bet's to me again? Five hundred." He'd taken three cards, none of them of any benefit when combined with what he'd kept. To Calvert he said, "Too rich for you?"

"Your five hundred," said Calvert, applying her tokens. But no more.

"Brave but cautious," he said. Danby folded her cards.

"Stupid and arrogant," replied Calvert sweetly. "Some men are."

"But not me?"

"Interpret as you will," said Calvert, accepting the Jack of Diamonds. This time she shrugged only after she revealed to herself its value, for the sake of appearances. Her cards joined the others already discarded.

"A good start for me," said Marco as he collected and merged his winnings together.

To hasten the play along Calvert decided to let Marco win whenever doing so was feasible and not appear suspicious.

He engaged them with an aggressive strategy; his wagers larger and less supported than either woman's. Calvert might have crushed him during a hand which accumulated thousands in fake money. It amused her to underplay her hands and win small, let him win big, and seem to dislike his gloating. His ultimate winning hand, against which she played to pauper herself, was a full house of jacks over sevens. She quietly pushed her cards into the discards and then shuffled the result while a grinning Marco Pacini gathered in his winnings and made towers out of them.

"What shall it be?" Calvert said to his self-absorbed chuckling. "Do you have something in mind or may I sing whatever I want?"

"I've always wondered about Old Boston's fight song," Marco said during a scratch applied to a fake tonsure.

Calvert pressed herself up, drew a breath, and burst into melody. Though she rarely used it to entertain with, her voice possessed quality. Her clean, clear and sincere performance impressed her audience. She lost her enthusiasm not long after the first stanza, however. Exhortations to patriotism and sacrifice seemed, in present context, inappropriate and unreasonable. She did not much like her school song. Even was she ashamed for it. She ended on a flat note, made a smile as good as she could show, and abruptly sat down again.

"Ours went the same," said Marco when she had done. "The Mars version comes to: 'give 'em hell and never mind the shrapnel while you're at it'." His cynicism so in tune with her own that Calvert marvelled. "I'd rather assemble donkey carts for some bohunk colony, than go back to that place."

"You'd be paid well. To colonize," Danby said. The standard indenture for an unskilled labourer was ten years. Techs, on the other hand, were routinely offered supervisory contracts, along with property and shares. More of the same sort of enticements when renewal time came around.

Space skilled men and women were in great demand everywhere. Military techies, after single tours of duty, routinely resigned to pursue lucrative civilian employment. Big corporations like Gens preferred matters that way, the public paying to train the specialized help they needed to expand their empires.

The Admiralty and Imperial Advisory Council did nothing about the practise, owing to vested interest and lobbying pressures. Only the Richardson Foundation was excepted. It funded dozens of schools and training academies, donating thousands of scholarships annually for technical training.

"What should we play next?" asked Danby.

"The Birthday Girl need not decide," said Calvert in case Marco thought so.

"Birthday cake?" suggested Marco.

"Let's," Calvert agreed. Her strawberry cake arrived from the kitchen in its coating of chocolate splendour. Calvert, submerging her distrust of all things butter and sugar, forked into her mouth a bite, exceeding sweet. The cook grunted appreciation for her mumbled thanks. Danby watched her with a strange smile.

What's that for? Calvert wondered as Danby shifted her gaze to another part of the room.

"Gifts," said Marco, producing an oblong box from under the table. "You'll appreciate this." He set his offering before her.

"Hum-m-m," went Calvert. "Shall I guess the contents?"

"If you want to," invited Marco.

"It's not heavy," she said, lifting one end. Under the wrapping was a wooden box, sanded and polished. Inside the box was a tapered wooden club with a knob at its lesser end. "A baseball bat," she murmured, wondering why he'd give her such a thing.

"You . . ." he said and nodded, having made up his mind about something.

"What?" she asked. Though it was bad manners and worse behaviour, she set aside his gift. She wouldn't take it. What did the flower petals signify? She gazed uncertainly at his expectant smile. He waited for her to remark about gift, and she'd no idea what her remark should be.

"I thought you'd appreciate it," he said again.

"Why should I?" she wondered aloud.

"You're joking, right?"

"I've brought you something, too," said Danby, shaking her head at Marco. The second gift far smaller. A pin to which was attached a 2D replica of Polyphemus in burnished steel. A thoughtful gift, nothing about it to dislike. "You can see through the wrap?" asked Danby, wanting to clear this notion up.

"Yeah," replied Calvert uncertainly. You can't?

"Not at all," Danby confessed. "Nor you, Marco, am I right?"

"Nope, looks like two boxes wrapped in party paper to me," said Marco, while he sprawled over his chair, sipped his beer, and gazed full-on at the feted object.

"Well and that I can is nothing much," said Calvert cautiously.

"We can't though," persisted Danby.

Calvert shrugged. "I hadn't noticed before I could." Confession mostly true. She hadn't noticed or she hadn't paid attention—except for the cards. After additional thought the youth decided she might have looked at her closed socks drawer once or twice and remarked to herself that she ought to do her laundry.

"Won't you open mine?" asked Marco. "Can you see the finish?"

"I see the finish well. What's it mean?"

"What does what mean?" he teased.

"Well," she said, much irritated, pushing herself up. "Thank you for the party. It was splendid."

"I've got a birthday coming up," said Marco.

No, you don't, both women thought at near the same time.

"Eventually I do," he amended.

"Happy birthday," Calvert muttered angrily and left. Marco flourished a silent toast flavoured derisive to her departure. Danby showed a frown.

"She's a good actor, I'll grant her that," said Marco before indulging himself with a swig from his bottle.

"You can drink too much of that," said Danby, beginning to clear up.

"This is a party after all. Overindulgence is the rule."

"She can see through the wrapping paper," reiterated Danby as she attempted the same, peering at the gifts with as much concentration as a fatigued mind could command. "I can't. Can you?"

"I thought we already established that fact," he said before putting out a burp against his hand.

"I wasn't really trying." Another bout of squinting. "Nope, can't do it."

Marco tried and saw his bat and Beth's pin clear, except what he was seeing were memories from before the paper went on, and not images of the moment. "Nah, can't do it. What do you suppose it means that she can and we can't? And why can she, do you think?"

"You won't find answers in a bottle," said Danby. "Want any of this candy before I put it away?"

"Nope. Got nuts and pretzels a'plenty."

"You sure do," she grumbled. "That girl eats like a bird."

"You've got to be kidding. You know how much a bird eats per day?"

"Don't piss me off, Marco. You know what I mean."

"She must have a stash in her cabin. Celery sticks and rice cakes."

"She's getting thinner. A lot thinner."

"Not through exerting herself," said Marco and finished his beer.

"She could be sick."

"You think she looks sick?" After consulting a perfect recollection for body shapes and skin tones to make comparisons, Marco continued, "Thinner, I'll grant you, but sick, I don't see that." It's what she does alone that distracts her from a proper diet. The big secret something she's hiding from us.

"What could she be doing she hasn't told us about?" asked Danby. "You want help with this?" Most of what they'd brought out would return to storage undiminished.

"Hey, I'm not finished eating!"

"You're going to have another piece of cake?"

"Not cake, but I wouldn't mind a sandwich before bed."

"Why did you bring out all this stuff?" she coupled to a sweet-featured nose wrinkling. "There's more fat in this sausage than there is in my butt."

"Sweetie, there is no fat in your butt. I oughta know." Pushing himself up, Marco went to the tray of meats she'd been about to put away, and selected enough parts to fill the half loaf sandwich he was going to make, and be unable to eat even a quarter of without help. "What do you suppose she spends most of every day doing?"

"The texts," answered Beth directly. "Can't imagine a job more boring than that."

"Unless she can read them," said Marco offhand and chuckled.

"What?" Beth paused while folding a cloth napkin. "How could she?"

"If she could, that would be a very big secret."

"She'd've told us if she could, or, or she would've mentioned the fact in one of her despatches." They could access the full text of any of her dispatches any time they wanted.

"Would you?" he asked.

"Of course I would," she replied at once.

"Just think about it. If you were the only human being with access to the most significant library in the galaxy would you tell anyone else about it?"

Oh, went Danby.

"Knowledge like that would be worth all industrial assets, ours and the Alliance both, and then some. If it was me, I'd do as she's doing now."

"You really think she reads them?" asked Beth, her tone wondering.

"I'm only guessing, but it'd a good bet."

"Holy bull . . ."

Calvert munched a rice cake, Survey of the Heavens connected by a slim lead to the terminal in her desk. Delete the preamble and imaging system for the space after the rest filled up? She could take away another thousand texts that way. More secrets saved. When the R&D team arrived, access to the mosaic would be restricted to those men and women who wouldn't have a clue how to understand it. Will there never be others taken into your trust?

As I've told you, you alone are entrusted with this gift.

It's too much for me. I don't know what's important to keep and what isn't—none of this is expendable!

You almost have enough already.

What? Enough already? What does that mean? Enough already for what?

You'll know when it's time.

"Like fun I will," Calvert muttered sourly. Whenever the alien withheld information, a tingling at the base of her skull triggered, like the prelude to a fainting spell or the witness of a miracle. "I'm going to need this. Why?"

Predictably, no answer was forthcoming.

"Bastard," Calvert grumbled. She'd already vowed to protect its secrets, now become hers. White-hot rods and pincers could not tear them from her, but why was only she to be so burdened? What was the—likely horrible—consequence to come? Why not tell her all about it now?

Still no answer.

"I hate you." Calvert prepared for bed. While she did so Marco coaxed the woman who stood at the entrance of his quarters to come the rest of the way in.

"You're tired. I'm tired. And I haven't forgiven you yet," Danby said.

"We could snuggle?" he said and scratched through the heavy wool discomfort he had on for penance. Wearing the wretchedly hot and itchy costume had been the first of many atonements he would gladly suffer to resurrect her fond regard.

"Not tonight, altar boy. See you tomorrow bright and early." A peck was administered his cheek, which Marco sighed to receive. He stayed in his doorway to admire how the tight fitting leather shirt and leggings adored Danby's figure as she walked away. Another scratch and Marco pulled the single piece garment off. "Recycle for you, sonovabitch," he muttered, the bundle left in a corner for discarding later. He'd perspired enough to warrant a shower but the current state of his water ration didn't allow it. Wet wipe all he could afford. Straight to bed after, with a frown put to the untidy lump encountered along the way. He'd recycle it tomorrow, provided he remembered, if he had any energy to spare for the task.

He was not surprised when he arrived, but hadn't expected a black and cold hell the moment after his head hit the pillow. "Too damn tired," Marco muttered, sucking in his lips as he took in his surroundings. Radar gave him the best return for his money, except not much detail. Overlap influenced the rebounded signals and his reach rarely exceeded four racks.

The covers bounced back uncertain returns besides, and blended near with far. With practise he'd become better at discrimination. The nearest artifacts, floor level, were average size, four to five strides in length and about his height.

He'd seen artefacts over a hundred metres in length, twenty metres high, and eight to ten metres wide—mineral or agricultural processor, terraforming equipment, space-going yacht. At extreme scanner range was a sentinel. An icon, glowing red, appeared in his handset but not in his heads-up display. It approached from behind at walking speed.

"Here we go again," Marco muttered before setting off at his best speed, a shuffling one might charitably label 'jogging'. His repair gear was gone. He reckoned elapsed time by fatigue level and material poverty, and concluded it was near the end.

Marco expected to encounter Calvert within the next few minutes. The mad dash to catch her up about to start. He hoped this time she would make an effort to bring them together.

"Calvert?" he tried. "Come on now, this is your cue."

"Cue for what?" the youth grumbled. He gasped. Her reply loud and clear.

"There you are!" He consulted his handset. Five racks between them, her icon steady green. "This time come to me as I come to you. We'll meet at the middle." The chamber set an additional obstacle between them as he plunged through the first of the original five. "How in the hell is it doing that?" Marco wondered out loud as he heaved himself out of the sprawl he'd landed in. He shambled on, fighting dizziness, shortness of breath, fatigue. He crossed the intervening space, his handset before him and tied to his wrist by a lanyard. "Calvert, you have to come to me!"

"I am!"

She wasn't. She moved away—obstinate suicidal bitch. The chamber put up another rack between them. Now were seven. She stood at the extreme of what his instrument was able to detect. "Do not go by what your handset shows you! You have to reverse yourself!"

"Reverse!" Her reply sounded perplexed. Her icon disappeared from his screen.

"Do it! Now!"

"Damn it, I—yuck." Her icon reappeared as he thrust his way through the next rack.

"Trust me! You have to trust me!" Her innate stubbornness had been the root cause of all failures up to now. He begged her to pick up the pace, change direction, move for pity sake, and she would do the opposite and every time inevitably disappear.

He leapt upright through the next gap. This aided his progress considerably. Snatch a look. She had, for once, followed his advice. They were closer. Five racks now between them.

"Keep moving the same way unless I tell you different." Why was her handset and never his the deceiver? Was someone going to tamper with her equipment?

"This is not right," she grumbled. "You're moving away from me."

"It is right! Damn it, woman. Ignore what your handset tells you."

Four racks, now three. He felt flush with hope even as three racks went two and then became three again. Should there only one of the obstacles between them the chamber could not insert another. "Pick up the pace!" He advised his flagging self as much as he did her. "We're almost there!"

"Pacini!" she sobbed. "Oh!"

"Keep coming this way!" Now two and he plunged through the nearer of the two remaining racks and saw the new obstacle rise immense out of the floor which flowed back, taking him with it. That was incredible! He hadn't registered if there'd been a displacement of air at the same time.

"I should be able to see you by now!" she protested in a wail.

"One more, just one more!" He forced from his mind a too fond appreciation of a miracle. Teeth grit, pulse pounding, breaths in wheezes and sobs, he staggered across another space and through a gap between midnight black cloths barely substantial enough. Almost he got snagged up, and then broke free, arriving face first into a pair of shins, upending their owner, who fell sloppily onto his back.

"Pah-cini? Oh, Starry Heaven!" She was softly sick onto the floor between his legs.

"We made it. At last! I told you!" he gasped as they extricated themselves from their tangle of bodies, and he brought them tremulously to their feet. He had her by the arms and was not going to let her go until they got out of here. As he tied together their wrists with lanyards, Calvert blearily said, "Dizzy. Sick. Doan know kin walk."

"I've got you." He yanked her upright again. She'd fainted and would have gone straight to the deck if he hadn't snagged her by the front of her ship suit.

He was about to mutter an apology, her handiest part had been at chest height. But she was gone, and then he was too, clean out of the alien cargo hold.

He was delivered to a far happier place. Cushions, clean air, ample soft light. Not one stitch on and standing inside an open structure of emerald green-veined white marble. A gazebo. Gauze curtains shifted now and then to show him greenest landscape and bluest sky. Calvert stood at the foot of his couch, her back to him, also nude. "This is our reward?" he queried the room and saw her stiffen, rise over her toes, and do a half turn toward him while covering the foremost parts of her body with hand and arm.

"Reward? You brought me here?" Her tone was accusatory. "What are you doing?"

"I ought to be dreaming. What are you doing?"

"I was asleep, imbecile!" she snarled. "You brought me here."

"I brought you . . ." He sank, chuckling, into very soft pillows. In an overhead mural Achilles battled Hector before the gates of Troy. Marco admired the sparks as their silent blades clashed.

"I'd like to go back to my bed," insisted the gone-pink junior officer.

"You know I saved you? In the alien chamber, just now? Right?"

"Er, yeah," she replied sourly.

"You fainted."

"I don't remember that. I fell on top of you. I dozed off."

"You fell asleep on purpose? We weren't in the clear yet."

"You have no idea what I went through to get so far."

"But I did save you," he persisted. "You ought to be satisfied. Mission accomplished, shipmate rescued. You can lay off me."

"Lay off you? When have I ever complained?"

He rolled his eyes. "Ho, girl, are you some kinda work."

"What does that mean?"

"The sulking, the dirty looks, the baseball bat."

"I don't know one freaking thing about your stupid baseball bat."

A goodly measure of sourness was in his own reply. "Stay like that or get over it. You're satisfied, right?"

She shrugged. "Yeah. Can I go back to my room now, please?"

His overflow of amusement hadn't entirely vented. A deep throated laugh was indulged. "What makes you think I control this place?"

"I sure as hell didn't do this."

His unobstructed view of her side-on nakedness did nothing to fertilize an arousal with. His member stayed flaccid, uninspired by what he saw. "I don't know how to send you back." He focussed his concentration and sight to best view her reaction.

She gave the region below his waist another dirty look, which is why, he reckoned, it responded. "You've got to be kidding me," she gasped, her gaze going wide before she averted it.

"That's not! Hey!" He snatched a pillow to smother his erection with. "I'm not apologizing." I'm feeling damned guilty though.

"What you're feeling is none of my fault." Calvert resumed her about-face pose to his lounging one, which did not help. He could still admire her symmetry all to the way to her heels, and how the pressure her arm exerted made the softest parts of her anatomy flatten delectably. "You have to wake up—if this is your wet dream, why isn't Beth sharing it with you?"

"I'm not having a wet dream." Yet hadn't she brought up a good point? Why was she here and not Beth? As their joint reward for beating the chamber? No other reason. That had to be it. "What about you? Why don't you wake up?"

Calvert tried several seconds to initiate a change before replying: "I can't."

"You just tried?"

"Yes."

"Not my problem. I kinda like it here. Hum-m-m, what can I do?"

"You'd better not . . ." She maintained a cup with her other hand over her genitals.

"Relax." He'd seen her naked or nearly so dozens of times. He wouldn't take advantage of her that way. A couch identical to his showed up right where he wished it, piled all over with cushions. "Have a seat."

"I'm not thinking of setting down any of this, but you'd best be careful." Calvert eyed the freshly conjured furnishing warily.

"I could just make it go away again."

"Just leave it, please." As she mounted the couch Marco appreciated the suppleness of lean muscles moving under flawless skin. Pillow replaced arm, and she resumed her ready to be displeased look.

"This isn't so bad."

"It's not my bed. I need my bed."

"It's not the inside of that cursed cargo hold either."

Near a minute passed. "You're sure you can't send me back?"

"Lady, I told you already."

"I hate being naked. I don't sleep naked. Can't you fix me up?"

"I'll do better than that." He thought he had the mechanism of their dream universe figured out. Changes were wrought through imagining followed by 'psychic' exertion. Within moments she was comfortably garbed in nightshirt and panties. With a little more effort her couch became her bed. His own attire and platform he converted the same. Illumination was reduced and the breeze pushing past the curtains stepped down.

"How's that?" He paused to hear her answer. "Calvert? How does this suit you?" Her reply, when he made himself quiet enough to hear it, was soft snoring.

Do I have to stay awake to maintain things as they are? He could think of only one way to test his theory. "Happy Birthday, brat," he muttered, closing his eyes.

Chapter Twenty-One - Storm Witch

It was comfortable lying—body bent at mid torso, cool clean surface for support, ventilator wash caressing one cheek. Survey of the Heavens, blue and gold sheath over black carbon case, its blank blue projection plate uppermost, thousands upon thousands of secrets in their unique code by her right hand. Her quest having gone as far as it could, Calvert revisited memorable parts of the journey. A dozen locales revisited and cherished so far, each as cozy and familiar as her suite of rooms back home on Old Earth.

"I am become a woman of those times," Calvert murmured, smiling, her other cheek pressing the surface of her desk. The alien authors no longer strange. Their society better than human, being imbued with universal tolerance, charity, understanding and compassion. She had yet to trip upon the reason for all those warships though.

"Nasty neighbours, must be," she concluded. Not for the reason of conquest. Why should the Maia, an abbreviated version of the name the aliens had given themselves, conquer other nations? They terraformed as many planets and mined as many asteroids as they wanted. A star nation to dwarf all other star nations combined.

Why me? Representative of the highest class. Staunch supporter of Imperial rule. From birth versed in elitist practices and beliefs. Despite considering herself a member of an enlightened minority, Calvert knew that embedded within her personal philosophy was snobbery.

She'd no desire to become an ambassador. Her family had far too much responsibility of that sort already. Her ambition wended another way. She saw herself in regal blues, reds or whites—admirals wore any colour they liked—within the promenade of her superdreadnought flagship, surrounded by adoring staff, each anxious for any titbit of wisdom she might utter. A smile of conceit warmed the image yearning had conjured up.

"Wind's picking up," she breathed, eyes relaxed and shut.

"Wind's picking up," said Marco, squinting where the fence line made a corner beyond which a sky smudge grew larger moment by moment.

"Another big blow," said Danby. Marco saw Danby without seeing her, standing among the styluses on her insulated pad.

"I think it is."

"Bring in the kids?"

He didn't hesitate. Calvert's Island doppelganger had warned the next storm would be bad. "Yeah, everything, and we have to be quick about it—Calvert." A modest interval of time passed before much sharper he called, "Calvert!"

"Whuh?—I'll be right out."

"There's a storm brewing. A big one."

"She's coming out," Danby said. The TRAX Happy, distinctive scouring, trundled past on steel tyres. Danby stopped Happy, and instructed Thumper that when it finished dumping its latest load it was to take the styluses on as riders.

"She can help with the styluses and sweeps," said Marco, jogging along a path angled away from the dig. "I'm for the power station." They'd put up berms as wind stops all around the power generation site. The phalanxes of mirror-bright panels rested in a protective bowl sixty metres away, #1 transmission tower the spoon rising out of its centre.

"We missed this last time," prefaced a solid grunt.

"I wouldn't mind missing this one, too," he replied. They'd better windbreaks than before, a strategy for retrieving equipment swiftly and economically, and they were three instead of one. How had Calvert managed all on her lonesome before?

"You're asking me this now?" Calvert stood within the airlock, three TRIKE's in a protective formation about her.

"Just curious," Marco said as a malicious wind lifted, twisted and flew him sideways.

"I managed all right."

"I know you did. How?" Before his mind's eye was the crystal clear image of a ruined EVA suit.

"Never mind that. We've lots to do." She wasn't going to tell him she almost died. Nothing like a full and accurate account of her desperate travail had gone into either the ship's log or her personal journal. The outer airlock hatch opened and Calvert and her mechanized crew entered the shelter below determined not to be bullied by the storm. Down through the sparsely illuminated passage, plunge in and out of the baffle at its end, to be met by a gust which seemed to have been spinning in place and waiting for her. It flipped her neatly as a coin. "Crap!" was let go with great feeling. She'd been overconfident and the storm had punished her for it.

"Calvert?"

"I'm fine. Mini tornado got me just as I came out."

You've as much control as you need, right at your disposal.

And two witnesses to see what I do, Julie Calvert, altered human, grumbled.

Look about yourself.

Within the roiling, malicious, vociferous, static-charged air the dust was high and thick with images. A six-legs, size of a locomotive, ran a flesh shivering gait along the line it patrolled two hundred metres below. Calvert watched the monster flow into a dune. Another, gorilla-sized, watched and plotted against her from a third tier height.

"Julie, are you coming down?"

"Where are you now?" Her HUD showed her right where Danby was.

"In the excavation. I've just started loading."

"I'll be right over." How to do this? Her grit teeth were shown the buffeting.

Imagine and it will be so.

I dare not expose my power.

What they are able to see is limited. What you allow them to see can be even less.

Oh her lips went. The air calmed to a dramatic degree the moment as she began. Beyond the space she lived in, baffles and barriers appeared over which the pernicious dust and gravel slid or ricocheted away from—a region which the storm, despite how energetically it strove, could neither buffet nor penetrate.

"Whaugh!" cried Danby as a sly combination of winds from differing directions swept her legs out from under. She ended on her back beneath writhing grey-black streaks. Happy could she dimly perceive beyond her right elbow.

"Are you all right?" Calvert supplied a grip for Danby to pull herself up by.

"Timely rescue," muttered Danby. She'd two blinking amber icons. The outer layer of her 3rd gen was shredding and its interior approached a compromised condition. When the icons turned solid she would have no choice but to evacuate to the ship.

"Just about done," said Calvert.

"Not really. I figure another fifteen minutes.

"The loading's finished."

"But I just star . . . ted." A skeletal TRIKE passed them close by. In its clutches the last stylus to be rescued.

"We'll tarp 'em and be on our way," said Calvert, proud of many godlike levitations and only a little ashamed of two deceptions spread like cream over pudding. The wrapping up in typhoon conditions remarkably easily. The youth constructed canny baffles all around beyond a friend's range of view. With the equipment secured, all they need do was escort the results into the ship. The lee of their TRAX and trailer unit proved remarkably good shelter also.

Danby said, "Marco, we're going in."

"So soon?"

"Everything's loaded and secure. Should be another five minutes tops."

"See you inside."

"You bet."

"I'll, ah, see if I can help Marco secure the array," said Calvert abruptly, her TRIKEs, delegated to her, following as she turned off the path.

"Oh?" said Danby sceptically.

"You go on. You've got an am—ah, you should go straight in."

The highest of Danby's blinkers had turned solid. "Call me if you need my help. Either of you."

"I'm good," said Marco, which Calvert knew to be untrue for three of his status lights blinked.

With the power system's shutdown the storm would rush into the dig with full force and fury. Marco had ridden out in a sled, but doubted the conveyance would make it back without suffering catastrophic failure.

Jaws clenched, he inspected couplings to cables running all the way back to the ship via a physical link attached to his handset. He knew he ought to bail on the procedure and assume the connections were good, but was reluctant to leave an investment worth hundreds of hours of fabricating, assembling, adjusting, and maintenance without a best effort to save it.

"You've got one faulty coupling."

A minor sand avalanche flowed over his heel as Calvert appeared above him.

"Number Three."

"Say again?"

"Number three. The rest are good," Calvert stood inside quiet grey haze.

"How do you figure that?" He'd already inspected and passed #3. "Why are you still out?"

"Trust me. I came to see if you needed my help."

"I checked #3 already. It's good. I thought you were going in with Beth."

"The seal's gone."

"Just now?"

"Yes, apparently."

"You couldn't tell that using a wireless connection. Static from the storm creates too much interference," Marco grumbled as he rechecked the connection. "Sonovabitch . . ."

"We have to get going."

"I know. Don't rush me." Scour to clean and then wrap the connection with tape. Double wrap it and the other connections. Bury them. No time for more or different. Any sand trapped in any coupling would have to stay. He'd three blinkers and was wondering why at least one of them hadn't gone solid by now.

"Stand back," said Calvert. The hemispherical power station shield, its power originating now from the ship, pulsed, expanded, and trapped his tool kit and transportation inside.

"My tools," he grumbled.

"Forget 'em." Calvert wasn't bent over double. Marco realized he didn't have to bend over double either. A lull in the storm in effect.

"Eye of the storm?" he asked drunkenly. With its urgent work over, his body and mind experienced major droops in energy and focus.

"Are you nuts? Let's get going."

"I thought you were going straight in after retrieving the styluses," he said as the two of them struggled up the berm.

"I reckoned you could use my help." She'd positioned her three machine escort on the windward side of the berm. Their presence reassuring as well as needful.

"Thanks," he said, feeling an expression of gratitude necessary.

"We can't ride." Calvert entered the meagre zone of safety established by the TRIKEs.

"I was thinking that very thing myself." Marco joined her. How could the wind, that had knocked them about so badly mere minutes ago, be now a crippled cousin of itself? He had no trouble recalling ferocious, quixotic, jackhammer air and sloppy footing. Their ordinary walking nothing like then. Far out into the plain the storm raged unabated. Only one other time had he witnessed this sort of thing, when his darling had created a bubble of calm to travel in.

"I'll be glad to be out of this wind," said Calvert, her tone detectably odd.

"What wind?" he asked, but she wouldn't be baited. They entered the ramp shelter. Marco paused to examine equipment statuses, his and hers. Her suit was hardly scratched. Her faceplate barely scoured. A replacement of his outer shell would be required. They continued up into the ship.

Danby had changed into her coverall and waited by the recharge station to help them disrobe. "Say, ah, thanks," Marco said as his helmet came off.

"Don't mention it," muttered Calvert. Marco frowned because his gratitude had not been aimed at her. Danby had been the recipient, he'd been looking into her eyes, and she wondered why.

"For knocking down the wind," he elaborated and grinned encouragingly.

"For what?" Danby gasped.

As his attention remained where he liked it best, Marco failed to notice how stiff Calvert became. "Yeah, for that thing, you know?"

"What thing?" asked Danby and smiled as much as she was able.

"Oh, ah." Fatigue amazingly deep fogged his thinking. He'd just queried his girl whether she had inherited godlike powers from somewhere; never mind what he'd hallucinated once upon a time. "Forget it."

"Oh kay." Danby tugged aside the leaves of his suit. He was a little boy needing help out of his snowsuit after a strenuous day of snow angels, snow forts and snowballs. His features wore a tired happy look and his eyes were gentle and sad. Calvert realized herself tearing up and looked away. Her sniff was masked by the noise she made rinsing herself. She focussed on disliking the grit accumulated between her toes.

"I think we should take the rest of the day off," said Calvert, her eyes with extra brightness in them. "This equipment," her look took in the bay, "can take care of itself until tomorrow."

"Well, Cap'n," drawled Marco, "I'd love to agree with you, but some of our instruments, being delicate, cannot abide the corrosion, don't you know? We've hours of cleaning and polishing ahead of us, but tomorrow as a holiday, if that's a promise?"

"Certainly it is," replied Calvert as she searched, measured, calculated. A fire axe unseated, fell and clattered. Her shipmates' attention was distracted by the sharp interruption to a thoughtful quiet, and dozens of filth spots on the floor received additions. Calvert hid her smirk behind her hand as she slid her still dripping self into its coverall.

"An hour or two before lunch," continued Marco as he conjured a smile from somewhere to show. "Where's that Grugg? Where are ya, fella?"

Despite that Grugg and Bugs 1, 2, 3 and 4 were good help, there was always plenty of cleaning to do. A chirp answered Marco's query. When first Calvert revealed Grugg to her crew, the consequence had been two very large looks of resentment, especially after the special menial demonstrated what he could do. As for the bugs, Marco had said such small and intricate equipment was rarely used, in particular for mundane jobs, which was why he hadn't thought to put them together himself.

"I'll help," said Calvert, triggering sidelong glances. "I do know which is the business end of a brush, you may recall."

"It's been a while. Maybe you've forgotten how," Marco grumbled and Calvert was tempted to put back all his grit for him. The tech restored the fire axe to its place. Calvert watched how he puzzled over the tie-down strap, tested it, reinserted the axe, secured it in its place, trial-tugged. She chuckled silently at his perplexed look and shrug as he accepted random happenstance as an only possible explanation.

Danby was straddling a stylus from behind, her perfect-practised reach probing a familiar cavity. Lips pursed, eyes squinting, blink once, twice and gaze straight ahead, her companions in her sights.

"Let's get this going," said Marco, rubbing hands together. He would start with Happy. Cowling removed and he about to suction away the dust that always seeped past the protective seal. Calvert selected a pencil-shaped brush from Danby's cleaning kit and tested its bristles for feel against her thumb print.

Danby resumed with a fresh subject, reached in, rubbed, examined the result. "Ah, Marco?"

"In a minute, Hon—er, Beth, I just about got this."

"Which should I start on, Beth?" Calvert asked disingenuously.

"Just hold off a minute. Something peculiar's happened."

"Peculiar good or peculiar bad?" grumbled Marco as he peered at Happy's shiny innards. A disbelieving grunt was let go, and then he reversed himself by a half step. Calvert struggled mightily not to betray herself with laughing, but absolutely had to vent some of her amusement and did so inside a fake cough. "Beth, this isn't a hour from now and I've just finished Happy's unsnap and tickle?"

"No, it is not," replied Danby sourly.

"I'll be a son of a gun," murmured Marco, cinching Happy's cowling back into place. Further examinations revealed other amazing conditions of cleanliness while boat bay menials siphoned up and marred the evidence. Calvert hid her philanthropic pride inside a bland look. "It appears we have our day off after all," Marco said.

"Unlimited water," said Calvert. "Today just." The addendum had been required due to remote station policy. She knew her shipmates would be prudent all the same.

"Now that is a holiday!" Marco exclaimed.

Lunch was low alcoholic beer and leftover sandwich. Marco belched against the side of his fist. He was feeling done in and beat up.

"Would you not classify a mass spontaneous cleaning strange?" Danby asked, mouth half full and picking among vegetable chunks. "Such a little thing, you'd think. Days of scrubbing done! I have a hard time reconciling with that."

"Begging the questions how and why?" His headache was worse when his eyes were full open. A sleepy, half-closed setting was best.

"The alien. It has to be."

"It likes us," muttered Marco. No, it likes Calvert.

"She wasn't responsible for getting the work done."

"Not until she volunteered." Marco, recalling the latter part of a recent experience, added, "You're sure you didn't have anything to do with it?"

"Me?" Danby showed him a bald look.

"I thought it was you out there."

"Me out there doing what?"

"Calvert and I had far less trouble coming in than you and I had at the start. I thought it might have been you making things easy for us."

An uncertain smile came before: "Just how was I supposed to have done that?"

"Channelled the wind somehow."

"I'm able to do that how? Where did you get that idea? Are you nuts?"

"No, I'm . . ." Calvert had protested a like innocense, but in a different tone. He replayed the incident before his mind's eye. She replied in the way she always did whenever she thought she was being clever. It wasn't you controlling the storm, it was her.

"Wait a min . . . utt." Danby replayed details of her own storm experience.

"Our resident witch," concluded Marco. "What a little deceiver she's turned out to be."

"She has to be responsible for cleaning our equipment too. If she can manipulate a storm, removing a little grit is child's play."

"She or her alien pal. Either way she'll never admit it." Marco helped himself to a better view of his dining partner by pressing his drooping eyelids up with his thumb prints. "Like she'll never admit to the other thing."

That she can read the texts. Danby nodded. "Aren't we obliged to tell Captain Thorpe all about this stuff when he arrives?"

"If we say anything, she'll deny it. Her word against ours. We have no proof." Peering into his beer bottle, he regretted its empty condition.

"Would it be a good idea to say anything?"

"Not sure." Marco frowned as well as he was able. "Man, I gotta rack out. I'm beat."

"Good thing we didn't have to do that cleaning." Danby helped him out of his chair, and then supported him along the way out of the wardroom. "Are you all right?"

"Tired, just tired's all. Say, wanna get together later? I ain't so keen on cliff dangling, but there's gotta be plenty of other stuff we kin do."

"Sure, beach boy." Her smile let him know she'd no hard feelings left.

"Yah, sun and surf. We kin go sailing."

"I'd like that."

Calvert experienced a compilation of memoirs, relating the growth of a settlement from a little town perched at the edge of a great wilderness to a bustling sea port. She learned not only the impressions of founder, engineer, and statesman. Housewife and worker recollections were included, too. She directed her gaze from the projection pad, which turned itself off, as the wind did a dirge outside.

A man comes whom you need to be wary of.

"Captain Thorpe. I've been thinking a lot about what I need to say and do."

Another.

"Someone else? Who?"

He will try to steal that which I grant you alone.

"He can damn well try!" A full body stretch set Calvert on her toes, palms to the ceiling. As the scion of the wealthiest family in all of settled space she'd little to fear from any man, no matter how powerful he might be or think he is.

You should heed my warning.

"Message received and assimilated." Light lunch, exercise and sim. She'd another despatch to finish, minus revealing details naturally. "Just the facts," the youth muttered as she peeled out of her ship suit.

#

"Why is it always me finds you?" Julie complained, fresh out of the surf, only her feet inside their neoprene covers covered by water. The daring cut of her one-piece, slate-grey bathing suit exposed her legs to the hips and a substantial cleavage. A bright yellow visor with neon green breathing tube wrapped her throat. Swim flippers in one hand. In the other was a spear, a long silver fish impaled on its triple spokes.

"Why do you always happen along?" Marco shot back. Sensing her approach, he'd stayed to admire the bronze of her skin, the stand-up condition of her breasts in their tight wrapping, the brightness of her eye, and her not quite smile.

"I don't just happen along." Julie radiated distaste for the staring he indulged in. His thoughts lit upon a naked celebration next, and he focussed on that instead.

"How's Beth?"

"If you think she pines for you morning, noon and night, forget it. She went climbing in the happiest mood a woman can be in this side of paradise. She should be at the house by now."

"You going that way?" Marco brushed sand gone beach to bum during sitting, waiting and watching.

"I am. Come along, if you want." She walked with a good spacing between them, as though he might be contagious.

She's more lean and muscular, he thought. Beth was rounder last he'd seen her. He did not dislike the changes in either. "I saved you," he said.

"What?" she replied sharply.

"I saved you. Do you remember the dream we shared. The couches?"

"That? I'd forgotten."

"You can't still hold a grudge." He added, "I don't know why you were so pissed off about my birthday present."

"I wasn't—what are you talking about?"

"The baseball bat." He snickered.

Her motion came to an abrupt stop. While she gazed to one side, her expression assumed a squint, which only charitably might be attributed to the brightness she moved in. "A bat? You didn't give me a bat. You two presented me with a model of Polyphemus. Beth made another replica for my room here."

"That's not what I remember. Beth did give you a model of the ship, made of steel. About this size." He provided his one-woman audience with a thumb and index finger measure. "Don't you remember that?"

"Nope. Don't remember that."

"Wait a minute. We've conflicting memories." His pulse and respiration commenced to race. If one event be not true, then events with far larger consequences could be wrong also.

"The same bat I used to whack you with here?"

"Near enough. I couldn't get it to go petals, so I carved petals into the wood."

The scantily clad fisherman shrugged, paused to discipline the portion of her suit slid up between her lower cheeks, and the pair resumed their way. "It was the traditional thing, a metre long. I flew it into my cabin. I was very proud of it. My first command." Softly she added, "And so it seems my last."

"I would have made such a gift for you before the last time I was here, but not after."

"You're implying events here may influence events there and possibly trigger changes," Calvert said, profile to him. He admired more of the refinements age and an athletic lifestyle had imposed on her cheek, chin and brow. She was a remarkably beautiful woman. Also worthy of his respect. Her genetics in part to blame, yet some alterations must be owed to the passage of time and accumulations of knowledge and experience.

"I guess I am." My present, your past?

"I don't suppose it'll makes any real difference," Julie said as they entered dense jungle shade, the path wending past clusters of palms and chest high brush. The transition light to dark was abrupt and his vision slow to adjust. For a time he'd only an outline to cherish. Her shape rather than looks appealed to him now, because it was so like Beth's.

"I did save you. That you're stuck here can be owing to no fault of mine."

"Why are you determined not to be at fault? Neither of us know what happens. I passed out. You haven't experienced the event yet."

Her attitude seemed less depressed and more hopeful all the same. At least she wouldn't be at him hammer and tongs for a revenge. "You fainted during the test, too, if such is what it was. You can't expect you'll faint when—"

"I collapse for real," Julie insisted. "It was from being down there. It weakened me. I was the longest in of all of us. I was all worn down."

"Could that be why—"

"Shut up, can't you? Don't you realize how much sharper our memories are now owing to the alien's manipulations. You've put me in there with your dredging shit up, damn you."

"Wait a minute." He seized her arm. "If you remember what happened, can't you tell me what I need to do to save Beth?"

She stared daggers at the hand he gripped her by. "I wasn't involved with that part. I don't know what happens to her. I really don't. If I knew how to save her, I'd tell you without you twisting my arm. Let go, you jerk." She pulled herself free with a angry tug. "Things happen and people die. That's all I know."

"You manipulated the storm." They resumed their way.

A noticeable hesitation passed before she replied: "I didn't manipulate it. It was the alien. It created a zone in which we could work, and helped load. Both of you might have—never mind. Neither of you appreciated what I went through—what that damned alien put me through."

"You lied to us."

"You never asked me specifically."

"I'll ask when I get back."

"No, you won't!" Julie turned on him with savagery and he necessarily recoiled. "Leave me the hell alone! I've enough to worry about without you harping at me. What I did was totally necessary and none of your business then or now."

"How did you do it then?"

"I told you already!" she growled.

"I promise I won't get on your case, but I deserve an answer."

"You're not getting one," said Julie through her grit together teeth.

"You deciphered the texts. You're able to read them." He'd never be able to ask the other Calvert the same question. He held his breath to best hear her reply while watching her close in order to know whether she lied while answering.

"Why do you think that?" She turned her face away. "I only catalogued them."

"How?" She'd easily blunted his effort to force a confession, the shock effect of the question by now dissipated.

"By duration and theme, by which I mean how alike the symbols in one text were in comparison to symbols in others, and whether or not they elicited a response, from me. It was a painstaking process. Not something anyone would do unless ordered. I had no idea what I was doing most of the time, but I was required by my orders to do something. A colossal waste of my time and energy."

"Bullshit."

"You can thank the peculiar circumstances we exist in that you're able to speak so to me without consequences. I won't be as tolerant if you ask the same question where you've come from."

"I will ask it, and I'll know if you lie."

"Damn you, Pacini! Haven't I told you enough times already to leave me the hell alone!"

"What's that shouting?" came from the large grey house now within view. "Weren't you two planning to get along?"

"I was getting along," Julie grumbled as led the way onto the lawn. "It's him insists on being a jackass." A swing of fish to shoulder swished a tail within kissing distance of a masculine nose. Julie continued direct to the mistress of the house, whose crossed arms might have been better correction had they not been coupled to a wide welcoming smile. Beth stood tall and bronzed on her flagstones, her ward pausing to receive hug and kiss before continuing into the house.

Once before a like show of affection had made the male apex of the triangle uncomfortable. He was so again, in spades. The bond between them far beyond what it was on the outside. He had no choice but to be jealous.

"My darling, the time of your vacation is at hand!" proclaimed a shining Elizabeth Danby while offering him his own hug to walk into. She smelled pleasantly of dry sweat, wind and stone, her hair like silk for feel.

"He's on me again," complained Julie from the doorway. "He's going to try to trip me up when he gets back."

"He'll do no such thing." Beth continued insistent to her paramour: "Sweetheart, you must not plan any longer doing such a thing."

"Why?" he asked huskily, his cheek cosy at her chin, his lips tasting salt from her shoulder.

"Because she has to save us all," Beth said so only he would hear it.

Chapter Twenty-Two - Three becomes Two becomes More

"North American pop, twenty-first-fifties." Twenty-first-fifties pop music was a recycling of tunes from earlier eras. It seemed every diversion passing as entertainment since a hundred years beyond the onset of the modern era was a regurgitation of some part of the past. The same might be said of orchestral music. The revivalist composers of the early twenty-third century unabashedly took inspiration or copied from the masters of five and six centuries before.

The view outside was unrelieved dark as high as she could see. "Shutters down and lock," Calvert called, having taken her fill of it. The antenna boom camera had ceased operation not long after the storm began. All other cameras were behind shutters and useless as visual aids. She might employ her extraordinary imagination to know the darkest bits of darkest night, and sometimes had. In the centre of her console was a view in profile of the hard working plasma torch, its status depicted in blue beneath. Next to that was the status of the opening it was creating, depth increasing at the third decimal place per sweep. Why do you allow this? You could stop us at any time.

Entry into the chamber is necessary to initiate the test.

Right, the test. What exactly is the test?

Are you certain you want to know?

What I'm certain of is I really dislike being your creature. Yes, I want to know.

You'll be assigned a series of tasks to perform. Whether you pass or fail will depend upon how well you perform those tasks.

You will assign them to me?

I won't be assigning any tasks to anyone. Your own leaders will order what is to be done. You need only carry out your orders to the best of your abilities.

A gasp. If what I do is directed by others, how can it be your test?

It will be.

How can your objectives be the same as the Imperial Navy's?

They aren't.

I don't understand.

You will.

The potential saviour of her race pondered anew the impending situation. Explain all this to me again. Why am I doing this? What's my reward? Is it necessary that some of us must die? Why does Beth have to die?

The test is the means by which I determine if a species is worthy to receive my gifts. A champion is chosen. She may have as much help as her companions can provide. You are your species' champion. Your reward will be knowledge and other things. As for the deaths, your party will be operating within a highly dangerous environment. Mistakes and accidents are inevitable. Without risk there can be no meaningful reward.

Lucky us. Okay, so the test is I have to survive?

In essence. However, a great deal more is expected of you than mere survival.

What if I choose not to participate? Will you select someone else to be our champion?

The selection process is irreversible. No other candidate may be selected.

I see . . . What's the consequence if we lose?

That is information for another time.

Thanks for nothing, the reluctant champion grumbled.

My methods are what they are. I cannot change the rules because a test subject asks me to. That would invalidate the test.

"Julie?"

A startled Julie Calvert waited through a time needful for thoughts focussed one way to rearrange themselves another way and the warmth of a blush to fade. Afterward she presented a smile and settled look to the friend who had arrived inside her entrance with beverages on a tray. "Beth, hi, didn't expect you."

"Marco's out like a light." Danby cautiously handed over one of two steaming mugs. "Cocoa. I've no skill at brewing coffee."

Calvert accepted her cup.

"Marco does our coffee for us. I like the taste as much as the next person, but I must confess I'm clueless when it comes to those little brown beans."

"Cocoa's fine," said Calvert, despite preferring coffee to chocolate no matter the caffeine in both. "So," said the youth after several breaths of quiet were consumed, "are you keeping busy?"

"I've laundry. I suppose you do, too?"

"Always. A lot more this time. Sand in everything. Someone should do Marco's for him." Where did that suggestion come from? It just slipped out. Was I to do his laundry, it would be after adding a garish dye to the mix.

"He's so wasted. You could rattle every drawer in his cabin at once and he wouldn't know a thing. Right out of it."

"I could—"

"Nah, I got it. I'll do his when I do mine." Another pause as lengthy as before went by before Danby resumed with: "Yesterday, outside, next in the BB . . ."

Calvert had thought the matter over and realized she'd not been as clever as she thought she'd been. She'd left too many clues her crew could tease truth out of. Neither of them were going to know for sure what she'd done, her skills so far beyond ordinary, but they had to be suspicious. She almost wished she hadn't bothered. She had to depend on their discretion when the horde of nosy reinforcements arrived.

"I was thinking how remarkable things were myself," Calvert said cautiously. "First during the storm and next when our machines were cleaned. I suppose—no, it had to be the alien doing it, but why I can't imagine."

Danby smiled broadly. "We thought it likes you."

Calvert gasped with a near perfect display of disbelief. "Likes me? Maybe, but it's as likely it likes any of us or all of us rather than just me."

"Could be." Danby added a noncommittal shrug.

"I haven't any pull with it. I assure you absolutely this is so."

"I believe you. The reason why was something the two of us kicked around. We weren't doing very well until you showed up, and then things came together, and we finished with a great deal less fuss in record time. You have to admit the changes were remarkable."

Calvert knew Danby would be bound to cling to her suspicion, and hid her unease behind her mug, cocoa warmth flowing at her lips. "I don't know what to tell you."

"That's okay. You must have had a fit trying to explain it in your despatch."

Oh her features went. She'd done no such thing. Only given a precis of their efforts. Her guilt hovered thicker behind the cup. Danby did not watch her close. Calvert was almost sure she'd avoided a troublesome revelation. "Um hum-m-m."

"If Marco's going to continue his sleep of the dead, I thought maybe we could do a sim together."

A pleasant surprise, which Calvert exhibited abundant appreciation for, inside a warm smile over her lowered cup. "I'd like that."

"After lunch?"

"Okay!"

"See you then."

She's not going to die. Screw your stupid test. No way am I going to risk myself any more than I have to either. Stick that in your handiest orifice. Waiting for a reply was a waste of her time. Calvert proceeded to her laundry hamper.

Danby went from Calvert's cabin to Marco's with the intent to offer her services as laundress whether he be awake to appreciate her offer or not. He'd left his hatch open. The forward section, in which was the neat, small built-in desk and monitor, was upon the cusp of tidy and not, its cast-off skin and dust about to show as more than traces. She'd recommend he set out menials to deal with the impending mess. As Marco's cabin was double occupancy it had bunks mounted into opposing bulkheads; his in 'down and in use' configuration.

Danby had helped her sweetheart out of his shoes and onto the 'in use' bunk which was why she went still. His pose identical to the one he'd been put to bed with. A horrified gasp was vented and she rushed forward to test breath, pulse, warmth. She discovered he barely breathed, his heartbeat hardly registered, his skin cool to the touch, his complexion pale, and his eyes motionless behind their lids. Swallowing hard to lubricate a throat gone dry she said, "Ensign, we've an emergency in Pacini's quarters." She'd spoken precisely because she had to. If she hadn't, her voice would have broken over any part.

"I'll be right there," Danby heard, backed a step, sat, and missed the chair.

Calvert was no less concerned for a shipmate's condition, and struggled to maintain a neutral and professional look. "Should we move him?"

"I've tried aural stimulation." Shouting. Loud claps.

"A stimulant might help."

"He doesn't appear in distress. I'd be loathe to administer a pharmacological. I intend taking him to the infirmary and having Poly watch over him." Danby's smile encountered uncooperative flesh all the way to its subsurface bones. "I think that would be best."

"Had he complained of an injury?"

"Not to me. To you?"

"No, I just wondered. I'll order a stretcher. Can we lift him, do you think? Should it bring the sling rig?" The sling was an add-on for lifting.

"I can—between the two of us we'll manage all right. He's not so large." He's been losing weight, not the kind one can afford to lose either, which will make lifting him easier. Danby attempted another smile so her thought-complaint not hurt an unintended target.

"I'll, ah, be right back."

Autodoc #2's transparent panel closed with a snick. Stainless steel, shock proof casing, the lower of the ship's two surgical booths, each a metre longer than standard bunk length. Diagnostic displays left, operation panels right, reservoirs in which were refrigerated synthetic fluids behind panels below. Surgical implements were mounted on flexible arms mounted into tracks within the ceiling, and in their 'up and not in use' postures.

They'd undressed Marco to the skin, applied a diaper, floated him in with the suspension field and applied to his skin monitoring band and patches. Brain pattern registered normal for consciousness and Danby debated herself what consequence, if any, this discovery signified, while informing herself from her limited medical experience and training. Marco would do well within the 'doc's oxygen-rich environment, the booth kept him hydrated and nourished, and the sophisticated diaper dealt with wastes. His condition like that of stasis. He was monitored by technology very like in all key aspects.

"Well," went Calvert, her features relaxing. Marsh Manor had its own porcelain-skinned Dr. Fix-it. Members of her class routinely provided their domiciles with the life preserving booths not because they distrusted hospitals, were prone to accidents, or routinely suffered from hypochondria, but because it was the thing done. Horribly expensive and far beyond the means of ordinary folk and yet the majority of the social strata to which Julie Calvert belonged had at least one medic booth in their homes.

"I think we can leave him now. Poly, inform us of any change in his condition at once."

"Indeed I will, Beth," replied the AI soothingly.

"Ah, yes, thanks," said Danby, gazing where the ship's sympathy had come. "That was strange," she muttered to her shipmate. They travelled a connecting corridor along their way to the upper crew deck. "Poly replied as if she was concerned for my feelings." The proscriptions of 3240 kept all ships' and habitats' AIs from experiencing empathy.

That is interesting.

Shut up, Calvert replied. "I don't think it reasonable to conclude anything from a single line of response—Poly, how are you feeling today?"

"I am just peachy. Thank you for asking, Julie."

"That's proof of Marco's meddling in her response queue," said Calvert ahead of the stern look she backed her opinion with. At the same time she shunted a fresh-birthed suspicion to a place from which it would not emerge any time soon. With fake confidence she continued, "We haven't anything to worry about." The majority of AI installations were good, reasonable, sane help, including the survivors of the edicts. A few emplacements had developed neuroses, a not unexpected side effect of awareness. An influx of instabilities had triggered the suspension of mainstream AI research, while concurrently driving it underground.

The return to confidence in AI was owing to positive results obtained by recent studies—research funded primarily by Gens Corporation, a major stockholder in Veritas Polysynthetics. Latest edition androids were barely distinguishable from humans.

Calvert indulged in a mental shrug. She'd grown up with two special toys, boon companions during her formative years, whose enhancements were so past legal they'd been instructed how to respond and behave when outsiders came to call. To Julie Calvert that a synthetic might one day stand upon a hill to beat its breast at the sky was nothing to fear, and might be the next step in human evolution besides. Worst case scenario: humans become slaves to artificials.

Have faith.

I do, but there have been many Frankenstein monsters along the way already.

You will have to enact laws to ensure your species' safety.

Me? Who's going to listen to me?

The Grand Admiral of all the humans cannot demand compliance?

Facetious old termite. Only the Imperial Council is enabled to pass laws. Enforcement is the problem, though, not the laws.

Humans do not respond alike I've discovered.

Calvert responded with an inaudible gasp, which owing to a crewmate's proximity was all she allowed herself. You've only known the three of us.

Other humans came out this way. How do you suppose you knew to look for me here out of all places to search in?

The palm sized, six legged, black skinned menial fussily suctioning up dust in a corner had the youth's focus at the moment but none of her attention.

"Julie?"

"Did you say something? Daydreaming, sorry. What's up?"

"I won't be available for that sim. I want to keep tabs on Marco, for when there's a change in his condition."

"No problem. I've been thinking of doing checks on our environmentals. There seems to be a lot more dust in there than there should be."

"Probably there is." The pair arrived outside Pacini's cabin.

"You're . . ." from Calvert, realizing their location.

"Might as well get his laundry going."

An uneasy silence lasted seconds. "See you later."

"Yah."

Her collision with her hatch combing informed the victim her thoughts stayed preoccupied. A rub was administered the hurt and afterward its welt was glared at. Moments later the injury was expertly mended. Afterward Calvert sat motionless.

In medlab Danby settled on her stool, her beloved as one dead. The ship complained of the storm with mutters and occasional groans. Will our roles be reversed when this is over?

#

Calvert sat on one crate among many. A boxy grenade launcher rested in her lap. Stubby barrel with pistol grip, ammunition slot ahead of the trigger. She thumbed the catch attached to the slot forward and back. The marine with his back to her was lean and dark haired.

"Here are the reloads," he said, lifting a magazine out of a crate.

She acknowledged his advice with a cautious smile. Dessert-plate sized, pinky finger thick. Hefting the magazine let her appreciate its weight in full.

"I have to carry this?"

"Slotted in." He showed her how to insert the magazine. "Firecracker rounds with a limited blast radius. All the same you don't want to be standing close by a target when one detonates."

"The claws are lethal," she said, lips posed thoughtfully.

"Aim centre of mass, down trajectory, give yourself plenty of room."

"There's never a lot of room," Calvert grumbled.

"It'll kick some. Use the recoil to back yourself away from trouble," a second marine, large and black, posted by the exit, suggested.

"I don't want to crash into someone." Calvert continued to test the loaded weapon for weight. Danby, watching over her shoulder, wondered how long her very thin commander would be able to lug the thing.

"Here's the harness," said the marine.

"I have to pack all that?" Additional magazines were two kilos each. Calvert had her other equipment besides: lights, handset, water bottle, knife, pistol, pistol reloads.

"I'll help you with it."

"Not yet." Marco was highest in the stack, on the platform designated to bring out the artifact on. Danby waited at the opening with an able spacer named MacNicol, MacClure—Mac-something. Two more marines tinkered with a heavy weapons platform. Many bodies occupied little space. Two automated weapons platforms were deployed in the chamber already, but had not engaged—they detected no targets within their limited to 50 metres range.

Calvert, head down, was watched closely by the marine. The newcomers had had dreams too. Preordination was anticipated. No one had the mission's entire story. Luck, skill and ingenuity might alter outcomes. So it was hoped.

The order to advance was given. Calvert and Laurel's gazes connected. A moment as intimate as a kiss passed between them. Laurel was the best of their marines: better at hand to hand fighting than the zoot drivers, more knowledgeable about tactics than the sergeant, more dedicated than she was, Danby had realized. If he should survive, he would become a great deal more that he was.

"Ready?" He offered Calvert a hand up and then helped with her equipment. The girl carried enough explosives to blast everyone into atoms.

"Ready, Extraction Team?" The portion of dream ceased because Marco wasn't present to reply. Shapes melted inside a swift-growing light. Danby resumed on clean white sand.

There has to be more than this. She'd arrived in a confusion of limbs, as if rolled off the bed of a slow moving truck. She wore fatigues, yet her sense was she'd feel and respond the same had she arrived naked. "I'm not supposed to be here yet!" The beach's characteristics were indistinguishable from real. Danby was unsure and afraid. She thought she'd come by dream, but this was no dreaming.

She'd done a warrior's job, yet sensed no reward. No Valkyries thundered out of the sky on winged horses with an ermine cape to drape her shoulders with. No great hall, its massive doors opened wide in welcome, stood before her. No reunions with friends and relations dead and gone. The place was Marco's island. Her ignorance of the rules it was governed by troubled her. She feared not for her life, but for what her life might have become. She'd sacrificed to come. She could sacrifice to leave.

Danby picked herself up to walk along the strand, nothing else in mind to do. The memory of her death, frustratingly obscure, maimed her thinking. Her steps were small, unsteady, weak. She wondered, was her strange afterlife a good thing? Or would she, for all the days until her real end, feel as shattered and empty as she did now?

Waves pulsed up the beach from their origins in aquamarine depths. Sky streamed gentle blue and white. Palms and bushes were cheerfully green. Water gurgled, sand hissed, fronds rustled, birds squalled, insects chittered. Nothing was what Elizabeth Danby was used to. She was not comforted by any of it.

Reflection glittered off the ocean, but did not hurt her eyes. She saw something a great way off, its size approximate to her own. It gathered light, a brilliance increasing by rapid steps. Her breath caught. The shimmery figure charged toward her.

Whether ghost, god or monster, even should it be intent on murder, Danby stood her ground. The nondescript being moved angel-swift until near enough to engage in speech, where it stopped, dry shod above the ceaseless surf.

Danby realized her impression of glowing was wrong. The figure reflected rather than gave off light. An image of herself was in its skin. She waited with trepidation to know what it would do. She anticipated no danger though. Within its ovoid of face were a bulge where a nose could be and a crease where a mouth could be.

Releasing air gone stale, Danby asked, "What do you want?" Her toneless, barely audible, coward self had spoken.

An instant longer the stranger maintained its mirror aspect, and then transformed just slow enough so its single spectator could appreciate a metamorphosis fantastic. Mirror skin turned flesh-tone bronze. Features emerged, shifted and firmed. Hair poured out of its scalp like water from a jar. "Hello, Beth." Its voice Calvert's. Its body Calvert's.

Danby realized she was incapable of reply.

"I'm not her, in case you're wondering. Fear not. I mean you no harm."

"I'm not afraid," replied Danby after a painful, lubricating swallow. "What do you want?"

"To talk. Walk with me?"

"You're naked," Danby said stupidly. The pair strolled side by side. She resisted testing how phantom flesh reacted when poked.

"Yes, I am." Accent Old Earth Massachusetts, cheek with residual plumpness, lash cat-neat, eye remarkably blue. "Does my state of undress make you uncomfortable?"

"Not really—yes."

"Easily mended." The fake Julie Calvert after another step was apparelled in dark blue ship suit and soft-skinned boots, all patches and insignia correct and in proper places.

"Are you real?"

"As real as you." The humanoid offered itself for examination. Danby did what she'd not dared earlier and cautiously poked. Two sets of tracks led to where they stood. Wet and sand stained and spotted the alien's footgear. The medley of looks and smells fabric, mouth, hair and skin was accurate to the molecule. The method of standing also was true, as was the mild impatience tinged with amusement that was evinced.

Danby stepped back, unconvinced notwithstanding what her senses told her. She'd seen her companion as a luminous object far out over the ocean not so long ago.

"I'm here to help you with your transition—a friendly face."

"A false one."

Its look of surprise so like Calvert's, Danby felt herself succumb to amusement and chuckled nervously.

"I apologize," the alien said. "I was unsure whose form I should adopt. I wanted you to see my real form first, so you'd know my intent is not to deceive."

"You're from the alien ship."

The being breathed deep of salt breeze. She closed her eyes, raised her chin, and indulged in a very human pose with features relaxed, unguarded, remote. Danby, irritated by the delay, sensed the alien meant no offence, however. "I like this, very much. Pardon me. Do let's go on."

They walked some more. Danby asked, "You don't seem alien."

A self deprecating smile preceded: "Thanks."

Danby blushed. "I'm—I'm not prejudiced. I've never met an alien before."

"There are other sapient species besides yours in this galaxy, but no other with technology so advanced. Yours was deemed 'most likely to succeed'. We placed ourselves accordingly."

"You were expecting us?" Danby gasped.

"We've been waiting for the one, the champion. Success or failure rests with her."

"Calvert." Danby for a while entertained uncharitable thoughts. A kid with advantages out of all proportion for personal success and happiness about to become Queen of the Galaxy.

A smile informed Danby her complaint had not passed unnoticed.

"Test for what?" she grumbled.

"The time for telling is not yet. I can say, however, that preliminaries are completed, and prospects are good for success."

"That's what this is about? A test?"

"From our perspective. From yours, considerably more is at stake."

"What we want being unimportant?"

"Remember, you came to us. In every instance, external motivations are of no consequence. It is your willingness to hazard yourselves for gain that drives the test and determines its outcome."

"And Calvert?"

"Her role is crucial. Yours, as it turns out, is no less so. A successful outcome depends on both of you, although there is a slim chance Julie will carry all forward on her own."

"What's your stake in this?"

"We invest in our test subjects. It is in our nature to do so."

"Why do you care?"

The false girl looked down and to one side in a way Danby had never seen Julie Calvert employ. Sadness, yearning and long suffering were on display. "There are many things you will be let to know over time. Our purpose among them. You're about to embark on a campaign requiring decades to complete, with many obstacles and foes along the way. We'll provide the means for you to succeed. The rest is up to you."

"What about Marco?"

"He is the 'ace in the hole'. In case you need him." They resumed walking, the alien with interest for everything around her, as though she had a long time been a prisoner in a place small and plain.

Watching her companion's sample and marvel, Danby felt her resistance soften and fade. The alien did not merely wear the shape of her friend. She lived inside it.

"I regret our methods are what they are. Our chief determined the form of the test long ago and it has proven reliable since. When you've come to stay, you'll be let to know everything."

"I won't survive? No matter what?"

"I cannot say for certain, only that your death is extremely likely. I'm sorry. I realize, knowing what is to become your fate, you may choose options which will make a favourable outcome difficult if not impossible. Why we're here now is so I can persuade you that avoiding necessary choices would be wrongheaded, counterproductive and dangerous."

"For Calvert? For all human kind?"

"Yes and yes. As I've said, you also have an important role to play. If you do not strive as hard as you are able, the test is likely to fail." The pair arrived at the hut.

"Is Marco here? Now? Have you talked him in the same way you have to me?"

"He is, but in a different time. I have not spoken to him in the same way. It's not necessary I do so. Marco knows what he has to do and is committed. Shall we have some ice tea? I'd really like some ice tea."

Danby followed her friend's double into the hut. Not much later she awoke, in the infirmary. Troubling thoughts were set aside as she stared through glass at Marco's body. Only one of his patterns was different from before. He now slept, a screen's interpretive function said. A little longer she sat her stool, wondering why, while she'd herself slept, she hadn't fallen off it.

Chapter Twenty-Three - Managing

The rasping against the pressure shield protecting the hull had a different tenor. Calvert ordered 'shutters up' and confirmed sky less dark. She observed in the main view of her wraparound console, as the forward window cover slid into a 'down and lock' condition, Grugg arrive at ventilation junction 14-C. The view courtesy of the camera mounted in the head of Bug 2. Grugg and his bug pals were her ventilation system cleaning crew.

The smart-bot unfastened the bolts holding a vertical tray. The tray held a filter ahead of a fan installed in the six way junction. Grugg pulled, raised, and applied a twist to the extracted filter to exhibit its condition better.

The precipitators could not be working properly, the youth decided, for the honeycomb filter was saturated with yellowish brown accumulations millimetres thick over an area disconcertingly large, being near two thirds of the filter's total surface.

"Clean thoroughly the junction," Calvert instructed, "including the fan assembly. And test for efficiency after."

"The precipitators are clogged," Danby confirmed minutes later. "I'm pulling the trays now."

"It's come in through Boat Bay." With her crew busy with dig and equipment maintenance Calvert had assumed responsibility for her ship's environment. The discovery that excessive dust had infiltrated the ventilation system was proof she'd failed her duty, which was why Julie Calvert blushed furiously when no one could see her do so.

"That's hardly surprising. We assumed the menials cleared up most of it, but there's been an awful lot come in with the equipment."

"Yes," Calvert agreed stoically.

"I'll clear up this mess."

"We have to check the entire system."

"Yah."

"Well, it gives us something to do." Their sleeping prince slept on—or communed if that was what he did. Near four days had elapsed since the onset of the storm and only eleven days remained until Captain Thorpe's arrival. With the winds settling they would soon need to clear paths, dome, fences, towers, and power station. To shorten the site restoration time they intended to exploit any useful features of recently transformed landscape for channelling the wind. They were about to come into a moil of work, with not much time to accomplish it in.

"Storm's about over," observed Danby.

"I get that impression, too."

"You think he'll come around when it is?"

Danby ought to be able to better predict Marco's progress, being their second medic, but Calvert's intuition was profoundly more acute. She struggled to come up with a best answer before saying simply, "Yes."

"Well, when he does he'll have lots to do," Danby grumbled. They all would have lots to do. A comfort was knowing it would be for the last time.

Based on her meteorological studies, Calvert anticipated another three hours until they resumed outdoor operations. First launch a drone to survey the site. They'd the experience of the first storm and its aftermath to know what were the best procedures to follow. They would dig only until they uncovered enough mosaic to provide an impression of what had gone on before. The records of earlier excavations would have to substitute for anything else the Captain wanted to see or know about. Let the recovery team do the rest, Calvert decided with barely a twinge, while imagining herself with a spade and bucket plumbing for secrets far out onto the plain.

He's awake where he is, Danby thought, if she was interpreting the auto doc's diagnosis panel correctly. "Are you talking to her—to me? If you are, what are we talking about?" Armed with her profound understanding, Danby was willing to forgive Marco any liberties he might be taking. He wasn't being unfaithful, still it hurt he was with another woman, no matter the other woman was her future self.

"If I believe what I've been told," Danby muttered sourly. Her relationship with her commander had suffered a dip in regard. The notion of Julie Calvert as a messianic figure was difficult to reconcile with memories of brat behaviour. Would she have sacrificed herself for that Calvert? Not likely. Today's Calvert was a different girl, likeable, funny, considerate, and well on her way to becoming an even better human being.

She'd have to set aside her prejudice against the rich and powerful. She and Calvert were destined to share the same hazards. All the money in the galaxy would not help Julie Calvert one bit once they found themselves in the thick of things.

"The storm is almost over. You'll be coming out of your, um, sleep soon after. I expect to see you soon. Rap on the glass when you've ready." She was going to be too busy to sit by the auto-doc as she'd been doing, except it wouldn't matter because he was going to be up and about and doing the fussy little things he was so good at very soon.

"Lucky bugger, what I wouldn't give to . . ." She'd been there. Marco's island! Might she just find the three of them sitting around the living room table sipping tea and eating cake?

"Which sim did you say?" Calvert had been in the midst of an ungarnished salad when her single crewwoman's query arrived.

Danby had donned play equipment, entered into a booth with the expectation of a holiday, and asked, demanded, begged to be let into the place she knew was in the damned catalogue because she'd been there not so damned long ago! She also recalled that during the time when she thought Marco Pacini no better company than a gnat, he'd recommended the very sim she wanted to get into now, and had even offered the code for it.

She knew the sim was in the data bank even if Poly was unable to say it was. A rigorous file search failed to locate a sim named 'Island' , and any other sim by a name that was a conceivable variation of title, topic, setting, or theme. The nearest was a flaky tourist ad the filters had failed to block, consisting of a first page with an annoyingly saccharine hostess providing narration. She had been there, Marco's paradise, by sim. It had to be possible to get back. Danby replied, "I don't know what name it goes by. I presumed 'Island', but it could have been installed under some odd other title."

"Tropical Island?"

"Tried that."

"Paradise Island?"

"That too. I've tried every variant I can think of."

"Island Getaway?"

"That's a stupid ad the filters missed."

Calvert puckered her looks at a section of her list with the standards for training, recreation and travel, including exams, exotics, private collections, donations and the occasional piece of slush. Polyphemus, recently commissioned, had very little slush. Calvert's own contribution to the library consisted of a score plus three titles in a section protected by an access code—the largest by far of private collections. She knew its contents intimately. She'd played each selection at least once and favourites many times except none since her study of the alien texts began. Three of her sims had tropical scenes, but none was likely what Danby sought after. "There's a 'Tropical Island Vacation'." The only title from the ultimate list that might be what Danby sought after but hadn't access to.

"I found that one on my second try, and it's not that one either." The sim's preamble was available to view without an access code.

"Well, I've no idea." Island? Marco's Island? She wouldn't mind trying the thing out herself should they find it.

"What title did you use?" Danby asked.

"I use when?"

"When you went there?"

"There? The island sim you're looking for? I've never been there." First Marco and now Beth. Why does both my crew think I've been in a sim I never even knew existed?

"But I've seen you there," Danby blurted before she could stop herself.

"You've seen me in that island sim? What was I doing?"

"Er . . ." Far separated by ship's geography, Danby in the sim suite, Calvert in her cabin, and that single syllable eloquent for both regret and uncertainty.

Calvert set aside her fork, salad and saliva a slurry in her mouth. Her memory of events gone back even years was perfect. If she'd been in a tropical sim, she would recall the experience. "Beth, what exactly did you see me doing?"

Danby's recollection was no less certain. Every experience she'd ever had going back to infancy she might recall with crystal clarity. Except Marco had committed a breach of the regulations by ordering copies of shipmates be made, she might have confessed all she knew at once.

"Beth, you need to tell me," Calvert growled.

Having created the situation she was in, and no choice but to be forthcoming, Danby confessed all she reasonably could.

The baseball bat, thought Calvert. A mystery until now. The more troubling revelation by far was she might not survive. She gazed blindly at the wall before her seat. You bastard. You told me nothing of this!

Knowing one way or the other wasn't important.

How can I do any of the things I'm expected to do if I'm dead!

You're being far too emotional.

I need to know. Will I die?

There is a possibility you will.

How large a possibility!

Large enough to be of concern.

So large you've someone waiting in the wings to replace me, is that it?

There is no such being. As always, one chance, one champion, succeed or fail.

You complete bastard!

"Julie, are you talking to it?"

"It?" Calvert gasped. "It what?"

"You were! You were talking to it. The boss alien. I heard your side of the conversation—sorry for eavesdropping, but I couldn't help it."

"How do you—why am I—come up, please. We need to continue this conversation face to face."

"On my way."

Danby arrived to find her commander coated in perspiration sauced with agitation. "Sit down," Calvert invited before a turn connected to the five step march that took her back to her seat. What she might do with information just received she had no idea.

"Are you all right?" Danby decided she would not tell Calvert about her recent encounter with the other Julie Calvert. With the current situation so much in flux, a bad consequence was at least as likely as a good one. Having so resolved, Danby felt reassurance come from somewhere, in a manner like a touch on the shoulder.

"I'm bloody well freaked," growled Calvert. "How long did it seem I'd been there?"

A try at a smile preceded: "Years."

Calvert's gaze drooped to her desk top before she covered her face with her hands.

The kid looked about to cry, and then she did. Heartrending sobs. Having been appointed her protector, Danby felt bound to soothe. "You were well. You'd reconciled to your fate. The two of us are best friends, ah . . ." It could be she reconciled with her own fate, too.

"Years? Oh, my God in Her Great Black Heaven!"

"We're happy," continued Danby, who moved to apply physical comfort to her commander and friend. "It's a comfortable life."

"Then you're going to be killed, too?" gasped Calvert, realization dawning.

"I don't know. Maybe. I have hope, as you must have."

"I'm only seventeen. I haven't done anything—Sorry, Beth, I don't mean to slight you. I'm not a selfish person." The scowl shot past the tip of a nose supporting an unflattering barnacle of mucous to chastise the unfairness of matters beyond her control.

"Honey, you're going to do great things."

"What?"

"What?" Danby smiled uncertainly.

"You just called me 'honey'." Had she really? The voice she heard had been like Beth's except softer, gentler and oddly maternal. Although she'd wept and been afraid, what Beth had just told her had put a spark of hope right where it did her the most good. Calvert opened a drawer to extract a handkerchief from.

"Er, no, I didn't," said Danby, smiling politely.

"Never mind." Calvert, cleared her nostrils, looked down, and saw the meteorological study she'd left in her screen. It's time to go to work she noted, grateful for the interruption. Danby nodded. For a while longer they stood and sat posed as if for a portrait, not looking at each other, and then exited the cabin together.

Nothing is ever so easy as it should be, Calvert was thinking hours later as Happy trundled down the ramp, his clearing blade at knee height. Before her was pristine landscape, as though their whole enterprise had by a miraculous translation arrived at some other bleak desert location. Her thoughtful squint stayed with the TRAX as it entered the sand.

Happy had been treated to a flush and recharge of its lubricating and hydraulics systems—the instructions Marco had left had been explicit in that regard. They would've endangered its operating functions otherwise. Calvert stood in lubricant aroma, a grease smear gone across the bridge of her nose.

Happy arrived into the sand, six wheels sinking speedily axles-deep when a rubber track would have been the skiff on water. Within moments the TRAX was mired and digging itself in deeper. "Happy, stop!" Calvert ordered disgustedly.

The TRIKEs, being so much lighter, and equipped with treads, had had nothing like the same trouble. A pair dug profitably to free a fence post not far away. If they'd a propensity for curiosity they would've stopped work to see their big brother mired, helpless, motionless. "Damn it."

"Problem?"

"The sand's too soft. Happy's mired himself."

"Switch out the drive system?" The old tracks, despite being very worn, were in good enough condition for what needed to be done.

"I guess we'll have to." They needn't do all the machines, only the three needed to create their demonstrative re-enactment. While Calvert stared at Happy, mildly canted and slowly sinking, she'd no notion how to free him.

"Oh, crap," said Beth, appearing below.

"Can you believe it?"

"We have to haul him out," said Beth, going to uncouple a cable with a hook from the spool at the rear of the big machine.

"How?" Fresh sweat soaked the sock covering Calvert's scalp.

"Bring out Joe, but leave him on the ramp. I'll couple them together with this."

"Oh, right." Joe was next in the queue. With TRAXs straining and the humans watching from a safe distance, the rescue proceeded to its far less than satisfying conclusion: Happy standing on the bottom third of the ramp, dripping dust, which would have to be dealt with, and the sight of which contributed to the oppression the humans experienced.

"We'll need to get started on that wheel replacement," said Calvert while appreciating how tight her jaws felt.

"I was clearing the power station."

"Oh, right."

"Why don't you take a break while I finish up there?"

"I can set up the work area at least." First she had to figure out how. A commander ought to know everything about her ship's operations as well as enough about its equipment so she never appear at a loss, even when tested by the quixotic questions precocious six year olds on tour might pose.

Minutes later Calvert stood within the assembly bay, surrounded by body-sized tools mounted like trophies on bulkheads and lesser tools in bright red trays in bright red cabinets, and hadn't a clue how she should begin. "I am not a mechanic."

The old treads were stored in layers on pegs and secured to the wall, but how to uncouple a tread there and send it here, what tools were used, how these tools were manipulated, what was the proper order, she'd no idea. This society darling had no aptitude for manual procedures. Nor did her artificially enhanced intuition possess an appropriate insight to draw from.

Hands on hips, Calvert surveyed her work space. Mental fingers were snapped. Advice was as near as her next spoken words. "Polyphemus, what must I do to prep this area to, ah, switch TRAX wheels for TRAX treads?"

"That procedure is not within your area of responsibility, Julie."

"Bugger it isn't. I have to do this. We don't have a lot of time."

"Very well," replied the ship and projected to the assembly bay a scene. Four ghost mannequin figures uncoupled wheels from a ghost TRAX with ghost tools, their motions neat and economical because choreographed. Calvert watched while pressing against the knob of apprehension freshly risen and located a little before her spine.

"There aren't four of us. How did Marco do this the last time?"

"That was the reverse operation."

"It would help were you to show it me."

"Very well." Marco and Beth actions weren't the precision dance of before. Numerous pauses, extraneous actions, and superfluous conversation interspersed the record, along with a spontaneous moment of intimacy. Calvert wouldn't have watched except their special intermission was included with everything else and had procedure to see before and after. Hearing the lift platform thud within the deck below, Calvert ordered the record to cease.

Jaw set, the youth decided she understood enough about the wheel to track swapping procedure, which she would follow in the manner of trapeze artist wary of a misstep. She wanted the help of two TRIKEs besides her shipmate, a weapon-like impact wrench for each TRIKE to wield, four counter grav jacks, and a pulley apparatus which Polyphemus informed her where to find. Having given the instruction to wake up the TRIKEs, her back to the personnel lift, its opening was as a gunshot to preoccupation wrapped about the image of a kiss.

"Hey, ah, how's it going?" chirped Danby, who could see for herself how far their task hadn't progressed.

"Just about there. I was viewing procedure." Limbs not nearly as obedient as they should be were made to step. One hand patted the surface of a false yawn. "Oh, pardon me, too much sleep." Sleep, though not much rest. Calvert had accumulated fatigue metres deep, which she was used to because there was no help for it. With the change to normal weather conditions had come a return to more worry and more fatigue.

Smiling glazed the condition. Activity numbed it.

Danby was in the same state: her eyes deeper in their sockets than was healthy; the muscles of her mouth worked harder to make a smile; but her shoulders didn't slouch, despite how tuned to do so they might be. "When this is done, site up and running again, we can fly out to the oasis, don't you think?" Danby said.

"Depends on whether Marco's up."

"Let's have at it then."

We're not rivals, Calvert decided, as machines and implements settled into optimum positions for the task to come. She'd lived a long while on the outside of their compact and it hurt. A sour look was put to a dark and sticky spot. Anxiety was to her nothing new, nor nausea either.

The impulse to wallop a friend on the head with the mallet she was holding, Calvert was going to ignore until it went away. Danby's concentration and engagement with the current work stage would make murder as easy as touching. Calvert imagined a blow and its aftermath far too vividly. She set aside her mallet to use both hands to press a murderous thought away.

"Want to take a break?"

"I'm good." They'd started with Monty, the most convenient TRAX to the work area, being on the same level. Wheels off, it floated in place. The women, hands on hips, eyed a heavy, much scarred track suspended on a section of wall nearby.

"This is going to be a bitch." Danby remembered a tedious procedure done times six not that long ago.

"I didn't get this far."

"Hum-m-m?"

Calvert's tan turned darker. "I asked Poly to show me how you guys did it—the, ah, reverse procedure."

"Oh, really?" Danby muttered to herself: "Forgot about that."

"I only watched to get the general picture," protested the girl. "I didn't mean that! Not the general picture to—crap."

"You can't be one hundred percent on the job one hundred percent of the time," Danby extemporized as she pointed at rings on slides overhead. "We use those."

"How?"

"They're attached to pulleys that lift the track off the hooks, and haul it here. We'll fine-tune the orientation once the track is in the work area."

"Sounds reasonable."

"It's a dirty job. We hosed 'em down before hanging 'em up, but that was only the surface grit."

Uncoupling the track from the wall required a climb, cling, and both hands to manipulate clamps and cabling during a hugging contact with a large coarse object coated in preservative oil. Both women returned to the deck smeared head to toe, including faces.

"What?" was returned crossly by the youth.

"Nothing," replied the marine, grinning to the floor. "Good work so far."

A shrug. "I manage all right, but I'd far rather do other things." The shifted track was large enough and heavy enough to squash her flat.

Monty was four metres long, three broad and two and a half high. An engine in a vacuum-resistant box meant to go and to do wherever and whatever. The TRAX had been new before the landing, but now appeared as though it had been in battle. Scoured, pitted, dented, rough, sad. What remained of its bright orange paint was thin and lustreless.

"Two settings," Danby said, holding a thigh-sized cordless wrench and indicating the first of two small levers on its side. "One is for fastening, the other for loosening."

They'd watched the TRIKEs uncouple and remove Monty's wheels, directed by Polyphemus. Taking the heavy tool into her hands because Danby handed it to her, Calvert half turned it to see the levers. "Which is which?"

Danby indicated the one nearer the trigger, which was in the position she thought it should have. "This is the setting for loosening, which we need."

"Forward?"

"Yes?"

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

Frowning thoughtfully, Calvert said, "A forward setting should be tightening not loosening. That's intuitive, but makes sense to me."

"Depends on the manufacturer." Polyphemus was fully equipped with her tools and equipment before she launched. None of its standard equipment was on-site manufactured.

"What difference does where it comes from make? Why would anyone build a tool to operate one way and someone else build the exact same tool so it operate in the opposite manner?"

"You're asking the wrong girl."

"Hum-m-m," was off-tone owing to a resolve only half formed. "What does the other lever do?" The second lever included a slot and was set slightly behind the middle position.

"Sets the speed, I think."

"Better to use the low setting. Is this the low setting? Midrange more likely, but how fast or slow is that?" Calvert hated power tools: brutish, cruel and producing noises and smells she disliked. She looked hopefully at Danby while pressing with her right thumb print as if to plumb a potential for mayhem by what she felt.

"I'm not sure, but I think it's on a low setting now."

"Can't you just remember?"

"I'm trying to. Marco did this part. I wasn't paying attention."

"Poly, how does this tool operate? Show please." Calvert regretted the mass of the tool as she watched the latest ghost-vignette. It tired her arms. "The operator braces herself," she noted.

"Setting is forward," said Danby. "See, the bolt is turning out."

"Which bolts need loosening? Don't we just run the track on?"

"The track bed has adjustment rods. See them? Right there." Poly adjusted the ghost representation to provide the novice mechanics with a best angle to view from. The bolt was the thickness of her wrist. Calvert frowned uneasily.

"Why do I—" Either of them might do the loosening. To be fair they took turns. They would have to do this part two more times besides. "All right, where are the rods again—oh, all right, I see one." At the rear, on the side and low. One rod was sited across from the other inside the chassis behind protective panels. Calvert crouched to fix her bit on the rod's end.

"Wait a sec. The rod is in 'fixed' mode. We have to remove the lock pin first."

"Lock pin? What in the name of all things unholy is a 'lock pin'?"

"This, here," said Danby, removing the panel to reveal the long rod in its horizontal bed and the clamp fixed over its far end. "The lock pin avoids vibration loosening the setting. This part I paid attention to."

"We can't just leave this as it is?"

"We can't get the track on otherwise. Marco adjusted all of this to 'tidy up'. He should have left it alone."

"That's our conscientious little tech."

"All right, got it," said Danby and held up to show the lock pin—the length and thickness of the average human pinkie. With the pin off, the next step was doable. "You can turn out the rod now."

Tempted to try her magic on the rod, Calvert knew she'd better not do any such thing. She manhandled the heavy tool onto the rod and pressed her trigger.

Nothing, no whir nor click, and not the unnerving torque and snarl Calvert anticipated.

"You've neglected to turn it on."

"Oh, crap. Power stud. Where?"

"By your right elbow."

"If I get thrown off my feet . . ." Calvert made her adjustment. The wrench was far too large for her size. Why couldn't Imperial suppliers provide tools to suit individual users? Just holding the power wrench gave her a bad feeling. Press trigger. Again nothing. "What the fuck?"

"Power's on?"

"Of course the damn power's on. I just turned it on. You saw me turn this fucker on."

"Are you seated properly?"

"Obviously I'm standing," Calvert said disgustedly.

"Is the bit fixed to the bolt end?"

"Oh? No, it wasn't." Fresh sweat contributed to the soaking she already enjoyed. "Got it." Subvocally: Oh, God in Her Great Black Heaven.

"Lean in a little."

"Shut up," gushed through clenched teeth. Lean, press trigger, legs trembling. No growl. Whirring instead. Calvert couldn't tell if she did the thing right; fear distracted her. Was the job done? Could she stop? The rod arrived at its finish, it caught, the bit stopped whirring.

"Oops," said Danby.

"Don't say 'oops'," Calvert moaned.

"You've turned the rod in instead of out."

"You've got to be kidding!"

"Here." Danby took a step, and set the first lever back.

"You!" growled Calvert. She'd been right all along. Glowering was a reasonable response for having being tricked, inadvertently or not.

"Ah, go again," Danby said apologetically.

"I hate this. You know I do," muttered Calvert, more to herself than to the woman whose breath the moment before had pushed a bead of sweat across her cheek.

"You've got the hang of it now."

"I would've been happier with the hang of it the first time," Calvert grumbled.

"You'll be a pro—"

"Shut up." A simple task, now that her setting was true. Calvert turned out the rod and next its counterpart. Large satisfaction after. Danby could do the next TRAX, and they'd share the last. Calvert continued to dislike power tools. Their nuts and bolts would never thrill her.

"This tread weighs about a thousand kilos," Danby was saying minutes later.

Advice which Calvert attended with half her attention. With the TRIKEs supplying brute labour they'd positioned the tread onto the forward pair of drive cogs. "We'd better not drop it on our feet," said Calvert, imagining a flattened human helper.

Danby peered into Monty's undercarriage. "It'll run by itself right onto the bogies. Ah, there's a subroutine. With the tread in position, Monty couples itself."

"Sounds good to me." Calvert appreciated filth gotten from everywhere on her clothes and skin.

"All right, I think that's it," said Danby.

"You remember how to do this?"

"We took the treads off, not put them on," Danby reminded her workmate.

"Activate the damn subroutine."

"Okay, here goes." The text glowing in her handset screen Danby knew to be right. Pressing 'execute', she anticipated a heavy drawing in of the scarred, discoloured bulk not the soft clunk and hum which were strange substitutes.

"It's not moving," said Calvert caustically.

"It should be." Danby crouched and peered in some more.

"Are you sure you turned it on correctly?"

"Turned what on?"

"Or maybe the lever is forward instead of back."

"I told you. Monty should just draw this on."

"Monty is a fucking imbecile."

"It's upside down," said Danby, frowning, after a time sufficient for reading an average paragraph of text.

"What's upside down?"

"The tread is. The override's cut in. That's why the tread won't draw in."

"We have to move this fucker back out of the way, flip it, and move it back in again?"

"That's it. Wanna give up now?"

"Fuck you," Calvert said sweetly.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but 'fuck you' right back."

Sore back, shoulders, hips and legs. Was any of her parts not bruised, scraped, twisted, aching? The grumbling in her stomach louder and more insistent moment by moment. Hot, oil and sweat soaked, ship suit torn and soiled, hair in tangles. Scratches and cuts on every finger and a fat blister on the pad of her left big toe. Finalist Happy was reunited with his old boot. "Are we done?" demanded Calvert. They'd first had to remove the sand wedged in Happy's undercarriage, every hole and crevice. She'd never wanted to use her magic more than while tucking into those tight and gritty spaces.

"We're done," said Danby, sporting her own busted smile. "For now."

"Goody," said Calvert with no enthusiasm at all. A hot steamy shower then the succulence of the massage she'd waited hours to have. A meal after, then sleep and hope not to dream.

"Marco?" inquired Danby

Calvert stared bemused at her scarred hands.

"Marco's condition has not changed," said Polyphemus.

"We need to uncover some mosaic," Calvert said.

"Tomorrow," said Danby.

Chapter Twenty-Four - Sojourn

Had the days been genuine intervals of sun, surf and starry night, or a time perceived equivalent by a perplexed and grateful apprehension? Marco took up his glass to examine the beads of wet his fingers had missed. Wet, hemispherical, drawn out of moist air by cooler glass, glued by static. They cooled his lips. They dripped. The consequences of cold lemonade down his throat were refreshment and satisfaction. Several 'days' since his arrival, he lay, rested and renewed, sated and content. He'd a fine view besides.

His companions, skins gleaming, hair plastered to scalps, dashed like terriers, their exertions punctuated by grunts and accompanied by scuffs. The match neared its end and retreated from that end. Love, advantage, match point, advantage, love. Determination equal. Neither for zeal or love willing to concede nor win to bring about the end of their competition.

Marco had gotten used to closeness, but was bothered still by kisses sisterly, daughterly, motherly, and that his jealousy had two focuses and not just one. Was he unfaithful? His affection for the quixotic youngster expelling a bear grunt was heartfelt, well founded, and undeniable.

The girl was older and seasoned. Brashness, arrogance and stupidity were worn out. She was likeable, cute and considerate. Her quality shone like beacons. He did like her. Here they were equals.

The winning shot. A blister into a corner, smack the line, and out. Julie, pressing hands to knees, showed her conquering smile to the aquamarine blue pebble surface of the court and afterward a modest one to her friend. They approached, reached, shook hands. In unison they turned, arms about shoulders, temple to temple. Expressions and pleasure equal. Their look as good as a wave or a nod, and he nodded in reply.

The nifty clear barrier Beth had conjured as a ball stop was walked through without impediment onto gem-pure lawn and on to where he sprawled over his outdoors chair. Julie assumed the seat on his left, Beth the seat on his right. Marco the glad meat of their sandwich.

"You're going to get fat," said Beth while she poured lemonade for herself and Julie.

"Can't say I've noticed," Marco replied easily.

"Not here, back in the world," said Beth. "I don't think it's possible here although if I imagine it, it would be so, of that I've no doubt."

"Hum-m-m?"

"She's saying she could make you fat through wishing it," elaborated Julie.

"You would?" Beth was the undisputed power in their triumvirate, the island realm answered to her primarily and to both of them by many degrees less. Her magic trumping always theirs and he feared the reason why.

"Never, my darling," said Beth and caressed his cheek before pressing it with her lips while he had his thought—they'd developed strategies to keep thoughts private and avoid eavesdropping. He would have to tone down his expectations after his return or risk upsetting the balance of a different world.

From Julie: "I can't just sit here and soak these cushions. Swim anyone?"

"Yes," said Beth at once. "Come on, Marco, time for you to get some exercise."

"I got plenty from watching the two of you," he replied with pretend conviction.

"Get up, lazy bones." The two of them hauled the one of him onto his feet.

They'd a place, with boisterous water gone vertical over sun-splashed basalt, verdant surround, and a deep blue pool blow half-framed by a crescent of stones perfect for sunning on. It was reached after a circuitous route that skirted buoyant orchids and breast-high ferns, a route that passed the lurking python and the tame as kittens jaguar, who at unexpected moments darted the feet out from under an unsuspecting friend.

Julie Calvert was his preference, so that a sudden, tumultuous commotion—thump, muttered curse and scolding complaint—was occasion for laughter rather than concern. The girl on her rump, the panther a solid obstruction between her legs and applying an energetic tongue to her salt skin.

"That's five times out of six he's gotten you," chirruped Beth.

"Sic them, for once, can't you!"

"Oh, no, you don't," was Beth's reply as she wrapped arms about madly purring panther. "You know why he does it. Just sit back and enjoy the attention."

"Big goof," complained Julie as she struggled against insistent head butts and a sinuous resistance. "No steak for you."

"He knows you don't mean it. Don't you, Iago?" incited louder purring.

"I'm not even nice to him," Julie groused as she held the cat's powerful jaws between her dainty hands and pressed forehead to forehead. "Bad puss, Iago."

Marco stood well back. The cat distrusted him. Their time together sufficient only to establish the fact he was not food. He'd been careful to limit his displays of affection to times when the cat was not about and thus avoid a sinister, slit-eyed look.

"Let's carry on, shall we?" announced Beth, clapping an arm about his shoulders. Marco grinned cautiously to the cat's intent staring. "We'll run from here." A run wild through thickets, and avoiding vines, leaping over or dancing along logs. In the exuberance of the race was least care, least concern, which was why, Marco suspected, Beth had made her suggestion. The fleet of foot youth, panther by her side, bounded ahead. Marco and Beth matched strides side by side. Marco exerted himself beyond what he was comfortable with out of love while Beth did the opposite for the same reason.

The couple burst into the open in sync with a splash ahead of a litter of clothes. Next they saw the concentric ripples over a descending torpedo shape through which paddled the midnight black cat. Marco gazed, beaming, surface of pool to summit of waterfall. He knew he would forever recall this time as the happiest in his life. "Hurry up, Sweetheart, while he's distracted."

"Damned cat," muttered Marco as he stripped. Clothed or naked the cat regarded him with wary interest. While taking his clothes off or putting them on Iago regarded him with unvarnished suspicion and ominous snarling.

"He gets used to you one way and doesn't like it when you change," said Beth.

"He just doesn't like me."

"That's not true."

"You guys peel off any time you want and he doesn't mind."

"He's used to us. He knows we don't pose a threat."

"You'd think he'd make the connection."

"Maybe he has," said Beth with a smirk and glanced meaningfully at her guy beneath his thatch of belly hair.

"You're saying he thinks of me as competition?"

"Could be."

He and Beth had not been intimate past cuddling for the whole of his stay. He'd been wondering if there would be more, but left the decision to her. Neither brought up the subject, although in his case the notion had frequented the front of his thinking many times already, the sand in the porridge of his contentment.

The pair entered the water hand in hand. Temperatures perfect of air and water. Also perfect the lighting, scenery, breeze, and scents. All tuned to soothing. Gazing at his love, first upon the curve of her cheek, next the curve of her breast, engendered a response heartfelt and spontaneous. She noticed, her tan went darker in her cheek, and she removed herself from his grip and sight, into the water, dolphin-kicking into the deepest part of the pool. A smirk was shown the cat churning the surface, and Marco dove after her.

The two of them could stay submerged a great long while. Julie had been under a minute already and showed no distress. A tug alerted him to her proximity. He'd been tagged and was 'it'. Smiling coquettishly, she slipped swiftly, smoothly, silently into deeper water.

They were far better swimmers than he. Their soundless laughter honoured his lumbering tries to catch them. They darted neatly, his striving against the liquid medium was irksome and labourious, his motions too slow, he missed his tags every time. Marco admired the quarries he couldn't touch, while the feeling in his heart was neither frustration nor sadness but butters of both. "Enough," he called, breaching the surface before they did. They laughed and continued their joke while his irritation grew worse.

"I'll be 'it' this time," said Beth.

"No, I'm done." Either he'd be caught easily again and the outcome would be the same, or they would chase each other and he'd have to content himself with watching.

"We'll play a different game," said Beth and side stroked to shore.

"'Drown the cat'?" Iago sprawled on a rock good for glaring from and licked the webbing between the toes of one great black paw.

"'Pearl diver'," said Beth, her feet yet submerged, and selected a stone of appropriate roundness, size and colour to represent a pearl. "Julie, you're first."

"Okay, what am I supposed to do?"

"I toss, you swim after, Marco counts to when you reappear stone in hand."

"All right," the girl drawled. "Just don't hit me on the head."

Beth winked, plunk went the stone, swiftly she gathered her clothes, Marco gathered his, and the two scampered into the woods.

"You think she'll appreciate being played upon?" he asked when they were far enough in to clothe themselves unseen by cat and girl.

"She'll be all right. It's you I'm thinking of."

"Oh?"

"Sourpuss. I saw that look, like you're ready to chew nails to make filings out of them. Sorry, but we were having so much fun."

"The two of you," he grumbled.

"You've something on your mind?"

"Ah, yeah." How to expand upon matters of intimacy, now the subject was broached? He ought to have known her thoughts wended the same way.

"Not funny, you guys!"

"She sounds annoyed," he said.

"She'll get over it. Come on." She took his hand. Several steps through shadow-streaked forest were made with gazes down. Her uncertain look regarded him close to. "I have been thinking about it, as no doubt you have, but the reason we haven't is, was, we haven't done it there yet."

"Yet?" he gasped.

A fine brow arched and was admired. "I thought, it wouldn't be right for us to be intimate here before there, but, at the same time, it's not fair for us to abstain, not after, ah—this will be our, my, last chance for a long time."

"No, it won't," he said.

She showed him a resigned look. "Either I've died and this is the afterlife or I'm here with no way back. I doubt there's another future for me."

"You don't know. I refuse to believe that."

"Honey—"

"No! It won't happen. Dammit, Beth, whatever I have to—"

"You mustn't think so!" Beth said sternly. "Julie is your number one priority. Whatever it takes, her rescue is what you strive for, not mine."

"Beth, I can't promise—"

"You damned better!" Beth replied ferociously. "I love that girl. She's a daughter to me. Her life is worth both of ours and so much more."

He gaped in disbelief. Sure he liked, maybe he sort of loved, the kid, but he couldn't commit himself that way. Meanwhile he was feeling a soft something wrap the back of his head. What he loved stood before him and yet he heard an angelic voice urge compliance. His tones quavered as he said, "How can you say that?" They'd dried. Fresh perspiration made him wet again.

"I have to, and you have to believe what I'm telling you without doubt or reservation. Whatever it takes, Marco. Promise me!"

"Both of us for her?" He would remember this moment the rest of his life. His hate for what was to happen would have its root here.

"Absolutely."

The best he could manage was a scowl. Her hand on his arm insisted he agree. He couldn't with the larger part of his heart, and she knew it and was angry, and that, too, was beyond his control.

"I won't stay angry, Marco," said Beth as her hand slipped down his arm before resuming contact with his hand. "You will know why eventually."

"That she's so important?" Still he smelled of disbelief.

"Yes."

"Then why is she here? Did we fail? Is she dead, alive, neither? What?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," she replied in a grumble. "But I believe that whatever her condition out there is, it will be temporary."

"Then yours could be too."

"For all I know, you could be right. This time will have its end, I think. If it does, expect to see me wherever you happen to be the moment I'm back."

"I'm counting on it," he replied gruffly.

The big double bed, canopied and skirted in Mediterranean blue cloth, had a mattress firmer than he liked. They chased the pillows off for play and retrieved them for comfort after. Laying in the muddle of bed clothes, his hands cradling his head, he gazed down. Beth lay across him, hip to collarbone. He inhaled the tropical panoply of her skin and the strawberry aroma of her hair. "You can't tell me we've done this." She kissed him beneath his breast. "You couldn't have because I didn't know. Thanks."

"Honey, I'll do anything you ask me to." Having answered so, he feared a return to their argument but she only nestled a little better against him. They'd a splendid view of the volcano, its slope solid green to the peak.

"You're going to have to watch yourself," she said quietly. "But not for much longer."

"Hum-m-m?"

"Don't be angry with Julie, it's not her fault."

"I know that. I'm not blaming her."

"Not about this, Marco."

"Oh?"

"When you return, you mustn't waste any time. We'll need you desperately."

"For what?"

"That would be telling," said Beth, nestling even tighter against her man.

Not much later she stood before a full length mirror, windows open, the noise of fetch and wrestle outside substituting for the music she might have created out of the air. She held her hair in double handfuls while debating whether she preferred a tomboy rather than beyond shoulder length. Marco snored in the next room. She was far from the deep despair which was her early condition. A quiet sigh was exhaled to her reflection, which might show a Beth Danby of any age and any shape. Her sixteen-year-old self gazed back with far too sober a look for so youthful a form. She knew she would regret leaving this existence, but it would not do to forever live in her memories. When the end came she would greet it and be glad.

"Honey?"

"Something to eat?"

"Ah, yeah. You hungry?"

"Always," she said. Softer to the reflection, "always."

Chapter Twenty-Five - Mountains

The old nightmare gripped her as soon as Calvert slid between the sheets and stayed to well after it should have ended. She wandered hours in that horrible and familiar place, death gigantic all around, her voice hoarse from calling. She awakened well before the time chosen to end her rest, and trembled fierce. Nightshirt and bedclothes sopping, devastating headache, stone gut feeling. She vomited and was startled by what she saw reflected in her mirror: grey face, sunken eyes with black circles around them, emaciation, slack muscles, listless pose. Holding her stomach she washed a too large dose of sedatives down, its tepid water splashing her insides. The taste of bile lingered even after twice brushing. After towelling and a fresh shirt, she returned to the bed with its sweat-damp sheets thinking she could not be more miserable.

Calvert lay as long as she could, and then got up and dressed. Breakfast was black coffee and one slice of unbuttered toast. She studied the inside of her coffee cup, devastatingly tired—if she put her head down for even a moment would she find herself back in that hellish place?

Calvert's arrival into Boat Bay Lower was greeted by an immediate show of concern. Danby hopped down from her perch on the furthest left of the three TRAX they intended sending out.

Calvert tried a smile and knew it was ghastly. "I'm just peachy," she grumbled to the query just posed. Her headache embedded so deep that any expression better than bland was painful.

"You don't look it," Danby replied, her hand on the sleeve of the sufferer.

"I'm perfectly fine." Calvert conjured up a smile from somewhere to paint her lie with.

"Come along with me."

Calvert meekly let herself be led. Danby brought her to the infirmary, ordered a lie down, and applied a knitter to her forehead.

"Ah!" was the punished girl's response after lengthy suffering.

"You didn't know you could do this?" Danby asked softly.

"No." No return to full health and functioning, just her ability to cope had been restored. "I'll have to remember that for the next time."

Danby showed the setting to use. "You're not repairing tissue, so use the lowest setting. Or I could do it for you—or Marco."

"How is he?" Calvert rubbed her eyes and yawned tremendously.

"Still sleeping." Danby gazed into the lower 'doc uneasily. "I've been hurrying things along. The TRAXs are ready to go." They assumed that once a significant portion of the mosaic was uncovered Marco would awaken.

"So weird," Calvert muttered. Was it because Pacini stayed incommunicado that her meandering no longer met his rescue? Calvert slid down from the examination table. A transitory dizziness threatened her balance, which she struggled not to show. She needn't have bothered. Her shipmate's attention stayed with the inside of the shiny 'doc.

"Beth," Calvert continued, "if he doesn't come around, if we're wrong about the mosaic, we have to force him awake. I don't know about you, but I'm dead over my feet. We need him. He's slept enough."

"I think his condition has almost run its course. He'll come around on his own."

Calvert grunted in reply. The truly tough decisions were hers to make. They had yet to attempt a serious resuscitation, which know-it-all Polyphemus would supervise. They banked on his condition mending on its own, but neared the end of the reasonable time for waiting. Should the attempt be about to cause Marco distress or harm, they would cease it at once, of course.

"We can get by one more day," Danby was saying. "Tomorrow morning, if he's still out of it, Poly can try to bring him around."

"One more day. By then there should be a decent sized patch uncovered, but if he's still out, we do whatever it takes to wake him up. I need him." One more death march was all she could stand. Danby was hardier, used to work, and did not suffer through unrelenting nightmares. She could wait. Calvert didn't think herself able to do the same.

"The heavy stuff's done," protested Danby on the way back to Boat Bay. "All we have to do is revise the TRAXs operating procedures."

"And restore the damn fence."

"That too, but for now we need only renew one section of mosaic." A reasonable job of light work for today. After all the lifting, pushing and pulling of yesterday, some minor programming and minor fence repair ought to be a breeze. The duo returned with willing and hopeful spirits to the short line of TRAXs.

"Hum-m-m, so what's the trouble?" Calvert asked as Danby resumed her perch atop Happy, his cowling 'open and up', his input pad ready to be meddled with.

"I wasn't having any luck inputting by remote. I've found we can't just initiate from the last set of instructions."

"Ah, yeah?" They'd had no difficulty ordering the machines about the day before. Stop, go, do this. A detailed set of instructions was required so that the TRAXs be able to work independently however.

"I'm having problems initiating the programming."

"What kind of problems? The base routine ought to be there. We've had to restore them once before so what's different now?"

"Marco did the reset. I can't find the instructions he used. They ought to be archived, but they're not bookmarked and there's a lot of stuff in there. If I initiate without being sure about what I've done, I could damage the software."

"If you wipe the current routines and replace the cues with the startup ones you ought to be able to backtrack to the beginning of the program. Polyphemus has those archived."

"It's not as simple as that. We've adjusted the grid a dozen times since landing and the landmarks are all changed. The references no longer apply."

"The planet-based ones do. We've fixed the location of the hatch, which is all we need. Input that mark and reinitialize the grid. Simple as that."

Danby nodded. A moment later she called down: "Yah, okay. I've inputted the work grid with the hatch as ground zero. I've got that part figured out."

"So what else do we need to do?" Calvert climbed up. Danby shifted her place to make room for the youth beside her.

"Well, like I said, I haven't been able to find the startup routines. I think I know why I can't get at them. It looks like they're inside a directory that needs an access code."

Calvert gasped angrily. "The lunatic! He locked us out of the startup? So I—ah, so we couldn't mess with it?" The shifty bastard!

Danby ignored Calvert's outburst. Her attention remained with the panel beneath her hand. "Not necessarily to lock us out. He used a strange script. It looks like there's a missing line of code, a signature—a proprietary thing. I haven't been able to figure it out."

"It isn't in the manual?" Pacini was not supposed to weave obscure crap into his programming. Regulations prohibited that kind of nonsense. Calvert peered at what appeared random numerals and symbols in Danby's handset. Her divination skill no help.

"I found an appendix with the rudiments. I'm trying to figure out what it means."

"Let me see." Calvert unclipped her own handset to reference from.

"Appendix D, page 75."

"Okay, I've got it." The aforementioned screen provided a description that was straightforward but not very helpful. Single letters and numerals substituted for lengthier instructions, a method the programmer informed the base program about before using.

"I'm looking for the cross reference," Danby explained. "I've searched the manual and I've queried Marco's handset and nothing."

"We should purge this shit," said Calvert, "and restore the standards."

"I thought about doing that, but I'm not a very good programmer. How's about you?"

"The last time I created text was in school. The setups take forever to write."

"Polyphemus can't help?"

"There are templates on file. The TRAXs carry their own basic templates too. It's a matter of calling up the routines, I think."

"So we purge the old settings?"

"I suppose so," Calvert said uncertainly.

"If I screw up Happy, we can restore his basics from one of the others." Danby keyed through menus and past warnings demanding at every stage: was she certain she wished to continue? Calvert watched anxiously while Danby completed the reset process. "Done."

Danby and Calvert traded places. "All we do now is call up the starting template, and initiate the routines." Calvert consulted her menus list for the appropriate page. "Here," she said after finding what looked to be the correct instruction set. "Ready for data. Beginning data transfer. Data transfer complete."

"I guess that's it," said Danby.

"Should be. Okay, let's do the rest of 'em."

"Wait a minute. If we've done Happy wrong, and do the others the same way, we'll be far worse off. We ought to run him first, and see if he knows what he's supposed to do."

"Ah, yeah, geez. You want to reseal the cowling?"

"I got it. We ought to take him outside before we start."

Before Happy could be run through his paces, the women unwrapped the transmission tower and performed affiliated equipment tests and checks. An amber glow indicated the tower status was 'on standby'. From two hundred metres away, atop a berm overlooking the power station, Danby reported: "Online and charging. You'll have power in approximately thirty seconds."

Calvert gazed through heat shimmer. Happy stood in the clear over his track. Ambers went greens in her repeater screen. "I got power." She pressed 'transmit'. Happy ought to have leapt into action, but nothing happened. She scowled at the motionless machine as a heaviness grew in the pit of her stomach.

Press a second time. Nothing the second time. No response. The big dumb brute was not going to move. "What in hell?" she said, biting her words off like chunks of rubber.

Their programming fix having failed, only might they issue commands by keying them in or by voice. Every scoop, lift, turn supervised. "Bollocks!" Calvert snarled. Happy, like in a child's game of 'go-stop', would move only when directed where and how. Otherwise he would stand his ground and do nothing. None of it the machine's fault, nor hers either. "Damn you, Marco Pacini, for an egomaniacal twerp!"

"Not working?" Danby asked hesitantly.

"No, it, he damn well isn't."

You can fix it.

Now you show up!

I've never left your side.

Wise ass. How do I fix it?

Boost its intellect as much as you wish. You have the power.

Calvert pondered consequences beneath brilliant sky. All AI was in essence equivalent. Higher differed from lower by the number of lines of code in the core intellect. That Happy was dog-stupid was a safety feature. Machines must be relied upon not to change their mind in the middle of a complex and/or dangerous procedure. Calvert debated herself several seconds more before deciding what she must do.

If her situation hadn't been so desperate, she wouldn't do it. She could always reverse him after. His precocity given limited duration, no harm to anyone, a necessary job done. Her tinkering took less than five seconds. While her gaze unfixed and drifted to one side, Happy churned up the near dune with an anxiety to please painful to see. Calvert stood rooted over her spot.

"It worked?" Danby's abrupt appearance startled the anguishing youth.

"Um, yeah." Calvert attempted to read what her companion might be thinking by her pose. She hadn't forgotten Danby's claim she could hear her boss's side of human-alien conversations.

"We can do the others now."

"I'll do them," said Calvert quickly. "Can you finish up out here?"

"Sure. I'll check the other tower. We can do the fence section when you're ready."

"All right," Calvert drawled. She sensed humming on the other side of the dune. What she'd done was breathe life into clay. Returning Happy to his original state would be murder by lobotomy. You knew this would be the consequence, she growled.

You should have too.

She did not hear Happy's self-absorbed humming. What thrummed inside her head was not sound. He enjoyed a waltz, one of her favourites. She'd done much more than muck about with his software. Never again, Calvert decided as she stumbled along the way to her ship. The other TRAXs would stay as they were. Happy would direct them, thus limiting damages and consequences. The youth gazed along Happy's track, sighed, and tripped the rest of the way in.

Hours later, seated on her stool, liner sticking everywhere, breathing the miasma her outdoors suit exuded, Calvert gazed at the deck ahead of her feet. "I have to get away from here. I'm so beat, I can't think straight." Another night of horror was anticipated. Polyphemus had informed her the sleeper slept still.

"We've a decent patch going," said Danby, standing in the rinse tub, the bronze of her skin shining through her garment.

"A couple hours is all I need."

"The grotto?"

Beneath the grotto's insulating rock she could sleep and not dream. A swim with a creamy, soapy shower before and after was imagined and vicariously enjoyed. The nifty water heater Marco had installed might service a platoon, no trouble at all.

"I'll check out our ride," volunteered Danby, stepping out of the tub.

"I'll check the weather. We'll take along a picnic."

"Good idea." Danby pulled on her coverall. "I need to see how Marco's doing before we go."

Calvert had considered checking on Marco herself, to rail at him a while, and maybe see him wake up. Slipping out of her liner, as her shipmate's footfalls diminished, she appreciated a prolonged habit which had loosened her garment to the feel of old wool socks.

She stroked ribs left to right, and down to up. Her features more pronounced than ever they had been before, with an odd tightness. Should others of her family see her now, they would know she suffered. Her appetite poor, digestion dainty, feeling febrile. She must learn to like steak and potatoes again. Her salads must be as much stalk as leaf, and have garnishes.

"From now on, I'm eating extra," vowed Calvert as her trembling endured a cold rinse and towelling. Motion helped her with balance and focus. The weather forecast was light winds and high temperatures. No storms brewed beyond the horizon. She packed salad, boiled eggs, sausage, cheese and bread in generous amounts. Wine for herself and beer for Beth. Returning to Boat Bay she discovered Danby directing the car down from its rafter garage by remote. "No change in our sleeper's condition?"

"He's awake where he is." Neither thought the comment strange.

"He'd better have a good explanation," grumbled Calvert as she entered the car. "He'd better have had no choice."

"I think he'll have a good explanation." Danby slid into the navigator's couch. "You won't mind it if I catch some zees while you drive?"

"Be my guest." Poly triggered the inner launch bay hatch to retract along its rail.

"Wake me if you need me."

"I'll be fine."

The car glided over TRAXs and sweeps. We'll be back in time to put you to bed, Calvert directed to her metallic henchman, and sensed his reply. Course laid in, she settled back, closed her eyes just to rest them, and was overwhelmed at once by a deep and lasting sleep.

#

Beth was excellent at cooking. Plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables, and fowl, fish, beef or pork. Marco decided for their last meal they'd have barbecued pork and sweet potatoes, with greens and jellied fruit, beer and wine. He rummaged about for garnishes. Juice, powered coffee, milk, fresh fruit and greens were plentiful; however, spices and sauces were lacking. He considered this strange. He recalled meat that needed salt and gotten it. Sugar or honey always sweetened their coffee and tea. "Beth, hon, where's the salt?"

"The salt?" she replied from her ground level sunning platform behind the house.

"And the sugar?"

"Sugar?"

"Yeah, and barbecue sauce if we've got any."

"In the cupboard."

"Which one?"

"The corner one."

"I looked there already."

"The other corner cupboard."

The end cupboard? He'd already looked there too. No pepper and no salt. Hands on hips, sceptical from toes to all the way up, he returned to 'the other corner cupboard'. Paper sack of salt, larger sack of sugar, tin of pepper, and even some barbecue sauce where, he was absolutely certain, there had been only a couple cartons of pasta before.

"Found it." No labelling other than of contents. The Navy supplied its ships and outposts with generics, or you brought your own.

"I was going to cook," Beth called from the porch.

"I got it." He ought to be used to the peculiarities of this world. Meal after meal prepared out of sight and delivered without fanfare. No leftovers to preserve, nor dishes to wash. In Beth's kitchen everything neat and ordered. Full cartons and tins and no partials. Nothing refrigerated. No refrigerator! No leftovers of bread, sausage, pie, pizza, or cake.

He'd accepted matters as they were. Routine had soothed away concerns and curiosity. Should he say something and spoil their last day together? Standing before the spices cupboard, its miracle staring back at him, should he say something or leave it go? The back door swung open. Beth's heat-fragrant body wrapped his from behind.

"Let me help. Having trouble getting started?"

"Not any more," he said, pressing cheek to cheek. Why hadn't they cooked together before? She went out to gather greens he hadn't realized existed. Beneath sunbonnet, in white dress and sandals, her form caressed by sunlight. Watching her, he could not have been more content.

#

Julie gnashed corn kernels, her fingers as buttered as her cob. Iago lounged against her chair, alternately licking and tearing his pan-sized tribute. Marco had chosen for his place a spot a long diagonal from the cat.

The sun set at the volcano's flank. Braziers gave off a strong, sputtering light. Beth alternately fed and caressed him. Spoil the moment with a wrong word? He'd sooner his right arm to the shoulder cut off.

"I'm done," announced Julie. "Excellent meal Buh—er, Marco." Stretching, the youth set one hand over a yawn while the other made a five fingers fan over her head, her breasts bulging the fabric of her shirt. Next she was jostled over her feet. "Stop that, Iago, silly puss. Anyone else up for a night swim?"

"That would be cutting it close," said Beth.

"Really?" gasped Marco.

"Darling, you've another hour. That's all."

"You two shouldn't waste any time then." Julie impishly grinned. "I'll clear up."

The lovers cosily bumped along their way to Beth's bedroom. Their lovemaking tentative before passion consumed reason, memory and regret. "This can't be all," Marco muttered, twisting to make a better platform for the desperate kiss he had to give.

"It's not," Beth said soothingly.

"How can you be so calm? I feel like I'm being ripped apart. In a matter of minutes I'll be gone and I'll never see you again."

"You know that's not true. I'm waiting for you back there. I've been worried about you this whole time."

"Beth . . ."

"We're not going down that path again. I know you're not finished arguing your side, but you are going to have to be."

"I just can't—"

"Sh-h-h!" Beth covered his mouth with her spread fingers. She got up to put on her robe. He'd gone from lying to sitting, and wanted to hold her, but she stood beyond his reach. He admired her from where he was for a time. In a moment he would get up and go after her. "I lied," she said, which seized and tied him down. "I remember how it happens."

"What?" He felt as if large danger descended on them from multiple directions.

"I'm okay with it. Are you listening, Marco? I'm okay with the role I've been given to play."

He gazed at her silk-wrapped form, and was speechless far too long.

"Goodbye, Marco," she said and then it really was too late.

#

The imminent collision klaxon triggered a panicked awakening. Calvert wondered while dazed how Polyphemus could be in danger of colliding with anything, being fixed to the ground, and saw black in front of herself. Not the ship, but their car was about to crash. She snatched the flying yoke and pulled back as hard she could. A bump and rattle; catastrophe as near as that. She saw sky and stars and let go a gasp of relief. Next she noticed her console's many red bars and zeros. "What the fuck?"

"Great Black Heaven, where are we?" Danby asked from the adjacent seat.

"Figure it out. I need to put us down."

They discovered themselves at the end of a ruler-straight trajectory out from Polyphemus more than two thousand kilometres long. Calvert sucked her lip as a map appeared with heading, altitude, elapsed time, elapsed distance, energy consumption, and energy reserve—the latter in digits accusingly red.

She'd fallen asleep, and no excuse. She'd known how tired she'd been. A simple command before closing her eyes would have avoided this mess. Turning the car's nose down eased back on its power consumption; the desperate climb had depleted near all of what was left in the reserve. She throttled back so the turbofans barely spun. Maintaining forward momentum wasn't worrisome. A counter grav keel about to fail, that was worrisome. When the keel failed, its considerable mass would drop them like a stone.

"There's a plateau ahead."

"Too far," said Calvert as she turned off near everything, including her flight console, without moving a finger.

"How did you do that?"

"No time. Don't ask." She passed by spires inconveniently sized—table tops and lamp stands when she needed the whole room. Danby's plateau was tantalizingly close. They might bump its forward edge before plummeting.

A hole in the landscape appeared starboard. Maybe down there was a surface regular rather than pinnacles. Her intuition showed her a gravel and sand haven fifty metres closer than the maddeningly unattainable perfect landing. They wouldn't have to kill the last of the reserve to reach it. "Brace yourself."

Danby jammed a rolled-up handkerchief between her teeth. Down, down by jerks. Calvert shunted energy from keel to turbos. Gravity dragged them earthward at significant, albeit survivable, speed, or so she thought—she'd admire her piloting after. The neat insertion between spires dislodged some gravel. The non collision-landing was apprehended like a celebration by two oppressed spirits. The settling in after not much.

"Wow." Danby, cloth removed from mouth, made a smile that despite the dark was appreciated in full by its intended target.

"Wow, yourself." Calvert unclipped her harness. Outside murk was owing to a substantial depth of water. Their car had submerged to past the wings. Its surfaces were energy absorbing. A meagre ten metre strip of fuselage on top remained. Calvert calculated not enough sunlight was going to come to recharge them. Too deep, too much obstruction, too much shade. "Plot our location. I'll ready the beacon."

"Aye, aye, sir." Danby's 'by the regs' reply, unexpected, jarred Calvert.

"With any luck Marco's awake and wondering where we've gone."

"I expect he will be, sir."

"Beth . . ." Calvert stood in the gap between cockpit and passenger compartment, haloed in emergency lighting, "Can you drop the formality please? After so long it doesn't feel right to me."

"We'll have to revert back once the Captain arrives."

"That's then. I'll feel far more comfortable right now if we leave things the way they've been."

"All right," Danby drawled. "Fix is good to go."

"Great. A couple hours and we're out of here. Just need to get that beacon up." Their position was 2047 crow-flight kilometres from the excavation. The final 93 kilometres had happened over the most rugged mountain range the planet possessed. Calvert realized, as she opened the aft emergency locker, she'd slept almost seven hours. Her thoughts were clear and her motions sure. She was also desperately hungry.

Three hundred metres cabling said the script at the bottom of the beacon instructions. She need only depress a trigger after setting the protective cover out of the way.

The cable was not long enough. They'd be broadcasting their location to rocks on all sides. That the beacon broadcast its plea omnidirectional was no help either. The closest satellite was not near enough. They were too low, their 'lucky' landing had put them fifteen metres in a hole. The encircling peaks added from 900 to 1400 metres more. Settling back on her heels, Calvert sucked the inside of her cheek, and mulled over consequences she had wrought.

"We good?"

"No," Calvert said. "We're—"

"Too low." Danby nodded sternly. "I can fix that."

"You know of a kilometre-long spool of filament just lying about somewhere?"

Danby opened another locker and began pulling out items from inside, including a coil of rope.

"That might work," said Calvert impulsively. The beacon was mouse-sized with an inflatable bladder for maintaining lift. Its cabling was thread-fine filament. They'd need to recreate the beacon as a monster of itself to loft so much more mass. "You're not going to—"

"Climb the beacon out to where it'll do some good? Why not?"

As author of chaos, Calvert felt the burden of responsibility to set things right was hers, but kept silent, the agony she suffered while doing so steeping behind her eyes. Her novice climbing skills were no match for Danby's expert ones. Danby could not be dissuaded from going either, and so Calvert didn't try. A positive send off would be a help. A negative one made matters worse.

"Best to head out while it's cool," said Danby.

"You're taking your outdoors suit, aren't you?"

"Shouldn't have to. All right, I will, in case I get stuck somewhere."

"I'll uncouple the beacon." The beacon was inside a rod the thickness of her wrist and the length of her lower arm. Handing the device over, the liquid protest lodged in her throat too heavy and emotionally charged to push past, she felt an abject coward. Worse, she was the incompetent imbecile who went about creating peril for herself and others everywhere she went.

"Should be five to six hours before I'm high enough," Danby was saying.

"I could come with." Calvert's voice felt near to breaking.

"No offence, Julie, but I can make far better time on my own."

Danby had first to swim to reach a place to climb out by. Calvert watched from the cockpit's topside hatch, water lapping beneath her hand, and pretended to enjoy the apple she munched. Her companion waved from the top of a crevice she'd climbed like a ladder, and disappeared within moments. Calvert stared at her half eaten apple, for which she'd lost all appreciation and appetite, before tossing it into the water. She saw it descend out of sight as the night's quiet came and overwhelmed her.

#

Marco opened one eye nearly all the way, and then both equally. A moment of panic ensued until he realized where he was. The inside of an auto doc very like that of a stasis sarcophagus. He tried to recall if he'd been injured before deciding he hadn't been. No control pad was on the inside of the 'doc, he drifted in its suspension field, it would be tricky getting out without help. First he had to uncouple himself from intravenous lines and catheters. A grimace was made to the garment swaddling his hips, which after days of use had an aroma he was appreciating far too close and much. Sideways in the doc, feet braced against the inner side, and heave the transparent panel out and up. The medical emergency klaxon commenced blaring. If his shipmates were present, the noise should bring both at the double. He knew they were not present. No one was aboard besides himself. The easiest way out was by dumping the suspension field. He reached far over to the control panel, giving himself a head start for the deck when the field dropped.

Maintaining a grip of the cover helped and, although he had to fall, he'd enough control over how he did that his impact with the deck was far less than what it would have been otherwise. A moment of whimsy was spent appreciating polished surfaces from low down. Another regretted the joyful jungle he'd left behind. He wasted valuable time, Marco realized. Beth needed him wherever she was urgently. "Poly, where are Julie and Beth?"

"Gone to the grotto."

"Ah, kay, are you in contact with them?"

"No, they overflew the grotto. They've since flown themselves beyond my sensor reach."

"Emergency beacon?" The women couldn't have activated an emergency beacon, otherwise Poly ought to have tried to wake him before this.

"No beacon."

"How long has it been since they've disappeared from your sensor reach?"

"Three hours fourteen minutes."

"Poly, initiate preflight checks. We're taking off."

"Aye, aye, Marco."

Quick shower and dress. He remarked the neatness of his quarters and differences between now and what he remembered. Arriving into the bridge, he saw cozy constellations of standby lights, and appreciated the whirr of ventilators and hum of consoles—stimuli comfortingly familiar. The benefit of his vacation, Marco realized, was a cool head and a steady hand. He felt ready for anything, his movements sure, his concentration perfect. Her anchors jettisoned—they saved precious minutes that way—Polyphemus rose, creating a roil of dust and flinders and smoke-like obscurity. An unexpected consciousness touched his with a piquancy that startled him. He left someone behind. Who? Polyphemus had not ceased her elevator climb, an altitude one hundred fifty metres already and rising. Had Calvert left Beth outside? Hadn't they'd both gone? He felt certain his internal calculation was correct, the women were gone from the site, yet he'd no doubt someone wailed at him from below.

"Identify yourself," Marco said cautiously.

"It's Happy. I'm Happy."

"Hap—TRAX?"

"Yes. I'm here with Joe and Monty. You've left us behind."

"You're all TRAX?" he replied dubiously.

"Yes. Please don't leave us."

He determined Happy's location in his centre monitor. The boxlike machine perched on a high patch of ground near where a section of pressure fence had been restored. "I'm not leaving you. I'll be back. I have to find the other members of the crew."

"Julie and Beth are missing?"

"Yes." He set the ship into a hover. Without a doubt he conversed with a sapient being, who had a distinctive accent, something Massachusetts and a lot like Calvert's.

"I've been following my instructions. We're making good progress."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"When will you be back?"

"I don't know. Before morning, I hope."

"That's a long time."

"I know. I'm sorry. It's an emergency."

"Then I won't keep you. We should be all right."

"Use the satellite uplink. We'll keep in touch."

Marco peered into his nav screen. On its right was a projection of his pursuit course, remarkable for its arrow-straight character, as if someone had aimed the car, sent it along its way, and gone off on other business. "You fell asleep," Marco muttered darkly, "without engaging the autopilot. Idiot!"

The other thing bothering him, the TRAX Happy, wrapping the back of his neck as though in ice, needed a proper time to be dealt with. Calvert had done that too. Just what had gone on during his absence?

#

Four hours into her mission, she lay buried to past the waist in scree, right hand crushed, the left pinned under her body. Danby had pushed hard and fast her first three hours of climbing. She had gained the foot of the nearest peak, not the easiest to climb, just the one convenient to her starting place, and traversed by starlight a thirty degree slope. Easy going until the grade abruptly steepened. Near the top of some scree had been a ledge the size of a rowboat handy to step on with some surer climbing after. She'd clambered on the ledge, relaxed a moment, readjusted straps and coils, pushed off, and precipitated the accident which had deposited her here.

The rock had shifted and she lost her balance. Better foresight might have saved the situation. She ought to have been able to cling to something. She'd come to her conclusion while ice-cold gravel leeched heat from her body. Her crushed hand pained her, but not much as long as she didn't try to move the arm it attached to.

An attempt to extricate herself had started a slide, which was why a gang of pebbles rested on her sternum when before they ranged no further than the sink of her navel. Danby rested, stars in brilliant display overhead, air icy cold, breath fogging. She was in a bad way, but not yet desperate. She'd know desperate after her next attempt at something, which would be to haul free the intact arm that was trapped. An all or nothing deal, which was why she lay still, marshalling, in addition to her strength and stamina, her concentration. She waited for a specific moment. She'd know the moment when it came. It was not yet, but would be soon.

The stars were beautiful to look upon, the night clear, and she didn't mind the cold. She would have been a great deal more comfortable in the environment suit that was rolled up in her backpack under the beacon launcher. Her helmet had detached during her tumble and was lost.

How will I know when to try what I have to do? She'd asked herself that question over and over as the cold soothed her toward a condition of apathy. The table-sized stone on her crushed hand had been bad luck. She'd gotten a wrenched shoulder and stressed tendons during attempts to brake herself, before going head over heels and spraining her neck.

What she intended was going to trigger a lot of pain and perhaps the pain would be the defeating kind. A wind slight though very cold drifted over her resting place; the avalanche she'd started was over except for her small part of it.

The moment came and was unmistakable. The engine rumble was sudden, everywhere and thick. Starship on approach. She smiled despite the freshets of pebbles whispering victory as they slid over her body, and warned worse to come. A few seconds more, she thought, and closed her eyes over their icy tears. Soon, very soon.

#

A distance of two thousand kilometres through atmosphere was considerable even for a modern starship. Polyphemus, moving with an urgency not entirely her pilot's, had taken one hour and twenty-three minutes.

Marco actively scanned ahead of his ship. At the arrow end of his path was a peak higher than the height he flew at. The line he followed didn't end with a debris field this side of the peak. "No," he murmured, "not crashed, and certainly not dead." If they'd been killed, he'd've felt it somehow. As the opposite side of the peak was not going to be strewn with wreckage either, they had to have managed a landing right after crossing the peak. He banked on this outcome and commenced a short steady climb.

#

Danby rocked into her bed of gravel. Her intact hand and arm was trapped between the small of her back and the backpack. Her own weight, compaction of surrounding material, and suction held it. Rocking broke the suction, loosened the compaction, and triggered the talus to move, which was good in one way though not in another. The loose stuff above flowed merrily now to lower pasture.

The trapped woman became more covered as she struggled. Her left arm popped free. A muscle cramp was not unexpected, but could be a crucial impediment. She rolled onto the injured right arm and hand. Teeth grit against pain, Danby snagged the dust coated middle finger of her left glove with her teeth and wrenched it off. Gasping, vision muddy about the edges, feeling as though the recipient of a solid head blow, she reached with her left hand and arm at the right side backpack clip. She must squeeze and yank to unseat the clip. She wouldn't get a second try. All had to be good.

Grimacing, her eyes slits against the dust—a sharp pebble cut her cheek as it skittered past. The difficult clip undone. She must be sure again. The stubby beacon cylinder had shifted and was a little further in. Her weight and that of the gravel flowing down wedged it. Heaving herself up from the waist, spots popping before her eyes, her hand with the best grip she could make, the baton resisting, squeezing harder, tugging harder. "Sonofabitch!" Danby snarled, and the launcher came free. The talus flowed faster still.

#

The cresting starship saw a valley so wild it looked cleaved by giant axes. Marco braked to a standstill. They are down there, somewhere, he thought as the monitors in his wraparound console showed the valley in many ways. He looked for debris, also heat or movement. The spot of red was as brief as a blink, yet he saw it and his motion froze. The beacon carolling data mere moments after he gave little notice to. He was already out of his seat and headed for the lift. "Poly, take us as near to that heat signature as you can!" he shouted. What would he need? Resuscitation unit? sled? shovel? He couldn't afford a side trip to the infirmary, he had to find her quick, bring her the help she desperately needed. No time to find and don a heavy coat, he exited the ship in his ship suit, the cold numbing. He must find her alive quick or he'd find her corpse after.

Chapter Twenty-Six - Contrition

The far end of the watery crevasse, where the stone shelved, had been no worse than thigh deep and, besides a hollow or two easily avoided, easily reached. A climb vertical yet as a ladder for ease had brought her out of the crack and under a sky so crystalline dark and beautiful that her self disgust and anxiety had sloughed away.

Calvert sat amongst stones, embracing her knees, chin on their platform, watching. Had there been not much more light, she might have seen the tiny figure trapped on the slope ahead, although its quiet and motionlessness would have made the chance unlikely. Her sight line not landward in any case; she'd been counting shooting stars and remarking constellations between sips of distilled water.

The howl of turbines could not be mistaken. "Polyphemus?" and up over her feet the next instant. She'd watched her ship crest the near peak, descend and execute a peculiar half twist and forward slide. She was jogging toward dazzling light by then, through streaks of brilliance and past shadow stark enough to hide nightmares unimaginable, the immense body of the ship occluding the stars in a huge fat line. It seemed she would come to it in no time. Marco? Beth?

The pulse of a peculiar pause touched and pressed her backwards. It seemed her ears had of a sudden plugged. She'd been heard, but was not sure by whom. He was annoyed and angry. The sense of an emergency in progress was unmistakable, palpable. Marco, it is you.

I'm busy, his curt reply.

Something's happened to Beth!

Be something useful and shut the fuck up!

Her gasp was owing to feeling put upon, abused, and angry herself. She swallowed her unuseful rage. Beth needed her help this instant even if Marco did not think so. I can help. As she was slowed by the uneven and steep ground, Calvert saw the emergency clear. Beth's position and depth she understood to the millimetre. Marco by embedding the bow of the ship had stoppered a landslide and stabilized the slope but he'd only a general idea of where Danby was, a best guess that Calvert realized was not good enough.

"Send a sled for me, I know exactly where she is," Calvert said grimly, in her voice all the authority she possessed. This that had happened, too, would be her fault.

All right. Get up here quick.

Coming to a stop before a house-sized boulder that had no easy way round it, she instructed, "Fourteen metres beneath your current position— not directly down, go five degrees right. A little more right. There, you're directly over her now."

You're sure? came back with far less anger.

"I'm god damned positive, damn you," Calvert replied tersely. "About half a metre down, you'll have to dig—"

I know what I'm doing from here. Was gratitude in his reply? Calvert debated herself while she gnawed lips and waited for her ride.

Marco had driven his pallet into the slope with the same purpose in mind as he'd caused the ship to serve. The pallet created a dam onto which a considerable amount of scree arrived as though to test its hold against the slope. The TRIKEs disembarked on either side, their movement tricky on the near forty degree incline, articulated limbs handy. They dug voraciously as soon as they brought themselves under control. His grunt of satisfaction was made to a hopeful start. Marco hopped down, scuttled under the pallet, and with his shovel made several heavy sweeps of material, creating a shelf, his effort carefully measured, his sweat clammy across his brow and down his back. Calvert had to be right. Danby had to be beneath him right here, because if she wasn't, she must meet her end.

As he dug with shovel, next bare hands, ignoring cold and scratches, cuts and cracked nails, he knew she was here. He'd the image of her twisted body before his mind's eye: she'd thrown up an arm as a shield, hunched her shoulders, and ducked her face into the throat of her ship suit. She'd protected herself as much and as well as she could and lived in a pocket within which was air, very little air.

Calvert leaped down the instant she arrived. Wordlessly she added herself to the digging, with no more care or caution for her own comfort or safety than he, and with as much energy. Her grunts and gasps, the clean sweat smell of her, distracted Marco while he bit back the retort he had planned to greet her with. She was helping, the skree was coming off, cloth was beneath his hand. Rejoicing, tears in his eyes, tenderly he moved her arm back to uncover her hair with its copious dust and her blackened face. He wiped her mouth clear with his sleeve. "Breathe into her, I'm getting the kit," he said gruffly.

"No need," came softly from the uncovered woman. "I can breathe for myself."

"Beth!" gasped Calvert as she cradled her filth-encrusted friend in her arms, tears coursing down her cheeks. "Oh, Beth!"

"We'll have you out in a jiff," said Marco, intending his reassurance should be encouraging and lighthearted despite he'd his anger back and its subject was full in view, who looked back smiling and soundlessly laughing until rendered sober by it.

"Ye–ah, we'll get you out," muttered Calvert.

Crucial rescue work needed still to be done. Marco resumed his spade, and then set it aside and used his hands again until his love was free. Carefully, tenderly, the two lifted their injured comrade into the sled and Marco climbed in after. Calvert declared she would retrieve tools and TRIKEs and rendezvous in the infirmary to vacant air. Marco had not stayed.

She arrived to a sombre Boat Bay in her dust-grimed garments. After securing equipment, her look cautious and fearful, Calvert came to the auto doc nearest the infirmary entrance. Inside was her freshly bathed and sleeping shipmate, the cruel injury done her hand encased in an inflated wrap and strapped to her chest, her body floating behind the glass, her posture peaceful, her expression serene.

"She may lose the hand," Marco said baldly. "The crushing disrupted the circulation, the tissue will need extensive regeneration which may not return full capacity."

"That's . . . terrible," Calvert managed to say. She'd not shifted the focus of her gaze and only heard his voice. He sat in the corner, on the far side of the entrance. He'd waited for her to come in thus, intending an ambush. Later he would move his stool closer to the 'doc and its patient. He'd seated himself where he was so he could watch her come in and not be noticed, and snarl when she least expected it, and startle and cajole her.

"You want to explain how you managed to put yourself away and the hell and gone from us?" he asked sternly.

"I don't have to answer to you." Her voice was brittle. She'd some of her balance back. She could give as good as she received.

"You will have to answer to Captain Thorpe. You are going to take responsibility for what's happened." He came up out of his seat and walked toward her.

"Of course I am." Calvert turned about defensively. "I fell asleep. I've no excuse. I feel terrible about all of this. This was more . . ."

"You feel terrible? How terrible?" He'd stood in front of her, and was the wall from which he glowered.

"What kind of question is that?" Calvert backed a step, giving up all the room she had left, the auto doc behind her.

"The kind of question that pertains to morality. I'd like to know if you actually give a fuck about Beth, about either of us."

"Of course I do." Though he'd washed his hands his face stayed all grimed up. He looks as I must do, Calvert was thinking. We are equal in love and affection despite our opinions are a thousand kilometres apart. I don't want this, whatever this might come to be, it can only do us harm. "I know you're upset . . ."

"Lady, you don't know upset."

"You were asleep for days! We worked like madwomen to restore the site."

"Why do you think I believe that argument excuses your part in what happened? You always play the honour and duty cards when it comes to justifying your actions. Why do you think I care about that bullshit?"

"You're in this navy, you should care."

"Not much longer. You've given me my fill of insane orders for satisfying madcap schemes. You may have convinced yourself that all you've done was for a greater good but it really was only about you, your ambition, your greed."

"That's not right." Calvert felt perspiration trickling through her filthy hair. "We've accomplished great things here."

"Oh, we have? What exactly have we accomplished that an adequately equipped research team couldn't have done better, with far less stress, danger and damage? What? C'mon, you can think of one thing, can't you?"

She could think of several, except none he was worthy to know. She could only stand with a closed face while he glowered over her.

"I didn't think so. I just hope the after-action review officer takes into account all the ways you've fucked this up and fucked us up before he decides about your fitness for promotion. I hope he decides the safest place for you is parked behind a desk for as long as it takes for you to have your fill of this navy."

"That's not fair, I've done all—"

Brown eyes gone flint glared remorselessly into hers. "Get the hell out of my infirmary."

"If that is the way you feel."

"Leave, now," he growled at her.

Before she did, Calvert glanced behind and saw Danby watching them—or had she imagined her friend's eyes were open? Danby slept, her features peaceful, her condition pharmacologically induced. But Calvert's photographic memory informed her that her friend's eyes had indeed been open and she had witnessed their argument. With her realization in hand Calvert stiffened her spine, spun a quarter turn and marched herself out of there. She could feel his ire spatter against her back. Calvert decided she would not vent her feeling inside some parting word or gesture. All stayed correct until the corridor. Once out of Marco's sight her eyes made their hot tears. Angrily she swiped the traitors away and felt their grit leftovers as stings.

A commander must make decisions, unpopular, distasteful, even wrong decisions. To direct was the leader's privilege and responsibility. Even if she had made decisions that had placed herself and her crew into jeopardy, she'd had reasons.

Of course, a fuck up falling asleep at the controls was no leader, just a fuck up. Her guilt weighing on her like lead, Calvert came into Boat Bay Lower. There'd be no chances to repair so great a tear in her career's fabric before the Captain arrived. She was soon going to be a subordinate again, a very junior subordinate, and subject of an examination so severe her career might not survive it.

"What am I to do?" She had no hope of an answer. The valuable knowledge she possessed, and high society standing, were no help here and now. With heavy heart she loaded a battery pack into her sled. The night's exertions wouldn't end until the car she'd almost wrecked was returned to its rafter-garage.

Marco had moved his chair as near to the 'doc as he could. His crossed ankles were the fulcrum over which he balanced. Things needed to be done. Polyphemus rested, unanchored, her bow metres deep in the mountain, and her systems on standby. The abandoned excavation was under the supervision of a being fantastical. Flight, action and injury reports needed to be filed. He'd his own needs to look after besides. A visit to the head, shower and change of clothes, something to eat. Except none of those things, no matter their urgency, could stir him from his place. Gazing through the glass at her still-as-death features, knowing how near he'd come to losing her forever, Pacini nursed his smouldering anger.

An hour elapsed and all the things needing to be done were done. Calvert rode the high chair inside the bridge as Polyphemus coasted dead-slow back. The girl commander watched through repeater screens as the slope of the mountain, now freed, descended in a wave and scoured every trace of a desperate rescue away.

Her expression was fixed. She took no satisfaction for having expertly secured her ship and its equipment. She'd merely done what needed to be done.

I'm replenishing water, Calvert declared and felt Marco's acknowledgment before realizing she hadn't used her comm system to relay her notification. She pondered her slip up while her ship coasted along a path precise to the metre.

The task of replenishing water permitted her to linger on the bridge. The time during hovering would be useful to compose her reports in. The task of recording her confession for the official record could be neither purgative nor expiative. Her sigh long and heartfelt she began:

We had set off for the water source, intending to enjoy a brief time

of rest and recuperation . . .

Her thoughts stalled before the next part. She could neither recite nor pen, the stark truth too damaging, her guilt too painful.

Why not mention how tired you were? her alien mentor advised.

Because it does not matter.

You had not slept for several days.

Did you not hear me? It. Does. Not. Matter!

It does not matter that the assist I was providing you with was abruptly terminated?

Of a sudden she was upright in her seat. What assist? What are you talking about?

I saw you were having difficulty, so I helped you.

You helped me? How?

I provided you with the energy you needed.

You boosted my energy level?

If I hadn't, you would have collapsed.

Why didn't you shut off the dream projector? You could have done that!

I suppose I could have. It hadn't occurred to me that I should.

God in Her Great Black Heaven! That a simple ask was all it took to get the alien to shut off its purgatory projection. She'd never thought to complain about the means responsible for her suffering. Her eyes watered while she laughed. She'd been given a stimulant without her knowledge, and been cut off from it completely and without warning. She was not an agent of catastrophe after all. Like every other secret she was privy to, this one did her no good. Still she had to laugh.

You are not to blame. Your anxiety is over.

No, was her stark reply.

Yet you are relieved.

She was and had her courage back. She could write her report, which she continued as:

I was unaware how tired we were. All the same I take full responsibility

for what ensued. I had entered my course, settled back in my couch, and

fell at once asleep.

Calvert stared long at the words that condemned her. She could not change them for they were the truth. She could not excuse herself for the good reason she had, which must remain secret. How her career would survive in the aftermath she could not imagine. Any examining officer would interpret from her latest report, besides many others almost as bad, she was a screw up. If all the work she'd done must count for nothing, some future great deed must repair her reputation. You couldn't have orchestrated this better, she thought to the dark beyond her windscreen. I'm going to have to do my best. Whatever Thorpe wants me to do, I'll have to do.

Her demon deigned not to reply. Perhaps it pondered changes in fortune, perhaps it realized it had made the wrong choice, perhaps it had itself gone to sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Seven - Diversions

Danby held out her right hand, fingers relaxed, as instructed, and was disconcerted by the lazy inward curls the digits by themselves assumed. Grimacing, she attempted a surreptitious straightening and was chastened by a swift stern gaze.

"Stop that," said Marco, setting aside the instrument which had detected the cheating and took her hand in both of his to apply chafing. "I told you to relax this."

Danby nodded, grateful for the warmth. Both her hands since her accident were always cold. She had adopted the habit of tucking them into armpits or pockets whenever she wasn't using them and so she wouldn't have to look at the one which bothered her more.

Marco took her index finger and worked the joints back and forth and side to side. The finger looked like her finger and was connected to her hand, but didn't feel as though it was. He turned her whole hand over next and examined her palm and the undersides of her fingers. He was so intent on his examination she imagined he might be predicting her future by what he saw. "A tall, dark, handsome stranger?"

"Hum-m-m?"

His baffled expression was amusing to view. "Aren't you seeing my future there?"

"Ah!" He traced her life line with exaggerated care. "No tall, dark handsome stranger. Just a short, stocky somebody you already know."

"With a beard?"

"Yah." He needed a shave. His hair as long as hers. Would Thorpe let him keep the beard? She didn't think so. Or the hair either. The beard had started while he slept. She thought it made him frumpy-serious, which he was more and more of these days.

"Other hand," he said, setting the right one aside.

Sighing, she complied. Looking into the monitor upright between them, she saw what his handset saw. Her right hand with its skin removed: red muscle, white ligaments, red blood vessels, pink flesh, and yellow and grey patches. The yellow and grey patches impairments. Not as many as before but still far too many. To improve her hand function Marco had invested many hours in addition to the therapy she got from special gloves worn while sleeping.

"So, what's the prognosis, Doc?" she asked cheerily when he set her hand by its fellow in her lap.

"Left hand's good. Should have full function restored within a few more days." He was giving her his good news first. "The right hand might reach 60, 65 percent of normal functioning eventually. Beth, I'm sorry, that's the best we can hope for. The crushing disrupted circulation for far too long. You've regenerated as much as you're able to."

"That's all? 65 percent?"

"At the most optimistic," he said, grimacing.

"I can work that up to better."

"Beth, honey, you might get a little more if you really work it, but maintaining better than 65 percent would be tough. I don't know if it's even possible."

Her solemn gaze examined creases of coverall covering her lap. She said soft, "You're suggesting I have it off."

"Not the entire hand. Only the ruined parts. You could regrow a good hand with one hundred percent capability. Six to eight months." Recuperation time and progress were dependent on the patient's regenerative ability.

"That would cut me out of the mission."

"Yes, it would. You're out as of now anyway. No one would pass you 'fit for duty' as things stand."

"With this hand?" She hadn't thought she could be barred, and must therefore be anxious.

"Yes," he said, but in a strange way, which urged her to see the set of his eyes.

"You're not telling me something."

"There are other options."

"Dammit, Marco, if you don't quit jerking my chain I'm gonna hit you with something."

He grimaced again. "A prosthesis would be better than the real thing. You'd have the grip of an Amazon."

Fine for him to talk. It wouldn't be his hand chopped off. "I prefer the grip of a Danby, thank you very much."

"You'd hardly notice the difference," he continued, head down as he got up from his stool and started putting things away, "down to skin texture, feel, colour, size and shape."

"No," she said firmly.

"You could feel things again."

He was being too persuasive so she gave him a baleful look. So what if her hand felt encased in latex? Its condition would improve. She would exercise the stiffness out and get back enough flexibility and feeling to get by.

"What about your career?"

If she couldn't pass her fitness tests, she would lose her frontline warrior status.

"I just thought you should think about it." Owing to the thicket of hair covering his face, he appeared the wise village elder, and, hence, more difficult to argue with.

"I have thought about it." She hopped down from the examination table. The painful part of their talk being over, the next words out of her mouth were: "What's up for today?"

"Nothing much—ah, we could clean sweeps."

A suggestion deserving of a sour look. "Grugg can do that. Anything else?"

"Well." Peculiar things were happening. Things no one would be willing to question even if pressed to do so. Happy ran the excavation with single-minded zeal. Tonnes of dust and stone had shifted with remarkable ease. Other than essential maintenance, humans merely watched and recorded progress. Rather than engage in a discussion of odd matters, Marco finished with: "She screwed up my programming."

"That was the both of us."

"You want to take responsibility for him?"

"I knew nothing about it."

"Captain Thorpe will want to know how Happy became self aware. So will the R&D guys."

"I don't know what to tell you," said Danby and sniffed cautiously. Owing to prolonged exposure to dry and hot she was prone to nose bleeds. Plunging her hands into pockets was to warm them.

"He sounds like her when he talks."

"So what?"

"His attitude is a lot like hers, except he never falls asleep on the job."

"You know that wasn't her fault."

"The hell I do. One small command and you guys would've been safe as houses."

"She didn't know she was that tired. It could have been either of us—I fell asleep, too."

"You weren't flying the damn car."

"We worked days on the ventilation system, changing out drive assemblies, and trying to get the TRAXs to run. We were exhausted."

"She helped you with the drive assemblies?"

"Yeah and got dirty while she was at it." A grin sped his way was meant to encourage sympathy.

"She worked? Got dirty?"

"Yeah, she did. Marco, you got to give her credit for an honest effort."

"She didn't just hand you the tools when you asked for them?"

"You want to check the work logs? We're both there, sweating and grunting. You didn't think I replaced those drive assemblies all on my lonesome, did you?"

"I'll take your word for it."

Does he keep his beard so he can better mask what he's thinking? Danby was wondering.

"Well, I guess you're finished here for today."

"I guess I am. What do you—?"

"What are you—?" They chuckled in unison. "The one thing I ought to do is zone out a spot for our guests to land in and set out some lights."

"After that?"

"I dunno. Maybe do a sim."

"You got time to play?"

"As incredible as it sounds, yeah, I do."

"A sim sounds good."

"Really?"

"Yeah, sure. Paired, yah?"

"You bet." He grinned wholeheartedly and she took out her better hand from its pocket to touch his sleeve, and then his cheek. A kiss the natural thing after.

Tap, tap, tap. Calvert examined her fingertip to see if she'd blunted the nail before resuming her attention on the softly glowing screen before her, with header today's date: Last message received and understood. Have arranged speedier transport. Will arrive three days from transmit this. Captain John Thorpe.

The same fingernail, now between teeth, received a menacing pressure. The cryptic note was all the reply she'd gotten after a heart rending confession sent in first blush. She'd been alternately hopeful and fearful. He forgave her. He didn't forgive her. He was saving his most scathing remarks for when they met face to face. Her career was over, wasn't over, might as well be over. Reprieve. No reprieve.

She ought to be readying her furnishings for a return to storage, except she hadn't the energy or the desire to get started on that job.

"Ensign?" Jarred by the interruption, she bumped her coffee, which might have splashed its half full condition across the top of her desk had she been less tuned for disaster.

"Yes, what is it?" she replied irritably.

"We're going out to set up a landing zone."

"Very well." She was too restless to stay seated. Exercise would blunt her thinking and she went down to give herself some. By the time she finished her horseback riding, rock climbing and swimming, her shipmates arrived for their own choices for exercise.

"How did it go?" Calvert asked while scrubbing her legs dry, which permitted her gaze to float lower than it would normally. Full tanks of fresh water had financed her long steamy shower, which was as important to her recovery and morale as scaling cliffs and breasting waves.

"Lights up and good to illuminate," replied Marco genially and she glanced across to know whether he was in a genuine good mood or being smug.

He would have picked good ground, so she did not ask him where he'd sited the landing zone. "Will there be anything else we need to do?"

"Happy's digging out the sunbath and all the paths are restored."

"Oh." She had only her towel, not really covering herself. Calvert was dry enough she no longer dripped; her back mildly wet yet. She noticed he merely watched her. He derived no pleasure from her exposed, overly thin, body. "I'll just pop outside in a bit and check on things."

"Suit yourself."

Danby was removing her ship suit. It was painful to watch how her right hand failed its duty. The fingers stabbed and missed. Pain and frustration were in a friend's eyes. Calvert said, "I'll, ah, be in my cabin afterward."

"Sure thing. We're taking a break. Things look good. Not much left to do."

Not much left to do. Her mind took up the refrain. Less than three days left, of which she dreaded the passing of every minute. Calvert loitered while they slipped on their sim body stockings and exited to the sim suit room.

Birds. He'd forgotten birds. Numerous as gravel and swarming. Bird watching, he forgot Danby was in the canoe with him until she swiped water into his face with an expert paddle flip.

"Hey, knucklehead. I've been talking at you for the past minute."

"Sorry. The birds. I was watching them."

"This was a great idea, Marco. Do you know where this river goes?"

"There are rapids in another klick. We have a choice: portage or shoot them."

"Shoot the rapids? Let's do it!"

He had to grin. The river narrowed, dropped and sped. Marco gazed with adoration at Danby's long slim back in the snug fitting wet suit. Danby flailed with her paddle, forcing the route and pace, the current not fast enough for her.

"Where's the fire?" he called.

"What!"

"Where are you so anxious to come to?"

"What!"

"Never mind!" Marco had soloed this particular stretch a dozen times. Never portaged, always shot the rapids, and avoided crashing half the time. He concentrated on the safe channel, with perfect recollection of every rock, dip, and eddy along the way.

"There!" Danby shouted. "I want to go there!" She pointed with a perfectly straight finger. Marco helped steer to a channel perilously near the shore and bouldered in—the more difficult A route, which he'd tried only once before.

"I've been dumped seven times!" he shouted.

"What!"

Acceleration seized his body first and stomach after. "Dumped seven times!"

"Nice!"

They were half-spun about the periphery of a whirlpool, slingshot through a passage so narrow they left paint on both sides, managed a near vertical drop, and a wall of wet out of nowhere doused him head to foot.

Stab paddle one side and then the other. Next use it to thrust them from a rampaging boulder. Danby hollered like a kid on a roller coaster. Another sheer drop and canoe crunched stone. Danby's instincts were good but her paddling was too much reaction and not enough anticipation. Nor had she done the route before. Marco was doing the lion's share of steering and fending off. Disaster came at them within a space and time he knew not long enough and too short. Any chance for avoiding it gone. Leaping from his seat, Marco gripped Danby by the shoulders as the canoe swung broadside, and tumbled them out before a splintering crash.

The foaming, energetic water sped them on, the forward half of the sinking canoe slid beneath his palm as he shot past. They rode the rest of the way in just wet suits, feet first, danger close and delicious. More twists, dips and spins down to calm water. A fresh canoe and paddles waited on a sand bar convenient for them to swim to with little trouble.

"Hey," he said, flat on his back, panting like a winded collie after they completed their less than elegant landing near the replacement equipment, "we made it."

"Yeah," she answered amicably before making use of him as her couch. His chin slipped cosily into the hollow between her jaw and shoulder. "You want to go again?"

"Oh? No . . ." Canoeing, despite extreme fun, was extreme work and he intended something far less strenuous for his next choice.

"What should we do? Oh, wait, I know."

"What?"

"You know what."

"Oh?" he replied, unsure.

"I tried to get there, you know, while you were out cold, but couldn't."

"You couldn't?" They helped each other sit up. He didn't think it possible to get back, supposing an implacable barrier stood against his return. Yet he was anxious to try. With Island Beth having confessed knowledge of the particulars of her death, he might convince her to tell him about them. She must tell. If he could return, she'd have no choice. He'd insist, and her death could be avoided.

"Poly didn't know, and there seems to be no listing in the catalogue. I was wondering if you'd shifted the file into some odd location somewhere."

"Aw," he went, guilt for a long ago selfish manipulation glowing in his cheeks.

"Well, can we?"

"We can try," he said. His voice unsteady as he asked, recalling exactly the fake cover he'd applied, the pair seated on driftwood, water streaming past.

"What in the hell? Detailed Assembly of the 907-2E Wong Differential Coupler?" The punch she gave his arm wholly deserved. "We were all over the catalogue looking for Island, and you screwed us over. What a jerk!"

"I was jammed up. I couldn't get Julie to go away, and then . . ." His voice trailed off.

"You were way outside the regs. Don't forget that either. Here's another thing you're going to have to make up to me—to both of us."

"I know. Another hair shirt coming right up."

"Not even close, buster. You are in so much trouble right now."

They were not getting to Island via the menu all the same. Marco wished he didn't believe as strongly as he did this was so, appreciating as he was that things strange existed inside as well as outside the Island. Infection had taken hold within the sim library despite his precautions. Things commonplace had only appeared so. Differences he had thought novel and interesting might also be sinister.

Squinting into sunlight, closing his eyes, he desired with all his being to go there, Dorothy tapping her heels together. An odd way had to work because he could think of no other.

Seconds slid past like water over skin. His eyes stayed closed, his breath slowed, the birds kept up their noise, fetid stink was in his nostrils, the river flowed past. As he was about to despair, his hope near gone, he sensed a change. He opened his eyes to salt breeze, fronds rustling, gulls squabbling, lapis lazuli and cream sky, and a companion leaping on him in delight.

"There now," he said gently, eyes watering.

"I knew you could do it," she murmured to his cheek. "You're my genie."

"Hardly," he said, blushing. "She might not want to see us."

"I think she will," said Danby, nodding past his shoulder.

Beth, in combat fatigues, stood within the forest's edge, arms crossed, expression stern and hardly welcoming. He knew, watching her, it hadn't been his wishing it so, that they managed to come. Beth had allowed it. Island was hers and all that was in it. "Hello, Beth," he called hoarsely, remembering how she had forestalled him before with her last moment pseudo confession.

"Hello, yourself." Beth emerged from the trees. "Elizabeth," she said to her other self and the pair came together and embraced as siblings. Marco she only touched on his shoulder.

"Thank you for—" began Marco.

"You needn't be so formal, Marco." Beth indicated they walk along the shore.

Strange apparel choice, he thought.

Her look like the one she showed when they parted. She walked between them, her boots making her taller than her younger self. Danby's neoprene slippers left neat foot marks beside their jungle pattern prints. "Do you remember, Marco, within the bridge before this whole thing started, when I slugged you?" Beth said. "I said I must have been sleepwalking."

"Ah, yeah?"

A glance went to a blushing younger self. "I wasn't. I was freaked out of my mind, owing to the nightmares I, we, were all having. I thought I might be able to convince you to stop what you were doing." The trio stopped to look out over the water. "I was let to look into the future more than you or Julie, and it scared the heck out of me.

"As strange as it may sound, I was wrong to try to stop you. As wrong as it would be for you to try to stop what happens to us, me, Julie, all of us." Older and younger versions of the same woman locked gazes. "What happens is for the good of all humanity."

"How can that be?" Marco stood between and outside their communing.

Beth shrugged and started them again, the injured hand of her younger self clasped. " I've been let to know things, which I cannot reveal."

"How can—" Marco tried before the hand pressing his mouth stopped him.

"Marco, darling, you must no longer doubt, you must only believe."

"You could still tell me, what I need to know. I can save you!"

Both Beth and Danby turned to him with identical expressions. He stared back hurt and angry. "It's not possible," said Beth, soothing with caresses. "There is something you can and must do, however."

"But her hand!" blurted Marco.

You've decided what to do about that, Beth told him.

I've been hoping she—you won't agree.

I will feel that I have no choice.

"Something going on here?" asked Danby, not at all fooled by glass-smooth expressions.

"You ask too much," Marco grumbled.

"You must do as you've been told." Beth adjusted her place in order to to hug her other self from behind. Danby smiled uncertainly. "I must do as I've been told. One more thing the two of you ought to do."

"What?" he asked miserably.

Less than a minute later Marco was peeling himself from his sim suit husk with well practised ease, a goofy grin on his face. Danby's play booth remained closed. He'd already hung his suit in the cleaning locker. "Hey, in there, need a hand?"

"Ah maybe."

"Be a jiff. Hang in there, sweetie."

"Shut up, please," was sung back.

He reached in, snagged her, and drew her quietly protesting self across the frictionless surface. "I could've managed eventually," she complained.

She would have. Her expression told him so. "Need help still?" he asked delicately as he watched her struggle with her uppermost fastener. She strived a little longer before capping her resignation with a nod and a sniff. He released her from the prison of suit and she silently envied his skill.

"We need to tell Julie right away."

"I don't know about it having to be right away."

"We've time now that we may not have later."

"You think she'll want to dress up?" he quipped and gladly accepted a play-blow to his ribs.

"She can do or be whatever she wants," Danby muttered while she scowled at the dull fakes that had replaced her hands.

"I will fix your hand. Good as new. I promise."

"You promise?" A childlike smile full of hope was her response.

"You bet your gorgeous ass I do."

#

Calvert drew herself onto her elbows. What she remembered having prepared as a wake-up call had come at her in a different tenor, as query rather than clock alarm. Far better settled than she would have been otherwise, she evenly said, "Yes, what is it?"

Marco replied formally, "We need to speak with you, sir."

"Something wrong?" She didn't for one instant believe anything was amiss. She would have sensed any crisis the instant it arose.

"No, just something that shouldn't wait."

"Give me five minutes and I'll be with you." The five minutes was for washing her face and brushing out hair flattened from being slept on. Calvert received her crew in her office, behind the solid assurance a wood desk afforded. She did not quite smile for she was not yet in with the joy they unabashedly displayed. "All right, then," she said, brow rising, "what is it I should know?"

Marco blurted: "We're getting married!"

"Muh-muh-muh-married?" She did well to show only the surface of the confusion, hurt and despair she of a sudden felt. They couldn't marry! How could they marry? This place is the middle of nowhere!

She was unable to look at either of them, least of all Danby whose extraordinary perception needed no aid to inform her how her commander might be feeling. Calvert made the best smile she could at her desk top, muttered congratulations to the same place, glanced up and saw Danby's concern. Calvert forced herself to take courage in with her next breath, and make her smile better as well as fashion it to appear genuine. The youth stood and offered congratulations, in good voice, taking their hands in turn to clasp. Another breath further on and she stepped around the desk to embrace Danby because Danby, owing to the differences in rank and class standing between them, could not, their eyes seeping tears during and after contact.

"Absolutely, I am happy for both of you," Calvert ended, putting her hands behind herself so their seeping dampness go into the cloth covering her behind and not her front and be seen. "When will you—I mean, when shall be the ceremony?"

"Well, Captain Thorpe shall officiate, of course," Danby said apologetically.

"Naturally," said Calvert, nodding vigorously, "you must begin with the best of all possible starts. You have my endorsement."

"You could be maid of honour," said Marco, surprising her. The offer ought to have come from Danby, who nodded concurrently nonetheless.

"Oh, ah, very well. I accept," Calvert heard herself say.

"I need to comm the Captain," Marco was saying, "with your permission, sir. To inform him and to ask will he officiate for us?"

"Yes, yes, of course you should and right away. Ah, you may use this suite." While stepping out of the way, Calvert wished herself in her bedroom, a towel between her jaws to stifle her screams with.

"I had in mind to use the command suite upstairs," said Marco, reluctant or embarrassed. "With your permission, sir?"

"Yes, upstairs. I will unlock from here and all shall be ready when you get there."

"Thank you, sir." So formal, so distant. She gazed into his eyes a moment and saw triumph as well as joy. He was glad she was discomfited. He relished her confusion.

Keeping her irritation bottled up, she dismissed them, administering to Danby an arm squeeze on her way out, and resumed her seat to undo the upstairs locks. I ought to freeze the whole, damned console. Ungrateful animal. Does he blame me still? The youth did as she said she would, and then sat back heavily after, her scowl likely to become permanent, so deeply had it settled. Why should she feel dispirited? The many controversies and friction between them, his superior attitude and experience, her ineptness—cured for good and all, she hoped—and her envy were reasons. She needed him in her life, their story together was far from over, when this episode ended she wanted him by her side.

A future appeared clean before her mind's eye. She admired the dark blue of his senior captain's uniform, while dismayed and then amused by the grey in his hair and the wrinkles about his eyes. Next she noticed the admiral's privilege white she wore. Marco gazed back at her, smiling.

They were friends in that forward time—his smile was genuine. She blinked several times, to try to keep the vision though it faded fast. Her futile efforts met the wall ahead of her seat.

"I've lost him just for now." What of Beth in that distant time? Calvert had no sense of their friend's presence. The spouse of a senior captain might travel with him, but not serve in any capacity within his ship. How content would Marine Corporal Elizabeth Danby be as a mere passenger? Calvert scowled. She's not dying here. Events aplenty were ahead, years of them, the three of them together. This was more than feeling. A yawn reminded her of an interrupted rest. Before settling back in bed, she intended visiting a favourite text. Afterward she would have only the soft and safe type of dreams to dream.

Chapter Twenty-Eight - Remedy

Danby gazed uneasily at her hand's cover. Utilitarian black, her fingers under firm discipline on the table top, the glove a little tight about the wrist, warm, and tingling. "This is your solution?" she asked sourly. She'd expected something less likely to be remarked on by every single person she encountered from now on.

"Pick up something," Marco invited. From the selection he'd brought for her to try.

A finger-sized bolt. Picked up, dropped. "Like this?" she asked irritably, feeling out of sorts.

"Yes," he said, using his medic's voice although he, too, was become annoyed. "Pick up something else."

Screwdriver, wire brush, wrench, drill bit. Picked up and dropped or placed according to the merits, and danger by ricochet, of the thing.

"You don't like it?" he concluded when she'd finished with his testing.

"When did you figure that out?" She'd control but no sensation. The odd, bulky glove was like a mitten to feel with inside.

"Try these washers." Small, snug to the table top, and left for last.

A grunt of confidence was released. Though she could not feel it well enough to appreciate it, she'd the dexterity she needed. Even the thinnest washer could she coax from its bed, the glove helping. She didn't quite smile. The cover was damned ugly. She could get used to it.

"I'd say the test was a success." He smiled encouragement at her.

"All right." Danby slipped down onto her feet.

"Wait a minute!" She had been about to walk away with his data.

"What?"

"That's not yours to keep. It's my data gathering device." He showed her the monitor which she'd not noticed before and its numbers and text.

"You bugger." He'd not told her about the glove's function before coaxing her to put it on. She'd assumed it a remedy and not a diagnostic tool.

"I wanted to see your reaction." He hadn't meant to amuse himself at her expense. Rather he'd intended to prepare her for the far less cumbersome device he intended equipping her with.

"What's that mean?" she asked, still annoyed.

"You were ready to walk away with this, as uncomfortable as it is."

"Well," She shrugged, "if I've no choice . . ."

"Sweetheart, I can do a whole lot better." He took her hand to remove the velcro connection and restraint. "A couple of hours."

"Couple of hours," she gasped, too elated to answer as she would have liked.

"I told you I could fix you up."

My older self said you would. He looked neater with hair trimmed, but he'd kept his beard. She supposed he wanted it as a reminder, for having survived so much abuse. "Two hours?" Her tongue firmly tucked itself against the vulnerable flesh of her inner cheek.

"Three." He gently gripped her wrist. "No more than three."

"Okay," she said softly and left to hone the edges in her shooting which she could do just fine in the Standard Marksman's simulation. She would only have to struggle into and out of the sim suit husk. A lingering look was put on the glove on his work table before taking herself away.

#

Calvert, standing at Happy's side, watched the mosaic and its terrifically many ghostlike images bustling amongst and against each other. Should she focus on a single excerpt, something remarkably easy to do, its story, demonstration or lecture would present itself up close for her edification, all others fading into a mumbling background.

Humming and down-gazing avoided distraction. She'd been out longer than she'd intended; her aim had been to survey the progress of her mechanized crew.

That's an awful lot of mosaic uncovered. Her measuring employed peripheral vision only. "Happy, how much mosaic have you uncovered?"

"In excess of ten thousand square metres." They'd taken down the old enclosure, and put up a double line of fencing, inner higher than outer, to block the prevailing wind. The berm Joe and Monty emptied over ran parallel with the fence, the mosaic in between.

"That's too much." They'd not uncovered as much as six thousand square metres at any time before. Dome, plug, sunbath, power station, walkways cleared also.

"The work has gone well."

Besides glitter and ghosts was glowing no one else could see. Its purpose would not be revealed until the mosaic was entirely uncovered. Something she would be sorry not to witness. Shut up, you, was growled to the space ahead of her nose. Her alien genie, chastened, stayed silent.

"The digging has been far easier than I anticipated," said Happy. If the alien wished to assist her in a demonstration, that was to the good. "It pleases you?"

"Happy, it is far more than expected and it does please me. I am worried though."

"My enhancement cannot be explained. You wish me to return to what I was?"

"That wouldn't be right. I'm blaming the alien for it. I've done so before."

A snort, accurately simulated. "Do you think they'll believe you?"

"They'll suppose I'm lying, but they won't be able to prove it."

"What will they do?" In a machine voice was genuine concern.

"They can't do anything. Don't worry yourself. It's the many stupid things I've done that are going to get me into far more trouble."

"Most were not your fault."

"I have hope the good will o'erweigh the bad. That's wishful thinking, I know. Despite all that's happened, I don't anticipate bad consequences in our futures. In fact, I forecast rather good consequences for all of us."

"For me too?" The equivalent of a snicker.

"The eggheads are going to pester you with tests for a while. In the end you'll be determined too unique and valuable to be meddled with."

"I'll take comfort in that."

"You are my child," said Calvert, feeling an upswell of emotion. "I will look out for you as long as I can." Her hand on his flank was as close as they could come to intimacy, but was enough. "I am sorry I did this to you," she murmured, her tears and their salt slipping away to be recycled.

"I would rather be here with you than any other place."

The youth felt once more on the outs with her crew. Her loneliness and anxiety kept in check by Happy's company.

The long berm Monty and Joe added to was a half kilometre long and, in places, as much as twenty metres higher than the neighbouring terrain. Her attention was snagged by a swirl of dust during one of the dumps. Five tonnes freshly added. Over the opposite end, five tonnes more. Joe and Monty would be minutes returning at the pace they worked by, speedier empty than while burdened. Five tonnes times four loads per rig per hour. Forty tonnes times sixteen hours per work day, not including down times. That makes five to six hundred tonnes per day at the most. Her scowl sped across the berm's impossible length and height. You idiot.

"I thought you would be pleased," assailed her from kissing distance. Startled, Calvert placed a foot wrong and turned her ankle. Surprise, pain and distress overcame her, and she missed the grey as earth humanoid metamorphose into her shape and dress in her colours.

"Is that yuh yuh-you?"

"Whom do you mean?" asked her double disingenuously.

"Why duh—why did you wait so long to manifest?" Her voice was very wrong and screeching.

"I might have manifested any time I wanted. Did I frighten you?"

"No," growled Calvert as she tested her foot—exquisite pain. "You startled me!"

"Are you injured?"

"Fucking jerk."

"Allow me." The alien knelt to embrace her ankle between its hands before Calvert could protest. Tingling and a little warmth. All the pain and strangeness of an injury gone. A subsequent test informed her of a sturdy, healthy ankle.

Calvert mentally shrugged away a miracle cure. The being came upright. Comparing height and shape confirmed an exact borrowing of both. "You've done too much. This cannot be explained away." Calvert indicated the long, high berm.

"I will undo it."

"Are you nuts? That would be far worse than leaving it as is."

Calvert suspected the other smiled in the exact same manner she did. "Let's walk, shall we?"

"There are records of us right now," hissed Calvert as she fell into step with her doppleganger.

"I won't register on them."

"You're a projection?" Annoyed, the girl poked the alien. The contact bounced a natural feel back to her.

"I am corporeal, as you've just noticed. I have the ability not to appear to your cameras."

"This conversation?"

"Is not being heard. I would not risk our valuable association for the sake of vanity."

"Can you stop using my voice?" Their conversation was much like the ones she'd been having with herself lately.

"Whose voice would you rather hear?"

Calvert decided she did not want Marco's or Beth's voice coming from her shape. As she could think of no other good substitute, she relented. The being could continue using her voice. "What have you come to tell me?"

"The opening is complete except for a membrane holding the cutout in place. Another five minutes will see the job done. I've turned off your cutting apparatus."

"All right."

"The man who comes intends to steal an artifact from my ship. The attempt will fail."

"That's my test, isn't it? How I end up in the chamber in the first place?"

"Yes."

Calvert thought she ought to be able to convince the civilian not to try. Mentally she smiled to this notion.

"That can't work."

"What?" said Calvert crossly.

"He will not give your reasons any credence. You will only hurt your position by arguing."

"It's my choice to present a case, isn't it?"

"Argue your side if you wish," it replied dismissively. "I point out that, no matter what you say, you will not prevail."

"It's my duty." Innate stubbornness had risen over its stirrups for a better height to clamour from.

"It certainly is."

"I have to try."

"He cannot be dissuaded."

"The dark haired man?"

"Yes."

"Captain Thorpe's opinion does not count?"

"No."

"A senior captain has no influence over a mere passenger? Who is the guy anyway?" Duty often required an officer to shut up and follow her orders, consequences falling as they might. "Is that why Beth dies? Because that idiot wants his toy and doesn't care how he gets it?"

Her mirror self shrugged perfectly. "Of course."

"Damn."

The alien chuckled. The noise was Calvert's own and unrestrained. Calvert stared disbelievingly as her twin contorted with mirth. Its response so out of tune with their discussion, her impulse was to strike the idiot with her fist or a stone.

"Will you stop that!" Calvert cried. "How can you be so callous, so unfeeling!"

Gloved hand went to helmeted head as though to impart support. "I'm sorry, that was bad manners on my part."

"Your reaction was so out of control." The alien resumed its smirk. Calvert didn't have to see the expression to know it. The alien nursed its amusement still, like sucking a wound inside the mouth. "You're not the Collector, are you?"

"I never said I was."

"Yet you speak for him."

"He shares this experience."

"Could he manifest if he wanted to?"

"He has no reason to."

What are you not telling me? Calvert walked briskly toward the berm, humming once she came beside the mosaic. One hundred metres of glittering and ghosts to walk past before reaching her destination. Imagining herself following herself was amusing. When the youth reached the berm, having derived some cogent questions to pose along the way, she turned to address her companion and was confronted by vacant air.

"Isn't that just perfect!" Since she was here, why not climb to a good height for screaming from, dig a hole and plunge her head into it, or select a rock perfect for bashing things with? "I ought to fling a wrench into your whole stupid plan and maybe I will!" Calvert waited seconds for reply, rebuke, advice or complaint before concluding none was forthcoming.

Sabotaging the mission was the last thing she'd do, and the damned alien knew it. A moment longer she stood, appreciating, while not focussing on any part, the silent cacophony going on beneath her before resuming her way, humming, back to her ship.

#

"I'm in the middle of something," Marco said to the spot of light on the console by his work station. It had just come on.

"It's Captain Thorpe. He wants to talk to you," Calvert said.

"Oh, ah . . ." Marco felt panic. His beard was non regulation, which he was well aware of. Reminding himself of its presence on his face triggered an itch. "Of course, I'll speak with the Captain." Nothing else he could do. He'd take whatever came. Thorpe was no hard horse and no martinet, but a career professional worthy of respect.

"Tech Pacini—what is that on your face?" Thorpe's head and shoulders image appeared in the monitor in which had been harmless drifts of alphanumerics moments before.

"A beard, sir. Apologies, sir." He'd been enjoying too much independence and Calvert's lax discipline. His excuse that he intended to muster himself and his wife out of the service as soon as the current mission ended no excuse he could use. Nor did he intend to mention his intention at this time.

"Get rid of it. How are you holding up?"

The question not the one he'd expected. "Sir? Ah, well, sir."

"An honest and complete answer is what I expect, Technician."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I'm perfectly fine. Rested. No more long shifts. Everything's fine. You're going to be amazed and, ah . . ." Realizing he'd offered too much information, and been about to ramble into more, Marco stopped.

"The current state of the excavation is remarkable. It had me worried."

"Oh?"

"You're not being overworked?"

"Not at all, sir."

"I'll take your word for it then. What is it you're working on there?"

"A therapeutic glove for Corporal Danby, sir."

A significant pause preceded: "I congratulate you for the work you've done. You've a commendation coming along with steps in grade and pay."

Not really. You thought Calvert had reverted to her slave driver ways and needed to check with me to find out was it so, plus you're anticipating I might be about to mutiny or outright quit, Marco thought. "I'm already about as high as I can go, sir."

"You and I both know better. I would appreciate hearing from you about anything you've found out and wish to share. You understand what I require?"

Rat on Calvert. "Aye, sir," was his obligatory answer. His protest that Calvert had not resumed her high handed ways was being ignored.

"Again, good work. Thorpe out."

Marco filled his lungs to the top and then emptied them at the screen and its lists. The shit is hitting the fan and Calvert stands right in the line of fire. Well, she has it coming.

#

"Sir," said Calvert and nodded to the image reappeared in her monitor, which she'd had to wait for, and so had not changed out of her bed things. Thorpe's pose was solid and his gaze flint. She'd screwed up, but admitted everything, and not held a single thing back. Courage and forthrightness were on display for having done so, if he chose to acknowledge them.

"I am curious to know how you've managed to restore the excavation and even, if I'm not mistaken, expand it far from what it ever was before in so short a period of time."

Lie? Prevaricate? Fabricate? "I had help from my crew and our experiences from before informed us what are the best procedures."

"That is all?"

She grit her teeth together before giving the unavoidable answer. "We had special help."

A fresh flush of anger darkened his complexion.

"One of our TRAXs has become altered," she said carefully.

"In what way altered?"

"Self aware." She held her breath.

"I see." He squinted sternly. "This came about how?"

"I'm unsure. I assume the alien did it."

"For what reason?"

She very nearly shrugged. Instead she said, "I've no idea." Someone interrupted him. Thorpe altered his expression from stern to annoyed. An outsider had barged in on their communication. Calvert perceived him by what would be considered impossible sight, helped by a smirking alien friend. Her view adjusted, impossibly twisted, to reveal a tall, fashionably thin, dark haired, olive complexioned, early fifties, hawkish man. He was dressed in the showy style of the wealthy and politically powerful. The man her benefactors had warned her about.

"We will continue this conversation after my arrival. I'll need to know a great deal more about your unanticipated help, how it functions, and how it came into being."

"I will cooperate all I can," said Calvert carefully.

"You've had superlative assistance from your crew."

"Yes, sir, I appreciate all their efforts very much."

"We will talk more of these things shortly." Very much this comment was ominous.

"Yes, sir," said Calvert with not much volume and no enthusiasm at all.

"Communication ends. Thorpe out."

Sinking into the butter-soft gel pac, her too comfortable chair, the youth imagined that even was she strapped to a plank and set adrift on an uncharted sea she would be far happier than she was right this moment. Things that had happened she felt in her power to change, if only she knew how. The secrets she was forced to bear were a hundred kilos of bricks pressing her down. All she'd wanted was the step to her career, which all sorts of officers got, deserving or not, at the end of their first assignments.

Perfect idiots had gotten their stripes, gone on to perpetuate disasters and never been blamed—not officially. She'd never thought herself as incompetent as those others. She'd been too confident, made mistakes, but learned from them. The upshot was that, whatever consequences came from her experiences here, whatever punishment, penalty or stop Thorpe saddled her with, she must bear because she had no choice, which was aggravation of a sort to drive a girl mad.

#

"You're giving me the dirt," Danby said. Her numb right hand cradled his chin while her formerly less adept left made tracks through his beard with the shaver.

"There is no dirt," Marco replied with fake candor. He would have shaved himself except for the delight doing so gave his paramour and because it sweetly delayed the gift he had to give.

"I know why the Captain wanted to talk to you. That much is obvious."

"He didn't believe we could clear so much mosaic in so little time." Grugg and the bug gang were a line in front of him, upper bodies raised as they watched. That Calvert had left the little droid in a remote corner of the ship's duct work at low power for months was irksome not only because they could have used his help during that time, but because he was fun to have around.

"And . . ." prompted Danby as she pressed him from behind.

"I can only assume she had to tell him the truth about Happy."

"You don't think she told him earlier?"

"I'd wager a week's pay she hadn't. You just don't give up something that weird even when you should."

"You're sympathizing? That's a first."

"I don't mean to imply I would do the same. The truth is what it is. You can't hide from it."

"You would've told the Captain about Happy right after it happened?"

"It was inevitable he would find out."

"What if his finding out wasn't inevitable? What if Happy hadn't been so anxious to please and done an ordinary job of clearing like he was supposed to?"

"I still would've fessed up."

"I don't believe you, Marco. I don't believe you because that wouldn't have been a smart thing to do and you're no dummy."

Marco chuckled. "Just how would I have hidden the truth?"

"By asking Happy to play dumb, which he would have done, gladly."

"Ah!" Marco had not realized this possibility for himself.

"She might have suggested he cool his jets but never did."

"The more mosaic that's cleared, the better she looks."

"That wasn't why. She knew the work pleased him, and she regretted what she'd done. By giving him a free hand she was making amends."

"What?" Marco gazed past his shoulder and into pale blue eyes. "She regretted what she'd done? You know she did it? You know she made him self aware?"

"I know no such thing," Danby said, frowning. "Forget I said that." She'd finished his shave, which had been no easy thing, owing to having to direct the shaver with her off hand. Holding his face with her one good hand to appreciate the result, Danby adored her mutt of a guy. They'd not a great deal of time left. She was torn between what was proper behaviour between two crew of an Imperial starship and the intimacy her reluctance deprived them of. She hadn't been ready, but holding his head in her hand, gazing into his eyes, her resistance sloughed away and she bent toward him. The ensuing kiss better than all the others she'd given. Her guy's eyes bright as they gazed back at her.

"I hadn't even given you this yet." He ducked his head and brought out from his pocket a tan object. She mistook it for a cleaning cloth. "I tried to match it with you skin tone," he continued, holding up the glove so that she saw it better. "I think I got it pretty close."

"This will fix me?" Danby held her joy in behind a tenuous look. She'd hoped for something light, efficacious, and unremarkable in looks.

"Allow me." He took her hand, undid and pushed up her sleeve, and slipped the glove on. A snug fit, tailored to her shape and dimensions. Its extent was further up her arm than she'd expected; nearly it covered her elbow. "Belle of the ball," Marco said as he supported her arm with a gentle grip.

"Sim suit liner cloth," Danby said. Fit and feel were identical.

"Very like, except I've increased the sensor count. You're wearing slightly more than forty thousand credits worth of exotic cloth, courtesy of an entirely legit materials requisition. I didn't even have to pad the rationale part."

"Wow, this is more than I expected."

They exchanged positions so that he stood and she sat. "One catch . . ."

"Oh?" Danby put out her hand, turned it, spread and curled her fingers. The control she'd lost was returned. She couldn't help but smile.

"The sensors and motion enhancement cover your hand. The rest is an anchor and passive energy collector—body heat provides the power that runs it. I thought about a wrist high device with an external power source but this solution is far less trouble in the long run." He wasn't about to mention the considerable savings to the Navy he might have realized with the other version.

"Okay, that doesn't sound so bad."

"Like I said, the top part is anchor and energy collection, but the problem is the grip. Too much push and pull dislodges it. The cloth is permeable by the way. You'll sweat right through it—to make a better grip the cloth has to be anchored better."

"This isn't good enough?" Danby tried pinching the cloth above her wrist and couldn't manage it.

"For everyday use it's fine. For certain things, ah, like working an oar for instance, there's a problem."

"Repetitive action," said Danby.

"Yeah."

"Combat situation. In the middle of a firefight the fabric could loosen."

"Something like that."

"Then it's no use to me," Danby said regretfully.

"That's not so." Marco took her hand to rub. "I installed a feature that corrects the problem."

"You did? What's the big deal then?"

"Well . . ."

"C'mon, Marco, what's it gonna do? Be so I can't ever take it off?"

"That's exactly what it's gonna do."

She'd been smiling. Her face, she knew, still smiled despite the wilting sensation come to it and to her mood. "I can't ever take this off again?"

"For now you're fine. You can wear it as is as long as you want."

"Except I'd be postponing the inevitable. How do I activate the sure grip feature?"

"You sure you want to do that?"

"I think we've had this part of the conversation already," Danby said crossly. "Let's do it."

"The cement is in the hand portion only, the sleeve didn't matter and so I didn't bother with that." He showed her a slightly raised blister under her wrist. "Squeeze here with your other hand and it injects the sure-contact solution. Hold your hand down and work the fingers, you'll feel it spread. Takes a few minutes to set. Afterward if you wanted the glove removed I'll have to cut and tease the material off and most of your skin with it."

"That doesn't sound so good." Danby hesitated.

"That's why I didn't include the sealant to begin with. You needed to have a choice."

You wanted me to decide on my own. Clever. Danby nodded.

"Honey, after the other options we discussed, I figured this one would appeal to you most. I'm sorry if it's not entirely what you wanted or hoped for. It's just the best solution I could come up with."

"It's all right." Danby recovered her smile and made it better. "I want this. I can live with it. After, I could do that other thing." The dead parts of her hand excised and regrown.

"Sure, you can do what you want after we're through with the mission," he said while refusing to think about what had been predicted to happen.

"Here, do me." Danby held out her hand.

"Sweetheart, are you absolutely sure?"

"Just shut up and squeeze my wrist."

Chapter Twenty-Nine - Cleaning Up

Danby swung the laundry basket through his hatchway as though it was full of worn engine parts. "Need help with that?" Marco put deck under his sock feet and his body shifted from a horizontal to a seated position.

"Nope," she said before a contented smile. She'd brought in with the fragrance of laundering her own scents for him to enjoy, and hair with the gloss of apples, and the whisper of cloth when she moved.

"You're sure?" Renewing his acquaintance with her looks and especially her profile required all of his attention, the glowing manual by his hip forgotten.

"Yup." He decided he adored the idea of someone else in his life. Mentally composing the note he would have sent his mother had she still lived: you're gonna really like her, mom. She has the courage of a lion and your special brand of stubbornness. The lioness was folding his underwear prior to putting them away—if she looked his way with her hands on his skivvies he'd pretend preoccupation with his manual.

"Socks bottom drawer," he said, manual partly hidden while he cherished her form and its movements and breathed of the same air she did. He remarked she managed things as easily as she had before her accident. Did she mind the glove?

"No. I've been wondering about my nails though."

"You didn't notice?"

"Notice what?"

The neat exits he'd created for them to grow through.

"You think of everything," she said. Her first reply too plastic so she made a better one. He knew she disliked being less than she'd been. Despite her function was restored, she'd not forgiven herself for her accident, nor reconciled with the damage done to her body.

He'd not worsen her mood with harping. "I'd do anything for you, my darling," he murmured instead.

"Hum-m-m?"

"Wanna do a sim?"

"No can do. I'm getting ready. For when the Captain comes."

"Oh, yeah, right."

"You might think of doing some prep yourself. You suppose the Cap isn't gonna, as soon as he arrives, do a turn about the ship, to see if we've been taking good care of her?"

"Well, ah . . ." He hadn't done much prepping besides straighten up his work stations in Engineering and Boat Bay. They'd been handling the perpetual mess in Boat Bay day by day, but had done a thorough clean of that part of the ship never. Grugg and his gang had been taking care of the ventilation system and did a bang-up job—they also wasted time by the bucket-load chasing each other around in different parts of the ship for fun. Marco couldn't remember the last time he'd set the menials to vacuuming and scrubbing the corridors and common areas.

Danby, grinning, watched as first realization and then consternation consumed his looks full force. "I thought so! You've been thinking everything's copacetic and it ain't."

He'd his boots on. He paused only to turn off his manual before dashing ahead of Danby along the way out of his cabin.

"I have been getting ready," Calvert complained to Danby's query. The crewwoman stood within her hatchway. Her cabin was as shipshape as she could make it. Bathroom scrubbed, furniture and art works polished, carpet fresh-vacuumed. If there was a speck of anything anywhere, it was from some beast impervious to modern cleaning methods and appliances.

"The rest of the ship, sir?" said Danby, her expression merry.

"The rest of the . . . ship," parroted Calvert. Her jaw dropped. When had anyone last vacuumed a corridor, buffed a console, polished a metal fitting? "Oh my God in Her Great Black Heaven!"

"Marco's created a vacuuming scheme for us. I was going topside to see what needs polishing. I've four scrubbers and four vacuums on the platform waiting for me."

"Everything," said Calvert as she erupted out of her seat. "Every console and couch. The whole bridge top to bottom."

"I could use a—" 'hand', Danby meant to say. She'd talked to the back of a swiftly moving young woman already on her way to the lift.

There will be something I've forgotten, Calvert was thinking hours later as she measured by sight the shine in the ship's uppermost corridor. She'd not realized until her cleaning job started how hand prints, breath and cast off skin diminished lustre. The still damp carpet was a brighter red and blue. The mild ozone taste in the air was owing to her insect-intelligent help.

You might have done all of it with nothing like so much fuss and bother.

I've enough things to explain already.

I merely point this out.

You needn't have bothered pointing out anything. I know what I could have done. She'd fought urges to do miracles all afternoon. Only the type a perfidious, pernicious superior officer would never notice had she indulged herself in. Grit in crevices and corners teleported to make tiny extras in dust bags. "Marco, how are you doing down there?"

Clangs and rumbles had crept into her work space like pretend Morse Code. She couldn't have understood even a fraction of it. "Under control, sir. We'll be shipshape and spic and span when the Captain arrives, no fear."

"I've never been worried, Technician," she replied with put on levity. Not worried, just out of sorts, rushed and harried.

"Aye, sir."

"Will you need my help to finish?" Danby had gone down to Boat Bay a half hour earlier.

"Ah, no, sir. Will you need any additional help yourself?"

"No, I'm done. I'll putting things away."

"Aye, sir."

Why is it, he's not been let into our mystery as far as I, or Beth for that matter?

Each of you has been enlightened as far as his or her role requires. It is not necessary that Marco know more.

Now and then she relished her preeminence. An attitude she'd thought to have grown out of. The feelings which predominated her mood now were disquiet and an anxiety to see things finished. I wouldn't mind going home for just one hour. I miss Aunt Tony and Uncle Jack, and Grampie and Gran. I miss the life I've hardly ever the chance to enjoy.

You may go home whenever you wish.

What in hell are you talking about?

Our 'books' you ought to have realized are far more than mere visualizations.

How does knowing that let me go home?

The little girl, her birthday, horses.

That was a dream, a remembrance.

Are you sure that's all it was?

Much of Boat Bay`s duct work was suspended and in the open. Marco suspected Captain Thorpe might want to inspect some of its out of the way surfaces. Dust there had to be, lots, centimetres deep. To his clear as glass recollection no one had ordered any menials to clean up here.

"What do you need?" Danby asked from below.

Feel along the nearest join, into its crevice, the upper gasket against his finger, take his hand back to see the accumulation, expecting dust brown and grease black. "Nothing," he said, shaking his head. The upper duct gleamed, like someone minutes before him had sucked away whatever mess there had been.

"Nothing?" said Danby sceptically.

"You wanna come up and see for yourself?" He'd feared a burp of air from somewhere would dislodge filth to fall on clean surfaces below, which had been his reason for checking things out.

"See what?" arrived at his elbow and he grinned rather than was discomfited. Just before she'd spoken he'd sensed her silent approach.

"The cleaning fairy's beat us to this."

"Looks pretty clean to me."

"That's what I said."

"Should be tonnes of dust up here."

"Yah."

"So?"

"If you wanna hazard a guess why we could eat our supper off this pipe, be my guest."

"Oh, no," said Danby, shaking her head. "That's land best not gone into."

Marco had to agree. All right, so the alien was Calvert's special pet and plenty of things had happened up to now to show that relationship remarkably clear. But if Calvert's alien had cleaned here, why hadn't he cleaned everywhere else as an even better expression of his affection?

"Don't, Marco."

His lips poised at their sourest setting, Marco debated himself what his response should be. Shit like this would make anyone angry. They'd spent the greater part of their last day as a threesome mucking floors and surfaces and cleaning or replacing filters. He wasn't beyond accepting a little, or a lot, of alien help to make the work less. "If all she had to . . ." His present mood wouldn't let him just shrug the thing off.

"She did what she could get away with," said Danby, intuiting this was what happened. They had been saved hours of painstaking labour with the duct upper surfaces being done for them.

"Just if she's got this kinda power." He understood being cautious and not showing all your cards. He just couldn't sympathize, owing to all the sweat and grime he was currently wearing.

"Shower time," said Danby and pressed his arm. "Calvert wants to host our last meal together."

"You think she even knows how to cook?"

"Never thought to ask."

"Right now I wouldn't settle for less than hamburgers with everything. How well do you think she does hamburger?"

"Probably not well." Danby got them going back down.

#

Julie Calvert never bothered to take note of the influence her status had on others. That her family was rich beyond calculation, she'd accepted as her right condition. While nothing like frugal she'd never been profligate either. Up to now she'd abused her allowance but once.

Standing upon Old Boston Naval Academy's library steps, north end of the quadrangle, Julie Calvert presented in the flower of her adolescence. The flat-chested waif of last fall was now the bosomy spring-time woman. She'd another year and a half of maturation before prolongation therapy kicked in. From then on she would age one year for three until her death.

"Are you on the north steps, Miss Julie?"

"I am." The dark blue family car floated below and was third in the queue for pickups. A couple of princes had the first two spots. Every cadet waiting for his or her ride had arranged to be picked up at the same time and place, which was the reason for the crowd in which she was not quite hiding.

"Is you ID turned on, Miss Julie?"

Irritated, she checked her pocket organizer and virtual laptop. Her ID was surgically implanted, right hip. Her command implants had gone in last month, which Bohrland might have used to locate her besides. It wasn't prudent an ID be turned off, except when not being spotted was to a girl's advantage. Not everyone had transmitters embedded in a bone either, which might be considered unfair from a particular perspective.

"All right, I see you." Also she was, of a sudden, seen by the pelican-sized flyer, from whatever news service had extorted the permission to park a snoop in the school's restricted air space. Calvert tried to ignore the semi-intelligent, dull grey plastic and metal composite creature as it approached to within speaking distance and then followed her down steps. She was tempted to show her tongue fat and sassy as some others had already. An offended brow was put up instead, her features as neutral as she could make them.

"Hey, Calvert!"

Ozzie Hofstadtler, his family owning a shipping line, was a 4th year like herself, middle of her class in academic standing—she'd been coasting that way herself. He considered himself an acquaintance. A dark haired, sharp featured nuisance who knew just enough about her personal life and habits it wasn't possible to exclude him entirely from the milieu she travelled in, which she would otherwise have done.

"I'm on my way home, Oz," she grumbled. Her way down intended to but brush past his coming up. He was accompanied by three other cadets: Flip Harrington, Tessa d'Jubonne and an underclassman sycophant leech loser she didn't recognize.

"I wonder could you spot me a few creds until my next interval?" Oz felt entitled, despite their sketchy relationship, to block her path.

Could he not see the idiot snoop hovering in their faces? Her Ozzie trouble was owing to her once lending him money and never pressing for repayment. He supposed it natural therefore she lend him cash whenever he had need of some, same condition attached.

"I'm sticking around. Thought I'd take a train ride into the country. See the sights."

The Hofstadtler estate was outside Dresden, Germany. "You're not dropping by Wilde Marsh," she growled. Jack would see through him in a flash and he'd be 'ass in the grass' right after.

She wasn't supposed to invite friends over without informing household security in advance. Ahead of her the Richardson car forged a spot for itself and two of her personal guard exited to stand at either side of the hatch.

"Never said I was," he replied loftily. He was thirty centimetres taller than she.

Within the next five seconds Bohrland was going to come to take possession of her, something she'd prefer not happen in front of witnesses. "Show me your card."

"A couple hundred should be fine," Hofstadtler said.

Calvert gave him five hundred. She guessed the amount to be the middle of what he wanted. While he made a sour face to his card, she jogged the rest of the way down steps. If not for the mechanical snoop hovering over them, which would have gleefully recorded every bit of his whining complaint, she wouldn't have given him anything. The 'loan' amount insignificant by her reckoning in any case.

Oz received a substantial allowance from home which he feverishly wasted on gambling and entertainments while in the company of like-tuned friends. She had played cards once with them while bored, which was the second reason for his hold on her, all forms of gambling being illegal on campus.

Any one of her bodyguards might have taken Ozymandius Hofstadtler and broken him in two at her command. Bodyguards, other than those assigned to members of the Imperial Family, were not permitted on campus except during arrivals and departures. The campus had a substantial marine presence for security. Certain cadets, such as herself, rated special treatment also. The marines knew to watch out for her safety in particular. She was not supposed to turn off her ID, but because of protests by herself and like minded others, she'd wrangled the permission to do so.

"Miss Julie, you're not ever to turn off your ID," Bohrland said as she entered the car, her luggage on its self-directed cart floating in after.

"Arlis, will Tony be home?" Her favourite seat of four plush loungers was right side forward.

"The Deputy Director may be delayed. That's the last notice I received."

Her Aunt Antonia sat on the advisory council to his Imperial Highness Leonidas VII. Imperial Council membership was often a hereditary position for the Imperium's premiere families. Family Richardson had gotten its seat at the start of the Imperial era.

"Jack's home, isn't he?" Jack most times would greet her on the front steps of Wilde Marsh Manor upon her return from exile, which had been her feeling about her school for most of her teen life.

"Yes, Miss, the Grand Admiral is at home and expecting us." Surrounded by secretaries and aides, Calvert expected.

He would greet her in front of the steps and, right after, leave to deal with some crisis or other. Grampie Philip would not be home. As a galactic supreme justice he often studied or consulted for a case. Calvert never had interest in the rule of law at any level. As for Gran Marie she had the Richardson Foundation to devote her time, ambition and energy to. Calvert and her grandmother had never been close. Since the suicide of her mother they never spoke other than briefly during birthdays—hers and her grandmother's. Her grandmother was an intimidating old stick with a sour disposition. To her one and only granddaughter she was remotely kind.

Any housing that used to surround the academy had been torn down and the land given back to trees and grass. Drones patrolled the woods and meadows in proportion to the proximity to the academy's front gates. The nearest town was Bishop's Corner, which fourth to sixth years could visit during session with permission from guardians and commandant in hand. Because Calvert might go to Bishop's, her family maintained a suite and security contingent for her there. She never had to call ahead as security officers and machines with the responsibility of watching over her were always near and informed.

"The Chronicle?" Calvert asked.

"Latest edition just in," Bohrland said.

"Ah, ah, ah, got it," interjected Calvert, preempting his turning on the projector for her which she could easily access from her chair. She might view text and images or video with voice over in the forward screen. She chose the latter format. The frontier exploits of Leland Longstreet and his Gallipoli within the Mu'pelo Sphere of Operations had been featured prominently in the last two issues and she hoped for more of the same inside the current edition.

Nothing of Longstreet. Instead she discovered a fascinating study of a pulsar and its near, unstable worm hole—enter at your own risk.

The cockpit of the Talon escort fighter was a snug fit even for the cherub-sized. Shock gel flight suit, conformable couch, her hands in built-in control gloves and feet in stirrups. She'd been a passenger for the first five minutes to appreciate the nimble flyers's handling and response and was about to try piloting when came a rap on her head. Visor was put up.

"That is you in there." Jack in his dark blue working uniform and ribbons and braids knelt beside her couch.

"Who'd you think it was?" she grumbled. Jack in his late sixties wasn't much changed from Jack in his mid fifties. Dark brown hair, blue eyes, square chin. Features mid-west American. In jeans, plaid shirt, and Stetson he was the image of the cowboy and a good horseman to match it.

"You've grown," he said. "A lot since last fall."

"Are you staring at my tits?"

A bellylaugh was her reward. His Santa laugh, which was how she'd known he'd substituted for the jolly elf once at Christmas. "Get out of that couch, twerp. Next time I turn the power off at the console instead of knocking 'hello' on the helmet first." She got her hug, which she deserved—she'd been hardly bad last semester. The hazing scandal she involved herself in wouldn't be until the next fall. Her 'cheating' was not until the end of her sixth year.

"I've been reviewing your grades," Jack was saying as they bumped along their way to the rear of the car, his hand pressing warmth into her right shoulder.

"They're not that bad, are they?"

"Your standing has dropped fifty positions and 'they're not that bad'?"

"Maybe I was a little distracted."

"You're wasting your time with something idiotic and I'd like to know what it is."

"Jack . . ." Hands went to hips. She showed him her best 'none of your business' pose.

"I'm your guardian. You'd better start showing some respect, if you want my sympathy. This is Lieutenant Shivers."

"Hiya," said Calvert, grasped the startled young woman's hand, and gave it a shake. To Jack: "Can we go riding after?" He'd three secretaries, one of whom was in civilian clothes, and two more followers with other responsibilities besides the fresh-faced Shivers. All of them stood in close proximity to where the two relations stood. "You can bring the whole team. We'll play polo."

"Don't get smart. You haven't answered my question."

"What question?"

"Is it drugs?"

"No!"

"Boys?"

"No."

"Girls then."

"Oh, for pity sakes." Were the adults pretending not to listen going to compare notes after? "Can we discuss this somewhere private?"

"Step into my office." Taking her by the elbow, Jack walked them toward the nearest corner of the house. "Okay, spill it."

"Nothing to spill."

"You're this stupid, now? That's your reason?"

An amused, pretend scowl. "You call that parenting?"

"I'll show you parenting with the broad of my belt in a minute."

She had to chuckle. He never raised a hand to her. That kind of tactic was not going to work in any case. After starting in, he'd get nothing out of her except for the screams.

"I can take away privileges. All of them."

Her amusement dried right up between one instant and the next. "No way. You're not taking away muh—" Best not to give him any ideas.

"No sims, horses. No flying."

"Damn you, Jack." Sims were her recreation and entertainment, which he knew. Horses, that was a low blow. And he'd promised advanced flight training.

"Catch up lessons. Tonnes of them. Gruel for breakfast, lunch and dinner."

"Now you're being ridiculous."

"You are going to do catch ups," said Jack implacably. "I expect full restoration to your former level plus one by end of summer."

"Oh, come on!" Did he not realize how much work that was?

"Don't make me insist on the gruel, too."

"Heartless bastard," she breathed in a mutter.

"I heard that. And no sims this week."

"How can I do my fucking catch ups? I gotta plug into the net!" She was very near tears and the real reason for her lapse and its despondency was near to revealing itself.

"No recreational sims, which is what you knew I meant. Any transmissions to friends will be terminated after five minutes so you'd better talk fast and to the point."

"Do you know what a prick you're being right now?"

"You think this is being a prick? Young lady, you have not experienced me at my prickliest. Not by a long measure."

Disgustedly she said, "Oh, shut up."

He knelt so that he could look right into her eyes, and continued tenderly, "You'll do what I've asked? Tell me you're going to fix this." He was playing the love card, which always worked. He almost coaxed a tear out of her, he was such a damned fake, but so was she, and because they'd that kind of rapport, knowing each other perfectly well, she was helpless not to agree. "Dah—Jack, can't I have a little sim time? Just a little? If I do some stuff first, but not right away. This is supposed to be my holiday from school."

"You think I ever get a holiday?"

Tilt head and raise brow. She'd seen her mother pose the same way. "I'm fourteen, Jack."

"Plenty of girls are pregnant by fourteen." He put himself back over his feet.

"I can be pregnant by tonight."

A little more frown trickled into his expression. "Starling, tell me right now, you're going to fix this . . ." He'd been about to say 'disgrace', but he hadn't needed to. She could tell he was serious. He really wanted her to make things right.

"Okay, I'll do it." She began mentally rearranging the schedule she'd thought up for herself.

"That's my baby rocket girl," he said and smothered her in a hug which she only pretended not to like. He was gone after that, his helpers falling to about him with drill team precision. He'd his armoured car waiting and three escort cars, also heavily armoured and sternly armed. Calvert, for not the first time, paused to appreciate the depth of his security measures, next she wondered whom he was afraid of.

Antonia Olivia Richardson was older than her brother Jack by six years. Another sibling, Philip Cary, had perished before the start of the last war. Calvert had not known Philip beyond what was archived in the family library, and by his likeness under glass in the family crypt, which showed his age and appearance at the time of death, then thirty-seven and exhibiting his father's long patrician body, face and hands. Calvert's stillborn brother also was in the crypt. As a fetus in a stainless steel preserving container ensconced within the floor somewhere.

"Juliana," said Antonia, putting out her arms, tilting her head, pursing her lips, jet black hair pulled back and piled on. Despite long hours in sessions and meetings she showed her fatigue only about her eyes. Calvert had changed into jeans and crisp white blouse, with red Chinese slippers embroidered in gold thread on her feet. All her items were new. She'd grown out of those left behind last fall. A step brought her into a stiff embrace. Tony was always distant. Contact between them had thicknesses other than cloth in the way. Tony when standing was head and shoulders taller than her niece. Calvert at fourteen was five centimetres beneath her eventual full height.

"How are you, Tony?" Calvert took a step back and assumed her 'parade rest' stance. Tony was nothing like her mother, whom Calvert resembled far more than she realized.

"I am fine, thank you, niece. You're looking well. How was the semester?"

A boy committed suicide but the commandant's office broadcast said it was an accident. I was involved with what happened and am partially to blame. "Fine. It was fine."

"Your results have not been fine, Juliana." Tony gave her assistant to hang up her long grey coat, revealing the soot-black suit with napkin-sized milk white lapels she wore beneath. Her three person bodyguard detail, taking these motions as their cue to be dismissed, stepped away and out of the room to occupy the security booth attached to the vestibule. Calvert and her aunt were met in the foyer. "Jack and I are concerned."

"Jack already talked to me about it," said Calvert carefully. Fair haired Jelix Pettigrew was Tony's new assistant. He was mid-thirties and a distant cousin. He occupied a space behind and to the right of his chief, his features composed to show neutral. He was assumed the best possible replacement for the highly competent and intensely loyal Helen Martius, who'd left her lucrative employ to assume a new career as wife and mother. A percolating brood of four very soon to be 'hatched'.

"And?"

"I've begun catch ups. I take my first retest on the weekend."

"Hum-m-m," went Tony. "That would be good."

Calvert was near on tetherhooks in her anxiety to show well for her aunt. Although Tony had never behaved as a mother for her, never assumed the role in any way, Calvert had projected a great deal of her desire for a mother onto her aunt. While she adored her Uncle Jack, and loathed her father, she was constantly anxious to please her Aunt Tony any way she could. "I've waited supper for you."

"You shouldn't have, dear. I've already eaten."

"Oh," went Calvert, crestfallen. "I wasn't hungry anyway," she muttered.

"What was that? Julie, you know the hours I keep. I try to eat at regular times but it's often just not possible. If you like, you might accompany me to the Hall some time and we'll do lunch."

"Oh, wow. Really?"

A gasp of annoyance. "Juliana Calvert, please do not behave juvenile, which I know you are not. You've been raised with far more sophistication and you possess far more intellect than that which you're showing me this moment."

"Sorry, Tony."

"That is an improvement?" Tony added crossed arms and put up her brow.

"I apologize, Aunt Antonia, if what I just said makes me sound lowbrow or stupid."

"Now you're being facetious. Jack may tolerate that kind of nonsense but I do not."

An anxious lowbrow sucking in of lips was indulged. Calvert understood most of what her Aunt Tony wanted from her, but feared putting out another word wrong. She desperately wanted to display the girl her aunt wished her to be. She supposed she would grow into that better girl eventually. In the meanwhile she was mostly confused. "May we still have lunch?"

"Certainly we shall." Tony smiled and Calvert felt her pulse pause as though caught on a nail. "Next week, after your retest, when you've proven how sincere you are about improving your scores."

"I am sincere." Calvert perversely crossed fingers behind herself.

Tony had not brought her work home. It awaited her in her office upstairs. She'd a suite of rooms in the west wing. Jack's suite was in the east. Calvert's grandparents' and her own rooms were in the main structure, two floors up by ornamental ivory and teak stair or brass bound elevator.

Few of the servants looked familiar to the fourteen-year-old besides the cooking staff and two maids who had been with the family since before she was born. They were familiar faces but not much more. Arlis Bohrland kept a modest room two doors down from Calvert's when she was home. Otherwise he occupied a room in the barracks that was near the stables. His was the one certain and solid connection she had with her family.

While she climbed the stairs, six risers, perch upon banister and ride the equivalent of three risers down, Bohrland followed at an anxious distance. He'd made an oath after the paddock incident he'd always put her life before his. She'd managed to make a liar out of him for the whole of one windy, wet day since. As far as she knew Jack never questioned Bohrland's dedication. Arlis Bohrland remained her primary guard, quietly putting up with her adolescence. She felt sorry for him, wished he'd get married, or find some other kid to take care of.

Her back to the void she flirted with the notion of pretending imbalance. A squeak and teeter would set him running up the stair like a gazelle, except she liked him too much and also felt sorry for him. Tony would never take her to lunch if she found out she'd abused the help.

The Imperial government's Crystal Complex was built on an artificial island off the coast of Maryland. Domed in high strength glass, with shops, museums, theatres, and art houses inside. Crystal Hall, seat of government, was perched at the north end of the island, and appeared a mini Atlantis with all its spires and buttresses. Calvert had done the virtual tour and her reaction after was to shrug. Politics and their edifices had never interested her.

Grampie Philip had his offices in his penthouse suite in NY city. A prerecorded message greeted the Richardson fledgeling the instant she entered her room. Calvert knew he forced himself to maintain ties with her. After Sophia's death he'd buried himself in his work and barely communicated with anyone outside of his judiciary contacts.

Calvert had been a bewildered eight year old at the time of her mother's death. Her grandmother was negotiating for land in Africa for a reforestation project. Jack was somewhere beyond Orion inspecting a massive shipyard. Tony, being Tony, was in sessions and too occupied with political business to more than drop by. Elliot was on his way home by fast courier—reluctantly, Calvert suspected. He'd left his command in the hands of a subordinate. He would stay the five days bracketing a memorial staged more for his than the family's benefit before abruptly leaving. He held his daughter's hand for barely a minute because the grizzling she made upset him enough to let go. He'd given her to a servant and walked away.

Calvert hated her father. He'd abandoned her mother, and he abandoned her. He'd insisted her mother carry a baby in her body, and after the baby died he didn't even bother to send regards and condolences. Calvert hoped his career crashed and he turned into a rum-soaked moron.

Juliana Marie Calvert had been eased out of an artificial uterus at the right time into a clean and warm environment; a perfectly reasonable and safe method of reproduction. She'd not been sped out of her mother's womb like a gush of effluent.

Calvert's fourteen-year-old self was mid-slide on the bannister. Her mother had been no saint, but she'd decided to bear a child out of love, and doing so had destroyed her. No matter how the lethal fall happened, dispensing of an onerous burden, she ought not to have gestated a child, which had been an unfair thing to ask a woman to do who could easily afford to do otherwise. Her thoughtless brute of a father, knocking her mother up, and leaving her alone for years at a time. No man is going to do that to me!

Sophia had been drinking. She ought not to have been drinking. She ought not to have been on the stairs. She'd argued with Gran Marie long distance, and why she fell was owing to inebriation and distraction, or it might have been to something else—shut up, I don't know that! There are things seven-year-olds see and hear which they were only able to interpret much later, once their understanding matured enough to enable it.

"There are good reasons why they don't!" Calvert snarled in the two places she resided in and at the exact same moment.

Chapter Thirty - Arrivals

The gleaming silver and gunmetal blue yacht emerged from the darkness as would a dragon from its lair, bathed in flames of light of its own making and all about. At slightly more than two hundred metres stern to tip of antenna boom, the space boat was one of the largest and most luxurious of its type. Calvert knew, owing to her recent perusal of the Commercial and Private Ships Registry, Zenith was brand new. The yacht's descent had been uneventful. From a spot among stars to full-sized had taken less time than Marco had for a last minute adjustment of his landing zone lights.

The Zenith descended her final hatful of metres on thrusters alone. A ship of traditional thirds: engine, hold, and living space. The two hatches facing the reception were twenty metres apart. The rear connected with a cargo bay. The forward, much smaller, was for passengers.

The Polyphemuses awaited their cue. They had dressed in their best working uniforms under knee-length insulated coats and ear-flap caps. Ensign Julie Calvert stood a little apart and ahead of her crew, the platinum pips on her collar bravely reflecting the multiple lights.

"What do we do?" muttered Danby inside precipitating breath.

"Wait until the forward hatch cracks and march forward," suggested Marco as Calvert stifled a cough against her fist. "Somebody must have forgotten to shut the reactor off, if it's taking them this long to sort themselves out," he added, which earned him an admonitory hiss.

"Beg pardon, sir."

"Watch yourself, Pacini. You know the rules."

The passenger hatch slid sideways into its cavity, the mixing of inside and outside airs producing a minor eruption of mist that precipitated into speckles of frost. Calvert, taking a breath to hold, began her march, her crew at her heels. Their steps crunched the path of compressed gravel and sand Happy had lain down that afternoon.

The yacht deployed its boarding ramp. Once the ramp achieved 'down and locked', two marines swept out from inside, jogging to assume ground level guarding positions.

Both Zephyr's inner and outer hatches stood open to aid the debarkation. The next individuals to emerge were backlit and appeared silhouettes. Foremost was Captain John Thorpe, dressed in an insulated blue coverall, boots and cap. The marines had similarly apparelled themselves, except their garments were green.

Calvert intended coordinating the coming confrontation, notwithstanding Marco's advice. Her attention was on Thorpe: what he did, his looks and expression. She'd but glanced at the marines. Then she recognized the marine on the left as a key participant in her dreams.

Fascination and dread fogged the youth's sight while her feet carried her forward. The marine peered intently back. Calvert's distraction, increasing by the moment, ended when she arrived near in the lap of her superior officer.

The embarrassment of a near collision, when she hoped for a best possible reception, pumped heat into her cheeks. At the same time her primed to be perfect welcome closed in on itself and stuck. For rigid seconds she and Thorp stood toe to toe, looks level owing to them being at about the same heights. Calvert's dismay and his scowling stayed centimetres apart. The girl could not push even the start of a greeting forth. The painful interval passed because it absolutely had to. Calvert threw up her salute and in a discordant squeak announced herself present and ready to receive instructions.

"Ensign, if you would?" grumbled Thorpe. As Calvert made her step back, she did not think of her crew. Fortunately they had anticipated her retreat and had emptied the space she stepped back into.

"Welcome to Prometheus, sir," Calvert added in the midst of noticing more people come out from the yacht, among them a mismatched pair of officers in navy blue, and a lupin-featured civilian in fur trimmed, chocolate coloured suede who peered aggressively down at her.

As site commander, she had exercised her privilege to name the planet. Prometheus seemed apt. The one man who might object seemed unlikely to.

The civilian, she knew, was the avaricious animal she'd been warned against. Although she'd never met him, knew nothing of him, not even his name, she already made preliminary estimates of his dangerousness.

Calvert was therefore distracted again, this time by the civilian. The marine had not stopped staring at her either. Thorpe had instructed her to do something. "Pardon me, sir?" she gargled, and resumed focus on her superior while inwardly she groaned.

"You may proceed, Ensign, to lead us to your ship."

"Aye, aye, sir. This way, sir."

Calvert for the moment, stacked on all the other unhappy moments piled up thus far, had then to determine her place within the formation. Thorpe had brought a lieutenant Senior Grade along. She must also parse in the civilian, a potentate of industry and commerce, whose standing in society no matter how high could not possibly equal her own. Yet his status as the mission's advisor, director, whatever he was, must top that of a lowly ensign. However, she had been directed to lead and lead she did, placing herself at Thorpe's side and the civilian at her back. The rest followed as an untidy mob.

Calvert and Thorpe matched steps while the civilian muttered observations to himself, which annoyed the youth intensely. Calvert had submitted every scrap of her expedition's history already and so had nothing left to comment on unless invited. She sensed Thorpe's impatience and irritation, also his pleasure for the boundless air he breathed and the solid earth he trod. She would have commiserated had she known and liked him better. A living environment, no matter how cold and dry, after long confinement in a space boat, no matter how spacious and luxurious the boat, must be a welcome change.

"How fares your uncle, child?" asked the civilian to her back.

Over her shoulder she cast: "He's well." Jack had been in good health last she'd seen him, more than two years now in the past. Owing to security restrictions, she'd not been let to communicate directly with her family. Her journal contained the record of her exploits, to be handed over when she returned home. No doubt Jack, Tony and her grandparents would have things to say about her experiences and behaviour, which was why she always took great care when writing about them.

"I met him once, at Orion. Many years ago."

"Is that so?" she murmured. Jack had last been in Orion at the time her mother committed suicide. Calvert's next swallow was a hard one.

"He was a mere admiral then. It's likely he doesn't remember me."

Oh, I'm sure he knows all about you. Jack wouldn't have set me all the way out here without knowing all about my mission. You'd better not mess with me!

"I beg your pardon, Miss Calvert?"

"Now is the most pleasant time of the day-night cycle," Calvert extemporized.

"A little cold," the anonymous lieutenant opined.

"The conditions are far worse during the day, when it can be as much as plus sixty Celsius."

"The working conditions have been especially hard on your equipment," observed the civilian.

"Nothing we haven't been able to handle." Calvert detected the non audible grunt given up by her technician from his spot way back in the pack.

"Tech Pacini deserves a commendation for his hard work."

"We all worked very hard." Her protest was on Beth's behalf rather than her own. Pacini didn't need any more credit than he was destined for already.

"This is fabulous!" They'd arrived atop the berm overlooking the mosaic. Calvert would prefer to carry on into her ship, but had anticipated the impulse to sightsee to be too large for her guests to resist. At once she began singing to herself. Her crew had set out lights to display the dig and its support facilities. Under the artificial light, or plain starlight, mosaic glitter attracted and beguiled her.

"Better seen during the day, Parnell," grumbled Thorpe. Calvert looked into the group behind the premieres, where Marco and Beth engaged with crewmen from Zenith and stood in the fog of their making.

"Let's enjoy the spectacle a while, shall we?"

At night the ghosts showed better owing to the absence of sunlight. Despite how tempted she was to gawk, books other than the ones she knew had been uncovered, Calvert kept her gaze well away from the gangs of stimuli. Singing was not entirely an effective strategy either. Normally she would commune with a smile on her face and tears in her eyes. For now she stood aloof and apart and watched elsewhere. She couldn't much longer pretend fascination for dunes and stars. Several among the group had to notice her behaviour to be not in tune with everyone else's.

Calvert ignored all looks cast her way. The civilian, the marine and the Lieutenant SG all had her in their sights. What was the latter's interest? His features appeared sliced by a sword. The beacon illuminating the way showed those beneath it half dark/half light and all sinister.

"Carry on, Ensign," ordered Thorp. Calvert, much relieved, resumed the way.

"Is it out there now?" asked Parnell as they yet were on the berm.

"Hum-m-m?"

"Your self aware machine? Could you call it to us?"

"He's the excavator working at the far end." The nearest mechanical, a sweep, trundled in a dust swirl with a hopper of dust to empty. Its diligence was reassuring despite the small job it did in relation to the project as a whole.

"Best not to interrupt the work," said Thorp, who had to be appreciating the cold very well in his inadequate coverall and far more than she in her long coat and the civilian in his furs.

"Will you take us to see the glyphs?" asked Parnell.

"Captain?" she asked. Thorpe now ran this show.

"Yes," said Thorpe.

"There's a tile path, just ahead."

"The one that goes past the sunbath," said Parnell.

"That's right." Calvert refused to be baited. The tiles were one metre square and five centimetres thick. Their colour at night dark grey. Actually they were red. All the pathways had been firmed up for the visit.

Of an idiotic song Calvert had listened to weeks ago, before the first storm, she remembered only the chorus. She sung it over and over to herself.

Sometimes images flowed onto covered ground. Stepping into an overflow took her right into its book. Calvert stopped well short of where the mosaic began. She would rather her behaviour appear strange than that she laugh or weep for seeming no reason.

"Something the matter, Ensign?" asked Thorpe. No one else approached the mosaic except for Parnell. The rest bunched up behind the Captain.

"A little queasy. Something I ate."

Or didn't eat, was Marco's observation. Anticipating what was to come, he and Beth had been pestering her to increase her caloric intake.

Shut up.

Up close the glyphs appeared frozen if but glimpsed. Symbols flowing into each other was a strange and pretty sort of art. The effect beguiling if concentrated on long enough.

"I had no idea!" marvelled Parnell. "The effect is startling. Miss Calvert, you're sure this is writing and not some sort of exotic decoration?

"It could be decoration," she allowed. And might as well be. To every other human alive it was decoration. Her comment elicited a speculative look from Thorpe. She couldn't quite read his thoughts, or anyone else's besides Beth's and Marco's with clarity. Her singing interfered with her concentration. She had gotten snippets from the others, informing her how they were feeling and reacting.

Thorpe's bad mood would have been obvious in any case. The focus for his ire was not entirely Julie Calvert. He also wondered why her behaviour was strange.

Parnell mood and behaviour were under strict control. She sensed him gloating. He was very pleased with what he was seeing. His was an excitable personality. When by himself or with confidants he was prone to outbursts.

The nearest she came to a read of the marine was adoration, which was ridiculous. She didn't know him. The Lieutenant was keen for something from her. He must never have been in a presence of a girl fabulously wealthy before.

Everyone else admired the mosaic, pointing out what they thought they saw. Marco answered questions for the home team. None of what he said new or insightful

Calvert and Danby exchanged looks. The newcomers had been talking Danby's ears off, happy for the chance to tell tired stories to a woman who hadn't heard them before. She gestured: shall I approach? Calvert shook her head. They were on their own for now.

The ghosts and glow only Julie Calvert could see. Their places only she could travel to. Their voices only she could hear. Try to touch it, thought Calvert uncharitably to the civilian kneeling at the mosaic's edge with his hand out. I hope a stray discharge comes along and flash-roasts you to cinders.

"I wouldn't do that, Parnell," warned Thorpe.

"You're right," replied the magnate and straightened. "Why take chances?" Parnell was very smug, as if his presence here and now entitled him to all the wreck's treasures.

Marco displayed a sycophantic zeal to please. Whichever way things went, he benefited. If they'd stayed in orbit, despite his part would have been a great deal smaller and Calvert's a great deal larger, he would have benefited. In taking initiative, she'd weakened her chances and enlarged his.

"I cannot make out the layer," continued Parnell, who seemed the only one among them all keen to stay outside. The Polyphemuses had dressed for the conditions and were used to them. The Zephyrs had not and suffered.

"Ensign, the energy coat persists over all that's uncovered?" asked Thorpe ahead of a shiver.

"Yes, sir. Including the top of the plug."

"An active force field? Is that correct?"

"Aye, sir. As pressure is applied externally the layer compresses. As it compresses it gives sterner resistance to penetration."

"This shielding is substantially better than our own technology," remarked Thorpe. Imperial shielding projected a noncollapsible layer. Damage was mitigated by depth and density. The best energy defence by no means matched the alien's for efficacy. "What could be the energy requirements?"

"Nothing like ours owing to the energy absorption happening everywhere at the surface," Calvert heard herself say. "Starlight, thermal, static, friction, whatever arrives. And the, ah, hum . . ." She'd been about to reveal her impossible understanding that energy could be stolen from any attacking beam or missile at the point of contact.

"The surface is an energy sump?" asked the civilian.

"Er, yes." Calvert knew she'd spoken too far.

"How do you know it is, Ensign Calvert?" asked Thorpe.

Came across that fact in a manual. "I assume so, sir."

"If we could only understand the principles at work here!" marvelled Parnell. "Our ships would be invincible. We could take back all that has been lost since the secession began!"

"There must be an attack that would work," mused Thorpe.

"Continuous, precision kinetic strikes," Calvert heard herself say. A projectile stream delivered at near light speed, concentrated, the only sort of attack that might work.

Thorpe added thoughtfully, "Overwhelm a small portion of the defence. You'd have to know the ship's geography. Where are the critical systems, I wonder?"

Calvert had no need to speculate. She could put the alien ship's schematics before her mind's eye any time she wished. Parnell stared over his shoulder into her face, a scrutiny she did not react to nor acknowledge in any way. "Sirs, we ought to go in. The air will continue to chill. It will be much colder than this not much longer from now."

"Let's do go in," said the civilian, rubbing gloved hands together.

The hard canopy covering the top half of the ramp was admired and congratulated severally. Marco received praise for the innovation, and more praise for his other projects. The civilian was effusive in that regard. He marvelled how one man could have done so much, with so little help and time, and so well.

"We just did what had to be done," said Marco. Calvert, singing no longer necessary, devoted herself to showing as little emotion as possible. "It was all by Ensign Calvert's direction." He ought to shut up. After his offhand praise of his commander, especially among the enlisted personnel, the general reaction was condemnatory.

None of the officers commented, instead they sucked in breaths.

"I must warn you the gravity is strange on the ramp," Calvert said. "Mind your step." The deeply troubled youth would be fine with being squashed flat as she took her first step on the incline, notwithstanding its gravity was lighter up than down. By the time the human circus was in the canopy, individuals were gasping with relief and smiling with lighter personas to warmer air, owing to heat given off by interior lights. Marco was requesting they knock off any dust they might have accumulated before entering the airlock.

Both hatches were cycled aside, allowing everyone to enter at the same time. The oppressed girl stood well away from doffing of coats, coveralls and hats while wishing her hostess task was over. Marco took charge of the marines and spacers, Danby at his side.

"This way, gentlemen," said Calvert. Thorpe paused for a preliminary examination of the boat bay, for cleanliness and condition. His officers did also. Parnell tolerantly waited. The Captain, by entering the ship, had taken over command of Polyphemus. There would be no formal ceremony to mark the transfer of duties and assignments. The marines and spacers, no reason to linger, were gone to partake of the snacks and beverages awaiting them in Crew Deck Lower's mess hall, a facility unfrequented for months.

Calvert brought the officers and civilians into the lift. "Whose idiot idea was this, I wonder?" murmured Thorpe in reference to the transparency they stood on and the deep well they stood in.

"It is peculiar," said Parnell, nonplussed.

"You get used to it, sirs," said Calvert.

"Not any time soon," her senior growled. Calvert had taken little notice of the second officer Thorpe had brought along. Slender, taller than herself, near the same age. Reddish-brown hair, cherub features, ungainly in her motions. The stranger hadn't attained her full growth yet and would be taller still. Calvert had long reconciled with the size her genetics had gifted her with. Practically every adult she met was larger than she.

Coffee and sandwiches—prepared beforehand and preserved under cellophane—and warm lights greeted them. Despite substantial vacancy, the ward room appeared to one perspective at least too much crowded. Calvert sipped her scalding, two sugars beverage in between faking sincerity inside the answers she provided to Parnell's questions.

"You've made peculiar assertions in your reports, and again outside."

Nothing you can pin me to the spot by. "I don't recall any, sir."

"Tell me, Miss Calvert, what is it you find so interesting in those books you've been reading?"

Calvert's breath caught as if on a nail. She'd never so much as hinted in any report she was able to read the alien texts. Her attempt at a catalogue was ungainly, useless, and all she'd submitted for approval on that topic.

"Beg pardon, sir?" she managed in near normal voice while ignoring other scrutinies cast her way. Senior Lieutenant Walsh, appeared frightfully competent. He had to have been brought along to take Polyphemus away from her. Further down from Walsh sat the freckled ensign McKehan, whose graduation date made Calvert her senior by a span of time she would be embarrassed to confess. McKehan was no one she ought to fear for any reason whatsoever.

Parnell had brought an assistant. Sylvia Jerome was buxom, early thirties, statuesque. An immaculate coif of lighter and darker streaks blonde hair draped her to past her shoulders. Her eyes were very pale blue or grey. She was dressed in forest green slacks and matching jacket and a pair of impractical heels that was fire engine red. The corporate lackey held a glowing notepad and recorded every word, expression and gesture Calvert made for the purpose of the in-depth analysis with her boss bound to follow.

"You suggested inspiration has been your guide for the many conclusions you've drawn. Certainly you must have consulted some authority from somewhere?"

Calvert resumed her beverage, and poker face, before replying as blandly as she was able, after another scalding sip: "All I've done is attempt to follow my orders to the best of my ability. We did what seemed right and proper at every stage."

"Well, you are to be commended—will be commended, and rewarded shortly."

He's done it to me again! While spooning cream substitute into his mug, he must have seen how her look changed. He knew now, or had confirmed for himself, how deep was her desire for advancement.

In the crew mess was far less interrogation and far more conviviality. The main of the Zenith contingent had transplanted itself, personal affects in duffle bags and space chests, among the mildly oppressed Polyphemus crew.

"You ever sleep two to a bunk, Pacini?" asked a sallow scarecrow named Artemus Gless. "In the funk of another person?"

"Not for a great long while." Marco disliked Gless quite a lot already.

"That was us for the better part of two months. Two months, mate, in a compartment meant for six and us a dozen and more."

"Couldn't have been nice."

"Nice ain't in it. The marines camped out in the CB and slept in hammocks, but us swabs are used to comforts. You know what I mean?"

"Excuse me, I see someone I might know." Marco took his cup of joe with him. The warnings had been there, in the looks and behaviour of the other arrivals. He ought to have known right off Gless was a blowhard. The odious mariner had parked himself at Marco and Danby's table right after they came in. Danby had earlier gotten up for sandwiches and been shanghaied into a conversation near the coffee dispenser. "Hi, I'm—"

"You're Marco Pacini." The flat chested, extremely young person, brown hair painfully short, oval eyes a whole size too large for her child-proportioned face with, incredibly, first class medical, surgical, and pharmacological stripes, grinned unabashedly at him. "Sandra Gowan. I'm a second timer."

"A—a second timer?" Her small hand slipped into his and made him shake it.

"I like to get that unpleasantness over whenever I arrive someplace new. My donor was, as you can see, an extremely young person. She was killed in an air car crash and I am very grateful for her gift of renewed life."

"I see," said Marco uncertainly. Gowan's fragile as bird bones hand felt corpse-cool in his. Nothing connected him to the ancient in a child's body. He was certain of it.

"You're not going to have a problem with my antecedents are you? Because you and I know there's a shit storm coming and it's cool heads must prevail."

"What do you—" He felt the blush he had to be wearing spread toward his toes.

"A great deal more than you expect, I imagine. We can talk later. I've been enjoying your young lady. Congratulations, by the way."

"Er, thanks." He went to shift his fiancé out of the range of the disturbing apparition gone on to decant rum-spiked coffee from what had been a product of virgin beans not five minutes earlier. "What was that all about?" he asked after creating a substantial gap between themselves and the nearest newcomer.

"She's really quite nice," protested Danby, uncertainly smiling.

"I'm starting to think they're all misfits or crazy. Have you talked to Gless?"

"Egg-shaped head, halitosis, corpse complexion? Should I?"

"Stay away from him. What about the grunts?"

Thorp had brought with him six warriors, three of whom quietly rendered themselves stuporous about a corner table while a fourth perched upon a near piece of furniture and gazed without pause at the natives. "They look tough enough. Nobody I've ever met before."

"You've dreamt them, right?"

"Kinda, but hazy. I don't know names. The big black guy and the dark haired girl are PAC troopers. They've brought their armour."

"They did?" Marco displayed surprise and relief. "I didn't recall that." They were going to need all the help the marines could provide. A couple of zoots loaded for monster might make a big difference.

The watchful marine stirred himself and glided panther-like toward them. Marco put himself between the powerful stranger and his girl, but had no notion of what he might do should the other man intend violence. A lean face topped athleticism of a type ideal for inflicting damage. "Steve Laurel," the newcomer said, offering his hand.

Marco introduced himself and his lady. Hand clasps were exchanged. The trio resettled about the couple's table. Laurel had not brought a beverage. Marco anticipated a short and painless encounter. Whatever the marine wanted to say ought to be brief and to the point.

"How likely is it that your ensign will speak to me?"

"You'd have to ask her," said Marco cautiously.

The rangy marine set his hands to a clasp on the table top. "I'd like some help in that regard. Break the ice, so to speak. It'd be to her benefit."

"Like I said—"

"Look, I'm not about to force her into anything unpleasant. Far from it. It's—it's been two months in the boat, including dreaming about her and what we end up doing together. I'd like to talk. Air things out, that's all."

"Do you even know what you'll say to her?"

"No clue."

One deck above Thorpe was saying, "You'd indicated in your latest report that the breach is nearly complete. I should like to visit its location before that happens."

"Aye, sir. The breach can happen whenever you say." McKehan had left. Walsh appeared to wait on his boss. Parnell had departed also, taking his shark-like assistant with him. After the civilian's departure Calvert felt less upset. Her anxiety level remained high nonetheless.

"Not yet, Ensign. Not yet." Thorpe gazed among the leftovers of the welcome feast before resuming with: "You mentioned in your reports the phenomenon of shared dream experiences." Calvert had been cautious about which details she inserted into her reports. She'd anticipated ridicule for even suggesting there was anything significant about their dreams, and feared an incautious inclusion might hint at her transformation. She listened closely without seeming to as Thorpe continued, "Have a summary of the events experienced in those dreams in my message queue by seven hundred hours tomorrow morning."

"Aye, sir." She'd a plausible time-line calculated already. After some crucial edits she ought to have a document suitable for his consumption.

"You will pass the word down to your subordinates?"

"Aye, sir, I will." First she had to find out where they'd gone off to. With so many more people aboard, both had shifted to new accommodations. A memo would be best. Calvert nodded to herself. She had yet to be told which quarters were hers. "Sir, about our living arrangements?"

"The arrangement is this: captain's quarters this ship are mine, Lieutenant Walsh shall take over the exec's cabin, Mr. Parnell Second Officer's. Ensign McKehan and yourself may choose among those quarters which are left."

"Aye, sir," replied Calvert and indulged in a silent sniff. She had hoped for the executive officer's suite—her things stood on pallets nearest those quarters.

"My coxswain with help from Zenith will have shifted some furniture and appliances from there to here already. Kindly inform your crew their assistance would be appreciated bringing other items across."

"There is some spare furniture in storage this deck," said Calvert distractedly. Not much besides the suite that had inhabited the main cabin, formerly Charles Hutchinson's, was there.

"I expected as much." None of the newcomers, excepting Parnell, had brought much in the way of furniture and luggage. Thorpe, as befitting his status, might borrow anything whose owner was absent. Tradition allowed Walsh, as temporary Second in Command, to choose for his comfort second bests among left behinds, leftovers and cast offs. Officers destined to become part of the ship's command structure might request items from the ship's fabricators be made for them at cost.

Calvert anticipated Thorpe intended requisitioning Charles Hutchinson's furnishings for his use. They were the best available. Several cabins had been sealed with furnishings inside. Such was the case with the XO's accommodations. It was reasonable that Walsh be allowed to make use of what was in the quarters he was taking over.

"If there is nothing else you wish to discuss and if you will excuse me, I'd like to attend to my own move, sir."

"Certainly, Calvert. Do go on."

That had sounded a kind invitation to be about her business. Calvert showed a quiet smile while taking herself away. Third Officer's, least of all the major suites, with room enough for most of her things, was to be hers. Two or more current artworks would have to be returned to crates. Pegasus along with his extravagant wingspan and The Archer.

The ward room was in the forward part of the upper crew deck. The exec's suite was in the same corridor as the captain's quarters. Third officer's around the corner was gotten to by the connecting corridor. She came to her things within the cross corridor, called upon the pallet to follow, walked to, and past the corner to discover the hatch to Third's open and light from inside spilling out into the corridor. "Excuse me?" Calvert called, coming to the hatchway. The memo pad lying on the standard issue desk was irksomely familiar. Angrily advancing as far as the short hallway connecting front suite with back, Calvert called, "I say, you can't be in here."

"Pardon me?" came from inside the bedroom.

"This is my cabin now. You can't be in here."

"I don't understand." Jerome, sans smartly tailored jacket, top blouse buttons undone, its peach colour an affront, appeared within the further doorway. "This is my cabin."

"No, it's not. It's mine. You'll have to shift yourself somewhere else."

"I've been given this accommodation by your crewman."

My crewman? Marco! "The hell you have," came from the woman who'd not absented herself early from her commander's presence as had everyone else, and waited to hear dispositions so she would know for sure what had been allotted to whom. "He can't give anything. You're going to have to go someplace else."

"'Fraid not," replied Jerome in the voice of the older and more patient by far. "I'm in here now and I'm not moving again."

What had Jerome brought that couldn't fit inside a single suitcase and be tossed straight out the nearest airlock? "That is not how things operate within a naval vessel," Calvert snarled through freshly clenched teeth.

"Oh? Little girl, I think you are mistaken."

No, you are, Calvert sub-vocalized. She could do things to subordinates that she couldn't do to a civilian without creating a shin-deep mess to wade through. She must complain to higher up, something she'd rather not do. Jerome with her pretentious smile, precarious shoes, extravagant cleavage, flaming wardrobe, hands on her hips, was in her every part a challenge. "Captain Thorpe, sir, might I have a moment of your time?"

Not much later, within her former cabin, standing uneasily before the desk she recognized as Hutch's, Parnell's remote voice was saying, "I need Ms. Jerome close by. Information comes through her to me which is crucial to my deliberations regarding the mission. It's not possible she be put anywhere else."

"Sir, Second's is on the other side of the ship. There are shared accommodations that side that are nearer," Calvert said quietly. Jerome was an ordinary citizen. She was an heiress—a non-crucial detail, Calvert knew—and a much busy naval officer. There could be only one decision that was fair and right.

"That is not a solution," interjected Parnell. "Ms. Jerome requires an office suite. There are no other offices within this ship she might use."

"Sir, an ensign's work station would be adequate for—" Her protest was stopped by the hand shown palm first at her. The other hand pressed two fingers against the cheek of its owner, its palm supporting the connected chin, an expression stern riding above the palm.

"Parnell, your secretary may keep Third's. My apology for the interruption."

All of her indignity, saved for the vindication she'd intended to show Jerome when next she saw her, a thumbing of the nose at a plastic person, could not be kept bottled up. Gasp and, "Sir, I have to protest. You sah—"

A dangerous flicker of agitation showed within the Captain's eyes. "You understand that as a mere ensign you don't rate above shared accommodation unless better is available?" he said quietly after the 'communications active' light faded from his desk.

"Sir, I was commander this ship for near nine months."

"Which entitles you to what? You understand the pecking order as well as I. Your status in society applies not at all. Find someplace else to pitch your tent. Goodnight, Ensign."

Her old shared accommodations was that someplace else, which few of her belongings were suited for. She would insert Pegasus into a corner where he could beat his wings in frustration while she wished for wings herself so she might do the same.

"Oh, hi?" said the girl perched on the bunk which long ago had been hers.

"You're here," said Calvert dully. McKehan had applied a poster to the bulletin board, an attack wasp schematic, not even 3D. She'd pinned it to the board. Calvert couldn't understand why the sight of those pins distressed her as much as it did.

"Did you not come to share?"

The time was late night/early morning. Her old accommodations were the largest multiple occupancy, and had a small, complete bathroom of sink, commode and shower, which was why she'd come back to it. Calvert felt too dull to answer.

"Um, which bunk do you want?" asked the freckled kid smiling hopefully at her.

Next morning after waking up, Calvert discovered to her dismay she'd overslept. McKehan had gone out without taking any responsibility for a cabin-mate's punctuality. Thorpe's: "Ensign Calvert, we await upon you within Boat Bay," was the worst kind of wake-up for a sleep-addled mind to receive.

What exactly is he waiting for? Calvert pondered as she threw on her clothes. He'd the latest work survey from just prior to last night's landing, a virtual tour whenever he wanted it, and he could call upon Polyphemus to show him any part of the excavation or the environs within range of the ship's sensors. The dream summary she'd stayed up past her usual time for bed to edit he ought to have examined alongside his morning coffee. "Sir, I'm on my way."

His: "We're going outside, Ensign," sent her dashing back into her cabin. Strip entirely bare, the clever outdoors liner put on—except for the hood which she let fall back—coverall and boots resumed. Running to the lift, Calvert passed a hatch notable for civilian treachery, imagining a silk-covered bum perched on a desk top and brightly coloured toes. The tardy ensign arrived into BB lower expecting surprises. A half dozen crew and officers were in view, but not Marco and Beth, whom she realized had gone to help bring over the zoots—armoured suits the marines would wear during the incursion.

Polyphemus had a specialized compartment, a morgue, for the storage and maintenance of heavy armour. Before-action adjustments were called for. "Would you be so kind as to help the Lieutenant into his outdoors suit?" she heard, and realized the sodden person who'd just made a herculean effort to sound normal was Captain John Thorpe. His dripping and dishevelled appearance amusing to view. To avoid scandal she covered a ripening grin with her hand. Someone had decided to open both airlock doors at the same time, not realizing that the buildup of heat inside the canopy outside would be large and eager to rush in.

"Aye, sir," she said, setting off to do as she was bid. Someone had made busy with the fabricators. Most of the personnel in view had on EVA suits. McKehan bestowed upon the late arrival a nod which the girl who'd been let to oversleep pointedly ignored. Walsh fumbled with the front of his suit, not waiting for assistance. The crewman, sand coloured hair, average height and extraordinarily muscular, standing near the hatch, was Thorpe's coxswain. The child, perched on a work counter, did no more than watch. By far the ugliest newcomer was the vulture-featured villain standing out of everyone's way by the heavy cargo lift. Malodorous, his garment clinging obscenely everywhere owing to the copious sweat he lived in, a vile invective poured out of him like vomit. Not Thorpe nor anyone else took notice of his vituperative volley. Calvert realized none of them would, for no one heard it save her.

"You there," she called. His prolixity messed with her concentration. The oily man sheepishly turned to her. "Shut up, please."

"Hullo, Ensign Calvert," said Walsh as she arrived to lend her assistance. "I think the inner liner is gone awry."

"It has. It's doubled up inside the cover," she said, tugged apart the shell and slipped her hand into the cavity against his chest. She was aware as she did so that the smirking idiot perched on the work counter watched her with avidity. Snag and tug. Another tug and the inner liner was in its proper place. "Try that, sir," she said.

"That's got it, thank you."

"You're welcome, sir."

"You're to be our guide," said Thorpe.

"Aye, sir," Calvert replied and slipped out of her coverall. The gathering appeared to gasp at the change in her condition, and then fell silent. She had on her third gen liner, which Marco and Beth also must be wearing, which was transparent everywhere except for its double-ply crotch. Her nut-dark tan shone through it.

"Ensign." intercepted Juliana Marie Calvert as she was half the way across the deck to where her outdoors suit was hanging.

"Sir?" An arching of brow crowned what might be construed a brazen, even insubordinate pose. Julie Calvert had crossed this deck dozens of times dressed as she presently was. She'd intended no disrespect in her appearance or by her actions. Everyone here was an adult; everyone had seen others nude or nearly so numerous times. Of that fact she was entirely certain.

"What is that garment you have on?" rumbled from a senior captain's disgruntled features.

"My liner, sir," she replied, blinking annoyance. Hadn't he and the rest on the same liner beneath their shells? But, no, they hadn't. Calvert saw first gen suits—a design Marco had abandoned as severely flawed. She almost chuckled out loud.

"That is a liner?"

Her fierce look shot out at the leering tech who averted his gaze barely in time to avoid its heat, next a far quieter look went to Walsh, who seemed most likely to sympathize with a reasonable argument. "Sir, yes, it is. Third generation. You all are wearing firsts."

The odd child covered a smirk with her hand. McKehan looked ahead of herself and smiled to a corner while no doubt hoping she not be noticed.

"Carry on, Calvert," said Thorpe while she tasted his dislike for her lack of modesty, incidental nudity, or whatever the hell this incident had turned out to be. Angrily she pulled her outdoors from its peg, pulled it over herself and within less than twenty seconds had herself perfectly settled, despite her anger and embarrassment, inside. "Sir, ready to disembark," she announced and brought her helmet with her to where Thorpe was standing.

"As am I," he replied. She saw he'd done his external seal wrong which was the prime reason for the distress he'd experienced.

"No, sir, you are not," she said, put down her helmet, took his to set down and redid his seals both. When she was satisfied he was settled, after being tempted to cluck at him like a protective schoolmarm, she made her nod. Thinking afresh, she asked might she examine the other suits and correct and mend as necessary?

She'd her chicks out the door and down the ramp in short order. A typical Prometheus day: mid fifties, dust devils dancing near and far, shimmer creating an aquatic scape to see through, and the many ghosts of things not to be noticed striding the mosaic. Out over the berm trundled a slow procession with a pallet. Marco, Beth and two others. Everyone in their party, including newcomers, in 3rd gens. "The shaft is that way, sir." She pointed.

"I'd like to see your sunbath."

Now? Now he wanted to see the sunbath? What reason could he have for an inspection other than to pile abuse on her for having ordered it built? "Aye, sir," she replied, tucking her disquiet under her next breath.

The soft wood flooring had stood up remarkably well; she'd always been careful of it. The misters stood quiescent, their dark grey ceramic radiated heat got through veinlike connections with the outside, the water reservoir beneath their feet was something like half full, side by side couches had been swabbed and disinfected, and the towel rack was amply stocked. Should the captain like to sample the amenity? she enquired and resumed the holding of her breath.

"No, to see this is sufficient."

They'd removed helmets and, despite shade and having passed through the lock that protected them from the rigorous outdoors heat, the interior was exceedingly warm. Everyone was sweating profusely into their liners, except for the bronze-skinned native. "May I recommend we continue our tour," she said courageously.

"Walsh, McKehan, Briggs, if you would, give us some privacy," said Thorpe. 'Aye sir's' were replied and out the trio went. Ensign Juliana Marie Calvert and a senior grade captain stood with not quite a stride between them. "Would you care to explain this, Ensign?" invited Thorpe while he wrung moisture from his scalp to fling on the floor.

"Sir, there is nothing to explain," she said carefully. You ought not to be wasting your water like that.

"Officers who indulge in comfort projects while on remote stations are likely to appear, especially to their superiors, wasteful of resources."

Did she deserve a dressing down? She had debated herself, while softly anguishing, the merits of her comfort facility, recalling how she had come to conceive of it and settled on her motives at the time as her best defence. This facility had been meant as a place of comfort for all Polyphemus crew members. "Sir, none of what has gone into this shelter was taken from essential stores. None of this is extravagance."

"Excuses, Ensign Calvert?" Thorpe walked a half circle whose terminus put him in a perfect spot to view her profile from. "Come now, did you not think at any time before or after you ordered to be built your little Xanadu, that it might not have been a good idea?"

"Sir, my crew was let to partake whenever they had the time and wished to."

"Did they?"

"Yes, sir, they did!" She was ferocious in her reply, suspecting an aggressive tone would be one he wouldn't expect and be prepared for and might back away from.

He leaned back while seeming to calculate where best he might next stab and twist his blade. He didn't ask how many times her crew had indulged themselves, for which she was glad. He peered at her a while longer and then motioned he was done. Shortly thereafter they'd their helmets back on and she led the way to the shaft.

"Which is the altered TRAX?"

"The loader Happy." She indicated the gleaming that marked his place.

"Does it respond to spoken English?"

"Aye, sir." And telepathic English. She sensed Happy listening in and thought a headshake to it.

"This," Thorpe indicated the far berm and the drift of dust flowing off it, "is not possible given the rate at which your machines have been excavating."

"No, sir, it isn't," Calvert replied cautiously.

"No explanation, Ensign?"

"None, sir," said Calvert in as neutral a tone as she could manage. He stared at her. She knew he did because his visor was aimed her way. Owing to the mood she was in, the resentment and mild distress she was feeling, she showed him her tongue fat and sassy, which being double dark-visored he could not possibly see.

"Marco, can you be spared to join us?"

"Aye, sir. I would like the opportunity to help mount the armour into the alcoves." Not done that before, Calvert heard.

"You'll have your opportunity."

"Aye, sir. Thank you, sir."

The cover dome, spacious enough to accommodate everyone in the Captain's party, was admired for its strength, efficaciousness, and economy of construction. As Marco elaborated upon its nuts and bolts, Calvert continued in anguish. "Ensign Calvert and Corporal Danby contributed time and labour also. It was a three person job. We contributed equally," said the tech while shooting a charitable look her way.

Calvert was beyond consolation. Thorpe, the third on their platform as they rode into the depths, did not seem to give the technician's claim any weight, and so she wouldn't either.

"This is well done," said Thorpe, admiring the neat construction of girders. He had been quiet while they passed through the protective energy barrier, which was mostly transparent owing to all the girders stuck into it, nothing strange having happened.

"Interlocking levels, sternly braced, pretty nigh immovable."

Calvert indulged in a barking laugh, which she regretted immediately after.

"You don't agree, Ensign? This project was by your order."

"Aye, sir. But you see, Tech Pacini's confidence is based on the notion the shaft's dimensions are immutable. They are not."

"They're not?" Thorpe shot her a penetrating look. "How would you know that?"

She ought to have bitten her tongue to administer a well deserved punishment for looseness, she ought not to have laughed, and she ought not to have implied she understood there existed any sort of explanation to back her assertion with.

"You have no explanation, Ensign. You don't know. You hadn't given your observation any thought before its airing, and, other than to usurp credit from the hard work of others, you've no real rationale for this or any other conclusion you've made."

"Because the shaft is capable of adjustment," a madly blushing, tersely enunciating Julie Calvert replied, "because it can change its size and shape at the will of the Controller."

"Well," said Thorpe through a feral smile. "You do know something after all."

Julie Calvert debated herself whether her revelation had been a stupid good thing or a stupid bad thing while they drooped the rest of the way to the low platform. Thorpe's reaction to her explanation had been peculiar. Her memory of it was dredged up and reviewed several times right up to the end of their ride. What had she confirmed for him and what would it cost her?

Down the spiral stair and after a low whistle Thorpe went to peer along the more accessible edges of the near to separated block. "The cut is close to two metres deep?"

"Yes, sir," confirmed Marco after a glance at his tight-lipped fellow Polyphemus.

"There is no more than a millimetre of connective material left to cut through?"

"Er, less than a tenth of one millimetre. As near as we can figure."

"The mass of this block must be tremendous. How many tonnes, Marco?"

"We've been unable to make an accurate assessment of the mass."

"Guess," Thorp invited.

"Five hundred? The same volume of collapsed armour weighs near that, but this material could be denser by a factor of ten or more."

"Five thousand tonnes," marvelled Thorp, "held in place by a tenth of a millimetre of the same material. Are you not impressed, Marco?"

"Very much so," the toady, as Calvert presently viewed him, replied.

"Hum-m-m, I'm curious, Marco."

"Sir?"

"If you have no way of knowing how much material is left to cut through, how did you know to shut down your torch when you did?"

"I didn't, sir. It was by Ensign Calvert's order that we ceased cutting."

Thank you, snitch! Calvert's hands made fists and she had to be glad for the cloth covering her palms or she would have wounded them much with her fingernails.

Thorpe set his gaze on his subordinate yet again. "Ensign Calvert, enlighten us. Why have you caused this torch to cease operation when you can't possibly have known you were about to cut through to the other side?"

"Because I was told to, sir," she heard herself say.

"By whom?"

"The Controller, sir." The absolute truth, or close enough.

"You have been in communication with the alien presence within this ship?"

"Yes."

"You are now?"

"No."

Liar.

I'm protecting myself, us. Shut the hell up.

"Why in all the reports, updates and notes you've created, recorded and sent have you've not once mentioned the connection you have with the alien?"

Oh, I am so fucked! Calvert struggled to come up with a credible answer while she perspired into her liner far more than was right. Mentally blowing out her breath seemed to help. Marco's something sympathetic look provided only distraction. She resumed her gaze on her superior, understood full well why he watched her so close, and hated him for it. "I wasn't sure whether I was hearing the actual creature or hallucinating." A believable, safe rationalization despite it was completely false. She almost smiled after giving it.

"You believe this to be the truth, given you by the alien? That you have been advised correctly that this opening is near complete?"

Shrug, and a pretty featured blink preceded, "Yes, sir, I do."

Thorpe appeared about to laugh. She felt him primed for it. He put his hand to his face and turned away. Marco, correct little soldier, guarded his corner and appeared not at any time soon to become a help. "Ensign, you and I—no, that is for later. Marco, you have something to ask me?"

"Ah, yes, sir, I do."

"To make the asking easier, I've time this evening, if that suits."

"Thank you, sir. This evening would be—we'll be in touch for the exact time."

Calvert watched the pair from her place at the torch, by its panel. Thorpe had set himself in the beam track. She stared at the activation pad. She wouldn't even have to touch it to cause the torch to fire, a single pulse of thought might suffice. Looking up, she discovered Thorpe's gaze once more fixed on her. "I'm ready to return to the ship, Ensign."

"Aye, sir," she said and crossed over to the stair.

Chapter Thirty-One - Examination

Julie Calvert's full-size image he viewed in a suit of dress blues. Thorpe knew of officers who indulged themselves with images of subordinates in clown costumes, animal shapes, lingerie or the nude. Calvert's representative image referenced her many reports to answer the questions he put to it—a far quicker means of obtaining information than by thumbing through screens.

He had directed the image to answer with appropriate expressions and intonations according to the content, type and source of its data. This function likewise could be abused. An image might answer in excitement or arousal, using a voice and mannerisms stilted, overwrought, quaint or fantastical. Cartoon character voices, popular sim character voices, voices of well known personalities, friends or enemies, male voices substituted for female, female voices substituted for male, helium voices. John Thorpe had once attended a briefing in which absent witnesses delivered their testimonies in song.

"I decided after considerable study and reflection to create a catalogue based on text duration and content. By content I mean symbols which appear alike and of texts which appear to possess a similar theme or length and style of presentation. I had determined early on that no two symbols, particularly when viewed in the snapshot fashion used initially, are ever identical. Although pairs or even groups of symbols do appear remarkably similar, there is always a difference, either an extra part, such as a dot, or different lengths or thicknesses of strokes. I don't suspect this phenomenon can be true of the entire library. I cannot conceive it possible the collection is in a language with an infinite alphabet. In an earlier report, I stated the opinion that similar symbols may have the same meaning or represent similar context, or it could be they are the same word or phrase however belonging to different dialects. It could be the aliens are polyglots, and the native languages of the speakers were set down as consequences of an unstructured interview process rather than rendered into a standard form first, with no care for how individuals not of the same race and culture might in later time interpret them."

"A jejune analysis of a complicated subject which she has no training about or experience in," observed Parnell dryly.

"The linguistic experts let to study the texts have come up with no better analyses."

"You believe she spent hundreds of hours examining texts for similarities?"

"Of course not. The ship performed the comparisons. Ask it, if you want to hear how the Ensign set up her parameters for the ordering of the texts."

"I'd rather not waste my time with that bullshit. This is what needs to be explained." Parnell exported from the patch device on his wrist the changes of expression a startled Julie Calvert had exhibited when accused of having read the books. "How would you explain this reaction?" Shock and an attempt at feigning innocense, that hadn't near enough guile to deceive anyone.

"I've no opinion to offer."

"You don't think her reaction suspicious."

"I don't think anything about it." Thorpe thought it inappropriate to interpret a look that might be owing to a mood or thoughts unrelated to the trigger Parnell had used to elicit it by. As the foundation for a claim of purposeful deception, a look wasn't enough.

"She claims to be in communication with the alien."

"She has not said how far the connection goes." No mention of extraordinary rapport was in any part of Calvert's reports, nor in the ship's log. Thorpe doubted she'd been foolish enough to set down anything in her personal journal to incriminate herself with. He might order she hand over her private musings for examination, but was reluctant to do so owing to an issue of privacy and because Calvert was within her rights to refuse. She might be compelled to hand over part or all of the journal in future. That would be an issue for lawyers to sort out.

"She keeps secrets she's not entitled to." Parnell's voice had risen in volume. The opiates he'd consumed earlier were not wholly successful in controlling the anxiety and impatience he was feeling. Galaxy Corporation had spent a great deal of money underwriting a mission the navy had been reluctant to undertake. Galaxy would have used its own ships and crews except its CEO had known the Imperial government would demand inclusion in any payoff. The Navy thus had provided a share of resources, manpower and expertise, as well as assumed all the risk.

Parnell was concerned about protecting the exclusivity of his contract. The infant Richardson's involvement was a complication and a large impediment to his plan.

Charles Hutchinson had left her in charge. Parnell's very next communique would ensure that imbecile got what he deserved.

Matthew Parnell had travelled far at large inconvenience. The management of his corporation had been left to a facsimile, an AI geist, which had the potential to destabilize if left in charge for too long. He ought to have turned over his Directorship to an underling, except he'd known, should the mission turn out as anticipated, its profits would dwarf those from all the other operations Galaxy was involved in: shipping, mines, construction, and its other enterprises.

"You must order her to tell the truth. She's your subordinate after all." Parnell felt he and the Captain had a rapport, evolved over long hours spent in each other's company. John Thorpe must remain an ally in what was to come.

The Captain leaned back in his chair. Their meeting took place within borrowed quarters amidst borrowed furnishings. His mood was unsettled owing to what felt out-of-tune surroundings, besides the matter discussed. "How do you propose I do that? Not only am I constrained by the rules, I must respect her as my subordinate, and for her status in society. You don't accuse a girl of her pedigree without adequate proof. Her reports and analyses are correct in form and content. I find no fault in them."

"How do you not interpret that look as an admission of guilt?" Parnell revisited his memory of how Calvert's expression had changed. His imagination had sharper focus of late and he had wondered why since his sedating dose was unchanged from what it had been before.

"I wouldn't know how to interpret a look," said Thorpe while he squinted displeasure to the desk before him. The reason he disliked the suite so much, Thorpe was thinking, and not looking forward to the next several weeks he would have to put up with it, was that it was second best everything. Second best screen, second best data storage, second best materials and second best construction and finish. He would never have purchased its like for himself.

"I suspect she's translated a great many texts by now. Some of them no doubt of great worth. You've gotten her to admit she's in contact with the alien. You might do the same with regards the books. She's been six months studying them. The organizational scheme she came up with is rubbish and a smoke screen to cover up what have been her real activities. You must force her to tell the truth."

"Which is what, exactly? I wouldn't even know how to begin. Projection, off." The image had served its purpose. Its gawking had turned unsettling.

Shortsighted fool! "The books, John, this is all about the books! Let me have her to interview." Parnell's handclasp received as much of his pent up energy as he could pour into it, and the larger part of his angst, thus allowing his expression to show honest and earnest. He was uncomfortable negotiating on an equal footing with a mere naval captain. Most of his business was done through underlings. He would far rather direct operations from afar. He wished it had been possible to bring the special help that would enable him to get what he wanted without fuss. The revelation the girl might be withholding vital information had not become evident until after Zenith was well underway.

"I can find out what she's hiding," Parnell insisted. "She's scarcely more than a child. Give me an hour and she'll give up everything she knows."

"I cannot order her to talk to you. You may only invite her to attend an interview, which she is entitled to refuse. Even should she agree, I ought to be present as her superior and representative to safeguard her rights and interests." And the rights and interests of our Imperial Navy.

"That would be a mistake—with you present she'd not say a word." And I wouldn't be let to do what needs be done. "I can provide you with a live transmission to your station here. I guarantee that all questions posed will respect her rights. I can provide you with a list if you wish?"

Thorpe set chin on fist while gazing to his reflection in the displeasing desk blotter. His mood stayed irritable, which an unguarded expression was likely to reveal. "I dislike the idea as it is irregular. I have not spoken to her yet about the matter myself. She may confess what she's hiding to me."

Parnell controlled his mounting fury with an effort. "I doubt she will. She's determined to keep secrets from us. Most likely to benefit her family."

"Jack and Tony Richardson would not permit it," Thorp said pedantically. The one constant in the human universe was that all things stamped 'Richardson' could be trusted.

"You're so sure?"

Thorpe knew John Barry Richardson only by reputation, not having served under him except in a general way. A Grand Admiral was a remote and august creature to personnel based on the frontier. All of what he'd been told about the current GA's reign had been positive, however. Tony Richardson had a no less sterling reputation within politics and was touted as a worthy successor to the incumbent Director.

"The value of this technology will be fabulous, if it can be translated!" persisted Parnell.

"We don't know how successful our own efforts will be. We might translate the books on our own."

"While she possesses the keys to them already! Captain, really!"

Thorpe's instructions had him deferring to the civilian in matters concerning the retrieval and transport of salvageable technology. Parnell's connexions went all the way back to Core. That the kid was Jack Richardson's niece, for that reason more than any other, he had to ensure her rights were protected. "Very well. You may have your interview. The live feed relayed to this desk beginning to end. I reserve the right to terminate the session if it appears you've strayed into litigious territory."

"You fear the Richardson legal corps might retaliate?" Parnell indulged in a half smile.

"I do. As should you."

"I can handle the Richardson family. And one Richardson in particular."

That Richardson was hauling a softly resisting bride-to-be into Crew Deck Upper's fabricating compartment. "I was going to wear my dress uniform,"protested Danby as their linked bodies arrived before the garment dispenser and its built-in catalogue.

"Ugh," went Calvert. "No offence, but unless you've absolutely no other option that's

the worst garment to be married in. Here's the catalogue. Give me a sec to input your image."

"I'm not supposed to be in here," said Danby whimsically.

"Not since the locusts arrived," muttered Calvert. "All right, here you are." Danby's three dimensional, metre tall, nude likeness appeared upon the display dias. "Full size?"

"No, that's large enough." A giggle. "Are my breasts really that small?"

"The chiffon is very nice, but there's satin, silk, and crushed velvet if you'd prefer, although the colours in the velvet are limited to a very dark blue, crimson and forest green."

"Velvet," said Danby.

"Don't be silly. Now this is a patterned white which should suit you perfectly. These designs are many months old, but that shouldn't matter . . ." The reason for Calvert's trailing off was owed to a horde of ants premonition tickling beneath her skin.

He means to examine you.

He? Who he? Parnell?

Yes.

Piss and bother. That moron is not getting anything out of me.

"Hum-m-m, I like that," went Danby as a mid thigh dress in dazzlingly white stretch fabric that couldn't have weighed above a handful of grams appeared over her image.

"For bar hopping after, which we won't be doing," said Calvert, who was reminded of a similar garment she'd coaxed her friend into wearing long ago, except green instead of white. "Did you touch this setting?"

"Maybe a little?"

"Have you been drinking?"

"Maybe a little?"

"Keep your hands off the console. I'll create a parade of selections and as we press through choices you say the one you like best." Afterward I'll order up the one I think suits you better.

"That one." Floor length, plenty of room inside and shaped to display the feminine form at its best and coincidentally Danby's balanced muscularity perfectly. She'd have every male in the room drooling. Calvert couldn't help but smile.

"You're sure? We're barely into the front half of available styles."

"Nope, I'm sure. That one's sweet. I look like a princess in that!"

"You are a princess," murmured Calvert. "We'll get this started and it should be ready . . ." She looked into the console, "in about an hour."

"Goody."

"Now, shoes and veil. Um, I'll take care of those. And the bouquet, which will have to be artificial, I'm afraid."

"Artificial's good."

"You can pick among these designs—"

"That one!"

"Okay, hum-m-m. Lingerie."

"Oh."

"Unless you'd prefer your skivvies?"

"No, I should have on something a little dirty." Another giggle was indulged.

"To match the dress we need something strapless." Strapless baby doll in white satin with garter belt, matching hose, and frost white panties. "What do you think?"

"That's me?"

"Yes, that's you. Did you want to discuss foundation garments again?"

"Nope, I'm good."

"Right then. I'll get you back to your quarters. You might want to cut back a little."

"I should, shouldn't I?"

"Absolutely you should."

The pair was greeted with: "Ensign Calvert, report to the Second Officer's Suite." They'd just exited into the corridor.

"Isn't that Parnell?" said a cosily inebriated friend who'd turned of a sudden sober. "What could he want to talk to you about?"

"No idea," Calvert replied blandly. "I'll just have to go and find out."

"That man is evil, Julie," said Danby, clutching her by the arms. "Don't tell him anything."

"I've nothing to hide," said Calvert, cat-smug, and brought her friend the rest of the way to the group quarters she shared with two other female marines.

"All of you need to cut back," the youth said sternly before taking her leave. Her gaze fell on the wisp of a girl whose odd mirth had so bothered her before. In her white tank top and boxers she appeared an orphan. In plain as earth features was strangeness besides, which Calvert could not interpret. Their gazes met and Calvert saw the ephemeral visage of a woman a great deal older than her surface showed. Backing from the room, the girl/old woman nodding, realization dawned. Second timer. Calvert had met a few second timers before, at the adult parties her grandparents hosted.

Pathetic creatures, their actions and mode of speech strange. A lie of youth. Men and women who chose to renew themselves with the handsomest bodies money could buy, yet behaved as though made of glass and likely to shatter. Here was a woman not well off, saved from death owing to her expertise. Rescue fortuitous into a body convenient at hand.

"At last you've answered my summons," Parnell said sourly as Calvert arrived within the Second Officer's suite. Sylvia Jerome rode a plain chair by the entrance beside a potted plant. Her tight, short skirt reminded Calvert of her recent clothes shopping and she smirked.

"I came as soon as I could. What's this about?" Summoned to appear before a civilian and no start time given, she might have arrived whenever she wished.

"Have a seat," invited Parnell. He's brought that desk from Zephyr, Calvert thought, and the potted plant. He's replacing the carpet this afternoon: as soon as this interview's ended the work will begin. He's very particular about his living space and he'd far rather occupy his luxurious quarters within Zenith, but he needs to be close to the action and so he is here.

Calvert wet her lips as she sat, then, wishing to exploit the softness and depth of her plush seat better, she lifted to make a cross of her legs beneath herself. A three dimensional fishing village midday representation, installed into a frame two by three metres, was sited at her right hand: grey wood ageing gracefully, many boats in need of paint, water lapping cat-soft against pilings, men on the nearest boat coiling nets.

"Can I offer refreshment? Water? A glass of wine or beer?"

"No, thank you. I'm rather busy at the moment. Could you come to the point of whatever it is you wish to discuss, please?"

"You're acquainted with my special status?"

"Can't say that I am."

"I've been associated with this mission from the start. Your Admiral Parkinson is an associate of mine."

"Admiral Parkinson? He's in charge?"

"He is."

"I should give Jimmy a call. Hum-m-m, I think I'll do that."

Parnell grimaced as he poured water out of an antique cut-crystal decanter into a glass of similar design. Refreshment he'd no intention partaking of. "Are you sure you won't have something to drink?"

"I'm sure. So what's this about?"

"Your future."

"My future?" Calvert scowled appropriately.

"Surely you don't intend remaining an ensign your entire naval career?"

"I've no intention of any such thing." Calvert watched him move his glass on its coaster away from his elbow.

"Yet that appears to be your fate. Naval officers far above Captain Thorpe in rank are not pleased with your performance here. They feel you've let us down."

"In what way?" Calvert held herself in and still. While she ought not to let herself feel pressured by anything the civilian might tell her, she had to respect the fact that he had the ear of the high ranking mission strategists who had power to aid or impede her advancement.

"You've wasted your time, the study you've made of the glyphs was a thing concocted by a preschooler, you've utilized materials and personnel to create luxuries for yourself and to make it appear you've accomplished great things when, in fact, you haven't done much more than take a few snapshots and shift a little dirt."

"That's a perception which will receive correction in time," returned Calvert while she struggled to maintain a neutral look in spite of how angry she was becoming.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that if I were you," said Parnell, rising to apply palm to small of back as an aid to a stretch. "You see, when the Navy Corps of Engineers clears the entire surface of the wreck, that will be something noteworthy. Your mucking about with spades and a handful of TRAXs, well, that was unnecessary from the start."

"My team discovered the wreck."

"Yes, Mr. Pacini did, didn't he? No doubt he deserves every bit of the credit about to be heaped upon him."

Nothing news to her. Marco deserved the credit for the brilliant means he'd used to find the wreck and she didn't begrudge him a single syllable of praise. Concerning her own part, she'd long ago reconciled with the criticism she anticipated owing to her methods—there were plenty of short-sighted men and women out and about. Others would know how dedicated she'd been and she would put her trust in their judgements. She couldn't be held back. If she was to be held back it wouldn't be for long, not after all the initiative she'd shown.

"Miss Calvert? Are you sure you won't take something to drink?" Leaning his body over the desk toward her, Parnell's invitation to refresh herself was as insincere as the smile it rode on.

Calvert peered into the water in the glass decanter and saw specks of something suspended in it. "No, thank you," she said and gazed into his eyes to observe and record an image of the treachery floating inside them. You bastard. You're not drugging me.

"Of course," Parnell said, sniffed, and resumed his upright pose. "if you'd anything of real consequence to say then you might, just might, save your career."

"Such as what, Mr. Parnell?" she drawled from her chair-bound sprawl.

"Well, that's up to you, now isn't it? But I should think, for a start, oh, something about the glyphs?"

"The glyphs?"

"You know, if there happened to be any recurrent phrases, words at the least, anything recognizable as language?"

Calvert chuckled. "No, nothing like that. The best I could manage was compile an alphabet."

"Alphabet," was replied as though the word had a vile taste, and then Parnell chuckled, though without humour. "That was a waste of time. What I'm talking about are schematics, instructions, historical records, documents belonging to a highly advanced culture."

"Nope," went Calvert, puckering her lips in rebellious fashion. Jack would recognize the look. It was the one he liked least of the ones she might show. "Didn't chance on anything like that."

"Even if it would save your career? Have you been lying?"

The sort of revelation he tempted her toward would make her situation a great deal more precarious than it was already. "Sir, I'm bound by my oath never to lie to a superior officer." To be caught in a lie would suit his ends admirably besides create the crack he needed to apply his lever to.

"I'm not in your navy. You can tell me anything. I will respect what you have to say with complete discretion."

"Well, then with utter respect and in all sincerity I have nothing more to say to you, sir."

"That is your final answer? Yes, so good of you to agree. Splash. Hatch close."

Realizing she was of a sudden in jeopardy, Calvert was on her feet in an instant. The swiftly lessening gap as the hatch sped along its rail was too distant for her to exit through in time. Indecision hampered her movements in any case.

"Hatch open," she said. "I think I'll leave now. Hatch open." Neither of her instructions convinced the hatch to move back. During the same time she made the few strides toward freedom that she could. Calvert stood uncertain before the obstacle of a closed door. In her corner, Jerome was examining her nails. "Poly, open this hatch, please. By my command, by my authority as an officer this ship."

"I am unable to comply," responded Polyphemus in a peculiarly strangled voice as though the ship herself was restrained.

"Your overrides will not work, Miss Calvert," said Parnell and poured water into a fresh glass, thus doubling his ammunition. "Do drink some of this water. You must be parched."

"Fuck you. Open this god damn hatch." Beth, help me. I'm in trouble. Parnell has me trapped in his quarters and at his mercy.

"I have been nothing but hospitable—Miss Jerome."

Jerome rose from her chair and with surprising speed and strength seized Calvert about the upper body and applied a sideways yank. Calvert with both arms pinioned could do nothing as Jerome with her free hand levered a jaw that would resist with all its might being opened.

"You will drink, Miss Calvert," said Parnell as he crossed the deck, cut crystal goblet in hand, "and then we will know all you've been keeping to yourself."

"Fug you!" she sped through her clenched teeth.

Her nostrils were pinched hard enough to injure them while she stamped on feet, threw herself off balance, oxygen turned to poison, and the strength leeched from her breath-starved body. Throwing her head to the side, she gasped a mouthful of precious air, while Parnell urgently said, "Hold her steady, damn it."

Beth! Help me!

"An injection would have been easier," Jerome grumbled. To avoid being stamped on a second time she'd pulled Calvert with her onto her corner seat and pinioned the girl's legs with her own.

"If I'd suspected she wouldn't agree to drink, I would've arranged for one. Besides, this leaves no trace. Idiot girl, stay still!"

"I could daze her with a punch."

"And leave a mark. No. Pin her to the floor and hold her head steady."

Beth! as she was tripped and fallen onto. Next with her torso levered upright, both Jerome's hands forcing her jaws open, her hands were free at last to scratch and gouge.

"Got her!" cried Parnell as Calvert sputtered nine-tenths of what she'd been forced to receive on everything near: Jerome's hands, Parnell's face, the carpet, and the rest down the front of her tunic. "That's it. Leave her go."

"Assholes. You will not get away with this," Calvert growled as she came upright. As she backed toward the hatch, she wondered what she could do to avoid a plethora of dangerous confessions spewing forth. Beth! I need you! Hurry to me!

"Now we wait," said Parnell on the way back to his desk.

"You are so going to be so sued! Stay away from me, bitch!" Calvert snarled at the much larger woman who maintained a threatening posture nearby.

"Jerome, stay back," ordered Parnell.

"You are about to be very fucking sorry," said Calvert and hawked and spat extravagantly on the carpet. "Both of you! When my lawyers finish with you there won't be enough of your rotten carcasses left over to feed a gnat!"

"We might be worried if you were destined to remember any part of what's about to happen to you. Fortunately for us, you won't," said Parnell with false geniality, and if in that case you survive what's to come to give testimony, while particularly not looking at the spot of wet on the rug which infuriated him.

"This shit is not going to work on . . . muh," Calvert said as her body was released from control to find a new balance at a much lower level.

"Catch her, Jerome . . . or not," muttered Parnell as he gazed with almost astonishment at the girl sprawled untidily on his floor.

Danby was saying, "Sir, I know it's irregular for us to come to you like this." Marco was at her side along with Gowan, who'd tagged along. Marine Spec Melanie Swan was standing at the back of their little group and sucking anxiously against her lips while wondering if she should be a part of whatever this was.

"What reason do you have to suspect that anything's happened to Ensign Calvert?" Thorpe asked. He might look past his shoulder at the ongoing interview which depicted Parnell seated behind his desk, Calvert in her chair. The sound was muted but the character of the conversation between them was clear. Calvert's thinly veiled arrogance answered Parnell's ineffectual questioning. He'd been tempted to instruct the financier to abandon his efforts.

"Sir, what I suspect is more than a feeling. That is what I know," insisted Danby.

"I see no reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary."

Marco stepped forward with, "Sir, we've been there already and the hatch is shut and locked. Nor would whomever's inside respond to our hales."

Someone pounding at the entrance was the type of interruption he ought to have noted in a transmission he'd attended closely since it began.

"Trouble," said Jerome, glancing up from her notepad.

"What? What more trouble could there possibly be? Wake up, you little bitch! Dammit, she has to be faking." From the instant the drug had taken hold to now Calvert had been as one in a coma. No amount of stimuli, which might safely be applied given constraints of time and place, had brought her one breath closer to consciousness.

"They're coming."

"Who? Who in the hell's coming?" His hand was poised to deliver a slap. The pleasure I'm going to derive from this!

"The same fucking mob as before, that's who—don't be a fool! You hit her like that and we won't be able to mend the damage in time. Thorpe's about to join them."

"Already? Who told them anything? How was she able to communicate with the ship AI? Did the ship inform them to come?" Parnell snarled as he took the senseless girl by the shoulders and shook her as hard as he was able, "This was supposed to work!"

"Not if you can't get her to wake up—she's got my skin under her nails."

"She can't be asleep. What the fuck happened here? There's barely enough time left for the antidote to work."

"You have to decide. Get her to wake up somehow, or administer the antidote."

"Fuck!" Parnell snarled expressively and heaved the sleeping girl from his lap. He'd never been so agitated, worked up, annoyed. "All right, give her the antidote. Dry her off. Most of the crap should've oxidized but do what you have to do."

"Okay," went Jerome before adding in a needling undertone, "A needle would have been far better."

"Shut the hell up." To Calvert, his lips pressing her left earlobe, "Now listen up, you fucking little twerp, the magic word that makes all of this go away is 'plover'."

The hatch was confirmed in 'closed and locked' configuration when the rescue party came to it. "Mr. Parnell," called Thorpe to the communications pad next to the barred opening.

"Yes, what is it, John? We're in the middle of our talk here."

"Why is this hatch closed?"

"A private conversation, John."

"I need to come in."

"One moment . . ."

"He's lying, sir," whispered Danby urgently at his back.

"Stand down, Corporal," Thorp replied mechanically.

"Aye, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Sir, I could have that lock off and this hatch opened inside of a minute," said Marco.

"That won't be necessary, Technician," said the increasingly annoyed senior officer. "All of you stand down and return to quarters—except you, Marco."

"Sir, may I stay also?" asked Gowan.

"No, Tech, I'm certain your expertise will not be required."

"Aye, sir. Come along, ladies. Back to the bachelorette party."

"Bachelorette," muttered Thorpe as he gazed meaningfully at Marco.

"Ah, yeah, sir. I'm kinda missed elsewhere, too."

"Never known a space sailor to pass on an excuse for a party."

"Or a good drunk either, sir."

"You're not intending to present yourself drunk and disorderly at your own wedding, are you, Technician?"

"Absolutely not, sir. I'm sober now and I'll be sober then."

"Maintain as you are, Tech," said Thorpe as the hatch before them opened.

"Miss Calvert is in the bathroom, a little accident," Parnell was saying as the pair erupted through the hatch.

"An accident? How?" snarled Marco.

"Tech Pacini, if you would, wait out in the corridor, please," said Thorpe with having reached that condition of exasperation he had struggled to avoid.

"Aye, sir. Sorry, sir," said Marco and reluctantly took himself to where he'd been bidden.

"What was that about?" asked Parnell, showing a badly weathered smile.

"Nothing. The Ensign is all right?"

"Why shouldn't she be? Spilled a little water on herself."

"Has she been forthcoming on the topic we discussed?"

"Well, we were having a reasonable conversation."

"This was until the young woman spilled water on herself?"

"Even after, I daresay. Ah, here she is now."

Calvert emerged by the short hallway sporting a frown and uncertain look. Seeing Parnell, words of accusation leapt to her tongue ready to be used.

"Quite the splash, eh, Miss Calvert?" said Parnell.

"Puh-puh-puh-plover!" she exclaimed before exhibiting a look of pure disgust.

"I beg your pardon?" asked Parnell genially.

"I have the worst taste possible in my mouth!" went Calvert and felt an involuntary gag reflex about to flush the contents of her stomach up her esophagus, besides a splitting headache. "Ex—me!" and rush back into the neat small bathroom to be violently sick.

"She was perfectly all right a moment ago," Parnell protested mildly.

"I imagine a trip to the infirmary to be in order."

"Must be some sort of feminine ailment," said Parnell, shaking his head. "Could be menstrual."

"Er," went Thorpe, owing to a lack of knowledge of or like for the subject. He could officially be no worse than puzzled about Parnell's behaviour and attitude.

With Calvert taken away, pale and shaken owing to heavy doses of both antidote and stimulant and Thorpe placated and not likely to take investigative action, having no definitive reason to, Parnell resumed his desk, saw again the spot of angry wet upon his carpet and was once more incensed. Jerome appeared through the connecting hallway, having passed several minutes behind his bedroom's closed door. She exhibited a brow.

"If they test her right away, they'll detect the stimulant at least," she said.

"Fuck'em. I don't care," said Parnell, adjusted his focus to the fishing village and then returned it to his assistant. "Why didn't the truth powder work?"

"Bad batch. That's all I can figure."

"There are no bad batches." That Calvert would be disinclined to volunteer her information he'd suspected from the start, but she ought to have responded like a songbird to the drug. Perversely glad about the pain and discomfort he'd inflicted, Parnell resumed his scowling at the spot of mouth juices she'd left on his carpet. They had both injured themselves in this encounter. He took solace and a perverse pleasure in the realization.

"An allergic reaction. That's possible."

"To that compound? I've seen it used a dozen times and it's worked flawlessly a dozen times."

"Could be a resistance owing to her genetics or an exotic therapy we know nothing about. If so," The henchwoman took to hold the nearly empty glass nearest his hand, "that will make things a whole lot harder. If she can't be drugged, that leaves but one recourse."

Parnell snorted. "Can't do that here. Not with her people around. When we get her to someplace secluded . . ." He nodded emphatically. When he got her to a place far away from help and friends he would take a great deal more from her than just her secrets.

"Richardson," pronounced Jerome softly. She had taken from the washroom a knitter to mend the scratches Calvert had given her. Her pronouncement was capped by a hiss of pain.

Parnell responded with a dismissing wave. "You think just because they're the pre-eminent family in the galaxy they're untouchable? They're like everyone else. Like everyone else they have their weaknesses. Like everyone else they can be killed."

Calvert retained a perfect recollection of her treatment at the hands of her enemies. Lying on the infirmary bed in her damp ship suit, she possessed marks Jerome had given her and missed mending, blood and tissue under her fingernails that the sternest vacuuming had not taken all away, the horrible tasting concoction thrust down her throat, the erasing word, splash, which hadn't erased anything and her involuntary reply, plover, which was supposed to verify the erasure successful.

You monkey-fucked, horse-faced, shit-dipped sonovabitch! You drugged me and thought you could get away with it! A scan of my memory, fresh as daisies and clear as crystal, will condemn you right into the worst lawsuit and criminal prosecution you could ever imagine! Oh, you are so dead and buried!

Is that all you would reveal?

"Here, try some of this," Gowan suggested and gave her a glass with a dingy white something the thickness of clotted cream inside.

Grimacing. "Is this gonna taste as bad as the crap coating my tongue?"

"Let's see."

Obediently, without prior thought, Calvert put out her tongue for a swabbing.

"Let's just see what we have, hum-m-m? Oh, my."

"Ah, could I—" came from the girl sliding her bum off her perch.

"No, no, this is doctor business. You stay right there."

The minute the twerp left the room she was going to see what had been on that monitor she'd just turned off. But Gowan didn't leave. She called Thorpe and then included Marco. Mutter which the patient was not supposed to hear, pitched soft and low and with back turned was, "Traces of a stimulant. No doubt about it. And something else that breaks down so rapidly in air that it won't be possible to analyse a sample. Marco, here's my analysis as far as I've been able to make it . . . Well, what would you like to have done, sir?"

"Tastes like clotted blood," said a grimacing Calvert after a swig of the white paste.

The slight small figure straightened with surprise and then regret whilst looking behind herself. "Oh, don't, you didn't—oh, never mind."

Do I know what I'm doing? Calvert thought as she drank off another mouthful of the noxious remedy that she did. Should an examination of her memories be made the attack on her person would most certainly be revealed, but so would a great deal more.

Gowan sighed as she stepped back from the communications console. "How does that make you feel?"

Her headache was clearing up, which she gladly reported. Maybe her digestive tract was starting to settle. She felt empty and very hungry.

"You did throw up your last meal," said Gowan sourly.

"Oh, yeah."

"Did you take in anything while you were in Mr. Parnell's suite? Did he offer you any food or drink?"

"Water. Wouldn't drink any." Inspired, she said, "He'd some candy in a bowl on his desk. I took one." She was offering her enemy a retreat which he would no doubt clasp in both hands and be not at all the right kind of grateful for.

"Candy? That's all? The front of your ship suit is sopping wet," Gowan observed.

"Oh, it is? Oh, yeah, right. Then I must have taken some water to drink." A shrug. "And spilled it on myself. Yeah, I had some candy. Red, I think. Tasted like licorice."

"And not like crap?" asked Gowan with sour amusement.

"I only had the one."

"Were you sick before or after you ate Mr. Parnell's candy?"

"Oh, after for sure. Must not have agreed with me."

"You may have taken medication by mistake," said Gowan, whose fussy old doctor expression in such a clean young face might have put Calvert into hysterics had she not been thinking so furiously as she was at that moment.

I am going to destroy you, Parnell. This is the oath I make this instant in time. If you've never understood the concept of vendetta before, you will when I'm done with you.

The bull-necked marine entering through the infirmary hatch clipboard in hand, Calvert had never seen before except in dreams. Cap precisely aligned, uniform immaculate, his Germanic features painted over with a professional scowl, he crossed the deck to reach her along a route with at least two right angles in it. "Ensign Calvert, I am Sergeant Muller."

"Good day, Sergeant."

"Thank you, and to you, sir. I have been instructed to record the particulars of the events passed recently within Mr. Parnell's quarters to determine should there be an official inquiry."

"I suspected as much. I will answer as precisely as I am able, however I was incapacitated for a time and my memory of that time in particular will be unsure."

"Aye, sir," he said and recited the text glowing at the top of his screen as: "The purpose of this examination is to determine whether there be cause for investigation into events of this date, ( the current official date filling in automatically as he recited the phrase ), between 13:12 and 13:36 hours ship's time taken place within the private quarters of Matthew Parnell, consultant to this Imperial Navy and concerning also Ensign Juliana Marie Calvert.

"Sir, you may begin your testimony. Begin with your name and rank and apply you IDENT here, please."

Her recitation the young woman confined to recollections of the intervals before the first splash and after plover. Calvert might have given word-for-word dialogue, however settled for the gist. She did not mention her detection of the truth drug. The fabrication of sampling from a small bowl of what seemed candy she inserted just before the end of her testimony.

"Is this testimony complete and accurate to the best of your recollection, Ensign Calvert, and will you attest to that statement?"

"It is and I do."

"Press here, please," said Muller and she put her thumb print to his screen the second time. "I press also as witness and if you would be so kind, Med Tech Gowan, to add your print?"

"Certainly I will," said Gowan thoughtfully and pressed the screen.

"Hum-m-m," went Calvert as the sergeant precision-marched himself out of sight and she stretched back into her pillows.

"That was artful lying," said Gowan as she unwrapped the diagnostic sleeve from the girl's arm and removed the diagnostic patch from her throat like tearing off a scab to swab clean and put away. "I wonder if you know what you're doing."

"I wonder you've the nerve to say such a thing to me," muttered Calvert darkly.

Gowan shrugged. "That particular stimulant is a kind used to wake a subject from the dead if need be. Very dangerous unless administered in the correct dosage. You ought to be glad the man who did so knew what he was about."

"It was a small candy."

"If you say so," muttered Gowan.

"How much longer do I have to stay here?"

"You're free to go. Just don't take any more candy from strangers, hum?"

"Fuck off." Calvert wrapped a smile about the phrase.

Are you okay? Calvert heard as soon as she came into the corridor.

Yes. You heard me.

Of course. I rallied the troops and came as quickly as I could. Did we arrive in time?

Calvert contemplated a complicated answer before she responded with a simple: Yes.

I'm relieved. How serious of a threat is he to us?

Nothing I can't handle.

A two count pause. Are you still coming to my party?

Wouldn't miss it for all the gold in the galaxy.

We saved you a party hat.

Parnell knew the summons to be necessary and, although he was upset and feeling unwell, he came as soon as he reasonably could. He intended to follow up on their earlier talk and give his impression of the one-on-one interview with Calvert. Thorpe looked up from his chair as Galaxy Corp's CEO entered the cabin, his expression dour. "I got nothing out of her," said Parnell.

"I saw that."

"She is lying."

"She is not the only one." The two men looked baldly at each other before Thorpe added, "She's given you an out."

"I beg your pardon, Captain?"

"She took candy from you, a red licorice."

"She . . . did." The fabulously powerful captain of commerce and industry was confused and perplexed for several seconds at the least.

"Do you keep medication sometimes in an open container in plain sight?"

"Er . . . sometimes I will," he had to answer.

"In future, you should not. Children may help themselves," said Thorpe, his tone as dry as dust.

"Yes, they may," Parnell agreed before leaving the Captain's compartment.

Chapter Thirty-Two - Wedding

Calvert exited from the lift with no intention of creating a scene. The dove grey of her garment, the uniqueness of its cut, the slightness of the body giving it shape, and her mode of presentation, all were intended to exude confidence, yet she felt as though arrived pink into a pool of blue swimmers. Thorpe, his officers, his coxswain, Marco, Gless, all but one of the marines, and three others, utter strangers, saw her and became as though fixed in place.

Softly she despaired. Her smile, given expression, would have appeared garish. Not until her pulse had struck away three units of life did her fires rekindle and she resumed her crossing of the deck. Her next step tentative, but then all the rest were done with the kind of art professional dancers were capable of.

Upon assuming her place in front of Thorp and two steps on his left, the young woman stood at one vertex of a right triangle. Marco stood at its right angle, neat in his best uniform and medals and ribbons. His gaze, sent along the shortest side of the triangle, lit upon her and was calm and reassuring. Hair combed to a lustre, soft brown eyes and open-mouthed smile, the competence of his look and compactness of his body, the blue of his uniform, and even the gloss of his shoes, Calvert appreciated in full. She was out of her funk. She could smile again, but only for him.

The lift opened, Marco's gaze shifted, and Calver's despondency returned. Music swelled, the Wedding March. The tech's delight sped to their beloved friend, whom Calvert dreaded to upset and was unable to look at while her heart bled into her shoes.

The rustle of cloth, the measured tread. Sergeant Muller, in dress red and blacks, gave away the bride. Danby approached, her hand on the Sergeant's arm. Gowan held the wedding gown's train from the deck. They'd not practised and their performance was flawless nonetheless. Danby arrived by Calvert and took her hands to squeeze. Calvert was holding her breath, and determined, despite a breaking heart, to welcome her friend with full honours. She saw through the veil a smile compassionate and loving. Her next breath came easy. The girl gasped and her tears were the right sort for the occasion.

Danby took the handkerchief from Marco's pocket, gave it, and spoke encouragements low and soft while caressing Calvert's shoulder and upper arm. Then all was settled and ready for Thorpe to begin.

"Comrades and friends, we are gathered this day to witness the joining of this man and this woman into the bonds of wedlock."

Calvert barely listened. It was good Parnell had not come. She might not have been able to control what she did. She might have attacked him on sight.

Hours had passed since the assault and her thoughts had dwelled on nothing else. The brutality of his treatment; her helplessness before it. She would rather suffer death than be so injured by any man again.

"If anyone should think of a reason why this couple should not be joined together let that person . . ."

Oh, no, I'm not going there. Calvert seized on the single opportunity for levity within the whole of the sober marriage ceremony.

You'd better not. Danby's return thought touched hers with equal measures of amusement and concern. Their hand clasp tightened. Honey, are you all right?

Never mind me. I'll get by.

"Now is the time for the exchange of rings," said Thorpe.

"Julie?" prompted Danby.

"Hum-m-m? What?"

"Rings."

Calvert drew the love tokens from the neat small pocket in her glove above her right wrist. Gold bands that had been set with diamonds Marco created out of the ship's fabricator. The youth had replaced the stones he'd made with others of her manufacture. Fabricated diamonds had a common stamp. Her unique touch, enhancing natural colour, adding intricacy and art, had made better ones. Her diamonds indistinguishable from those honed by nature and worth a great deal more even than that type owing to what was exceptional about them. A precious gift which her friends might never realize as such.

"With this ring I thee wed." Marco had no attention to spare for a former commander. Calvert blamed the dress Danby was wearing and her radiance in it. While Danby recited her vows Calvert experienced an epiphany. This wedding not of two but of three. Hers a subordinate role for now. Their ways must part, reconnect, intertwine again and again over the coming decades. She ought not to fear their relationship would fall apart. They must always be friends.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife. Marco, you may kiss your bride."

The veil was lifted and a tender kiss bestowed, precisely as Calvert would have wanted it. The girl took a knuckle into her mouth, her back to the gathering, however with her profile to Thorpe. Her gasp was drowned out as one of the leathernecks shouted: "C'mon! Can't you do better, Marco!" Thus encouraged, he reformed his kiss and Danby demonstrated how flexible she was and how long she might endure submerged. The marines roared, a piercing whistle shocked the middle of their ruckus, and Gless shouted: "Bring on the beer!"

Calvert took two steps back, teetered, and nearly fell off the wedding party platform, which was a pallet. Thorpe looked at her, she looked back and wondered how long he'd watched her so close.

"Ensign, we need to talk."

"Aye, sir," she replied soberly.

"After this." He peered at her a while before asking, "Are you well?"

"Sir, yes," she said and flashed a smile while catching a fresh tear on the back of her glove. "I'm just happy for them."

The Captain gave his handkerchief while she still had Marco's in her other hand. "They will be good for each other."

"I know." It was entirely out of place here and now to ask, yet she yearned to know if he would tell her of her status now or must she wait even longer? While she hoped for a positive reply, she presumed one negative. She would appeal a negative right after its delivery.

"Where is the place they are to honeymoon?"

"Our water source." The newlyweds reached the refreshments table. Calvert hoped Gless would keep his distance. He had joined one of the queues for kisses. Gowan, old woman inside young girl, was first to peck Marco on the cheek. The marines were boisterous in their lines, female and male warriors both.

"I recall reading about it," said Thorpe.

"I mentioned it in one of my reports."

"I'm sure you did. Excuse me, Ensign, I've to congratulate the happy couple."

"Aye, sir," she murmured and watched him step off their platform and continue across the deck. Marco thwarted Gless by pulling Beth to himself for a refresher kiss. Right after they went to the head table to sit.

"How are you, Ensign?" came at her from the wraith girl, whose aura was both peculiar and harsh owing to its cacophony of colours, spikes, and variable depths and extents. Not all of the girl had gone and not all of the woman had entered. Gowan self medicated. Her nightmares at times were terrible.

"Leave me alone," Calvert said irritably.

The med tech had blocked her direct path. She wants to know about herself, Calvert realized. She wants to understand her pain.

A hesitant shrug. "Aye, sir."

She must join the group surrounding the married couple. She must toast and join in the toasts to their happiness. She must eat cake.

"Handsome bride and groom," said the man crept up behind her.

"Lieutenant Walsh," she replied, gasping, and made her curtsey. She still could not place him. She knew they had a connection, but not in those events to come which she'd often appreciated. Their roles were to be widely separated.

"That's a beautiful dress."

"The design is years old," she replied absently, watching into the party. The fabric, an exotic synthetic, possessed an odd quality. In normal light, its colour was morning grey. Reduce the illumination and it darkened; eventually to charcoal dusk. Chameleon cloth, a close cousin, was employed in the manufacture of stealth garments.

After shaking hand and pecking cheek, Thorpe went up to his quarters. Nothing stymied lower deck enthusiasm better than a high ranking presence. Gless had insinuated himself as near as he could to the married couple. He tuned a stringed instrument—a banjo, Calvert realized. She wondered if it was the type that played itself.

"I'm been anxious to speak with you from the moment I found out you were out here."

"Oh?" She and Walsh had been virtually intimate in Boat Bay Lower that morning. She was remembering his abstracted looking as her hand searched within the front of his outdoors suit for its wayward flap.

"I've never had the opportunity to meet your uncle in the flesh."

Calvert gripped her right elbow with her left hand so her appendages have something to do other than hang at her sides. "He's always busy." Petitioners often approached her with the purpose of using her as a connection to either her aunt or uncle.

"I owe him my life."

"Ah-h-h," she went. So emotionally laden had his comment been that it sent her an image. "Fan Bahr."

"Yes." He gasped a smile. "How did you know?"

"Just made the connection," she said simply. Rear Admiral Jack Richardson and his flagship ISS Demeter had led the counterattack that saved thousands of Imperial sailors from permanent exile in Alliance resettlement camps. Walsh was the right age to have been an ensign or a very junior lieutenant serving aboard one of the Imperial Wall of Battle ships. That tens of thousands of other Imperial personnel had not been rescued was in no wise Jack's fault. Fan Bahr had since been acknowledged by the Imperial War College as the Imperial Navy's greatest blunder. "Which ship, if I may ask?" She'd the 3D record at home and had viewed it end for end not less than twenty times.

"Robert E. Lee."

Eighty gun missile ship. Until her magazines ran dry, the R. E. Lee had interposed herself between the enemy's broadsides and the flagship. Half the crew, her Captain and First and Second Officers had been killed or incapacitated. Lieutenant SG Riley Mount, Tactical Second, risen through attrition to command, had been awarded the Starburst First Order Posthumous for outstanding courage under fire.

"The R. E. Lee was in the van. You must have had a time getting back."

"We were picked up by a boat from Belligerent."

"Oh, dear God in Her Great Black Heaven," murmured Calvert. ISS Belligerent had blown up with all hands on board.

"We missed it," said Walsh, intuiting by its tenor what her response had been about, "and after set out with as many boats as could keep up for the wormhole."

"Jack shows up, guns blazing." She smiled fondly.

"That's right. The munitions and repair train had been hiding in the nebula. When your uncle drove off the reb cover force one part ran for the jump point while the rest advanced to retrieve us. We were lucky."

"I remember that part well—I mean, I've seen the record a few times."

"It's required viewing at every Imperial academy now."

"Oh, yes," Calvert agreed.

"I, ah . . ."

"Hum-m-m?"

"I think you've done a bang up job here. Just thought I would let you know."

"Oh, hey, thanks," she said quietly. Gless was demonstrating himself an accomplished banjo player, which surprised her.

"Blue grass," said Walsh.

"I knew that," the youth murmured. She must now insinuate herself into the group surrounding the wedded couple's table before the celebration, and drunken bacchanal, advanced too far. She had one toast at least to make before she could decently take herself away.

Most individuals not in her strata would have left after introductions and the sharing of a single story or anecdote and gone to chat up someone else, but the current event was severely limited in terms of anyone to speak with. McKehan, the only other party goer near Walsh's equal in rank and position, stood by the food table and ate unhandily a piece of wedding cake, icing over every part of her it could reach.

"I need to go there," said Calvert, pointing with her chin. "Thank you for speaking with me and I will mention our encounter to my uncle in my correspondence."

"That would be great. Thank you so much."

The lanky marine she'd been avoiding was perched on the corner of a table she would bend her path furthest away from. Danby rose at her approach and leaned from the other side of her table to enable an exchange of kisses. "Marco," said Calvert coolly because the groom remained seated. His darling`s soft scold prompted him to action. The technician stood, took his former commander's hand to grasp, and touched his lips to hers for an icing-flavoured kiss.

"Gentlemen," Calvert said, taking from the bottle of white wine that had no better than a heel of its contents left. Gless appeared at her elbow offering the half full bottle of red he'd been guzzling from. "No, thank you, sir. I have this." And will remain safe from whatever nasties are in your backwash. "Gentlemen, I have the pleasure of toasting the finest pair of space mariners I have ever had the privilege to command and I invite you to fill your glasses and join with me to do the same." A pause facilitated refills. "May the winds be fair, the dangers few, the rewards enormous, always, and the union fruitful. May you know each others' faces in the winter of your lives as well as you do now. Marco and Beth, I wish you health, happiness and all that your hearts desire. To the married couple."

"Hear, hear!" Gless strummed a chord from his banjo. Glasses were drained the table round.

"I have a token to give," continued Calvert and handed over the card she'd prepared.

"This is—" Marco appeared in shock after noting the amount displayed.

"My apologies for a piddling sum. I've been spending my allowance almost as fast as I've been receiving it." Closing her hand over his stopped him pushing the card back. "Last week's candy and beer. Thought you could do better with it. Got to run. See everyone at the grotto later. Good bye, all."

Calvert reached the lift as the watchful marine caught her up. Everyone else, including Walsh and McKehan, had had their attentions snagged by her gift. A paltry hundred thousand nothing she would miss.

"Ensign Calvert, sir."

She might, feigning hurry, simply carry on. The lift stood open to receive her. She was under no obligation to mingle with personnel not within her orbit. "I have an appointment with the Captain for later," she said, which was the best excuse she could think of to put him off. Thorpe had not specified when they should meet.

"Pardon me, sir, for interrupting you."

"Marine." She turned to show him her displeasure full on.

"Corporal Steve Laurel, sir, at your service."

She gasped for she interpreted his reply to imply he offered her a great deal more than the usual duty. "You offer yourself, ah, to me, as . . ." She alternately smiled and frowned, her mood skirted a razor's edge, her emotions very much in flux.

"For whatever may be required, sir."

"I think I understand you, Corporal, and I thank you, but I really think I will be able to manage all right on my own."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but that is not how I understand things will go."

"Well, you are entitled to your opinion. Thank you, for your concern. I have to go now."

"With your permission, I should like to accompany you to your quarters."

"I beg your pardon?" She needed no guard within her own ship despite she could have used one earlier. His offer, unexpected, flew too near the upheaval she'd scant control over. Very nearly was she violently trembling again.

"As escort, sir. To your quarters."

"That won't be necessary," Calvert insisted with the greatest confidence she was capable of, shaking her head even as he joined her in the lift. "What are you doing?"

"Sir, if you would, please."

"I ought to scream my damn fool head off right now," Calvert muttered angrily, and instructed the lift doors to close. "This is not necessary, Marine."

"Aye, sir," he said stubbornly.

They arrived within Crew Deck Upper without incident or accident. Calvert's hands now and then made fists. Exiting the lift with the velocity of a cannonball on the bounce, she was going to her bunk in her shared accommodation where she would read ordinary text, while regretting that she must, consume some cocoa and sleep possibly five hours. As she was coming to the junction, Jerome was coming out of it. So abruptly had the corporate assistant appeared, Calvert caught her breath. Her motion stopped too, and she must have lost all the colour in her cheeks.

"You get your cabin back," called Jerome.

"What?" squawked Calvert.

"Third Officer's is yours." A shrug. "If you still want it."

"I want it," she managed to say.

"Then it's yours. Your things are already moved in."

"You what! You handled my things!"

"So what? Get a grip on yourself."

"Don't ever touch my stuff again," Calvert snarled as she came into the side passageway, the forgotten yet dogged Steve Laurel at her heels.

"Whatever, little girl. What bunched your panties into a knot?"

"Asshole," Calvert countered inside a huge spill of emotion that in the next moment had her breathing hard with the back of her fist pressed against her mouth to stifle any whines that might leak out. What kept her from bursting into tears was her momentum and because she had a man at her back who would tear a sneering woman apart if she ordered it—or at the least frighten her into a retreat. Her things were in Third's as she'd been informed, unpacked and set as she liked them. These people know me too well, she thought while surveying her surroundings. They have studied me and think to bend me to their will.

An admiring grunt from the marine reminded her of his presence. "Will you be all right now, sir?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you, Corporal. She might have gone into hysterics had he not been by her side. He had stayed during her tour of inspection and she hadn't minded that either. Did you dream this? Is it because I would need your steadying influence that you insisted on accompanying me?

"I'll be going now, sir. You'll be fine."

"Yes, thank you. I will be fine."

Marco had watched Calvert leave with Laurel out of Boat Bay Upper. Her gift lay on the table after he'd passed it to Beth to be amazed by. He couldn't leave it laying in plain sight for much longer or one of the lunkheads here would palm it. He regretted what Laurel had done, having seen how upset Calvert became. Meanwhile the vim was gone out of the party. Gless was gulping from his second and third bottles of wine, mixing red with white in traditional space mariner fashion. The marines were playing cards at the food table. The only officer remaining, McKehan, stood hopefully by their game, a beer in one hand and a large pretzel in the other. Gowan, alone in a corner, looked as though her canary had swallowed her cat. "Honey, time to go, I think," Marco said.

"Gotcha," Danby quietly agreed.

"So long, everyone," he called, took up the money card as nonchalantly as he could and slipped it into his trousers pocket. He dared not leave three years of untaxed salary any longer lying about.

"You're leaving," said the bright-eyed McKehan, who, despite appearing near the same age as their ensign, was nothing like her.

"Honeymoon," Marco muttered inanely.

"Have a good time, you two," McKehan said, nodded and stepped back to her wistful examination of the card game.

"That was her way of saying 'congratulations', I think," said Marco sourly.

"We hardly know her," replied Danby.

"I thought you had a stain there," said Marco as they neared the lift. He'd been primed to slug Gless right after the clumsy slosh of red wounded the keepsake's fine fabric.

"Nope," went Danby. She'd two handfuls of gown to which she was applying lift otherwise its tail would've been soaking up lint from BB Upper's deck like the unnatural sponge it was.

Upstairs, Calvert, in pyjamas and slippers, wrote in her journal. Her hatch lock had been tested, verified secure, and its code altered. Survey of the Heavens stood upright in her bookcase unmolested. She looked across her desk to where Pegasus guarded the sealed entryway. The service pistol in her top right drawer had a full clip installed. Her text ran thus:

Parnell's attempt to drug my confession having failed, he and his crony attempt a

different strategy. The gift of this cabin was no doubt intended all along. Because I

don't know he drugged me, he supposes I'm grateful he gave me what I was

entitled to all along! I suspect he'll show up at my door in good time to

apologize for a lack of empathy. If he has it in mind to drug me again, I may

have to resort to violence to protect myself.

Don't you think Parnell will be on his guard once he reads that?

Shut up, old mole, I'm writing important stuff here.

I merely point out that you're about to put him on his guard, when it's better he isn't.

"What?"

You don't think he gave you a cabin because he's sorry for what he did, do you?

It's a part of his scheme to win me over.

Do you think that's all?

You're not suh . . . Calvert tumbled from her seat in her haste to leave it.

The closest camera directly watches the screen. I leave it to you to find the rest. It shouldn't be hard for you to deal with them.

"Bastard," Calvert snarled, staring into the centre of the spy above and behind her seat. She had felt but dismissed its presence because of thousands of surveillance devices she'd experienced and put up with during her lifetime, none of which had been employed against her. She sought after and found the others. Hall, bath, bedroom, and piggybacked into the suite's security system. A thorough coverage. She could not stand, sit, nor lie in any part of her suite and not be watched.

Chameleon lenses that, sensing when their subject might see them, closed their shutter to blend in better with their surroundings. They turned off completely when detectors were employed. The size of an ant's head and horribly expensive. Calvert found next the fingernail-sized node the spies reported to embedded beside the hatch.

Lying on her bed, forehead bearing the weight of her lower right arm, Calvert wondered: Should I go to Thorpe with the spies in a tissue? The Captain must believe her when she told them the devices were Parnell's. No other advantage in Option One and large trouble besides. She'd have to explain how she'd detected the very small, very clever, very secret spies.

To justify himself, Parnell would fabricate a story the Captain would have to believe. The surveillance left behind because forgot. The cabin Jerome's long enough to have suffered a renovation. A specious argument, without a doubt, yet it would have to be believed.

Option One was no option.

Grinding her shoulders into bedclothes and mattress aided a mental shifting of gears. On to Option Two: leave the spies where they were. She imagined the look on Parnell's face, expecting revelations and receiving static instead. Large fun was in Option Two, except fun was no revenge and no win either. The CEO had invaded her privacy, and drugged and assaulted her. Eyefuls of sputtering static nothing like payment in kind.

Option Two not good enough.

A third option had benefits of being unbelievable by ordinary humans. Option Three: a clean as fresh snow Julie Calvert history. What better way to cast off suspicion than to be seen going about her everyday business in everyday fashion? Parnell would never know she didn't do what he saw her do. Hours of fake activities installed in a breath of time, and no machine, no matter how sophisticated, could know they were false.

"Option Three," Calvert affirmed.

All Jerome need do was pass by outside with her 'notepad' to make a collection. Go right ahead.

Calvert closed her eyes, thoughts let to drift. Her depression was only partially dispelled and what remained was the insomniac kind. "Oh, bother," Calvert muttered before taking her sleep-wear off.

The ship was full of strangers; some of whom future dead men. Men dreamt dead were worse than ghosts and ghouls to be in the presence of. The bald tech, organs splashed, pasty white. Her gorge rose every time she saw him.

With Laurel her feeling was different. Could his death be avoided? Don't go this way, go that way. Follow, don't follow. She felt the future to be malleable, except with not much bending before something broke. One man saved and another died? Was that how it went?

"I've my own survival to think about." Personal survival was her imperative, not to accomplish anything. The Collector implied great rewards. How would she go from the perilous now to the remarkable later if she ended up dead?

A resourceful woman through her vigilance, valour, and foresight ought to be the hero worthy of redemption. Spot the flexible moments and shape them good before something else shaped them bad. Send Gless away before the sloths shambled in. Demand Laurel follow her instructions to the jot. No deaths and the credit hers even if no one should ever know she'd derailed the mechanisms of disaster.

A commotion was taking place in the corridor.

Danby protested abuse. Calvert, anxious to aid her friend, dashed to her door, looked out, and saw her grinning oaf of a husband jog past, new wife on his shoulder—troglodyte making off with his prize. Her anger diminished to nothing as, the couple passing her by, Beth gaily waved. Gowan and Swan played chasers. Calvert slipped back into her quarters and closed her door.

Additional thumps, shouts, laughter.

Once the noise died down, she hurried out, sim theatre her destination. Calvert was astonished to discover all booths occupied and an able spacer in the controller's seat. Blinking annoyance at him, his name Brick or Brack, her mind emptied of the type of thinking useful for making speech out of. Nathan Brick, she saw stitched over the left breast of his freshly minted Polyphemus ship suit.

"Sir!" exclaimed Brick and launched himself upright from his lounging.

"When's the end of the cycle?" she asked, poise restored. The AS was in his late twenties, round-faced, genial, stocky.

"It's, ah, been forty minutes about, since the start."

"There's no schedule in place?"

"Ah, no, sir. We just came down on our own."

"You availed yourself of the equipment, without permission?" She scowled at him with an intensity good enough for removing stains with.

"Sir, we meant no harm."

Calvert interjected briskly: "I require a booth. If you would inform the nearest player to the end of his or her game the necessity to vacate." It was games and not training the simmers would be indulging in. Needful practice, and an officer's status, superceded their playing.

"Right away, sir." She went on to the change room, where a chaos of discarded towels, water marks and open locker doors affronted her. She'd not realized how far the newcomers had taken over the play facility. Its careless state a disgrace.

"Clear up this area!" she growled at the crewwoman entering the room not long after her. "These towels need gathering up and to be laundered. And cause a menial to swab this floor. You people have taken liberties which I do not like."

"Yes, sir, beg pardon, sir," replied the blonde, thirty-something, target of her wrath, another Able Spacer. Barbara Lannier, her friends called her Lannie. Lannier set about divesting herself of her sim suit liner. Calvert donned her own and returned to the theatre, thinking to install herself as she was accustomed to, by herself, except Brick, as required by the regulation prior to now suspended, joined her in the prep area. Calvert suffered in silence her body tugged at and tucked in just the opposite side of improper.

"Your hood sir," said the AS and attached the headgear to her neck closure.

"Will you be monitoring?"

"Aye, sir. We've been taking turns."

"Very well," Calvert replied as she slid over frictionless floor. "Polyphemus, gun range, display options." She'd ample weapon types and loads to choose from. What she needed was something not too heavy, with maximum stopping power.

Large calibre pistols were too large and energetic for her size, build and strength. A standard pistol with standard rounds she could handle but knew it wouldn't be useful for much other than making noise. She liked flechette launchers for their spectacular rate of fire and carnage potential while disliking the heft of both gun and magazines—flechette launchers were marine weapons in any case.

She decided on standard calibre and exploding rounds. After the expenditure of half a clip a two dimensional target was made a nicely splintered wreck. Well and good for a motionless fibreboard cutout. Not good enough for what she anticipated facing. "Polyphemus, how may I increase my damage?"

"The weapon you are using is best suited for your strength and abilities."

"I know, and the exploding rounds produce the best damage of the loads I've tried, but isn't there a way I can enhance the result?"

"It is neither feasible nor wise to exceed the protocols. With a heavier load the weapon could misfire. This would be dangerous to you, Julie."

"I need more."

"A secondary weapons system, perhaps?"

"Yes!"

Grenades. Sized to fit her hand, light enough she ought to be able to carry several, with enough punch to really blow things apart. Grey teardrops, size of hen eggs, and about the same weight. Calvert practised throwing while standing and on the move. Something crucial was absent, which she was reluctant to ask for. "Polyphemus, you must create the environment I describe."

Floor to ceiling storage racks thoroughly laden, spaced approximately three metres apart, bare deck between. Next samples of creatures she knew of, which Polyphemus supplied accurately and fast. Someone had to have requested the environment's like before.

"Captain John Thorpe."

Had Thorpe tried out scenarios? She was curious to see his notes, but Polyphemus woudn't permit access to game histories that had lockouts on them. A supernaturally-tuned girl might get to them if she wanted, and avoid a revelation of what she'd done, as easy as sing a song. "Polyphemus, I want 'stop' the instant I call for it. If I lose concentration or, worse, mentally disconnect pull me out at once."

"Yes, Julie."

"Begin simulation." Calvert began play with a bandolier of grenades, her pistol, two extra pistol magazines, a self-directed light to show her the way, and no enthusiasm for what she was doing. Gingerly the youth proceeded up a play field set to lowest degree of difficulty. What was absent was an energy leaching atmosphere, which Calvert, despite how she preferred verisimilitude, was reluctant to request.

She walked, fanning her weapon side to side, her attention flipping back and forth, and up and down, gamer style, within a puddle of light inside a world pitch dark. An attack imminent. Had she erred in her instructions? "Polyphuh—" A great black something padded ponderously up the aisle in her wake. Turn, aim, and empty her clip into its front. The sparkling detonations had no effect on either monster armour or monster resolve. She might as well have thrown pebbles. Its motion silent—a roar would have been less terrifying. Its single-mindedness engendered in its human target much unease. Contact, player with monster, imminent.

"Polyphemus, halt trial!" She feared the play would fail to hear her and pause itself. She was about to demand 'abort all', hoping AS Brick monitored in case that plea not work either. Her fear unnecessary. Her initial instruction froze the monster in mid stride, well before it could overrun her spot. Calvert gasped disgust. "Damn, this was supposed to work!" A grenade would have bounced off monster armour straight back at her. Her weapons choices and strategies all wrong. She might as well have played naked.

"Try shooting the knees out," announced a voice she recognized.

"What? What are you—"

"Go for the knees. It's not vulnerable about the crest."

No one besides a supervisor was supposed to monitor game play, and, in that case, only physiological readouts. It was not permitted outsiders view what the player saw or did unless the play be for evaluation purposes or permission to do so granted beforehand. "Get out of my exercise!" Calvert snarled.

"Just trying to help, sir."

"I don't need your help! Follow the rules, damn it!" No matter what it might cost her in peace of mind, she must continue. She intended giving Laurel's suggestion a try since her own tactics had proven so feeble. Moments later, reasonable distance player to monster restored, the next round of fun was initiated.

Shooting out the knees proved a workable strategy. The exploding bullets tore them apart. The beast collapsed onto its chest, but did not stop. Two pairs of powerful back legs continued driving its massive bulk forward in obscene fashion.

"Any more stupid advice?" Calvert called caustically as she retreated at her best possible speed. The monster hardly slowed despite the elimination of its front support. Its determination to close with its quarry despite horrific damage more frightening than had it remained whole. A second monster appeared, sloth-type. It poured into being on her right. She shot it while it formed. Her bullets punched ineffectively through its liquid flesh to explode on the deck beyond. The sloth came together as a scarcely disturbed whole. In another moment it would join the chase.

Why was she so inept? Why couldn't she come up with strategies that worked? "Poly, pause this horror show. Corporal Laurel, are you still there?"

Several seconds elapsed before she heard: "Here, sir. How's it going?"

"Terrible. I need help. Nothing's working."

"Could I join, sir? It would be best to work a strategy out together."

"Sure, fine, whatever. Polyphemus, reconfigure sim for two." She waited, view grey, suffered the mass of a sim suit in standby mode, and the trickling of sweat and restoring confidence. Within minutes Laurel informed her: "Ready to join."

"Polyphemus, resume. Same level of difficulty. Same precautions as before. Pause all or abort all on my command."

"Yes, Julie."

The participants materialized near the central shaft. "This is the place," marvelled the marine before a soft whistle of admiration. He wore the same sort of apparel as she, topped with the same low light, imaging helmet, but was equipped with a heavy rifle as well as the pistol strapped to his hip.

"You've equipped yourself with adequate firepower, I hope." Calvert admired his main weapon, one of its two barrels the business end of a grenade launcher.

"I doubt even powered armour would have a easy time in here."

"A dozen PAC troopers overloaded with guns and bullets would be a welcome addition to the mission," was her novice observation.

"Aye, sir, they would be." He led the way for them into the gloom. "Keep right and behind me."

"Cover your six?" She noticed how nicely muscled his six was.

"Ah, yeah." He sped a grin over his shoulder.

They went faster, which Calvert didn't mind. The first sloth to pour into the play zone the marine reacted to virtually as its presence registered in Calvert's HUD. A grenade lobbed into the midst of its puddling precipitated a blast and shower of muck. Laurel had retreated and drawn his teammate with him out of range, yet a perverse clot of monster impacted the upper right quadrant of Calvert's visor and stuck. "Crap," the society darling muttered. Clearing the obstruction created a smear and fouled her glove.

"Gotta watch out for that." Laurel had received his own bits of monster, but not enough to be a bother. Next into the field of play arrived a zombie large as a truck. Gritting her teeth, Calvert directed her bullets with good effect into its front legs as Laurel achieved better results with his bigger weapon. As before her technique yielded inconclusive results. The zombie stayed upright and continued advancing.

Laurel darted forward and to the side for a better angle for his bullets. His grenade exploded the front third of the monster. Its armour wobbled hugely yet stayed fixed by a ridge of flesh to its mid section. The zombie continued along a shuddering, uneven crashing avalanche in slow motion on level ground. A second grenade smashed the hindquarters and the zombie collapsed, yet continued to quiver and shake.

"Great Black Heaven." Calvert's features were ashen.

"Is this accurate? Is it right?"

"How the hell should I know? Captain Thorpe theorized this. I sure as hell didn't dream up consequences like these."

"The zombies are this determined? Will we have to wreck every one we encounter?"

"Dammit, Marine, I told you. I don't know." She was heartened all the same by his proficiency. Through the next two encounters she did not fire her weapon at all as he destroyed adversaries with ease. Her grenades stayed in their loops.

"This is too easy," said Laurel as the latest victim was rendered into a state resembling a vat of cold porridge spilt by a roomful of rowdy children. "We need to increase the level of difficulty."

"No-o-o, I don't think so," protested Calvert, shaking her head.

"You want to assume that what we run into won't be a whole lot worse?"

She suspected he was right yet remained reluctant to agree. Not so much fear as dread underpinned her attitude. Things would be bad enough when they were bad enough. She'd managed so far by compartmentalizing her fear. Confronting real danger here and now would not keep the door as firmly shut as it had been.

"Sir?"

"All right, damn it. Make your adjustments." After the changes, she'd a great deal more to do. While her marine industriously engaged upwards of three creatures at a time in front, others appeared in the play zone left, right, behind and at different levels. Calvert had at first two and then several zombies to deal with at the same time. Her anticipation and shooting skills were remarkable for a space jockey, the result of a gamer geek upbringing, but her throws either skittered over or past their intended targets to explode with negligible results. She needed Laurel to finish her kills for her. Barely did she hold up her end of the fight.

The moment of crisis arrived. Four virtually intact monsters advanced upon the besieged youth from different directions. Her pistol went empty. Panicked, she fumbled the reload. The steady pulsing of Laurel's main weapon informed her he was too beset to assist her. Three monsters staggered into decapitation range before Calvert slapped a fresh magazine home. They swung their uppermost limbs at her like homicidal lumberjacks. Screaming, ducking, she lost her weapon as a greasy paw knocked it skittering across the floor. "Program halt!"

Laurel's inarticulate cry of dismay capped the stop he'd neither anticipated nor was prepared for.

"What!" Calvert asked as she levered herself up from the sprawl she'd landed in. She minced around several harmless obstacles to retrieve her weapon.

"You can't just do that," he grumbled.

"I was about to get my head taken off at the chin so I bloody well can!" Each glared at the other: one panting, the other rock steady. "Just what the hell was I supposed to do?"

"Close on me. If we have to, we run for it."

"Without my gun? This is stupid. We won't end up out here like this." They wouldn't except should there be a precipitating error, which she intended avoiding or circumventing.

"Then we should practise nearer the entrance."

"That would be fine with me!"

He did the equivalent of a step back. In quieter voice, he said: "You're no good with those grenades. If you'll excuse me saying so, you can't throw for shit."

"I can't carry that launcher, it's too heavy for me."

"We'll figure out something you can handle. A simple pneumatic would suffice. Something to give your attacks penetration. Other than the frontal armour on the big ones, none of the other types have much resistance to low velocity rounds."

"Describe it and I'll give it a try." She waited while Laurel dictated specifications to Polyphemus, who thereafter materialized a weapon at her feet. The youth was helped to arm herself, the grenade launcher attaching by a sling to her battle harness.

"The magazine is—" he began.

"I see where the bullets go." Calvert marvelled at how conformable and light the launcher was. It pleased her well. She'd thought her pistol too small. Having a bigger weapon to work with boosted her confidence.

"Not much recoil so you should be able to fire from the hip. How's the grip?"

"Good." He'd managed to get the sizing spot on as if he'd studied her sizes beforehand. The magazine held ten grenades. Laurel suggested she practise by firing rounds into leftover zombies. She did and relished some well-blasted results. Much good for a girl's morale was got from blowing defenceless things up. Calvert grinned and Laurel grinned back.

"Polyphemus, reset," she called. They resumed by the entrance.

"With your permission, I'd like to try something."

"As long as it doesn't involve my head getting swiped off."

"We'll start one hundred metres out and fight our way back."

"I don't thuh—"

"It's something we might have to do."

Despite how the notion of a desperate fight filled her with unease Calvert had to agree. Such a scenario was possible. The duo began one hundred metres out. Laurel spoke 'begin' and the battle began. The besieged pair advanced within a fighting space three by five metres, maiming and blasting every monster that encroached upon them, prioritizing as required. At the rear of their play a substantial number of the mutilated accumulated over time.

Calvert strived to ignore the liquid squelch, click and stamp of ruined flesh pressing her back. Fresh monsters entered the fray continuously. The entrance and its lights beckoned from thirty, twenty, ten metres away. She'd exhausted her bombs and was too beset to replenish them. She'd reloaded her pistol twice. Laurel had been firing systematically all along, and could not be far from empty either.

"I'm out," he said.

"What?" Her features and mood were once again distressed and agitated.

"I'm out." A ring of adversaries, intact and many more ruined, formed around them. They were encircled and cut off. They'd failed.

"How can you be out of bullets?" she asked as her own last bullet was spent. "Polyphemus, halt program!"

"Because I fired my last round." He displayed a troubled yet stoic expression. Behind them, frozen in mid-shambles, was a herd ten deep.

"We didn't make it," she gasped disgustedly.

"We would have had help. I didn't factor that in."

"Oh," she replied small.

"Still from one hundred metres out we barely made it back."

"We need more bullets."

"It isn't as simple as that."

"Why isn't it?"

"Because we're limited by what we can carry. I started out with max reloads and went through them all. You've still got grenades?"

"I couldn't get to them."

"We have to figure an easier reload scheme for your launcher, but that still won't solve our main problem."

"We'll use a sled," said Calvert emphatically, "slaved to my handset. We can carry all the bullets and bombs we need, plus replacement weapons."

"Can we get the Captain to agree, do you think?"

"Why not?"

"If we're going to have a sled, why not just fly ourselves back?"

She had to laugh. The company of her steadfast marine was a best medicine for her malaise, besides blowing things up.

"We still have to be prepared for in case our ride is disabled," he said.

"If that happens, I'll just call 'abort'. That should get us home."

He grinned behind his faceplate. "Aye, we'll do that."

A well honed, muscled male body had much to recommend it. Abdominal muscles like those of sculptures, except warm and pliable. Calvert was intrigued by the bulging in Laurel's arms and legs, supposing their underpinning had to be metal rather than bone.

He glanced over his shoulder and Calvert averted her eyes. She'd known the instant his head began to swivel. His hair was collar length, light brown, both traits she liked. His beard, a week old, made him appear older than he was. Mid twenties she supposed, except no longevity therapy. A year to him was a year. To her one third of a year.

They occupied shower stalls across from each other. They watched and enjoyed the other wet, soap, and rinse themselves. Together they exited with their towels.

"Shall I dry your back?" she asked. He grunted assent and sat to make the job easier for her far shorter reach. His sleekness reminded her of cats. Not house cats. Panthers and pumas. She breathed their Ps out loud.

"Pardon me?"

"You're done."

"Would you like me to do you?"

Would I? "Yes," Calvert heard herself say.

"If you'll forgive me saying so, you could stand to put on some kilos." He felt ridges of ribs and knobs of spine. Her body expanded into the towel and tingled. Silent purring.

"I'm aware of that fact. I'm taking in more calories every day."

"You know—"

"Shut up." I'm starting to like you, which is something I didn't want to let myself do.

"Won't that be a good thing?" he asked in a strange tenor.

"You can . . ." He swivelled from the waist toward her. Their gazes met. She supported herself, one knee on the bench and her body raised. He was sitting. They looked directly into each other's eyes.

He grinned at her and she smiled cautiously back. "Apparently, I can. Just now. I think that's to the good."

You won't tell anyone.

"No, ma'am. You can count on me to guard your back and your secrets. Always."

"Guard me, but not risk your life doing it."

"Can't promise that. You never know what may happen."

Except I can. This time she was careful so he not intercept her thought.

Calvert arrived into the ward room at a strange hour. There ought to have been no one else in residence. The capful of comfort left over from sim play glowed within her. Upon the table nearest the coffee urn were the leftovers of the wedding feast resurrected as cold cuts and buns under cellophane. "The wedding baked meats did coldly furnish the funeral feast," Calvert muttered. A shudder was suppressed.

Thorpe came out from the kitchen with a sandwich on a plate.

"Good evening, Captain Thorpe," said Calvert and felt a rabbit caught between warrens and astonished by a predator.

"At ease, Ensign. How are you? Care to join me?"

"Fine, sir. Certainly, sir." She was ravenous, having skipped supper. The sugary snack she'd substituted had provided a quick boost, and left a headache. While she fixed herself a sandwich, Thorpe fetched beverages and settled at a table. Calvert, her sandwich made, took the seat across from his. The discomfort she felt with being so near the man who had so large an influence on her happiness was tucked into a pocket. They'd no rapport, she felt outside the chain of command, the mission was now out of her control were good reasons to be glum.

They ate in silence. Calvert quartered her sandwich and added a small salad to make a crowd on her plate. The first quarter of her sandwich disappeared with remarkable speed—a greedy sort of eating which Thorpe could not fail but notice. Calvert resolved second and third parts should last longer, but they, too, made swift disappearances and she was faced with the naked final quarter of her sandwich after scarcely a minute of munching.

"Why don't you make yourself another?" invited Thorpe, not quite smiling.

"No, I'm perfectly all right with this." If she be still hungry after her meal, she would come back later after he had left. At the moment what she wanted most was to remove herself from his lofty presence.

She wished for her uncle's power. With it she would have put him into his place so thoroughly he'd never dare speak to her again. Yet there was something she deserved to know. "Sir, I wonder, why? Why, when you ought to have decided the hazard to be so great, that we going ahead with an extraction?"

"The choice of whether or not we proceed is out of my hands."

"Oh." Parnell had forced acquiescence through Admiralty friends.

"Tangibles, Ensign," Thorpe added.

She understood what he meant. He could not use the argument of nightmares, without which they'd no basis for an objection. The dream compilation equalled speculation and no more. He could not use it as justification for an abort or a delay.

"Without the means to verify what our night terrors have told us, we can't use them as an excuse," she mused. "We'd be traduced end for end the known galaxy."

"That is precisely the thing." Thorpe grimly smiled before sipping his strong coffee.

Thorpe's family was old money, though not a lot of it. There'd been an Admiral Eugene Thorpe on the roster not long ago. The Thorpe family had produced many career naval officers. Calvert remembered from her research, he'd no female relations currently in the military.

John Thorpe, late forties, had neither romantic attachments nor prospects of marriage. Career officers tended to marry late. Plenty of old warhorses sought after respectable marriages. Calvert felt no attraction toward the man. He was her father's age, neither handsome nor worthy of romantic interest. He'd risen by merit as well as connections. Few officers in the Imperial Navy went very far without connections.

She couldn't imagine ever warming to him. They would be together only until the mission was over, and after she would avoid him always. "Sir, might I ask something?"

"What is it?"

"I presume you'll recommend I be held back . . ." Her voice was remarkably steady while she voiced her fear. After a fortifying breath, she continued, "But there are irregularities in my case about which I may protest." She had not begun under his supervision. She had been informed Willard would determine her fitness for promotion. Back then Thorpe had been outside her chain of command.

"I have not told you what is to be my decision yet."

"Our meeting to discuss the matter was postponed. Twice. I ought to have received an official notification before now." She was entitled to a fitness interview. All she'd gotten was Parnell's bungled attempt to drug secrets out of her.

"Your sudden 'illness'," he said delicately. "Next the marriage."

"Sir, yes, but . . ."

"I do not conduct my business this way," he said gruffly. "Matters are being rushed."

"Yet you have made your determination. May I know if my suspicions are correct?"

"Ensign, tomorrow morning would not be too soon."

"There is no one else here at the moment. A simple yes or no. I believe I am entitled. There is a sleep between now and then. I wouldn't be able to was I to have to wait."

"Would you be able to sleep in any case?" Thorpe said wryly.

"Sir, I have been six months here and have endured more hardship than most persons have their entire careers."

"There is no simple 'yes or no' in the navy, Ensign." Thorpe clasped his hands. "You would not be satisfied by a blunt answer, nor should you be."

"Sir—"

"However, since you insist. I am up to date with all of your reports and this ship's log and the evidence before me indicates that you have gone about your duty with a single-mindedness of purpose which is, in no small way, commendable."

The butterflies in her stomach flew at her throat. Not trusting herself to speak coherently, she stayed silent to hear the rest of what he had to say.

"However, to weigh against what you have accomplished are lapses in both performance and judgement." Her falling asleep while on duty, twice, and concerns about her behaviour and over-zealousness. Calvert swallowed against painful pressure. "Your mistakes youth and inexperience to an extent excuse, but you have also set lives in jeopardy through precipitous actions which may not be excused."

"I'm not getting my promotion." She was scarcely able to believe what she had suspected would happen all along. The colour drained from her face.

"Not at this time."

"I will appeal," she said to the room.

"That is your right."

"However, from what I understand, an appeal is rarely successful and more often than not one's career ends up tainted no matter the outcome." Commanders were loathe to invite on to their rosters failures and malcontents.

"That is often the case. In the service are long memories."

"I have good grounds for an appeal," she protested. If there had been anyone else she might have discussed the matter with, she would have.

"You do, but that is not the point of your argument, is it?"

"I wonder if I should. I wonder would you object to my trying?" She revealed too much of her passion and turmoil in asking. Her tears very near her eyes.

He gazed at her long before answering. His look did not seem so set as she'd supposed. "You are very young, Ensign. You've been in stasis many months and are well behind the average age of your graduation class, which no doubt you've been making comparisons with."

"All the more reason to appeal!" Calvert cried, realized her outburst, and pressed backs of fingers to eyes which turned traitor with leaking tears. "Beg pardon, sir."

Another measuring gaze like the one before pressed her cheek. It, too, was not unkind. "You must not gauge your progress by what your peers have managed. They're mostly in their early twenties by now. For your age and experience, your statistics are within the norm."

The norm? Norm is ordinary. Since when am I ordinary? Six months of delay after her peers' graduation. She counted time in stasis as actual time despite she did not age and she'd no chance to do anything. Factoring in those data, absolutely she was behind a proper pace. Besides, she was Richardson, and nieces of grand admirals did not go stumbling through their careers. She could not voice these excuses out loud however. "I understand what you're saying, yet I hope for a better reckoning of my case."

His reply stunned her, filled with a bluntness that effectively splashed her passion. "Nothing is expected of you, Ensign Calvert, that is not your duty."

A gasp of annoyance. She had revealed too much to a man who'd no sympathy for her situation to begin with. Her lips made their firmest line. She would not say more.

"Calvert, you will take no unreasonable risks down there," Thorpe said sternly.

"I've no intention to," she replied and took up her plate to carry away and clean.

#

Danby remarked how gorgeous was the night sky. She'd made several romantic observations already to a husband wrapping her from behind. The larger of the two moons rose, its gleaming owing to its odd shape resembling a lopsided smile. With the air so still the only sounds were owed to nocturnal whirrs and chitters. The white grove in the semi-darkness was a meeting of ancients, dark druids and pale witches, and the safest, calmest place on the planet.

"I have a confession," said Danby. She never talked about her childhood war experience. Whenever pressed, she would talk about the time before the conflict and let her audience infer the rest.

"Honey, you don't—"

"You should know. In case I—what I mean is sometimes I get moody."

"Oh," he said.

"We were evacuated right after hostilities started, but the rebs came up too fast. We only managed the first jump before they caught up with our star liner. A problem with the engines. It was an old ship. The captain had been pushing hard for the next warp point. Anyway, after the jump we couldn't keep up with the others, and they didn't want to stay and be snapped up along with us."

"Wasn't there an escort ship?"

"It was an old sloop. It couldn't have done anything."

"Sure," Marco said softly.

"There were seventeen of us, kids, I mean. I was nine. We played hide and go seek all the time. It was a big ship and there were plenty of places to hide and never be found 'til suppertime. My mom used to ream me out about it. I'd be gone for hours at a stretch, but I didn't care. Like all the other kids I was restless and scared. There wasn't much else to do.

"When the rebs boarded, we hid. They didn't search very long or very hard, and they didn't scuttle the ship after, which they normally would do. They couldn't afford the time to search any longer or tow the liner. It would have delayed them too much. They're like us—at least I like to think so."

"Sure they are."

"They took my mom and sisters, everyone else, most of the food and portable equipment. We'd a working environmental suite but not much more. None of us knew how to fix anything," Danby pressed her cheek against his arm. "It was weeks before we were picked up. The food was running out. One of the kids fell inside a shaft and was hurt and later died.

"I've wondered, if it wouldn't have been better if I'd surrendered. I've never been able to comm with my family since, and they were all I had. My dad got killed at the start of the war. I've never found out how or where. I've no idea what happened to any of them."

The ensuing silence started on a heartbeat and ended on one too. "Beth, I'm so sorry."

"You and I are both orphans. I've been so lonely for so long." As for the rest of what she might say, she hadn't the courage for it. The night beautiful, the setting perfect. He didn't press her. They stayed on their rock while the night chilled and crisped. They were entirely safe and would remain in that happy condition one whole day more at least.

Chapter Thirty-Three - Seat of Power

"You'll wear these." Tony, dexterously scented, drew the unanticipated parcel from her closet to place into her niece's hands. Calvert's mildly stunned look capped her dubious reception of the package.

"For when we go to lunch?" Calvert walked with her aunt's offering to the bed. Tony's crimson, gold, and emerald suite was for when her aunt's work kept her from home. Lunch was several hours away. A youngster had been removed from her bed at the indecent hour of 4:30 a.m, and her barely conscious self manipulated into an air car for a two hour flight she recalled only the start and finish of.

"No," said Tony as she crossed pinkie toe-deep carpet to her dresser table and was received by the expert servant whose task was to correct faults accumulated while her patron moved about.

"Why do I have to change into this?" The tennis skirt, Greek sandals and fuzzy sweater she had on exclaimed the look she'd wanted for herself. Calvert anticipated a few hours of session viewing from a remote room—spectators were not allowed inside the council chambers. Afterward she'd go shopping for the perfect outfit for their luncheon date.

In the box were a dark blue blazer, a matching tartan pattern skirt, crisp white blouse, blue and red striped tie with decorative clasp, grey knee-high socks, and square-toed shoes, black. "Funeral clothes?"

"Must you be dramatic?" her aunt replied without amusement from her seat at the dressing table, Tony's earth tone red covered back upright and immobile.

"What's this for?" What she had on was many degrees more comfortable, cute, and chic—lots of young men hereabouts were meant to be impressed—than what her aunt intended for her to wear.

"What do you think it's for?"

Realization dawned. "Oh, no!"

"Kieran Grosheart has agreed to take the morning off. You'll stand in her place."

"Oh, no, I won't!" She would not page for the session. She would not distribute napkins and bottled water, turn off and on monitors, carry notes and folders, and suffer ogling by three dozen half mummified ancients. She'd recently suffered through ten months of not a whole lot different. "I came only for lunch! Tony, you promised!"

"Are you going to be difficult, Juliana?" Tony pressed one cheek, eyes closed, into a meeting with a squirrel tail brush.

"I didn't come all the way here for this." Shanghaied into an experience she didn't want and would be bound to dislike very much.

"You didn't come to idle your time either. You did enough of that last night."

Gaming. The tournament she won, staying up late to finish.

"I'm a whole month ahead of schedule," Calvert muttered darkly. She'd rewritten her first battery of tests and surpassed by nine percent the least of her previous levels. For her achievements she'd been allowed to celebrate, and had anticipated the second half of her reward today. Paging the morning nothing like a reward.

"Which permits you time for this. A worthy educational experience." The dark complexioned, dark-haired makeup artist had worked Tony's raven black hair into an even snugger configuration than before.

"I'm not ever going into government. I'm career Navy. Jack would never make me do anything like this."

"Jack has his own plans where you're concerned. You can expect another luncheon date with strings attached coming your way."

Jack would do no worse than seat her in a corner inside a conference room. She'd not have to do anything besides listen, nor dress up as a Frankenstein monster either.

"Juliana, I need you to get changed. Sundra will style your hair when you're ready."

"Tony, please, don't make me do this," Calvert said from her most winning pose and manner despite knowing that to wheedle and whine would gain her absolutely nothing.

"Get changed now." Not so much as a nick in an adamantine resolve showed.

Calvert suffered the removal of numerous flakes of skin and hair follicles as Sundra attacked her scalp with brush and comb and wickedly strong fingers. Her hair, deprived of all chance of movement, was braided into submission. Nothing of a rebellious bang remained. A higher than usual brow showed a smug cat look. Delicate small features and cherub cheeks framed the smirk Calvert made to her reflection in the mirror.

"The face paint comes off too," said Tony and Calvert gasped. She was thereafter scrubbed with a remarkably abrasive cloth, leftover ruins cleared away with cream after. "Juliana, haven't I told you many times to allow your maid to do your makeup?"

By the time Sundra finished, Calvert had nothing left besides the red from scrubbing, and none of the personality she'd invested twenty minutes of a sleepy morning to produce.

"Much better," proclaimed Tony. Her approving nod shown servant rather than victim.

In boarding school costume, straightjacket hair, and no makeup, Calvert appeared twelve years old and felt twelve years old. She had to hope no one even remotely connected to her life saw her as she was now or she would never survive the teasing.

"Here is your credential. Pin it above your crest."

"I'd rather pin it on me arse," Calvert sub-vocalized as she took the holographic pin.

"Juliana, you know how I dislike it when you do that."

"Sorry, Tony," she muttered.

"Speak up when you're spoken to. You've plenty of voice training to back you up." The training to help her with her stutter, Tony referred to. "I expect you to answer clearly whenever a question is put to you. No smart aleck comments like the one I just heard the ghost of and absolutely no profanity. Despite whatever you may think of in an attempt to excuse yourself, you'll work the morning. If at any time you get the notion in your head to say something idiotic, don't. The best response always shall be to say nothing."

"What do I answer when one of the old farts asks for a screw in the lazarette?" Calvert whispered in an aside to herself while her aunt consulted with her entourage.

"Freya Wilhelm will be here shortly to review your duties," said Tony as she paused within the doorway. The air her aunt had disturbed while crossing the floor came back to Calvert in a delightfully scented drift, which was what Calvert cherished of her memory of that time.

"You are going to apologize, aren't you?" asked Calvert from the bed.

"Whatever for?" asked Tony, brow arching.

"Never mind." Calvert sighed. Her guardians always did things to her, for her benefit, which she was expected to appreciate. Neither apologized for any of the things she'd been put through.

"You'll see me in session, and we'll do lunch afterward," was all the apology Tony offered.

"Kin I change before lunch?" She wouldn't want to exist a minute longer in the horrid togs she had on than she absolutely had to.

"May you change."

"May I please change before lunch?"

"Yes. I've something else for you to wear."

Calvert groaned, anticipating another little girl outfit. Why not a clown suit? If she were dressed in a multicolour wig, harlequin jump suit, pancake makeup, and squeezable red button nose, there'd be little chance of a classmate recognizing her.

"Miss Calvert?" said the smallish person in plain blue standing within the doorway not long after Tony had left.

"That's me," sighed Calvert and pushed herself to her feet.

"If you would come with me, Miss Calvert?"

"Do I have a choice?" she grumbled.

"Miss, I'm only following my instructions."

"Of course you are. Where do I go?"

"This way, please." Their route used back paths and encountered checkpoints often. Her holographic badge was scanned and genetics verified again and again. Tony might have breezed her through just as many blockades with no trouble at all, except as part of the experience chosen especially for her, Calvert travelled places where no one knew who she was, and every security guard suspected she might be a terrorist.

"Here you are," said Freya Wilhelm, bringing her within the entrance of the Study Room. "These are the other pages: Messrs Henderson Lake and Mukesh Singh and Miss Tiffany M'Wembo." The Study Room had begun as an employee lounge and was minimally furnished. It had no windows. The aforementioned trio stood about the far end of a table on which were neat stacks of paper manuscripts printed on pastel pages palely scented. The pages' uniforms were the same as Calvert's except the young men wore grey slacks rather than tartan.

"Miss M'Wembo is Senior Page," Wilhelm added. "You'll take your instructions from her."

M'Wembo's coffee-brown features were remarkable for their large round eyes and protuberant lips. Her hair was disciplined into painful looking, walnut coloured corn rows gone braids behind. The trio had only stared as introductions were made. As Wilhelm was leaving, they resumed their discussion, to the exclusion of the newcomer.

Calvert, clasping hands behind herself, cautiously approached, her features posed in their most cooperative configuration possible. "Stay the hell out of the way," warned M'Wembo as Calvert entered the work zone.

"Very well," said Calvert, rocking on her heels, "since you guys seem to know what you're doing, I'll be fine pretending a piece of furniture for the next four hours."

"We're going to need her help to distribute documents," grumbled Singh.

"Does she know who anyone is?" said M'Wembo ahead of a stern look.

"No," said Calvert.

"For the love of God in His Great Black Heaven!" erupted M'Wembo histrionically. "Why are you here if you don't know any of the Councillors? When Hakken Bruchner presses for ice tea, who will you take it, to?"

"The thickset blond guy with the heavy queer accent and bad B.O.?"

M'Wembo's open-mouthed scowling informed its intended target she'd no sense of humour. "Why is Kieran not here? Why are we stuck with this child?"

"I'll stay in this room then. Anybody bring anything to smoke?"

"You're not staying here," said Lake, a slender, nineteen year old with nascent holo actor looks. "We need you out there with us."

"Then show me the roster. Take me five minutes to get 'em all straight."

Each bill presented for deliberation required hand delivery of inconvenient paper copies while perfectly good electronic copies might be conjured from any screen. Four pages, 34 Councillors, one Director, one Deputy Director, and one Imperial Representative, including retinue, occupied an amphitheatre floored in marble, ceilinged in gold, walled in glass, and furnished with wood and ebony workstations. All was looked down upon by the likeness of every emperor to reign since the Imperium began.

The pages in single file marched in, followed by the day's bills on a self-directed cart. M'Wembo directed the transfer of paper from cart to rosewood cabinet with etched glass doors, paper and wood odours harmoniously merging inside. Calvert, upper body immersed in heady air, arranged the stacks, M'Wembo urgently whispering how the stacking must be done.

A matching cabinet contained nonalcoholic beverages, primarily water, lightly flavoured, faintly coloured, in tamper proof bottles. Bottles were personalized, types limited to a half dozen pricey brands. Also inside cabinet #2 were a small stack of terrycloth towels and another of linen napkins. Calvert, as junior page, was required, as requested, to distribute beverages and napkins, clean up messes, and retrieve empties, which must never be left unattended.

The Councillors filed in by factions, in matching black with red vertical stripe robes over their street clothes. Earlier council iterations had worn braided wigs or scholarly mortarboards, but these affectations had been abandoned. The current councillor crop was coiffed, apparelled and scented contemporaneously and wore nothing garish, outre or antique.

Calvert, following her fellow pages' lead, very much aware of scrutinies of varying intensities, maintained a rigid standing, arms at her sides, and straight ahead stare. She must not acknowledge her aunt nor anyone else. She must not smile, gawk, gush, giggle, stammer. The dignity of the chambers and her role in it required her to be silent, circumspect, mature, responsible and sober.

The ceremony of seating was neither regimented nor hurried. Councillors took their time settling in, albeit with casual talk and soft motions. As chimes signalled the start of sessions, any preliminaries yet in progress were swiftly concluded, councillors seated themselves, and attentions were focussed.

Like at school, Calvert thought to herself, lips curled about a smile. M'Wembo, watching when Calvert hadn't expected her to, gave her a pinch, which hurt. Bitch! Had they been alone the pinch would have been a slap, M'Wembo's glare informed her. The slap would've been responded to with a punch, Calvert's return glare informed her chief.

At once councillors clamoured for drinks, whose types Calvert was supposed to know. An informative pop-up appeared before her eyes: beverage type, location, order of serving. A glance confirmed M'Wembo's lack of interest in her difficulty; another her aunt's preoccupation. It's the room AI, Calvert realized. Either the machine intelligence had been informed of her need for support and guidance, or had anticipated it.

Each delivery had to be done with minimal interruption. Napkin and bottle settled on the same spot on every desk. No eye contact and no talking. Calvert serviced the room within a few minutes. Only one Councillor acknowledged her efforts with a quiet 'thank you'. He was the head of the Montaigne delegation, a silver fox of indeterminate age. The oldest council members were one-fifties and above. The stately Montaigne one of these.

Resuming her place, Calvert gazed above tiers to the likenesses of Emperors Leonidas I through VI. A single Angeline stood third in from the right. Each gorgeous figure was depicted in the prime of life and robes of state of the time. Sophisticated mannequins, the likenesses were fully animated and might seem to approve or disapprove of any topic, speaker, or debate style. This 'opinion' carried weight with the masses, the bulk of whom approved of the Imperial family, but disliked government. The Office of the Directorship manipulated the statues for the purposes of backing or discrediting Councillors and their policies, of course.

The main of Calvert's duties and responsibilities consisted of standing straight and quiet, hands clasped before her. Her physical appearance among the other pages was odd. They stood head and shoulders taller than she and all were older.

One councillor would not stop glaring. Thickset body, fleshy features, protuberant eyes and lips, and relatively young—under one hundred. His hair straw-yellow, short and curled in the Roman style. Eyes mud brown. Brow beetled and furrowed.

All elite families dabbled in eugenics, to make themselves the strongest, healthiest, prettiest, and longest lived humans, while maintaining the family traits they liked and which made them distinctive. Calvert thought her gawker exceedingly ugly.

Behind Calvert was the double, side by side dias over which Director Claus Windermere and Princess Isolde Marjorie Juliette sat. Ahead of her was the holo-tank, its projectors embedded floor and ceiling under and above glass.

Only His Imperial Highness' representative was permitted a bodyguard within council chambers. The guard was not armed, and reputed to be well versed in martial arts. Most councillors wore some sort of body armour, typically the sort incorporated into clothing. Pages had no more than ordinary cloth and skin to shield internals with.

"The Sessions is called to order," announced the AI melodiously. "First order of business is the calling of the roll."

Councillors set a hand on their screen to announce themselves. The workstations responded for them in alphabetical order. All councillors were present.

Despite council seats were by appointment, most were also hereditary. Such were the Montaignes', Richardsons', Brocks', Thistlewaites', and several others. Seven seats were supposed to be open, but representatives from the same families occupied them time after time.

Greetings from the realm next. Princess Isolde dictated an address from Leonidas VII, which sounded rote, but had the benefit of being short. The four pages had crossed the floor and turned so their sovereign's substitute not speak to their backs.

Director Claus Windermere was one hundred and ninety-seven years old. His mink-brown hair, an excellent dye job, matched his tan but not his face. His robe entirely crimson. The shape of the garment beneath the robe proclaimed the wearer athletic. Windermere had long ago played tennis very well. Owl wisdom peered out from his bespectacled, well creased features.

The 3-D portrait of Windermere in Calvert's commandant's office at school was of a far younger man, one hundred or so. He'd been handsome and far surer of himself then. He seemed bitter about the changes age had inflicted on him since.

Princess Isolde's café aux lait complexion and lustrous silver-blonde hair glowed above her gem encrusted, white matador jacket with wedge of pale salmon chemise showing. Mint with white stripes pantaloons and Japanese slippers completed her ensemble. She wore no robe of state. Imperials were exempt from trappings of tradition, and wore what they preferred; however, most, especially those in politics, dressed in what showed off their status best.

Three servants attended His Imperial Highness' representative. They were the aforementioned bodyguard, in snug fitting black armour, a scribe in a red kimono, and a body servant in an all white suit. At least one of the servants was an android, and the red or the white ones or both were also skilled in martial arts. They occupied easily evacuated stools behind the Princess.

The Throne Speech ended and the pages resumed their former places, whereupon the drudgery Calvert had anticipated began. Tony's workstation was sited on the middle of three tiers, centre left. Each workstation was identical to every other—personal touches not permitted. Lamp, screen, and writing surface were encased in roseate mahogany. Genetically tuned lock drawers were for confidential items. Comfy gel pac chair, leather skinned, supported the body.

Tony belonged to the youngest group, ranging in ages from 48 to 79. Five councillors were 80s and 90s. The rest 100 and up. The oldest councillor was 214. And looks it, Calvert thought.

Two second timers also were in the group.

Plastic surgery, clever buttressing, artful makeup, gorgeous jewellery and apparel. No one grossly fat, thin, or ugly, just a lot of old people she'd rather not be near and have to service.

Neville Brock was her ogreish gawker. His seat on her side of the room. She'd delivered two bills to his desk and each time the top of her blouse was peered into. Sigmund Thistlewaite was another this-girl hater. Tall, broad shouldered, black-haired while Brock was short and stocky. Brock's attention lecherous. Thistlewaite's hostile. She sensed dislike rising off the latter like a foul mist.

Jean Marie was the elegantly dressed, dignified 167 year old Monaigne with the Gallic profile. Among the oldsters he was, without doubt, the most attractive and stately. His greetings polite and kind. He continued telling her 'thank you' every time she delivered an item to his desk, and no one else, not even Tony, had done the same.

The AI announced: "Moving on to Bill 1172-A . . ." Singh handed over the one-fourth of the distribution she had to deal with. The other pages were among the desks already. Singh had allotted her the same group to deliver to each time, keeping her job simple. Since she had no seniority, he'd given her the most unpleasant councilors to tend to. But Tony was in her group, and Jean Marie—she would quiz Tony about factions during lunch. Was Jean Marie part of the Richardson faction? Brock and Thistlewaite certainly weren't. They sat well separated from Tony, and they and everyone around them liked or opposed and voted the same.

The Crystal Chamber AI was a Class One personality. Besides proclaiming each item of business, it produced representative images, testimonials and motion captures. Also was it consulted on procedural matters.

Imperials were trained from childhood to reveal as little emotion as possible. Princess Isolde's purpose during a session was to stamp with the Imperial imprimatur passed bills, object if she felt she had to, or demand a fresh read or redraft. She might request additional time for study, or recommend a bill be passed on to his Imperial Highness for perusal.

Calvert longed to experience second, third, and fourth options. Another Brock stare pressed into the top of her blouse, buttoned all the way up, tie knotted and clasped overtop. What does he think he sees? Calvert blushed as she moved to her next delivery. The outline of her unfettered breasts. She hadn't on a bra, and puberty had struck her with full force. Upper body foundation garments were not the fashion of her generation either.

The most evil look yet from Thistlewaite, pig eyes and lips, washed over her. His staring so slimy and ill meant, she was tempted to toss his pages at him. Had Tony driven over his dog? "On purpose, I would have," murmured Calvert while settling his pages for him.

"What was that, girl?" Thistlewaite growled.

"Nothing, sir," she said, using a volume and method of speech she intended should travel no further than her hand might touch.

"Damn your impudence, young Richardson!" Conversations left and right and up and down ceased.

She'd be damned if she'd apologize for a comment he could neither have heard nor understood in full or for context. From his glaring, she knew he expected an apology, but remained primed to throw the rest of the papers she was holding at his face.

"Juliana, come here please," her aunt's cool voice commanded.

"Excuse me, Councillor Thistlewaite," she said neutral as mud and stepped to the right and back and then up to her relation's seat. "Yes, Tony? Should you like some bottled water?"

"You know why I've called you to me."

"Yes, Tony."

"You remember what we talked before I left you this morning."

What she'd been told not to do. "Yes, Tony."

"You will apologize to Councillor Thistlewaite in a sincere manner, and you will distribute the rest of your papers. You will not say something else to make the matter worse. In particular you will not speak to the Councillor for the rest of the session."

"Yes, Tony."

"Carry on."

"Yes, Tony." It'd been grossly unfair of her aunt to place her in an environment where perverts could ogle and hate her and she not be let to defend herself. The Brock-Thistlewaite alliance looked daggers her way while Calvert made her apology. M'Wembo's additional dirty look was neither shock nor correction—she could care less what the head girl thought of her conduct. What intrigued her was the Princess's mildly raised brow and not quite smile—an expression of almost sympathy.

Imperial history, as Calvert recalled, having been instructed on the topic from a very young age, began at the end of the first secession war. Almost the whole of the frontier had seceded, high ranking military officers and their families included. The Federation—as was then—war fleet had fallen back on Orion in tatters. It seemed the rebels might push through all the way to Core Systems.

Core itself was in crisis. The rebs had outmaneuvered and outfought the Federation Navy at every turn and the Grand Admiral, Calvert mentally snapped fingers to prompt her memory, Barnett Fischer-Something, was sacked along with his entire staff for incompetence.

What survived to defend Core Systems was a severely depleted Home Fleet along with a few warlike scraps here and there. While the parts were concentrating, the rebs blockaded Orion and sent the bulk of their own battle fleet, in excess of five hundred capital ships, manned by seasoned and battle-hardened crews, at Core.

A new order about to be imposed on the old. Replacement Grand Admiral Leonidas Saldana-Levitt met the invasion head on. However, many of his ships had barely operational environmental and weapons systems. Some were towed and some had skeleton crews of only dockyard workers. Saldana-Levitt met the rebels outside Centauri Prime, and there engaged in what was to become known as the greatest bluff in human history.

Saldana-Levitt ventured out behind a flag-of-truce broadcast with a single squadron of stately dreadnaughts, his cripples and barely operational hulks showing brave behind.

Peace negotiated, rebs depart, Core saved. The rebs hadn't wanted to invade anyway, and were as anxious for a truce as their Federation counterparts. The Peace of Centauri allowed the Federation to keep Orion Prime as a forward base and some essential colonies. All other territories stayed rebel or converted. Saldana-Levitt was proclaimed the man of the hour and a national hero.

The subsequent peace lasted ten years, during which the navy rebuilt, refurbished and retrained.

At the start of the second secession war a desperately undermanned Orion was threatened again and might be lost. A panicked government enacted emergency conscription, which triggered widespread rioting and destruction of public property. Martial law was declared. Saldana-Levitt landed marines in every major Earth city and the rioting was quelled. Tens of thousands of dissenters were imprisoned and the ringleaders quietly disposed of. Orion received its reinforcements and essential resources were preserved. A year later a grateful government proclaimed Saldana-Levitt Emperor Leonidas I and his descendants Imperial in perpetuity.

The beautifully decorated, seventy-four year old Princess nothing like her illustrious forebear, who'd been short, coarse, and stout. The Imperials were the worst meddlers in eugenics in the known galaxy and happily spread their seed everywhere. Old Boston Academy had had its quota of princes and princesses while Calvert was there. Her second year roommate had been Princess Yvonne Cecilia Louisa, whom friends, including Julie Calvert, had referred to as 'Yonnie'.

All Imperials, with the exception of the Emperor, were referenced by their given names. Rarely was the surname 'Saldana' mentioned except in official documents or among lists of titles recited prior to formal events and parties.

Whether the Princess's amusement was owing to whimsy or in appreciation of the incident just passed, Calvert smiled back, much angering two very wealthy and powerful men in particular and their friends severally.

"Jack warned me there would be consequences," Tony said hours later while tearing off her robin's egg blue wrist-high gloves. Nearly did she fling them down. Calvert watched while pretending not to. Tony's after-session meeting with her advisors had lasted longer than usual. The reason for the delay sat, hands tightly squeezed, on the bed. Lunch would be brunch or even supper by the time aunt and niece got around to it.

"All I did was—"

"All you did was torpedo the alliances I've been building for years."

"What? How?"

"You've seen what ogres Brock and Thistlewaite are—"

"That Brock, he—"

"Please, dear, do not interrupt."

Calvert muttered, "Sorry."

"Juliana, you are a Richardson, not a mumble-cheeked squirrel." The moment drew itself out, aunt and niece attentive for sympathy, Calvert from downcast looking. "It's been difficult to reach common ground. Our interests and those of the Brocks and the Thistlewaites often conflict. Our position has always saved us. We're near as unassailable as the Imperials, and far more prosperous, which fosters jealousy, animosity and hurt feelings."

"I kinda figgered that."

"Kinda figgered?"

"I knew that."

"What you did set our relations back to where they were before my snake-charming initiative began." The strategy of appeasement and gladhanding orchestrated to help Antonia Richardson into the Director's chair when Windermere stepped down, she meant.

"Because that old fuck growled at me?"

"Juliana!"

"He growled at me for no reason whatsoever. I didn't say anything that came even close to an insult. I didn't do anything bad."

"That is not why matters have gone so far wrong."

"It's not?" The youth's mouth fell open as realization dawned.

"You know now, what you've done."

"I smiled at that princess," Calvert gasped.

"We do not flaunt our Imperial connections. Each of the Thousand Families has them, wants them, or wants better ones. Ours are a lot stronger than those of any other family and have triggered conflict in the past."

Calvert said with great feeling: "I didn't mean anything by it."

"It's not your fault." Tony sat by her niece on the bed, but she did not touch nor any part of her come into contact with the youth. "Jack warned me something like this might happen, but I wanted you to experience and understand my life better and so you are here."

"I do understand. Everyone lies—not you, Tony—and everyone knows it. They're selfish and cruel in that none of what they pass is meant to benefit anyone but themselves."

"That is the government we have. We do what we can with it."

"Somebody should throw a bomb into the middle of the whole corrupt works."

"No, Juliana. There are good people in the Chamber, who do good things."

"Jean Marie."

"Who?" gasped Tony.

"Isn't Jean Marie on our side?"

"Juliana, the Montaignes are our worst enemies. They're manipulators, schemers and back stabbers. Never trust a Montaigne. You'll regret it."

"Gosh." Calvert's gaze renewed communion with her lap.

"Enough moaning over consequences," said Tony, her sulk over. "I promised to take you to lunch."

"You promised me I wouldn't have to wear this stupid outfit, too."

"Something more suitable is in the closet."

An adult suit in Easter pink. Matching shoes and handbag. Diamond necklace and diamond ear bobs. A new diamond watch and a ring with a sapphire in the shade of blue Calvert cherished particularly. None of these things, with the exception of the ring, she would have chosen herself, but which she liked because when dressed and standing before a mirror she appeared and felt older, and because Tony had selected them for her. Her aunt stayed in the room as she prepared herself—as apology Calvert realized afterward.

Brunch was in the Atrium by the Crystal Chamber. The seafood entre was excellent, the service deferential, and the delivery the type of speedy that bespoke respect. While journeying to the cars they looked down from their glassed-in worm segment into the Mall above a hundred metre high water sculpture. They were on their way to The Button, which contained garages and a FastRail Terminal. Foot traffic went the same way as their segment but over a glass bridge, deep ocean below, with sometimes queasy stomachs as consequences.

Calvert climbed cautiously out of their worm segment, her pink heels the highest she'd been let to wear. Security contingents, in different coloured uniforms, intermingled. Detachments belonging to every family stayed with their cars in segregated accommodations. Bohrland took the travelling case from her hand, his expression strange when he saw her in her first adult suit of clothes. She hoped Jack was home to see her when they got back.

"Tuh-tuh-tuh-Tony." Calvert felt as though she'd blundered into a pothole. She'd enjoyed a perfect afternoon after a horrendous morning, had wanted to express her thanks, and for some perverse reason, that only the gremlin in her head understood, was not let to get it right.

"Oh, Julie," Tony replied inside a mournful, sympathetic look. The family had spent a fortune on speech lessons and therapy, and her stutter would crop up at the most inopportune times.

"I just wanted to say 'thanks'," Calvert grumbled, her mood as tart as the vinegar that skinned her salad greens.

"That's all right, Juliana," said Tony. When Calvert stepped close a hug was the most natural thing one relation might bestow upon another. "That's all right," said Tony once more and kissed her niece, first time ever, above her right brow.

Chapter Thirty-Four - Enemies and Allies

Blue funk wake up. The trouble with vivid dreaming was that a pubescent Julie Calvert opened her eyes anticipating the thump of friendly footsteps, a misconception which her adult self had to reconcile with.

Chimes announced a visitor while she was in the midst of tangles and suds. Her hair had been a pageboy cut nine months earlier. Long hair was bother an active officer hadn't time for. Chimes again. As her distraction poured into the sink, she realized who was come to call. What does he want this time? Does he think I'll slip up this time?

He has confidence in his methods.

I've no time for his bullshit. I'm supposed to present myself for a briefing in a half hour.

"Yes, what is it?" Parnell couldn't know she'd tampered with his surveillance collection device and that the data he might now be retrieving was entirely false.

"I've come on a matter of great importance, Miss Calvert. May I come in?"

You may go to hell. "One minute." She would not meet an archenemy in anything less than dry skin and full dress. He cooled his heels another ten minutes while she completed her toilet and put on her uniform. The number of minutes she would be available to talk with were depleted thereby in the like amount.

"I'm not used to waiting," grumbled Parnell as the hatch gliding open revealed him in a suit of soft black cloth. His tone ironic with a brittle substrate. I've annoyed him—good. "May I come in?"

"I've a briefing in fifteen minutes." Her stomach protested its empty condition with murmuring.

"What I've come about won't take long."

"Very well, sir." Her pose attentive, with head inclined forward.

"May we go inside? Others are passing by within this corridor."

While a part of her protested almost with screaming, the rest of her dizzily stepped aside. Along the way to her desk, the CEO followed at her heels.

"It would be better if the hatch were closed." Parnell sat without invitation, assuming one of the seats before her desk.

"I like it open."

"What I have to say is meant only for you to hear."

"You'll not attack me, will you?" She showed the merest of smiles after her challenge passed her lips.

His eyes went flint before resuming their innocent glaze of before. "Certainly not. Wherever did you get that notion from?"

"Hatch close." Calvert opened her top right drawer to see her dangerously tuned service pistol where she'd left it. "What would you like to discuss, Mr. Parnell?"

"I'd like to make you an offer."

"I'm a naval officer. I can't accept offers from civilians unless my superiors allow me to."

"Tosh." A dismissive wave. "Let me finish what I have to say, and then you can decide if you should follow my advice."

"Very well, sir."

"This is a nice suite." Parnell pressed an admiring gaze over her furnishings. "The best I've seen aboard."

Hers were better even than his. "I've five minutes now before the briefing for which I must be early."

"Then I shall be brief," he resumed the conversation with a tight smile. "The purpose of your meeting with Captain Thorpe will be to discuss the extraction. I would like you to do your very best to make the effort a success."

An incredulous look replied to this advice. "That's . . . all? I do my duty and you'll reward me for it?"

"No. Not at all." His look hardened once more. "If you're successful, I can guarantee your step. You'll have earned your bars."

"You will guarantee my promotion? What about Captain Thorpe?"

"Thorpe's superiors take advice from me. There'll be no resistance to you getting ahead."

"Why should I be rewarded for simply doing my duty?"

"Don't be an idiot. I'm offering you what you want."

"It may not be possible," Calvert said thoughtfully. "If what we suspect is true, there could be defences in place below that cannot be overcome by the resources at hand."

"What about you, Ensign Calvert?"

"What about me what?"

"Do you comprehend them? Those defences?" His accusation was backed by a severe stare.

"Why should I?" Her look was equally intense back.

"Let's dispense with obfuscation, shall we, Calvert?"

"If you say so, sir."

"I've submitted to our mission coordinators that I suspect you've been lying, thus creating a large impediment to your hopes not only for the outcome of this mission but for anything else you might try in your car wreck of a career. I'll be blunt. Either cooperate with me or you might as well resign because you'll never, ever achieve a difference to your collar decoration if you don't. Is that clear enough for you?"

Her tone turned brittle. "Sir, I have always done my duty and will continue to do so."

"Do the smart thing, Calvert," said Parnell as he rose from his chair. "Quit playing the fool. Whatever you intend to steal, you'll never get away with it."

"I have no intention of stealing anything." Calvert trembled, but not owing to his threat. Anxiety, anticipation, lightheadedness and an empty stomach were to blame. "I have a briefing to catch up with and you have to leave."

"We can exploit it together." Parnell reached for her. Calvert backed away and nearer to the open drawer.

"Get away from me," said Calvert through clenched teeth.

"I understand your thinking, Calvert," said Parnell. The fire in her gaze had drawn his attention away from the large trouble lying in the drawer. "You think you can get what you've taken past our many layers of naval and corporate security. That's not going to happen. Give up while you can. No one need know you didn't come clean right from the start. You can still walk away a winner."

"Hatch open. Get out."

"Your last chance, Calvert."

"Get out!"

"You're making a serious mistake." Parnell turned to leave.

Despite he'd made her late already, Calvert stayed until her functions were spun down from their marathon levels. When she no longer courted precipitous collapse, she pressed closed her drawer and went on her way.

Entering the wardroom, she saw Parnell inside smug and settled. Thorpe, Parnell, Walsh, McKehan and Muller stood on the opposite side of the table across from a video playing in the wall. Four personnel were in the shaft. Two stood by the torch: a bug-eyed Gless, standing in for the honeymooning Marco Pacini, and AS Lannier, who sat on a crate. Two marines in heavy armour stood at either side of the breach. The torch stopped firing. Calvert arrived in time to see the cutout slide back out of view in a rush.

"Crap," breathed Calvert, regretting unnecessary damage.

"That was neatly done," said Parnell and darted a look her way. "Tech Pacini deserves a commendation."

"He has it already," was Thorpe's reply. "Lannier, proceed."

"Aye, sir." The Able Spacer approached the breach while the marines in their three metre high armour readied themselves to climb onto its shelf.

"A stair would help," said Walsh.

Maintaining balance in heavy armour was tricky owing to its high centre of gravity. The lead marine arrived on the ledge in a crouch that became a slide. His two tonnes of armour, weapons and ammunition, on two metres and a little bit more of mild slant, gained surprisingly large momentum. The marine arrested his fall by going onto his butt and putting out his feet to collide with and brace against the block fallen ahead of him.

The other marine chuckled.

"Just try getting across without losing your grip," Teal said. "Should put down some webbing."

"Hum-m-m." Swan one-handed lifted Lannier to a spot next to her. Her other hand clamped the inner edge of the cut for bracing. "Wait here, Lanny, while I get down first."

"Don't crash into me." Teal moved out of the other zoot's track. "Are you seeing how smooth this is? No scorch marks, no striations. A little bit of slope makes it impossible to stand on it."

"Interesting material," said Parnell.

"How long did it take to cut through?" asked Swan as she let go and slid.

"Almost fifty days," said Calvert.

"An equal thickness of battle steel would take five minutes," Swan said. The zoot landed on the other side of the block from where Teal stood. "Weapons free. No threats detected."

"Roger that," from Teal. "No threats. Not in the whole fifty metres I can scan through."

"Are there shavings?" asked Parnell.

"Don't see any," said Swan. "Should be some trapped between the block and the wall."

"I'd like a sample," said Parnell.

He won't get one, thought Calvert. The shavings had reabsorbed into the block and neighbouring wall.

Marco collected a sample at the start.

What did he do with it?

Put it in a jar. It's in his workstation BB Upper.

I should get rid of it?

That would be wise.

"Hey, Swan, check your power levels." Teal had advanced a few metres into the chamber. Swan did the same on her side of the block. "This isn't right."

"I got a flasher. You?"

"There's something going on down here," said Teal.

"Elaborate, Specialist," from Thorpe.

"My zoot's losing power owing to an unknown condition. I'm down 0.05 percent more than I'm supposed to be. Swan, you concur?"

"Roger that. I'm also experiencing a drain on my reserve. There appears to be a dampening field in effect down here. That's bound to impact our ability to provide security for the mission."

"Caused by what?" Parnell asked.

"Can't tell," said Teal. "Nothing registers on scans."

"Could I get a hand, please?" from the third of their party.

"Baby fall down, go boom?" said Swan as she stepped back to render assistance.

"You bust anything, Lannier?" Teal panned side to side ahead of himself.

"My pride, which seems to be situated in my butt," the Able Spacer replied. "Sir, I'm setting up the data relay just inside here."

"That might not be a good idea, AS. Your station's powered by battery?"

"It is. I'll take it back with me."

"Pass it in to Gless."

"Aye, sir."

"Need a lift?" asked Swan.

"Sure, but first I need to release my drones." Calvert was content with her back row view of a multiple split screen, its informative views soon to be added to by what Lannier's swarm of insect-shaped and sized crawling and flying drones would see.

"Still no threats?" Thorpe asked.

"None, sir, but then we didn't expect any." Teal referenced the dream compilation they'd all contributed to.

In one corner of the screen a map rapidly grew and assumed a hub and spokes shape. "There they are!" exulted Parnell. "They are definitely there!"

"Phase Two, Teal," said Thorpe.

"I am advancing into the chamber," replied the zoot driver.

"Got your six, Teal," said Swan.

What lighting there was came from helmet systems, its grainy result absorbed after a handful of metres. "Twenty metres in," said Teal who might have been moving a great deal faster but chose not to.

"A little more than fifty metres in," muttered Walsh.

"What is that!" ejaculated Parnell. His words with extra emphasis, as though he meant to justify the large cost and trouble expended thus far, "God in His Great Black Heaven, that is something right there!"

Within Teal's helmet view was the start of a storage system, a pair of well-spaced, dull grey pillars no better than forearm-thick. Distance shaft to start of shelving 50.07 metres. "It's a support structure. Can't tell how far up or in it goes. Our instruments don't reach far enough to get a decent reading."

"We need more light in there. A lot more light," said Parnell.

"I'm moving in for a better look."

"No activity, no emanations, no weapons signatures." Swan's voice sounded higher pitched than its normal.

"Who are you reporting that useless shit to, Swan?" grumbled Teal.

"What is that, do you suppose?" asked Parnell as he leaned forward to peer at a prismatic object to the right of where Teal stood, something under a black cover that shimmered under his zoot's lights.

A cooking unit with built-in teleportation and oven. Relate preferences, and the unit produced a meal, sending it to the location specified within seconds. Null storage bins were for liquids, cereals, meat and vegetables, and biodegradable dinnerware. Calvert understood the unit entirely. Its AI deeply asleep.

"Ensign Calvert? Any idea what that might be?" Thorpe asked.

"No, sir. No idea whatsoever."

Careful. These two are not stupid.

Shut up. I know what I'm doing.

"It has a regular shape," said Thorpe. "Could it be some kind of storage unit?"

"Calvert?" asked Parnell.

"Could be," said Calvert, swallowing annoyance.

"Treasure chest," Valerie McKehan sub-vocalized.

"Idiot," muttered Calvert. The mess unit was the approximate size of a stasis sarcophagus, and the colour of melted chocolate with a silver inlay. The edge was bevelled two degrees down from slightly more than ten centimetres in. When the unit was charged, the silver inlay animated. Diners might enjoy a repast within a simulated forested glade, ice cave, on a mountain top, surrounded by stars moving at variable speed, or other places. Some locations had been standard installations. Others were added over time.

"Sir, I could cut the cloth," said Teal. "If you'd like to see what's underneath?"

"No!" cried Calvert.

"Ensign Calvert?" queried Thorp.

Everyone in the room fixed gazes on her.

"Meddling with a cover triggers the defence system," said Calvert.

"You know this how?" asked Parnell, faintly smiling.

"I dreamt it and I'll bet I'm not the only one who has." Affirming looks and nods came from Walsh and McKehan.

"We're not ready for that yet," Thorpe said.

Damned right, you're not!

"Team, continue your survey. Do not approach any artifact too closely."

"Aye, sir."

"Now, that is an intriguing shape," said Parnell.

Vehicles of many types were stored in the alien's hold. The dimensions of the object in Swan's helm cam were twenty metres long, three wide, and variably three to four high. A flyer, for atmospheric operations, used over thousands of years. More spectacular conveyances were further in. A glittering bronze body, interior baby blue. Couches every bit as comfortable as gel pacs. Seating for six and a lift capacity for up to ten metric tonnes. No pilot required. Tell the craft where to go and it went there whether it had ever been to the specified location before, and even if it didn't know the way when it started. Entirely reliable AI.

"Calvert?" Parnell prompted.

Is he going to ask my opinion on everything? "A vehicle," she said.

"Anything else?"

His attempts to goad her into a revealing admission she thought supercilious and puerile. She let her tight-set lips answer for her. Parnell grinned.

"Spec Teal, I believe that's enough for now," said Thorpe. "Return to the entrance."

"We're getting excellent imagery from the drones," remarked Parnell. In one part of the screen the chamber map had twice shrunk to adjust to fit data received as Lannier's drones sped outward. What the drones saw was returned on filaments fine as spider silk.

"Where are the sentries?" asked Walsh quietly, his question directed at Calvert.

Lying low, biding their time. Her shrug was enigmatic.

"I think we'll do just fine," said Parnell. "What's next?"

"Prep equipment and formulate a plan," said Thorpe. "Technician Gless, we'll need to improve chamber access. Unless Tech Pacini returns before his time expires, you will design, fabricate, and install these measures. Decide what you'll need and who you'd like as help along your way back to the ship."

"Aye, sir," Gless replied, adding a curse he expected no one to hear, but which Calvert heard entirely and clear.

"I wonder what it shall be?" Parnell mused. "Anything at all may do. Unfortunately we're limited by size. For later we must expand the opening."

"Ensign Calvert has pointed out that the shaft is capable of expanding to accommodate any size artifact," said Thorp. Calvert stared straight ahead of herself.

"She has?" from Parnell, Cheshire Cat smug. "How does she know this?"

"She's been in communication with the wreck's controlling intelligence." Since he and Parnell must already have discussed this fact, the Captain had made his remark to inform the others in the room about it.

"She ought to let us know the next time her alien friend speaks to her," said Parnell sagely.

"Her oath requires she do so," said Thorp. "People, let's be about our business. Ensign Calvert, I require your presence within my cabin fifteen minutes from now."

Calvert wondered if she ought to mention Parnell's proposition now, later, or not at all. Was Thorpe aware an offer had been made? Muller was off to see to his guns and ammunition. She didn't care what McKehan did or thought of her. Walsh appeared to regard her with suspicion, but not the censorious kind.

Parnell poured out of the coffee maker into a Navy issue mug. Drinking any of what he mixed up wasn't his intent. The fussy CEO drank only his own blend. The joe in that cup was destined for the sink. He lingered to know whether she would say or do something else that was stupid and revealing.

Calvert abruptly left for BB Upper. The entrance to Jerome's compartment was on the way, but her mood was settled—no stumble marred her stride. She moved only a little faster for a few seconds was all.

Marco's workstation was neat, clean and locked down. For a time she debated how to go about what she must do. She could not physically force the lock without leaving a trace, but she could pick it remotely and leave none. With barely enough time left to make her appointment, she ought not to fumble about for a place to apply her power to. Nor could she count on returning unnoticed later should she fail to do what she must do now. Thorpe must comm Marco to ask: had he taken a sample? Unless that sample disappear, Marco must hand it over.

The only way I can make this stuff disappear will be if I teleport it somewhere.

Then you should. You've done so before.

Oh? Oh, right. She'd plenty of times sent dust and grime to disposal bins. I'm not so sure I should. I could be noticed. Can't you do this?

I'm not near enough. You are, and you're running out of time.

Liar. You just want me to get my hands dirty.

Proceed whenever you're ready.

That weird little medic knows there's something strange about me. If she catches me shooting off sparks she's gonna know I'm no longer human.

The changes in you are too subtle to be detected.

Easy for you to say.

Do you need to be shown how?

Shut up. I've got this. Hand to cabinet cover. Sense where the sample vial was. Contents only. Shift them! Metal sprinkles sent to mingle with the dust outside.

You've come a long way.

"Practise makes perfect," she muttered. A useful skill.

One you won't be taking away with you.

Nuts.

#

Marco had never had trouble getting, depending on circumstances and availability of willing partners, sex. Love a wholly different proposition. Face up in the bed he'd constructed, identical to Island Beth's, an uncertain smile played about his lips as he caressed, with the tips of his left fingers, his mid section. He compared Beth there with Beth here. He loved young Beth, her enthusiasm, athleticism, and fragility. He wouldn't stop thinking about old Beth though, her wisdom, assuredness and sophistication. Let him know just a little of what old Beth knew and he'd have the two of them in and out of danger before the tar meanies got even close.

"Don't tell me you're thinking of spending our last afternoon in bed?" asked his lovely young wife, naked and dripping in the doorway.

"Hey, I'm liking this," he protested.

"Too much, I'd say," said Danby as she added glow to flesh with towelling. He refused to think of how the glove covering her lower right arm marred her perfection. "I thought you wanted to go hiking."

"That was a stupid idea. The view from here is far nicer than out there."

He loved the way she looked to the side and shyly smiled. Her hair in its half wet, half dry condition gave her a different, also beautiful look. He needed to see all her looks in all lights and all conditions, so he could cherish every one. He swallowed unease. She will not die. She's going to make it!

"Marco, come back. Don't be that way. I love you. I . . . love . . . you."

He was off the bed in a rush. Her body in his arms the best thing he'd ever known. She didn't know he wept until his tear impacted her shoulder.

"Honey?"

"Nothing. I'm good. Just feeling good. Gonna get something to eat."

"You sure you haven't eaten everything already?" she chided as he padded over to the provisions cabinet. She admired his ass, how its muscles rippled under the skin as he walked. Despite he was a runt, he'd a build as good as any marine's.

"I'm not the one with the big appetite."

"I eat more than you?"

"I'd say so."

Gasp. "I don't eat more than you."

"We'll have to weigh ourselves before and after sometime." Marco shuffled through packets of dried fruit, protein wafers and cookies. They ought to have brought fruit and vegetables. He was imagining a salad, the type made in restaurants, put together by an expert chef.

"You're making me hungry."

"I am?" He chuckled.

"Yeah." Danby was sitting on the bed. "I saw that plain as day."

"My salad? my chef's salad?"

"Sure I saw it. Why shouldn't I?"

Because I can't see your thoughts as clear as you can see mine and it troubles me.

"Honey, that's just the difference between you and I, which is different from what's between me and Julie. I have a different rapport with her than I do with you."

"Different as in better?" He didn't want their discussion to become an argument. He sensed it could easily go that way.

"Different as in different," said Danby diplomatically. "I don't think I'd have any ability that way at all if it wasn't for, ah . . ." The notion that the two of them would be spending their next several years together on a deserted island, without him. She'd hardly been sad the whole of their honeymoon. The sex had been great, their time alone was great, and the swimming was great. The food wasn't great, which wasn't important.

"I didn't tell the Captain about Island," he said.

Nor had she. "Technically it wasn't part of the dream study he asked for."

"I feel guilty as hell not including it."

"I don't. It has nothing to do with the mission."

"You know that's bullshit."

Shaking her head, Danby continued, "Beth was never going to let him in. She won't even let us back in."

"I thought I could try one last time." He yet hoped for some crucial knowledge that might be of help.

"Don't, Marco. That ship has sailed."

"All right!" He clasped his hands together. "Something to eat, and then we do that hike! That way we avoid the crowd until we get back." Thorpe was giving everyone the afternoon off to settle out pre-mission jitters. The mob was coming out for swimming, barbecue and beer.

"Tuna sandwiches? Does the tuna taste any different from last night's salmon?"

"That was real salmon, supposed to be."

"The tuna isn't?"

"Not even close."

#

It had been obvious from the moment she saw how Thorpe had arranged his reception, what he had in mind. Calvert sternly advised herself that pains must be taken so she not incriminate herself. Calvert settled as best she could while Thorpe watched into his desk monitor. A second monitor, on the corner of his desk and aimed in her direction, showed what he saw. An alien text, which must be gibberish to him but which had her gluing herself down so she not reveal how well she understood it. She knew he only pretended to study Monitor #1. He actually watched her for her reactions. The book he'd chosen was an instruction manual: assembly, operation and maintenance of an irrigation system. If she'd been shown her massage therapy, her lips would already be in shreds and her secret exploded.

"I've been watching this text for a while," said Thorpe, "and wondering how it ought to be interpreted. I sense something tangible. Do you have the impression of anything, Ensign? Text or images? There must be images, don't you think?"

Calvert kept her mouth closed and her nostrils barely open. A large lie was called for. "Sir, I've looked at this stuff for hours upon hours and I've never gotten the impression of anything."

"What about this one?"

A fairy tale, very much like that of red riding hood and the wolf. He'd chosen to sample a text she was familiar with.

"No . . ." Fog enveloped her. She jogged along with the alien female among trees that dwarfed a frigate for size, the child's cloak bright blue rather than red. Ode to Joy was one of her favourite Beethoven compositions.

"You see nothing in this?"

Close eyes, grip seat with both hands, turn up classical music volume. The alien girl's shriek still jarred her, though not nearly as much as the first time. "No, sir, nothing." She took care not to gargle her words.

"Are you humming?"

"Yes, sir."

"Stop that."

"Yes, sir."

"What about this?"

A gun carriage, movement fluid as syrup. The base anthracite black, the carriage cherry red, the cannon smoky blue. The latest in Imperial weaponry was whole stages less flexible, dynamic and speedy. Nor had an Imperial weapon anything like the same artistry of design. The images of the gun were from a text she'd not seen before. Blue Danube, another of her favourites, easy to recall, chock full of imagery besides.

"This?"

She almost laughed out loud and covered her mouth. A tale spanning two and a half days of time. A family lost, shipwrecked, and famished enough to chase each other about while brandishing silverware. They were rescued by an intelligent species of sea creature resembling man-sized seahorses. Calvert did not know was the tale truth or fiction\?

"What about this?"

A recipe for a savoury soup.

"I asked you to stop humming."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Well?"

She managed, after a deep swallow, and almost straight face, a mildly choked: "No."

While the recipe played on, Thorpe leaned back in his chair. "If it should happen you are the only person capable of reading these texts, you'd have the monopoly on millions of innovations besides original designs and other information I can only start to imagine."

"Sir, such a person would indeed be fortunate." She made herself look in his direction despite he had become but shade on the kitchen wall.

"You think so?" He turned off his monitors. Calvert blinked twice, took a moment to reacquaint herself with her surroundings, and settled back in her chair.

"Frankly, I don't think we'll ever be able to decipher any of these. The language is too alien and its presentation unlike anything we're used to or are able to comprehend. It might as well be pretty carvings on a box."

"That would be unfortunate, sir."

"I believe you've already said something just like that," said Thorpe as he came from behind his desk to perch himself on the front of it.

No, she hadn't, though what she had done, she was realizing, was reveal far too much.

"Why is it, I wonder, that every once in a while one man or woman rises above all others to be, oh, I'm not sure exactly, but could it be a president, champion, king, messiah?"

"Sir, I'm sure I don't know."

"But you will know eventually, Calvert. Or God in His Great Black Heaven help us. That is all, you are dismissed."

Before getting up from her seat, Calvert felt as though she ought to protest her innocence except she knew that whatever she might say would sound hollow. Once out of her seat she felt her cheek warmed by his gazing and she had to wonder which he was, friend or foe, and whether he would keep his not quite certain discovery of her talent to himself.

Chapter Thirty-Five - Final Offering

For convenience the Zenith had been drafted to carry the revellers in a single trip, besides which the yacht needed to flush wastes and replenish water. Even so pretty a ship could not avoid accumulating sewage. While the party streamed through the airlock in their protective suits Calvert held back. Despite how anxious she was for a reunion with friends, as the dusty mob disappeared from view, she lingered.

"Ensign Calvert, are you not leaving?"

"I'm . . . no. I've decided to stay and help."

I don't need any help. "Very well, Ensign." Parnell had not come. Jerome had. Thorpe and Gowan also stayed aboard Polyphemus. Kevin Walsh was serving as the yacht's pilot. It had been his voice she'd responded to.

"I know a place good for sewage. We've used it before."

"All right," Walsh drawled. "Will you be coming up?"

"Yes." She instructed the airlock to close and removed her helmet, and then the remainder of her outdoors garments more slowly. From her satchel she took out the standard issue coverall she'd brought after shifting aside the one piece, canary yellow bathing suit on top. In slippers and coverall she advanced swiftly to the bridge. Coming upon the step behind the captain's chair, she saw Walsh preoccupied with his navigation. Her cautionary 'ah hem' announced her presence so he should not be startled. She came the rest of the way into the bridge, which had no tactical nor helm/navigation stations. Beneath his captain's navigation chair was the scanning and communications suite into which she slipped her body. Calvert took up the suite's imaging helmet and gloves, settling into the left of side by side couches. "I can trace the route," she said, "into your nav screen."

"Be my guest," he sourly invited.

His attitude was surprising as well as an itch to her buoyant mood. She had thought of Walsh as a quiet ally, despite he was Thorpe's man. Traced in was the route to carry them north and a little west. They weren't quite burying their scat so it should not ever be found, but there were procedures that needed to be followed: the crack in the earth she directed them to was dry, deep and voluminous, surrounded by sterile soil, and had no water sources near.

"That the place?"

A blue dot pulsed over the end of the red line she'd drawn so it must be. She next conjured to appear a three dimensional representation of the area with the convenient sewage dump centred in her view. "Yes, that's it."

"Looks like we have a problem."

"A problem?" Calvert switched to a real time view. A riotous growth of spindly, tall, woody plants, coffee-brown with long, lighter brown leaves that the wind streamed, fringed the dump. At the scale she was viewing it by the vegetation so resembled pubic hair about a human female genitalia she chuckled to see it.

"This ground was supposed to be infertile," grumbled Walsh.

"Well, it was, and likely will be again."

"I'm reluctant to add to that . . ."

"Can you not see what it resembles?" she couldn't help asking.

"What it looks like?" he asked stupidly.

"Here, let me . . . show you." She produced an outline to embrace the image of the site. His laughter the best thing she'd heard in weeks.

A distinguished penis, Calvert was thinking not much later, the appendage's relaxed length slightly more than that of her index finger, and residual pink. The nest of his pubic hair she tested for springiness and liked for tickling. A kiss was applied the spot right of his navel, as she admired the long curve of him, and the creases in his skin formed when she pushed certain ways. Her cheek rested on warmth below his rib cage. Another kiss was given. His own fingers he splayed and relaxed in her hair.

"This is too nice to leave," she murmured. It was Parnell's bed they rested on, that to gain access to she'd applied her power, getting the lock to release. Next she'd accomplished the much harder feat by far, coaxing the Lieutenant through the hatchway, out of his clothes and onto the bed. Then had they fucked enthusiastically in mind numbing pleasure. She was feeling a fat house cat lazing in a sun spot on a winter's day. Maybe she would search the room for incriminating stuff. She hadn't decided yet if she would.

"We're going to have to change out these sheets," Walsh said. They'd left puddles, spots and slicks, and musk and oils.

"Nah, doan wanna," she mumbled, while over her lips hovered the best smile she could have made. With very little encouragement she'd fall asleep as she was, naked and warm and giving warmth and taking warmth. The best condition for a body to be in.

"Parnell's going to know we were in here."

"Don't care," she said and raised her expression to show him she really didn't care.

His look took on the start of a frown.

"Now, you," she said and put her finger to his lips, continuing from that start to make of her action a pleasurable stretch, "don't you dare pull rank on me."

"Technically we're in the same chain of command."

"No, we're not. I'm—I don't know what the hell I am. I'm not your subordinate anyway. You can't feel guilty and I don't feel guilty, and that's all there is to it."

"You're sure?" he said indulgently, his look changing to amused. She was tempted to cross the aims of her eyes to see could she make him laugh again.

"Damned right I am. Full speed ahead and damn them all if they don't like it."

"All right," he said. "Should be any minute now."

"Don't pee in da pond," she said, closed her eyes and refreshed her nestling. This was what she'd been missing—intimate comfort after a good fucking.

"How old are you?"

Her snort was let go. "Seventeen. How old are you?" Sixteen was an adult and besides that fact was the other that she'd had sex before. Not lots, but enough to move her beyond novice to something near to proficient. Walsh had seemed to be satisfied by her performance. Enthusiasm, athleticism, and a mutual liking had helped their play along.

"Thirty-six," he said.

More than twice her age. "Not so old," she breathed against his abdomen and felt his flesh move against her lips and she giggled.

"Your uncle—"

"Jack never meddles with me over stuff like this. Tony doesn't either. All they require is that I have my precautions in place." An implant protected her from unwanted pregnancies and the wide spectrum antivirals and antibiotics her tribes of nanos were equipped with guarded her against infections up to and including the most virulent venereals.

"You're saying that our Grand Admiral doesn't mind a lowly lieutenant with no standing whatsoever and next to no money boffing his niece?"

"My daddy . . ."

"Yeah?"

"Nothing." Her father had been just such a someone when he courted her mother. The note just sounded informed them the ship's automatics had finished flushing tanks and replenishing its water supply. "Ah, crap," she said and rolled upright. She looked Walsh in the eye and noticed along the way the barely-there stubble on his chin.

"We're not on any kind of schedule," he protested.

If they delayed too much, even the dopes among the landing party would become suspicious. "We have to make a timely appearance. If we don't, even if it wasn't true, tongues would wag their tails."

"Fuck 'em," he said with great feeling.

She traced her initials large over his skin, her brand, which was a habit she'd started from the time of her first sexual encounter. "We need to get going. You need to land the ship and I have to launder and replace these sheets. Then we both have to show up at the pool while appearing indifferent towards each other. That's how this works."

"That's how it works?" he echoed and she saw that her highhanded attitude had pushed his pleasure away.

"Well, it is if we want to continue doing this," she said coquettishly. "And I, for one, would prefer it that every Tom and Mary not know we were doing so."

"Yeah, okay, let's get to it then," he said, his good humour resurrecting itself.

#

The newlyweds passed through the environmental lock and entered their home away from ship expecting chaos and saw they'd been right to do so. A shout within the inner chamber pierced a storm of music all the way to where they were standing. Scattered clothes, puddles of earth, displaced furniture. Even stone benches had been shifted. Their marriage bed scandalously assaulted; on a corner the imprint of a boot. Cabinets had been opened and left that way. Scraps of food, packaging and other trash everywhere. Danby, her shoulders slumped, barely had time to adjust her devastated look to a resigned smile before Marco turned to her.

"We knew this would happen. It's just mess," she said.

"This is our place. It wouldn't be here if we hadn't done the work. They came through here like a herd of rhinos."

"For some of them their last full day alive," Danby murmured softly.

"I'll find the broom. You wanna deal with the trash?"

"We should pick up their clothes—"

"And toss 'em out the hatch."

Splashes and laughter pierced the tumult ahead. A female voice rose in complaint. Danby heaved outdoors suits onto pegs and then noticed two, red, male and female, separated by two positions but which she intuited ought to hang side by side. Another, white, hung several pegs away and seemed to give off heat.

Marco swept, picked up, grumbled. They were twenty minutes setting things to rights, but they could not have gone with clear consciences into the inner chamber otherwise.

Bright yellow torpedo shape swam alone and gathered laps as a male in dark blue trunks seated at the edge of the pool nearby, legs to knees immersed, watched. A far more muscular male, nude, towel over his lap, also watched. His seat a stone bench on the other side of the pool. A female, crimson two piece, her stone seat softened by towels, dark glasses on, watched also. A game of toss and tackle struggled to make progress in any direction at all in the deep end and appeared a hydra of thrashing limbs. A melon sized ball launched from the water; the hydra coming apart into confused wriggling to pursue it.

"How was the honeymoon?" The slender, red-haired, drowned rat of a girl in first generation liner stood well away from the danger on display.

"Good, thanks for asking, Ensign," replied Marco. "I see most of us came to play."

"Aye," replied McKehan. "The Captain and Mr. Parnell stayed home, and Tech Gowan. Everyone else is here, I think. Ensign Calvert is yonder. That's her in the yellow."

The yellow suit just then turned onto a fresh lap. Marco knew her by the dark of her skin, and even better by the unnatural connection between them.

"This is really nice. Pool and showers and all. Thank's so much for putting it together."

"Ensign Calvert discovered the water and suggested the project. I was only following her advice and directions."

"Oh?"

Irritably he said, "Yeah, ah . . . Excuse us, won't you?"

"Captain Thorpe knows this was her project?" Danby murmured as they walked to the nearest of unoccupied benches to set down their towels.

"I'm sure he does," replied Marco.

"Why does it seem as though she's not going to get any of the credit?"

"I don't know." Not much earlier he would have been glad to hear Calvert's ambition had been smothered. No longer. A large gift of money wasn't swaying his opinion either. The three of them had done good things, most of them instigated by Calvert. What bothered him was that the newcomers seemed to go out of their way to disparage and diminish her part.

Danby in her one piece ivory suit and butternut skin, dove in as Calvert completed her latest turn, the two of them continuing together. Marco waited before going in himself, to admire them, his girls.

#

"It is my opinion Julie Calvert be placed under observation," John Thorpe concluded while gazing soberly at what his screen showed him. Privileged kids like Calvert were a common commodity in the Imperial Navy. He could think of no other with her height of connections however. If she intended walking away with a fortune locked inside her head, neither he nor anyone else could stop her, and for certain not with but a record of ambiguous reactions to argue a case by.

"What is it she sees?" Thorpe muttered as he replaced his diary entry with an alien text chosen at random from the top of the salvaged library. "What in hell does this mean?" He saw intriguing shapes and symmetries, but nothing intelligible. "Damn you, Richardson, if you intend to keep this all to yourself . . ."

Must I arrange an 'accident'? The mission would be hazardous. Calvert might not survive. If she ended up as badly injured as their dreams predicted, something could be arranged. Lacing his fingers together on the desk before him, Thorpe pondered options. He would need Gowan's cooperation. Could he do it? Could the med tech do it and stay secret?

A query of "John, are you busy?" jarred Thorpe inside his musings.

"No," he said and turned off his diary.

Parnell passed through the hatch as it was opening. "I thought we should talk. This seems an opportune time."

"By all means," replied Thorpe. "Have a seat."

"I was going to ask if you'd had any better luck than I with our reluctant ensign?"

"She's not been any more forthcoming." Thorpe decided he would not voice his belief that Calvert had lied about her interpretive skills.

Parnell indulged himself with a sour look. "What else can we threaten her with? Discharge from the navy? It's a shame she's only an ensign or we could demote her." He chuckled humourlessly. "You do realize how desperate she is to get her bars?"

"Yes."

"Could you not use that as a lever?"

"I don't negotiate rank."

"Do you think she should be promoted eventually?"

"Whether I do or don't enters not into it."

"If she is going to pass eventually, why keep her back now?"

"She's not ready." It was what the Captain firmly believed.

"She is young," commiserated Parnell. "Much too young to have had so much responsibility thrust upon her."

"That she had was owing to no decision of mine."

"Of course not. We ought to be looking at circumstances as they are, and not as they should be. John, I really think we need to sweeten the pot. Just the promise of a promotion might get us what we want."

"No, it won't," said Thorpe. The information she's stolen has a much higher price.

"Then there's nothing else we can offer?"

"Not at this time. She's not ready. She's exhibited questionable behaviour and leadership, and that's not the type of officer we promote these days."

"You're right, of course. Let's move on, shall we? I thought we should take our artifact immediately into Zenith. I'd like to be off for Charybdis right after. I'd also like Ensign Calvert to go with me."

Thorpe's showed a dubious look. "Charybdis and not Orion Prime?"

"Charybdis is closer."

"It is also remote. The cover squadron out of OP is well on its way by now. You ought to consult with Admiral Sumner about your intentions first." Otherwise you might seem to be sneaking away with our prize.

"I understand, but I need to get back to a civilized port as soon as possible. What difficulty do you foresee in my taking Calvert with me?"

"She might object and so might her family."

"But you would issue orders."

Thorpe felt a prickling behind his ears. "I might do that," he said tentatively.

"Might? John, we need our arrows all flying together. I need to have my way."

"Until Hyder Ali arrives we are shorthanded. I prefer you wait until the Ali makes orbit. I prefer the whole thing's postponed until then."

"That's not possible. My bosses, your bosses. The child maintained herself and her crew here for months. Certainly you can manage with whomever I don't need and do the same?"

"We'd manage just fine."

"Then we haven't a problem? I don't need to tell you that having an artifact to show will boost our position substantially. The potential to engender enthusiasm for a full scale follow up mission will be immense, and you will have made your reputation besides."

Thorpe had been perfectly fine with the track he'd been on prior to having his ship and crew diverted and dispersed over sixty cubic parsecs of space. "We might be getting ahead of ourselves here."

"How far do you believe the dreams are true? I'm convinced it's nothing more than a ruse perpetrated by a system that is fallen apart. What kind of a defence remains functional after hundreds of thousands of years?"

"One unable to die," Thorpe muttered softly. "What Calvert and her crew contributed to our study confirmed most of what was already surmised. As well, Polyphemus' examination of the results achieved a 93.5 % correlation."

"A ruse," said Parnell dismissively. "Most definitely a ruse."

Thorpe placed his hands palms facing, wrists pressing the desk top.

"I hate to harp on this, John."

"You can have her," replied Thorpe irritably. And one of my marines to serve as her escort and bodyguard.

"Good. Very good! I won't give in, John. I'll watch everything she does. She won't get away with whatever she's attempting to get away with."

"As to that," Thorpe subvocalized as Parnell exited the room, "it's already too late."

"Captain Thorpe," called Polyphemus not much later. The Captain had retired to his bedroom. Lying upon the bed, arm over his eyes, his thoughts were too active to permit him rest. "Zenith has returned. Our car, however, is ten minutes out."

"Have Pacini report to me as soon as he's squared himself away."

"Aye, sir."

However things went, and whether or not their premonitions proved prescient, Marco Pacini would play a crucial role in the mission soon to begin. Thorpe slipped back on his shoes and resumed his place behind the appliance he continued to dislike yet had disciplined himself to tolerate. Both monitors were positioned as they'd been during Calvert's interview and an alien text at random selected to play.

Cook book, weapon schematic, nursery rhyme? He would do as he'd done before with Calvert, and now and then change the text and watch for a reaction. The technician came in and nodded before saluting. He chose the same seat as Julie Calvert had.

"Well, Marco, what do you think this is?" said Thorpe and settled back to watch.

Pacini peered into the nearer monitor, squinted to aid his concentration, gazed for near a minute, and shook his head. "Sorry, Captain, I haven't a clue. Every now and then I get an impression of something but it never lasts, or it could be I'm only imagining what I'm seeing."

"That's all right, Tech." Thorpe changed texts. "What about Ensign Calvert? Has she ever communicated in any way, or been seen by you, to understand the glyphs?"

"Can't say that she has, sir. Ah, as you know, she spent months studying them."

"Whole months?"

"Aye, sir, whole shifts for whole months." Marco thought he backed up one officer to another officer. He would figure out not much later what else he had done.

"She spent entire shifts day after day studying the texts? Different texts or the same ones?"

"Different ones. She'd always take the previous day's gleanings to look at. We kept logs and entered the texts according to when they were gathered. We'd bookmark where we left off at the end of each shift. I'm pretty sure . . ."

"Pretty sure what, Technician?"

"I'm guessing she must have been looking for patterns."

"In hundreds, even thousands of texts, Marco? You imply a slavish attention to detail. In your opinion is Ensign Calvert the type of individual to do that?"

"She must be. What other explanation could there be, sir?"

Thorpe had changed texts three more times and Pacini had not once reacted to what he watched only peripherally in any case. "It could be she understands what she's been reading."

"Oh," said Marco inside his best poker face.

"You don't agree such might be the case?"

"Sir," said Marco, shaking his head, "I couldn't say one way or the other."

"At any time did you think she could?"

"No, sir." The contents of Marco's stomach seemed to convert into lead paste as he pretended himself innocent of an informed opinion. He was thinking of the several times when he'd thought the thing that Thorpe wanted confirmed, but knew what Beth would want him to say.

"Do you like Ensign Calvert?" Thorpe asked.

He did like her and was in awe of her besides. "Sir, yes I do."

"Despite all that she's done? She endangered you and Corporal Danby."

"I always thought her intentions were right and honest. Her inexperience probably led her into minefields as happens with kids her age. But she's always come through and, that time on the mountain, it was her saved Buh—Corporal Danby. If she hadn't taken over, we wouldn't have found her in time."

"Interesting." Thorpe came out of his seat while motioning that Pacini keep his. "This will sound out of line, Marco, but I'm curious about your opinion on something beyond your level of responsibility. What kind of an endorsement would you give Ensign Calvert? Do you think she's worthy of promotion now, later or ever?"

"It really is not my place to say, sir," replied Pacini cautiously.

"You're right. It isn't. But, Marco, I've always considered you a man far above the typical navy tech. I value your opinion."

A moment longer Marco considered what he might say before he answered, "Sir, then I'd have to say that despite all she's done, or rather because of it, she's worthy to receive her step. I'd be lying if I said otherwise."

"Well, you surprise me, Marco," said Thorpe warmly and resumed his seat. "I would've thought she'd be the last person you'd endorse."

"Sir, I'm just being honest. Ensign Calvert has come a long way from the bruh—er brash young officer she started out as."

"You're certain of this?"

"Absolutely, sir."

"Well, that leads me to the next thing I've been wanting to discuss, Marco. You know we've trodden the same ground before and each time you've turned me down, but I want to offer you this a last time: promotion to lieutenant, senior grade, effective as soon as our mission here ends. I could really use you with me, Marco. I know you've got what it takes to make your mark. We need men and women who know how to keep a ship running, but we need officers who are able to command and direct just as badly."

"Sir, I'm discharging."

"You're . . . not?"

"Aye, sir, but I am. I'm very sorry, especially as it's you I'm having to tell. Beth and I, we want a new life away from all of this." Marco's tenor neared emotional.

"I see," said Thorpe solemnly.

"We'd like a chance to start a family. I've heard colony life is not so bad."

Not bad for a man with skills. Pacini would have no difficulty obtaining a paid position with any of the colonies. His wife would no doubt join the on site security force and also be welcome and well paid.

"No offence to you, sir, meant over the discharge. I'm pretty near the end of my third tour. So's Beth. We'd pay the penalties and be on our way."

"No penalties, Marco. I'll take care of those."

"You would, sir? Thank you, sir."

"We can make the arrangements to have the two of you transported as soon as we're done."

"That would be great, sir."

"Don't mention it, Marco. A wedding present, to get you two started right."

"Thank you, sir."

"Dismissed, Marco."

"Aye, sir," and Pacini took himself away.

Call in Danby for the same type of interview? Thorpe looked sourly at the latest silver symbol to display in his monitor a full instant before turning it off. What if she dies in there, Marco, as we both know is fated to happen? Will you turn me down still? John Thorpe hated to think about what might happen either way.

Marco went to find Beth, but not to bring up any parts of his interview which he thought might upset her. She and Calvert were sipping hot drinks in Calvert's office, the kid as glum as a tarnished decicred coin in a rain-filled gutter. Marco came in full of good news. Honourable discharge and no penalty. He wasn't aware he'd spoken wrong until Calvert's thunderous look had him in its sights.

"He offered you a lieutenancy? Lieutenant, Senior Grade?" she gasped.

"Ah, yeah." Thorpe offered him officer territory on two other occasions. He hadn't considered now any different from then.

"You? He offered you a promotion?"

"Well, Captain Thorpe, he—" He ought to have anticipated what was coming. Her looks had been tuned that way whole seconds before the blow landed.

"I can't believe it," she said through perfect teeth and trembling lips, a painfully furrowed brow and eyes brimming with tears. "I just cuh-cuh-cuh-can't buh-buh-buh-buh!" She left them in her office. Her sobs, although she'd muffled them behind her bathroom door, came all the way back to where they were.

Chapter Thirty-Six - First Attempt

Gowan looked up to see who had intruded into her work space. Danby hadn't expected anyone to be in Medical Lab. Those who could were storing rest like it was a commodity about to go on short supply. The marine had come down barefoot and in frumpy lumberjack shirt and skivvies. She gazed with uncertainty at the girl who'd make a medical log note of the drug she intended to give herself. Rail thin, mouse-featured, small, nosy and so odd.

"You know, that is a really neat job," said the young-old person, who'd turned about on her stool to better observe her visitor. "When first I saw your glove, I couldn't imagine why you'd wear it. May I see?"

"Sure." Pad across the deck to give her hand while resisting the repugnance she felt owing to being an object of interest for a very strange girl.

"The workmanship is superb. Your Marco is a remarkable technician. Your hand was hurt." Gowan positioned Danby's hand palm up to rub gently through its fabric. "Do you feel that? As you would have before your injury?"

"Yes," said Danby. "I have complete feeling."

"Good, that's very good." A final pat and give the patient her hand back.

"I was injured in a climbing accident. Marco, er, Tech, ah, Marco fixed this up for me. I've come down for something to help me sleep. I would just take them but . . ."

"That would be against regulations, but only if someone noticed the medication was missing and witnessed you taking it," said Gowan while looking out so solemnly Danby had to smile. "Are you sure you need something?"

"I've been having nightmares."

"Haven't we all? Well, you need your rest. As much as you can get. We'll fix you right up."

"That would be great." Danby indulged in a standing stretch that brought an admiring smile to the medtech's features. "Hum-m-m?"

"You're so tall. I'm still getting used to how I view people and things. You know when you're a child, how places and people seem so much larger and you remember them that way. I've resumed that perspective. I have so many things to be grateful for."

"But you're not," said Danby, understanding empathically how deeply the second timer suffered. "You're not really grateful, are you?

A hesitant look. "I often wish I had simply died. I feel a great deal of guilt over this condition. I've rationalized it many times. Open a skull, pull out one brain, pop another in. Surgery by a godless machine. You wake up and you're a new person, except not really, and you're not all you either."

Danby watched Gowan draw pills from a bottle which would not have been her choice. Their potency too mild to medicate what she suffered from.

"I carry a death wish." Gowan's hushed voice would have sounded comical in circumstances different from the present. "I would go in your place. I would do it gladly. I would stand while claws eviscerated this body. While my dark blood poured out I would feel nothing but relief."

"No," said Danby as she took the paper packet, two pills inside, into hand. "You would not."

"I'm sorry if I upset you," said Gowan, her gaze downcast. "I hate this place. It's depressing the hell out of me."

"It does that to all of us." Danby put her hand on a thin shoulder and gave its flesh a reassuring squeeze. Gowan made a move, almost a step. Because Danby was tuning that way, she made her own step. The two embraced and it was natural she comfort the child who sobbed against her breast until the woman there also was once more assumed control.

"I-I have work to do." Gowan blinked several times while backing. "Always work."

"You should sleep," Danby said. "You need to find her."

"Her?" was coupled to a disbelieving gasp.

"You are two, haven't you known?" Quieter: "How could you not know?"

"She is still here?"

A nod. "She's never left. Let the dreams come and she'll be there. Together you'll be all right. She can help you through what you're suffering."

"You're . . ." said the medtech. "I see something about you. And your Ensign, there is something about her, too."

"Sh-h-h." Danby held a finger to her lips.

"Your secret is safe. Goddamn shrinks," muttered Gowan with great feeling. "They said I was hallucinating and gave me drugs."

"Never mind that." Danby pressed warmth into a sleeve. "Do what you have to do."

"I will, thanks." Gowan yet stared at her in a peculiar way.

"See you in the morning."

"Good night."

#

Someone was shaking him. "Gerroff," Marco muttered. "I just got here." The shack, weathered wood, flowered over, except the place was empty. Beth was gone, not to her mansion in the hills, but entirely gone except for things she'd left behind which he would find and try to keep. He wouldn't wake up now. He pressed his face as deep into his pillow as it would go.

"Marco, what are you dreaming?" she crooned to his ear. He opened one eye despite knowing what it would cost him and smiled. Her angel face, the warmth of her breath, the scent of her skin and hair was infinitely better than his dream.

"Hi, Honey," he said and rolled onto his back so he could use both eyes to admire her with. "God, but you are beautiful, Wife."

"And you are one ugly little twerp," Danby replied fondly. "I can't believe I married you."

"Has to be my charm, wit, intelligence—pick one."

"None of the above."

"Whaah!"

She kissed his annoyance. She declared her own list of attributes. "Obstinance, dedication, loyalty, professionalism, skill with a wench."

"Your handyman."

"My handyman."

"It isn't time, is it?" A grunt was let go as she settled over his abdomen.

"Almost, but if you would rather sleep for the next twenty minutes . . ."

"No." He smiled and shook his head. "Absolutely, no."

"Good." She moved his sleeping shirt aside to kiss his chest. "Hairy."

"That's me all over." He caressed as much of her hair as he could fill his hands with.

"Don't I know it." A heave threatened to put him on the floor. Reach behind herself and: "All this time you had that for me."

"All you ever had to do was ask. You're okay, ah, since last night?"

"Yeah, a whole lot better—wasn't me got slapped."

"Oh, that. Forgot about it already. Honey, if you'd rather not—" Her heaving practically stood him on his head.

"Are you going to help or do I have to rape your ass?" Danby's energy and aggression were far more than either of them expected. "How many chances—get your lazy butt out of those covers. I mean, yeah, I want to, right now. With my handyman." Right into their fun from there.

They finished with one breast brushing his chin along the way to a nipple-poke of an eye. He managed to avoid injury by diverting the tip to his mouth. "All, right, better," she gasped while sliding from many points of contact. "Now, get your lazy swabbie ass out of that bunk. You and I got equipment checks ta do."

"You're sure? I think this is the dream. Pinch me so I can be sure I'm awake."

"How's about I plant my fist between your eyes?" She chuckled.

"Sure, Baby, anything you want," he muttered, eyes half closed so he shouldn't seem to leer while he watched her pull up her underpants.

"Come on, lazy bones, up and at 'em."

"You're so damned beautiful," he muttered hoarsely.

"Show's over. You gonna shower?"

"Yeah," he breathed.

"Then hurry up. I need somebody to scrub my back."

They play-wrestled while scrubbing and rinsing. The crew mess was occupied by two other early risers. Gless and Gowan. Gowan had an appreciative smile for their piggyback entrance; Gless a sour pucker, indulged in between spoonfuls of cereal.

"Company!" Danby cried as she slid from Marco's back.

Gowan's smile was solely for the freshly scrubbed woman. "How are you two?"

"In da pink," Marco answered.

Gless made an circle of one index finger and a pencil of the other. His pumping of pencil through circle was capped by a salacious grin, and ignored by every one else in the mess. The couple settled at the same table with their bowls of porridge and coffee mugs. "How's that glove working out?" Gless enjoyed a belly-bursting melange of steak, bacon, sausages and eggs.

"Good. Very good." Danby was as reluctant as her mate to encourage a conversation with the odious technician.

"There are other—"

"Good coffee," Marco interrupted. "This your brew, Sandra?"

"Sandy, please," Gowan replied. "Yes. You like?"

"Very much," said Marco. "Way better than mine."

"Yours is pretty good." Danby sampled the muddy liquid in her cup.

"Only until you taste this. Neither Beth nor Ensign Calvert can brew a decent pot on their own. Haven't the skill," Marco said right before Danby elbowed him in the side.

#

Calvert stepped into a ward room she'd known would be four-fifths filled with people she did not like. Parnell sat at the near end of the main table with his scrambled eggs, slender fried sausages, diced greens, and marmalade-toast. Jerome stood at his side and poured fresh into his coffee mug. Thorpe sat at the far end of the table, the inevitable slate by his right hand. He had his own plate of eggs, sausages, greens and toast. McKehan, the incredible shrinking girl, dressed in a dark blue, brand new Polyphemus suit, had porridge and two half-oranges before her.

In his own new Polyphemus suit, Walsh watched her, his smile put to his plate, a reaction which, unfortunately, was within view of two despicables. Parnell turned over his seat to know what her reciprocal reaction was. She showed him no more than bland.

"Good morning, Ensign," said Parnell to her stone look. "Did you sleep well?"

"Good morning, all," she replied along her way to the coffee urn. She got murmured or muttered replies from the three navy persons. Jerome simpered silently and Parnell raised his brow. "And, yes, I slept well." Not really. While she could rely upon her alien-tuned mind to take her wherever she wished to go, she had no power over thoughts before and after. She had agonized over past failures, Marco's impending promotion, and future perils. A foul and fatigued mood was hid. She'd an appetite wholly inadequate for the fuel she absolutely must consume.

Because she needed to eat well, Calvert took more of everything than she would have normally, and stoically set about consuming it. She selected as her seat the chair by Walsh and across from Parnell, by Thorpe and diagonal from McKehan. Her porridge was no better than lukewarm, her grapefruit tart. Only the coffee was good, better than Marco's. She enjoyed it while refraining from speculating about who made it.

"I should tell you, Ensign, that you're coming with me when we're finished here," said Parnell in offhand fashion.

She was for a time incapable of a reply. The worst consequence she could imagine was going anywhere with Parnell, alone and isolated, especially by starcraft. "I buh-beg your puh-puh-puh-pardon?"

His show of delight informed her he enjoyed her infirmity as much as he had the consternation it came wrapped in. "You dislike your orders?"

"My—my orders?" A look of disbelief was aimed at Thorpe.

"You will be finished here once the extraction is done," said Thorpe soberly.

Not going to happen. Calvert fixed her confusion on a next wedge of grapefruit. "Whither are we bound?"

"Charybdis," said Parnell.

A full fork of tasteless scrambled eggs. "Not Orion Prime?"

"Charybdis is closer."

"But the installation is scarcely more than an outpost. How will I carry on from there?" Couriers to and from Charybdis were seldom. She'd have to hire a warp-capable ship to pick her up and then travel on to OP, at great personal expense, hazard and inconvenience. Nor were any of her family's people likely to be there. "I can't go to Charybdis."

"You've no choice." Parnell evinced no sympathy at all.

"Sir, none of my people will be there," was directed at Thorpe. Calvert continued enumerating her arguments. "I must worry for my personal safety." To arrive unescorted to a remote place was to tempt kidnapping or worse. The ransom captors could demand, the danger to herself, the trouble and bother for her family, and subsequent embarrassment to parties involved, including the Navy, mitigated against her being sent anywhere except a well established base with an adequate force along to ensure her safety.

"You will not go unescorted," said Thorpe. The smile Parnell indulged in drooped by one whole measure at the least.

"I beg your pardon, John?"

"Ensign, you will have an escort." Two of his marines, Thorpe was now thinking.

"I can assure you, John, she will be well cared for within Zenith."

"Sir, I apologize if my argument seems ahead of my place; however, I cannot agree to go no matter how large the escort you attach. My status and situation do not allow it. There is far too much danger for me there. I must refuse."

"You think you can refuse?" Parnell's lips glistened, an excess of saliva flying in her direction. "You've been given a direct order. You can't refuse a direct order. You will be under my protection. You will be as safe as you are right now. You shall be guarded by Galactic Corp security."

"No, sir," said Calvert determinedly. "I will not go with you."

"You will go. You have no choice. You are ordered to go."

"No. I will not go."

"Insolent brat!" thundered Parnell and showed her that same dark look as the time he attacked her in his cabin. Calvert felt her body trembling violently inside its cloth.

"Mr. Parnell," said Thorpe. "We can debate what will happen at some later time."

"We will bloody well debate it now!" Parnell fumed and flung his arm away from the touch Jerome tried on him.

Her fellow officers reacted as would siblings before an argument between mum and dad. Walsh with judicious frowning. McKehan with scrunching herself deeper into her seat. Calvert had entirely lost her appetite.

"No, sir, we will not," said Thorpe firmly, restoring Calvert's faith in a navy she'd given heart and soul to. He hadn't considered other possibilities before giving his consent. Calvert did the right thing by standing up for herself. He had never bullied anyone, no matter what they'd done, into anything. Parnell's ferocious response had a worst possible odour attached. "Ensign, we will determine what shall be your fate when the mission is completed. If, in the meanwhile, you feel obligated to contact your family, you've my leave to do so."

"Sir, I do."

"Very well." Thorpe tossed down his napkin and left.

Calvert took up her bowl and plate and contents for recycling and washing, and did the same for Thorpe's things. McKehan scooped up the last of her porridge. Calvert felt Walsh watching her as she left. Her gaze stayed with her steps all the way to the bridge. After a mild hesitation, she slipped into the command chair. Closing her eyes soothed their surfaces as well as aided her thoughts. She dictated her letter without pause, knowing her argument need not be passionate, nor emphatic, because her folk would understand the danger that threatened her as well as she.

". . . Look into Parnell. He is up to no good. Jack, I know you won't receive this for days and after I have to have your support. No matter what Captain Thorpe says or does, I absolutely won't go with Parnell. They can put me in the brig, I don't care, I will refuse. So, the help I'll need will be a different kind than what I need right now. Just don't let them lock me up for too long. Your niece, love always, Julie Marie.

"Just the thing to cap a perfectly fucked up mission," Calvert ended and didn't care that her comment followed the rest into the void. It was time for final preparations, the girl realized. Despite a stomach half empty and a mind well past full, she set off for Boat Bay.

#

The half spiral of stair was layered in personnel stripping out of outdoors suits and into body armour and battle harnesses. Guns, sleds and ammunition crates took up most of what space was left. If we hadn't dreamt of dangers, how much of this stuff would be down here? Marco mused.

"Lights are up," Gless informed them.

"Hold off on lights," said Calvert. "We wait until we need them."

"Sentry guns are good to go," called Macdonald, standing next to Muller at the rear of the shaft.

"Bitch," Calvert heard clearly, and responded with: "Technician, I will leave your sorry ass out there for the zombies to slice off if you don't stuff that mouth of yours."

"What fucking zombies?" said Meagher beneath his breath, which Calvert heard also. Jamie Meagher was from Planet Hebrides, Danu System, a loyalist enclave—a high ranking Imperial representative resided there. Danu was among the first star systems beyond Core Systems to be colonized. The Hebrides population was capped at two and a half billion. Civilian and military enterprises mined asteroids and built habitats, bases and ships and trained starship crews and marines, adding another two billion in pop.

Meagher was a touch over average height, brown-haired and blue-eyed. He and Steve Laurel were near equal in terms of musculature, experience and training. Colonial marines were required to maintain a high level of fitness.

"All right, who's next?" said Teal. The armoured pair knelt on the ledge and all but filled the breach.

"Wait one," said Calvert. "Sir, we're ready to proceed. Has Mr. Parnell made his selection?"

"Well, Parnell?" said Thorp to the CEO, who, equipped with scanning helmet and gloves, was experiencing a 3D virtual landscape a kilometre deep. He'd passed over several candidates, painted neon amber, purple or green according to locations, size and height above deck level. He let himself be fascinated overlong by other shapes, seeming more valuable. "Sir?"

"Ah," went Parnell.

"Confine yourself to artefacts under one hundred metres in. Preferably one at floor level."

"All right. Dammit. Where was . . . Here. This one."

"Ensign Calvert, Mr. Parnell has made his selection." Parnell's choice appeared within her HUD. Second aisle to the right, floor level. "That one is past 100 metres in." Calvert hadn't needed to consult the numeral at the bottom right edge of the display.

"That is the one I want."

Meagher muttered, "Does he also want us to get all fucked up?"

"PFC Meagher, shut up please," said Calvert irritably.

"Aye, sir." How in the hell is she hearing me?

"Teal and Swan, proceed. Gless, activate lights."

Ten thousand kilowatts per stand of illumination flooded the immediate area to a radius that might be paced in under five seconds. The zoots were in the process of dismounting by step ladder into the chamber. Sentry guns glided in, each on its own platform, reloads chained from cases stacked two high and front and back. Enough bullets, it was hoped, to keep the entrance clear until they could make it back.

"Extraction party, now." The extraction team, consisting of Calvert, Marco, Beth, Meagher, Macdonald, Lannier, and Laurel, skipped over the non skid cargo netting that thwarted a too slippery surface. Gless and Arnold followed. They were to assemble light standards in the wake of the extraction team, creating a trail of luminous crumbs connecting the team to shaft and safety. Four sleds—two self-propelled, two as trailers—laden with counter grav gear, reloads, portable lights, hand tools, power packs, and extra weapons, came next. Last was the pallet for hauling the artifact out on.

Once everyone and everything was inside the chamber, Calvert paused to afford crew and machines the time to sort themselves out.

Laurel, arriving next to the girl he swore to protect with his life, made his nod to the disposition of the group. "Illumination grenades," ordered Calvert and the zoots fired into the chamber to the edge of the lighted area, to give that little bit more.

"Holy . . . shit," from Meagher.

Side by side, shoulder to shoulder, past the open region encircling the shaft, the zombies stood. Only their eyes glittered. The charcoal black of their bodies was a darker dark.

"Fall back," said Calvert tersely, drawing her pistol. "Fall back to the entrance."

Parnell interrupted with: "You can't just stop. What are you doing?"

"Do the sentry guns bear?" Calvert heard herself say in unnaturally loud voice.

"They do," said Meagher.

"Out of the line of fire," said Calvert. "Noncombatants to the shaft." Lighting crew and Marco, Lannier and Macdonald were noncombatants. "Marines form on me." Calvert took a step back. A zoot stood at either side of the impromptu formation, next to a sentry gun directed by Muller or Briggs inside the shaft. "Fire on my command!" Wait until she saw the backside of the last spacer to clamber across the ledge. "Fire!"

Had she dreamt this? Only when the bullets flew did the zombies react. They moved forward in a rush that was silent except for the clashing of claws, their attack three to four deep and eighty metres across. Gaps in the formation filled as the front runners cleared the racks and adjusted their line. The black as night phalanx was shredded with remarkable ease.

The racket tremendous. Downed and shattered bodies fouled beasts coming up behind. Large calibre, hypervelocity rounds blasted the ranks end for end with an effect more like cannon than rifle fire. Body parts went mist and an aroma like dried, crushed flowers rose from the bodies and spread. The zombies kept coming, despite devastation, in agony.

Calvert, realizing their grief and hopelessness, wept without knowing she did. Her pistol, owing to the noise and her distress, went empty and she dry-fired into the nearest heap. The ambush was destroyed; its hearts blown apart. A quivering wall of wobbling crests and muck lurched forward and slowed, slowed, stopped. Eight to ten metres of open space, and then corpses, lots and lots of corpses.

"Cease fire," called someone. "Check weapons."

"Who dumped the potpourri?" quipped Meagher.

"We are blocked," Calvert said stupidly. The crescent wall of black muck variably four, five or six metres high and thirty to forty metres deep had in it claws that were death to touch.

"This could be to our advantage," said Laurel to her ear.

"What?"

"This stuff can be a barrier."

"No."

"Why not?"

"You'll know soon enough," she said quietly and looked behind herself.

"There," went Parnell, safe inside the bridge of a starship, apparelled still in scanner helmet and gloves and enjoying his virtual viewing. "There are your zombies and thus are they destroyed. Let's move on, shall we? Ensign, redeploy your party."

"Spec Teal, you can jump that?" asked Calvert as the team's sleds and pallet resumed the chamber. The artefact pallet had all her workers riding on it.

"Aye, sir, no problem." He would not jump, but fly over the obstruction.

"Meet you on the other side."

"Can't wade through that," grumbled Gless. "What about our lighting equipment? How are we packing it over that crap?"

"We'll use the pallet to carry your lights," said Calvert. "After we ferry ourselves across." The delay in order to ferry crew and equipment was several minutes, after which Calvert, looking behind herself, noted the diminishment she'd been anticipating. It was not yet sufficient enough for anyone else to notice. She gazed to Danby, who appeared preoccupied with her own thoughts, and saw no comprehension in her either.

"Ah, sirs, us zoots are down to forty minutes operational time," Teal announced, "then it's the recharge boogie for sure."

"Roger that," said Calvert and Muller simultaneously.

"Have you replenished your ammo, zoots?" asked Calvert.

"No can do unless we change out the magazines, sir," replied Teal. "Got lots of bullets left all the same. No worries."

Danby, looking across the rubbery obstacle, was fascinated by purplish aura that had replaced purplish mist. The scent of dusty flowers strong still though less now than it was. The aura not one but many. One for each zombie. They were not entirely dead, could never be entirely dead, nor was the current condition of devastation an end for any of them. She turned to see the only other human who understood what was happening, but Calvert watched another way, and might be avoiding her gaze—no, she was distracted by something else.

"Let's move out," said Calvert, rubbing as deep into her helmet as she could to soothe a headache, a real nasty one, that would have her seeing double if it got much worse.

The plan was to set up light standards every twenty-five metres, a distance now to be increased owing to the location of Parnell's artifact. Still the light was significant and, being supplied with energy from the ship, unlikely to fade.

"Hey, ah, anybody else think the pile of zombie is less than what it was?" asked AS Brad Arnold. Arnold was a gangly nineteen years old with albino skin and orange-red hair. He and Gless, owing to common likes and attitudes, had forged a relationship between themselves. Gless was by far the more vocal of the two, while Arnold was always ready with a grin for the amusing and, at times, salacious, comments Gless liked to make.

"You wanna take a stick and measure?" said Coxswain Briggs in the shaft.

"Are you all right?" asked Danby, her hand on Calvert's shoulder and lending support.

"No way, no how," was Arnold's reply.

"Not now, Beth." Although it cost her more energy than she could afford to spend, Calvert brought herself upright, and continued with a vigour that appeared no less than before but had very little bottom to it.

"You were saying?" Steve Laurel asked to her ear.

"It makes sense," she said while watching Danby's icon return to its place. "They have to reconstitute themselves since, being dead already, they can't die again."

"What was that, Ensign?" arrived from Thorpe into the midst of their conversation.

"I think I know what's happening to the corpses by the entrance, sir."

"They're disappearing. Evaporating?"

"Actually, no. They're reconstituting."

"Reconstituting? Becoming whole again?"

"Yes, sir. Unfortunately, I believe that is so."

A stunned pause. "How long will it take the process to complete?"

"Not certain. Less than an hour, I'd say."

"Much less," Laurel added. He tapped into video accounts being gathered at the entrance.

"We need to hurry this along," said Marco, directing an anxious gaze Beth's way.

"Oh, you think so, do you, Lieutenant Pacini?" muttered Calvert. She held her handset ahead of herself. They neared their goal. Her pulsing blue dot near the end of its blue line except the green dot she was to cover was not there. A green dot was nowhere in her screen. "Hold up."

"Where is it?" asked Teal.

"Where's what?" from Swan at the rear of their group.

"The target artefact is not here," said Calvert for the benefit of anyone not listening or watching in their handsets, screens or heads-up displays.

"Not there?" Parnell intruded. "It has to be there."

"It isn't." Calvert executed a circle on the spot, scanning as deep as she could in all directions. "Definitely not here." An engine, which converted poisonous atmospheric mixes into efficacious compounds as well as could render the compounds in any form desired, was not in its place, nor anywhere near that place. The youth smiled.

"Where is it?" Parnell asked sharply.

"Not here!" Calvert replied, her skull feeling about to burst. None of the artifacts she detected were supposed to be in this locale according to the map dozens of drones had sacrificed themselves to make. They had gone up the right corridor, they were the right distance in, and nothing was what or where it was supposed to be. Old mole, you've played a trick on us, haven't you?

How do you like my 'trick'?

I ought to have expected it.

"Calvert!" sliced through her reverie.

"Aye, sir. We need to go back. Could be there's something along the way."

"She has to go forward. Forward," said Parnell.

"We could try a different aisle." First they'd have to find a gap large enough to accommodate their equipment to go through.

"Continue up the aisle you're in, Ensign," said Thorp inexorably.

Calvert with teeth grit, remembered how a far shorter, simulated run had ended very badly. "Teal, scout ahead. We'll follow as quick as we may. When you've located something of appropriate size report back at once."

"Aye, sir." Teal trotted ahead. Soon the zoot was gone from visual and then scanner reach, and then from all screens except those in which a representation replaced what was so his progress could continue to be tracked.

"Why is it gone?" persisted Parnell as the party resumed its march without its Hanzel and Gretel lighting. "You've gone up the right aisle, haven't you? Your map is not in error, is it?"

"This is a total cock up," muttered Gless within the rear of the group. "Why the fuck are we all the fucking way out here if not to get our asses chewed off?"

So I can shove my boot up your arse, you foul mouthed git, thought Calvert acidly. Where's that idiot PAC gone to? "Teal, can you hear me? Teal, report."

"Why do I feel like a sitting duck?" said Lannier.

"Do you even know what a sitting duck is, Lannie?" asked Swan.

"It's someone about to have her ass shot off."

"Zombies don't use guns. Sirs, I've got twenty minutes of charge left. In fifteen I'm going to have to boogie home." The zoots might run for the entrance and get there quick.

"He's too far out," Calvert said. "By now he's another three hundred metres in. That's too far—Spec Teal, get back here." Her advice, she knew, went forth unheard by the man it was meant for. Without what would have to be an impossible comm system they'd not hear from Teal again until or unless they caught up with him, or he returned on his own.

"He's always a lunkhead in situations like this, sir," said Swan. "I doubt he stops until he finds something. By then he'll be a klick or more out."

"Nobody could be that stupid," muttered Calvert, regretting the simple expedient of a spool of comm filament that could have been attached to the wayward zoot's armour. "Swan, I need you to catch him up."

"Wait a minute, sir," said Muller at the entrance. "You'll be sending the bulk of what you have left of your firepower up that aisle. I strongly suggest you not do that."

"Shit, yes, ah, Marco, Gless, some of you others, empty that sled and, Marco, you take it up that way and find him."

"Sirs, ten minutes left," said Swan after a tsk of annoyance.

"Could he have been ambushed?" asked Arnold.

"Ambushed?" said Swan. "We would've heard it. If he found himself in a firefight, he could either handle it or fly back."

"Not necessarily," murmured Calvert.

"Sir, ready," said Marco and hopped into the emptied sled.

"Do not spare the horses, Marco," said Beth as the couple gripped hands.

"We can't just keep going. This is beyond fucking dumb," grumbled Gless.

Calvert watched Marco's representative icon until it disappeared beyond her scanning reach. After tracing a quarter circle on her right, she noted, at the extreme edge of what she could see, a right-sized artifact four tiers up. You want us to try that one? The height would make the extraction difficult, but not impossible. The portion of platform the artifact rested on had space extra for standing and they'd plenty of levitating equipment. They could try for that one, but Swan would have to leave well before they finished the extraction.

They would then have to fight their way back through hordes of zombies without any big guns to bash their way through with. What in hell's happened to Teal and now Marco? Gnaw the inside of her lip, glance to the furthest-in light standard, which she couldn't see. Calvert pondered her few, none savoury, options.

"Sir, I'm down to—" Swan began.

"Take Gless, Arnold, Macdonald, and Lannier, our noncombatants, and head back now," said Calvert. "Take the artefact pallet and get the hell out of here."

"Calvert, what are you doing?" asked a much agitated sounding CEO.

"Captain, this is an abort. We're out of time and our situation nears untenable."

"Untenable." A snort of disgust from Parnell.

"Concur," said Thorpe. "Get our people out of there."

"Aye, sir. Marines, with me," said Calvert, swallowed hard, and proceeded up the aisle.

Chapter Thirty-Seven - Intermission

Why this region is empty of sentries, Calvert realized as she and her marines jogged through chilling, oppressive dark, is because all areas adjacent to the entrance have been stripped of defences in order to supply the reception just shattered and on its way to being reconstituted. A grim, numb smile was shown her surroundings, what turned into a grimace as liquid pain lasered diagonally left earlobe to right brow, rendering the victim sick, blind, and dull. She was on her way to the deck until a strong right hand seized her beneath an armpit to buoy her up.

"What's the matter?" Danby asked, appearing at her other side. She joined Steve Laurel in supporting a friend with a lift and carry.

"A little dizzy. Never mind, I'm all right, we need to keep going—leave me be, Corporal." She refused support for good reason. They might need all their fighters and their guns in the ensuing moments.

"Three hundred metres in," declared a nervous Meagher, the comm filament connecting them all the way back to the shaft informing him so.

"Keep an eye on that depth gauge," instructed Calvert. She nodded to Danby. "We can't afford to go much further."

"He's just ahead," Danby said emphatically.

"You're sure?" from Laurel.

"He's there," was for the second time affirmed. Calvert with a supreme suffering effort heaved her steps through her personal fog of pain and misery. She suspected Danby only wished her assertion was so. Yet they clambered a mere fifty metres further on before Marco called out sternly: "Hold up! Hold up! Don't come any closer!"

"Hold positions!" Calvert ordered. "Laurel with me." Obscurity was crept toward. A light ahead provided scanty illumination to a scene indistinct. Marco had abandoned his sled and worked a hissing gadget at floor level. Its pencil of bright blue light triggered a startling whip-motion. A cable, parted with violence. Its severed end passed so close enough by that Calvert felt air strike her throat. Ahead was a crisscross of cabling extending from deck to past where they could see, a matrix tens of metres deep. "What in the hell?" muttered Laurel as he stopped within a stride of the obstruction.

"There aren't just zombies in here to contend with," said Marco, cutting another strand at its root. "I told you guys to stay back. These separate with considerable violence. One of you could have been badly hurt."

"Make your report, Technician," growled Calvert, backing several steps.

"You see him yonder," said Marco and shone his light on the upright zoot trapped in the midst of the cable obstacle. A small beacon high on the armour suit's fighting frame feebly pulsed. "I don't think he could have penetrated so far as he did before becoming stuck. He ought to have bounced off. There's no trail in, so it must be the web generated around him. That's a pretty neat trick."

"Hard to imagine," Laurel observed.

The technician resumed cutting. "Do tell. Though the strands extrude from the deck, they're not the same material as the deck, and it's a damn good thing they're not."

"Oh?" queried the marine.

"It took us months to cut our way in," Calvert reminded him and the rest of her audience here and elsewhere for present and future times. She turned and walked back to Marco's sled, placing one foot on its stubby, starboard wing. Deciding spontaneously upon a better option, she splayed her upper body over the cowling, to rest and recharge before the next thing. She might easily pass out, which she cautioned herself against.

"Julie?" was accompanied by a caress. "Maybe you should climb aboard and rest?"

"I'm all right." Calvert had an image before her mind's eye. The valiant commander refusing all entreaties to seek shelter as though these were poison candy while striding a quarterdeck scarred by the bullets of enemy sharpshooters.

"You know this would be funny if it wasn't so serious," said Laurel. He and Meagher assumed rearguard positions. Nothing could come at them from forward.

Marco was saying, "Buh—er, Corporal Danby, there's another hand-held in the sled. I could use help cutting these strands."

"Just hang in there, okay?" Danby said as she reached past the very still girl for the lasering tool.

"I've the route already mapped, with strands to cut highlighted," continued Marco.

Calvert felt herself poised on a ledge. Her ability to maintain consciousness was weighed against the debilitating influences of the environment. If she stayed still and breathed small, she'd manage, just. A hand and arm trembled violently, which, within a catalogue of her afflictions, she positioned last. Tunnel vision, murderous headache, queasy stomach, extreme fatigue were all more telling symptoms of an impending collapse. "How long?" she asked drearily.

"Another five minutes," said Marco.

"Stay alert . . . rest of us," she managed before releasing a febrile connection. Her communion with the floor welcome for the changes in altitude and consciousness both.

#

"This is troubling," said the silver being standing in thigh-high grass beneath blue sky laced with high thin cloud.

"Hum-m-m?" murmured Calvert, who enjoyed eiderdown comfort inside a king-sized brass bed. She'd an uninterrupted view of the infinite above her. "Did I pass?" she asked blearily. The silver being assumed Elizabeth Danby's shape between one heartbeat and the next, one step and the next. "Not me this time?"

"You haven't passed the test, not yet," the being said. "They're carrying you back to the entrance as we speak."

"Then I'm not done?"

"Not even close."

"I feel like shit."

"There is something not right with you. The others of your species are hardier."

"My head," Calvert protested. The appendage felt far too large.

"It appears that in our zeal to prepare you, we have also weakened you."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Calvert grumbled. "Did Parnell put something in my porridge?"

"He thought about it, but it was no more than idle thought. Listen now," The entirely bare alien in the shape of a friend seated itself next to the suffering girl, "there is a device can fix you. It's like your auto doc, our equivalent. It is necessary you submit yourself to it."

"O-kay," Calvert said uncertainly.

"You will find our auto doc in the Crew Quarters. You are destined to arrive there so that is all you need to know."

"How will I find the 'doc when I'm inside the Crew Quarters?"

"You'll find it easily. You are tuned for it," said the alien and with surprising tenderness shifted a lock of hair from the girl's forehead. "We are on your side. We want you to pass."

"That's good to know," Calvert muttered. A piercing odour impaled her sinuses as would a rod of red hot iron. "Holy shit!"

"She's come around," said Marco as, grinning, he put his smelling salts away.

"I'll say she has," said an equally amused Elizabeth Danby. "How are you doing, sir?"

"I've an anvil where my head used to be and somebody just hit it with a big fucking hammer. How's that for how I am?" She'd awakened inside the shaft over a clutter of garments, implements, and cases. A latch dug into her spine.

"We're recalled. Mission debrief. We won't try again until tonight."

"Just effing great. Did we get Teal out?"

"Yessir, that's his shock gel you're smeared with," Marco said genially.

She was too weak and disorientated to complain about additional discomfort that her state was incapable of appreciating. Instead she murmured, "Good, that's good to know."

"We couldn't retrieve the zoot. No power, even in the reserve, and the sled only had enough juice left to carry yuh—er, one of us out. Swan volunteered to run back for the suit with a power pack but the Captain nixed that notion. So we're down to the one, and, ah, as a consequence, Teal's on the Captain's shit list."

"I welcome the company."

"You're on your way to the infirmary," said Danby as she and Marco helped Calvert to her feet. "For a check up."

"Just wonderful."

"Everybody's bagged, sir. We're all dead over our feet, but nobody was hurt, and," the next part of what Marco said was delivered in a confidential whisper, "the rest of them are real impressed with how you handled yourself."

Calvert shrugged. She'd only run the mission as she supposed it should go.

#

"She doesn't want us to succeed," Parnell was saying while seeming to grind his teeth. He made use of a vacant lane of wardroom floor to pace in. "Could they have gone any slower? And she lost one of our armoured suits—half our strength gone. We ought to be on our way to Charybdis with our prize. She ought to be placed under arrest."

"Under arrest, Parnell? Whatever for?" Thorpe asked mildly. Having been in tight situations before, the Captain knew how to show calm while inwardly seething.

"Neglect of duty."

"I daresay few of us could have done any better," interjected Walsh. The Lieutenant was recipient of a cautionary look from his chief right after speaking.

"What in the hell do you know about it!" thundered Parnell. "She was given a straightforward task to perform and she failed utterly. You should lead the next try, if you're so certain few could do it better. Very likely you'd succeed with little difficulty at all."

"The map changed. The artifact was no longer where it ought to have been." Thorpe decided he'd had his fill of civilian rant. "We have to assume this will continue to be the case and adjust our tactics accordingly."

"Search randomly, sir?" said Walsh, responding to a genuine cue this time.

"Just so. The artifacts appear scattered about in no particular order. We're as likely to chance on one of an appropriate size as were we to continue searching from a map no longer valid."

"Sir, I volunteer to lead the next attempt."

"No, Kevin, that is not why you're here. Ensign Calvert managed well enough on her first go. We'll let her try one more time. If she fails a second time; you will be let to have a chance."

"Very well, sir," the Lieutenant dutifully replied.

"Just where is the young idiot at the moment?" grumbled Parnell.

Thorpe consulted the wall screen, which relayed a view from the girl's wrist cam. "She's only just arrived within the infirmary."

"Therapy for a fake condition," said Parnell sourly.

#

"Aspirin and on my way?" asked the dull as dust youth.

Gowan's too large eyes peered out from her crazy aura. The little med tech's condition had gotten worse owing to her own heaping helpings of stress, fatigue and worry. "No, young sir. A full scan and we'll see what's caused you to shut down the way you did," the medico replied.

"No way," said Calvert, reaching across herself to press off her wrist camera.

"You haven't a choice." The tech crossed to the near auto doc and activated its diagnostic console. "Now, hop in."

"No," said Calvert, arms crossed in defiance. "I'm perfectly fine. All better. Headache's gone and that's all it was. A headache. If you won't give me a couple aspirin, I'll take them myself."

"This is my infirmary." It amused Calvert to see how the little doctor made herself bigger by rising over the balls of her feet.

"Fine, I'll go without. Goodbye, doctor."

"Oh, no, you won't! If you won't submit yourself now, you will after I've submitted a formal request to the Captain."

"Go ahead! Put forward your requa—"

"Captain, this is Gowan in the infirmary. Ensign Calvert refuses to submit to an examination. Yes, sir. Ensign Calvert, Captain Thorpe wishes to speak with you."

Thorpe informed the delinquent she was required to submit herself to a diagnostic scrutiny without additional demur, and so she went to the auto doc and might have climbed directly in except Gowan demanded she strip bare first.

"Abusing her power," Calvert muttered over the sprinkle of dust the floor received from her things piled onto it.

"Lie perfectly still." The med tech made adjustments to the diagnostic console, shifted herself to view the monitor at the other end and said, "Oh, my."

Calvert pursed her lips sourly. Whatever the little tech made a fuss over could have no happy consequence for her.

"Her brain anatomy is no different from ours, but her patterns are, in a word, peculiar." Sandra Gowan was speaking over a secure channel to the desk in the Captain's quarters. Thorpe grimly peered back. "Here is the normal awake pattern. Another, superimposed, has a larger amplitude. I've no experience with this sort of phenomenon. I've no idea what it is."

"Have you Ensign Calvert's prior scans. How do those compare?"

"I should have them . . ." Gowan conducted a brief search among the ship's medical records. "Here they are. No, this is—I mean this is normal. The before pattern is normal."

"Where is she now?"

"In the auto doc. I've sedated her, otherwise she would not have stayed still."

Thorpe rubbed his face from forehead down to chin. "Release her at once. Tell her to report to me here. Tech Gowan, no one else is to know about this."

"Aye, sir." The tech severed the comm link.

"You put me out," the freshly awakened girl said as she resumed contact with the waking world.

"I had to. You would not stay still."

"I am going to strangle you," Calvert muttered. "Thanks for nothing."

"A bit late," said Gowan, indicating the garments she'd shook out, folded and placed on a chair. "You're to report directly to the Captain."

"You know you are bound by your oath of confidentiality to stay quiet."

"I know what my duty is," replied the Doctor testily. "I must say I'm surprised you're behaving the way that you are. You knew you'd been altered and said nothing."

"I wasn't required to say anything."

"How do you know you're not being manipulated?"

"What do you think?" Calvert replied angrily.

A shrug. "I don't know. I can't tell. You ought to know if you are, although it's as likely you may not."

"Look, you screwed up . . . ah, whatever. I'm not being manipulated, okay? I've been nothing but all right since this happened to me, although I've now and then not liked it. What you have to keep in mind is your obligations and oath. Shut that down and lock it up." Calvert nodded to the depiction of her mind's workings.

Gowan did as she was bid.

"I think I can fix you," said Calvert, right boot in hand. A problem of flow, adjustment and then containment. Remnants of girl had leaked into the region the Sandra Gowan personality expended a great deal of energy to keep all to itself. To judge by the little tech's aura there was nothing she might do that could make her condition worse. The repair would be like some alien-advised activities she'd not so long ago indulged in and like what had been done to her. Calvert recalled the gist of a holistic healing text. Reviewing procedure and making comparisons human physiology with Maian were the reasons for her pause and wandered attention.

"I beg your pardon?"

A sharp exhale dispelled distraction as well as pushed back fatigue. "Your aura is—well, it's bad. It hurts to look at. You're really screwed up in there. I can fix it, you. I'm pretty sure."

"You're joking." A smile gasped into being.

Calvert shrugged before resuming the lacing of her boot. "Up to you," she muttered indifferently. You must be really suffering in there.

"I don't know what to say. Would you do to me what's been done to you?"

You might not object if I did, except the consequences might get you killed. "It's not like that. I can't do that sort of thing. What I've got is not contagious."

"I don't think I can permit it," said Gowan uncertainly.

Calvert vented her annoyance within a snort. "I'm not in the habit of injuring others for no reason. I can see you're suffering. I can help, but if you don't want me to, that's fine. I'm already late for my meeting with the Captain. I have to be going."

"No, wait!" cried the tech, swallowing her fear as she faced squarely on the girl who frightened her more than a little.

"If you let me . . ." said Calvert and put out her hands, their palms deep in the miasmic swirls enveloping the Doctor's head.

"Will it hurt?" asked Gowan and would be glad if it did.

Calvert shifted spikes into better locations and diminished others. Angry reds and strident blues went effervescent purple. A little more manipulation triggered a non-injuring flare of white.

A by no means simple process to coax along. Tinny screams and complaints jarred her nerves. Calvert thought she might be going wrong, except she felt each step right as she made it. Soothing settled the complaints. The screams less and less until gone completely.

When she was done, the youth took a step back and dropped her hands to her sides. The dominant personality had needed to be diminished. The cynical old hag had imprisoned the child, which had caused the latter to despair. Frustrating enough to be a kid, but to be a kid whose voice was being forcibly suppressed had been orders of magnitude worse.

"Hey, Teresa," said Calvert gently, and the child, able to express herself at last, smiled with relief.

"Must I still be . . ." asked the girl.

"Sandra's in there. Aren't you, old one?"

"Oh, yes," replied a voice distinguishable by its mature tone.

"You guys need to figure things out, which should be easier now that you've both an equal say. Neither of you has to conform to the other's standards nor fear for consequences either. Sandy, you have to allow Teresa to reconcile with what's happened to her and listen for a change. Both of you need to get back together with friends and families."

"I was afraid to do that," was their half muttered reply.

"You ought to start over. This is not the right path for you anymore."

Tears appeared in their eyes.

"I hope not every second timer is like you guys, cuz, if that's the case, there are a lot of screwed up people out there." A thoughtful, smiling Julie Calvert left the infirmary. Their integration was not yet complete. Some knowledge had slipped away, some memories were diminished, and yet the pair was near settled, which was a far better condition for their future health and happiness. The human/alien hybrid Julie Calvert did not feel any guilt over what she'd done.

Thorpe's grim look greeted her as Calvert approached his desk. As his hatch closed, she sensed his mood was more sympathetic than it had been. His better opinion might come to an abrupt end once he discovered what she'd done to his expert medico. The second monitor had stayed on his desk and was aimed in her direction, but was also off. He held a stylus whose end he pressed with his thumb print. He appeared primed to say something but it was seconds before he actually did. "You can read them." It was not a question.

Calvert gathered a breath. Except for knowing she needed him as an ally, she would have obfuscated or even lied. "Yes," she said quietly.

He directed his stare to a corner of the room. "You and no one else?"

"That's what I've been told."

He clenched his hands into a double fist to raise and lean his chin against. His attention went to some far off place a while before resuming on her. "Just what do you intend?"

"What I have will benefit all mankind." Despite how grandiose her declaration sounded, she meant every syllable. She was dedicating herself to the fulfilment of an oath. Her new life's purpose. "When I can, I intend to make a better galaxy for us all."

The Captain made a thoughtful noise before resuming his staring at nothing. "I have to believe you, or I would have to arrange your death."

"Yes sir," she said, her expression naked, voice small, "You would have to." Her influence and power, should she succeed, would grow to be immense. She'd sounded out Thorpe as far as she was able. She knew him for an honourable man, or she would not have admitted her secret.

For his part, Thorpe decided he would not reveal her secret, not even to his superiors, but he'd also decided he must hold her to account.

"Parnell mustn't know. The man is poison on two feet. As you have become too valuable to risk, Lieutenant Walsh shall lead the next attempt."

"No, sir," replied Calvert sternly. "Only I can see the mission through. I've been given specific instructions. If Walsh were to take my place, the result would be disaster for us all."

"Even worse than what's been shown us?" Thorpe asked incredulously.

"Yes, sir, trust me on that, please."

"I have no other option but to trust you."

For one other thing, she needed assurances. "Sir, whatever happens, I can't go with Parnell to Charybdis. Please, sir, that would be very bad for me."

"Regarding that matter, I have changed my mind. He must not be given the responsibility for your safety. You have my word on that."

Calvert released her eyelids so they could close. Confession made, she felt lighter in body and in spirit. She might have smiled except Thorpe would neither have appreciated nor understood her reason for doing so. Instead, she adopted an attentive look.

Thorpe resumed playing with his stylus. He'd more to ask but debated himself whether he should. The confirmation of her extraordinary ability and peculiar alliance restrained him.

Despite she was tempted to elaborate upon the extent of her powers, the youth decided she would not do so unless pressed and even then she would answer only in generalities.

"Is it your understanding the mission will fail no matter what?" he asked when the silence between them neared an uncomfortable length.

"Sir, I strongly believe that's so. We ought not to go back in. Our strength is too small. The chamber has powerful forces in reserve." She could not say what those forces were, not having a clear understanding of numbers, strength, and quality, yet her training and honour demanded she advise him to the best of her abilities. She went against her own interests in doing so. She had to fear he might cancel the mission. With her energy so low and ebbing moment by moment she could not afford delay. She must participate, and soon, or she must die.

"Aborting the mission cannot be justified," said Thorpe. Calvert did not show her relief owing to feelings being split two ways. "It will be said we tried not hard enough."

"Yes, sir," said Calvert, agreeing reluctantly.

"You have shown me much today, Ensign," said Thorpe, putting down his pen, "notwithstanding this unique talent of yours which will have us debating ourselves for a long while to come. I'm reconsidering your fitness for advancement."

"You hah-ah-are, suh-suh-sir?"

"I'm postponing judgement on your case until after the mission."

"Will you recommend me for advancement, sir?"

"To know that you'll have to wait. Dismissed."

Calvert arrived within her cabin not recalling the route taken to get there. Her headache continued in a cozy just-there condition. Sleep was what she needed, the dark-as-pitch variety, with no chance of a nightmare. Her favourite brand of knockout drug was part of a personal stash. Six drops in a tall glass of water after prepping for bed. Six hours of uninterrupted rest not anyone nor anything could wake her from.

#

"Ready next," Marco advised. Counter grav conveyances hovered above him in a stack. The lift apparatus, all its girders painstakingly constructed and bolted together, had been removed. The next platform in the queue arrived at his level. Its driver wore a cocksure grin, her EVA helmet at her feet. The second of four sentry guns was on her platform, reloads stacked and linked.

"Welcome to the land of superior firepower," Melanie Swan declared, the marine nothing like a behemoth when out of her armour. Raven-haired, muscled like a panther. The most likely among them, excepting Teal, owing to her elvish enthusiasm for all things battle-related, to wear a two tonne war machine like an extra layer of skin.

"Attach this," said Marco, flinging across hook and cable.

"This one floats?"

"Aye, that's the idea," replied Marco and the Black Irish-featured female nodded.

"Right or left?"

"My right and your left," Marco quipped and gently advanced his tug-sled into the chamber.

"My left, lover, and don't upset my apples."

The gun platform arrived into the chamber among the knell of hammers punching fist-sized rivets into slots. Decimetre thick interlocking collapsed steel ship's plate went into a half moon barricade two metres high. "Hey, Marco, those sonsabitches can't reach in this far, can they?" asked Nathan Brick, his back tight against the outer shaft wall.

"Damned if I know." Marco wished he'd brought more aspirin to chew. A glance to the deepest light on its five metre tall tripod stand took in the four metre tall, crested zombie standing stock still inside its beam.

"Figure the bastards are stacked up like they were before?" Swan asked as he aligned her platform to match the 3D wire representation in his schematic.

"Next! Ye-ah, and way more than before."

"More? You are fucking kidding us, right?" said Gless, whose paste-white features wore a heavier than normal patina of secreted oils and sweat.

Briggs, who'd taken up another rivet from his crate, gave the distracted man a nudge to move him out of his swinging radius.

"Man, you've had the same dreams as me, right? What do you think?" said Swan while stepping from her platform onto Marco's.

"I think we ain't bin paid enough to risk our lives in this fucked up place. That's what I think!"

"Can it, Gless," Briggs muttered darkly.

"Maybe you should go on light detail stead'a me? How fuckin' glad to be here you gonna be then, Briggs?"

"Gladder than you obviously."

"Hey, Marco, you two-timing me for another girl?"

"Just giving the lady a lift," said Marco, bestowing a wink on his passenger before directing his sled back into the shaft.

"Ain't I pretty enough?" Danby asked, hands on hips. Sentry Gun Number Three sat squat and gruesome on the freshly arrived counter grav platform she stood on.

"Honey, you know there's only one answer to that question."

"Which is?" she demanded with mock severity.

"Well . . ." The tech prepared to duck in case she'd anything handy to throw.

"I'm outta here." Swan hopped down onto the friction webbing covering the block cut-out. "You two can mangle each other way easier with me outta the way."

"Baby, you know the answer is always gonna be 'hell, yeah'," said Marco with pretend shyness as he gently swung his weighted cable for her to catch. Their conveyances met and Danby leaned into a snug contact of lips, her hand on his shoulder.

Swan hooted, leaping the gap between block and ledge. "I'll concede you one thing, Danny Girl, the midget sure can kiss."

Later a knot of spacers and marines surrounded a freshly assembled fire control station. They and it occupied all there was of available space. "Safe as houses in here," said Marco as he finalized his checklist. A nod was made to Briggs, who would be taking over the seat he was about to vacate. Muller would occupy the other.

"Anybody wanna trade assignments?" asked Gless, who occupied an overturned ammo crate sited furthest in from the chamber opening.

"Sure, Gless, I'll trade you extraction for lights," said Marco.

"No fucking way, Marco," replied the nervously gulping technician, "no . . . fucking . . . way."

"Then how's about you shut the fuck up?"

"Beer time!" roared Meagher and Swan, Briggs, Arnold, and Danby joined in the general howl of approval.

"Beer and aspirin," quipped Marco, "my kind of drink."

#

A shoe half off was no sort of invitation. Its hot pink colour might be. Calvert shaped her lips for a kiss, practising. The security pair in the corner tensed as the male youth made a first step in her direction. They stayed that way as he continued all the way to the stool next to hers.

"You're new here," he said.

"No." She appreciated the feel of leather about to slip from bare toes.

"Academy, right?"

"What makes you say that?"

"You're wearing the ring." He nodded to the ornament.

Toes up-curled. When she relaxed them that shoe was going to drop.

Hair brown with insolent bangs and gone tufts elsewhere like startled cat fur. Spare physique and vulpine features. He'd an inherent slyness, which she'd appreciate better later. He wasn't very bright, or he would have noticed her security. Plaid shirt with leather patches on the elbows, distressed jeans, a leather jacket with 'replica' stamped on it somewhere, and sneakers scuffed.

"Guilty," she said and fluttered her fingers. "So now what?"

"I buy you a beer?"

"Got one already." A nod to her glass. She gave him credit. Most guys, after they realized the social class she belonged to, hadn't the nerve to approach.

"How's about I buy the same brand, and we appreciate the taste together?"

"That's a good line." Her brow rose, but her smile stayed faint.

"You like it, really?"

"Not yours, is it?" Calvert executed a sweetly tuned moué, a look she'd practised to mirrored surfaces at home.

"Guilty." He laughed just right.

Brow softened. Foot drooped. Shoe dropped.

"Got it." He slipped off his stool to do the gallant thing right up to reacquainting the pump with its proper grip of her foot. "Pink, huh?"

"Yep." Full grip was let slip to half. "Gift."

"You would have chosen pink yourself," he said confidently.

He'd gazed overlong at her silk covered thighs before resuming communion with her eyes. He'd not lose points for that. Too many boys tended to focus on the region of her rib cage.

"Yep, good beer." He slurped expansively to catch up, wiping his lips with the back of his hand after. "Kinda fruity, nutty." The same hand levelled and teetered illustratively.

"No."

"No?"

"Wines are fruity, nutty. Beer is yeasty. It's the 'hops'." A tempting circle was made of her mouth and lips. Her exhale washed his face with its strawberry flavour. She closed her eyes a moment, and he took his liberty. His mouth pressed her mouth and his tongue bumped hers. Reversing broke the contact. Calvert paused to soak up smidgens of transferred saliva with her napkin.

"Hey, sorry about that." His grin anything but apologetic. "I've been wanting to kiss you ever since I saw you come in."

Her hand shown palm foremost froze the security pair half risen from their seats.

"Who was—" He looked blindly behind himself.

"Nobody." She winked seductively at him. "Just some guys from school. I have a room here. Would you like to see it?"

"Would I!" he exclaimed. "Show me up."

"It's on the ground floor actually."

"I'm Justin by the way." They slipped from their stools.

"Julie." A handshake was tried and felt odd.

The plainclothes security man bumping into Justin inside the hallway at the same time extracted a sample of skin. The lounger at the end of the hall was another member of her security crew whose intent attention to her magazine substituted for the disapproving stare she would otherwise have indulged in. Most of her security team thought her yet a child and were fiercely protective.

Justin's reaction to opulence was comical gaping. Full wall monitor. Floor-embedded stereo in black metal and smoked glass, appearing filigree. Heavy walnut furniture and area carpet with Aztec motif. Other walls pale green, whose silver stripes and stars appeared only when she wanted them to. Her suite the largest the Galloping Pickle Inn boasted by far.

"You live here?" he gasped. What he wasn't seeing was a level of sophistication unusual outside fortress-mansions like Wilde Marsh Manor. Penetration, acid and fire proof surfaces and furnishings, automated sentries disguised as wall art or statuary, and an extra powerful self-contained air circulation system. The bathroom doubled as a panic room and contained a suit of custom-fitted armour in one locker and an assortment of personalized weapons in another.

"Only on weekends."

"Your parents must be filthy rich!"

"They've a few cred here and there." Removing her jacket, Calvert checked the communicator in its lining, which appeared a label when inactive: Justin Holloway, seventeen, waiter at Poiré Pooferie, a trendy restaurant a block north and opened three months ago. The rest she saved for later. No danger, otherwise a red bar would have soundlessly flashed over his likeness and her handlers would be crashing in.

Like all males in their juvenile delinquent phase of development, he attacked her music collection. Calvert stopped him before he opened slots to disturb the stacks inside. "The list of titles is right here." She guided him to the interface embedded in the living room table. "Don't mess with the lists. I've got them just as I like them."

"Ho-ly shuh-cow!" he exclaimed. "The complete Crazy Kittens? There are albums here that aren't even out yet."

"Most of the stuff I rarely have time for." Calvert went into her bedroom to change. "Make yourself to home. Play anything you like."

Justin made a nuisance of himself by selecting a track brassy and loud. Calvert winced. Although her lease permitted her unlimited privacy and to do as she pleased, including to play music as loud as she liked, she'd never abused her privileges. Resuming Holloway's company, she reduced the racket flowing from her speakers by a tonne.

"Neighbours, right?" He'd made a nest for himself in her leather-skinned gel-pac lounger.

"Neighbours for several blocks in all directions," she replied tartly.

He was noticing the drape of her loose fitting pyjamas, her usual relaxed, 'away from home and school' attire, and her body in them. "That's nice," he said thickly.

"What?" Calvert remained annoyed and was uncertain about recent choices she'd made. "Would you like another beer? Wine?" She was not legal for ardent spirits, and neither was he.

"Sure," he said.

"Which?"

"What are you having?"

"Wine, red."

"Wine, red sounds good."

How do you decide when, where, who and how much importance to attach to one's first fuck? Calvert wondered not much later as she traced her initials on Justin's flank with a wine-moistened finger. She just decided she would do it, or rather hadn't. Her thinking had been muddled, and her emotions and feeling uncertain and detached. She'd been annoyed and amused during their sex play while discovering, with both surprise and resentment, she was by far the more adult. His groping of her body off and on irritating.

She hadn't thought she would experience intercourse this decade. Yet here she was, flat on her back, smeared from the waist down, her nipples and nether region tender from rubbing.

Hitherto she'd been unable to appreciate her friends' accounts of their sexual encounters, related with confidence and gusto. She'd chuckled, laughed, and smirked while feeling out of sorts, out of place, out of tune, and not mature enough. Until now.

She'd had sex to have the thing over with, to spill its mystery. When the blood seeped out she'd spilled wine on herself and the sheets. Her drowsy boy never realized she'd been a virgin or decided not to remark upon the fact. Present day Calvert, before falling asleep and faintly smiling, murmured, "He wasn't that bright."

Chapter Thirty-Eight - Second Attempt

From the bodies of dozens of sparrow-sized, insect-form flyers pulsed a tsunami of brilliance, highlighting hundreds of still as earth shapes. Depths and angles were within milliseconds calculated. Micro grenades flew, bounced, and detonated according to proximity to objects. The devastation—recorded by shielded cameras—spectacular.

Swan vaulted the defensive bulwark, additional power pack on counter gravity sled connected by obscene umbilical wrapped in flex cabling following her. "Should be you out here 'stead 'a me, Teal," the marine muttered genially as she approached the shivering corpses and their purplish-black misted tops.

"You ain't ever gonna live it down, Terrible," quipped Meagher.

"Over one and three fourths million worth of hardware," Laurel added.

"I figure we could dash, make a recovery," said Teal hopefully.

"No can do, Terrible. By now the tar monkeys have carted your zoot away. The replacement cost is gonna be coming out of your pay for the next fifty years," said Meagher.

The extraction team's commander, wearing a headache mercilessly dulled by analgesics, waited her turn at the bottom of the conveyance stack. Laurel's armoured body obscured her view forward. Ten metres above the next in the stack hovered ominously. Although the chance of a power failure was slim, she respected the potential of several tonnes artificially suspended for mayhem. The string of green lights in the lower left corner of her heads-up display was reassurance a catastrophe was not about to happen.

"Clear!" called Swan and Calvert spoke with relief to the direction of Laurel's right ear the command: "Proceed."

To replace offensive power lost, Laurel drove a newly activated pallet with a heavy gun mounted in the bow. Calvert, because it was convenient and there was room—not because, she told herself, proximity to the lean marine palliated a fragile condition—rode the same conveyance. Stepping down after the zombie corpses were crossed, next standing quiet as her tissues struggled to adjust to the environment, Calvert knew this time would be worse than last time. Her energy reserve despite food, rest, medication, and renewed resolve would not be as great as before. The switch to sealed suits and a high oxygen mix helped. Each of them, with the exception of Swan, was a bottled face in the dark.

Marco came next. His pallet had practically everyone else on it, and lights and crates. Danby's reassuring hand pressed her arm and Calvert was startled from the meditation she hadn't realized she indulged in.

"Julie?" Their visors touched. Danby had taken note of the tiny leap upon the spot Calvert inadvertently made.

"Right. Let's deploy, people."

"You're okay to do this?"

You know there's no one else who can.

Yes, but you can't just go out and get yourself killed.

I'll be all right. Don't worry about me.

The team sorted itself out. Gless and Arnold rapidly assembled the first link of their tail of lights. The piggybacked power and comm lines attached to the rear of the gun pallet. Part of the conduit gone back to the entrance had sunk into the pudding of corpses. "They're reconstituting faster," Calvert noted.

"What? The zombies?" asked Teal from his place ahead. Teal had resumed his scouting role, not as punishment for having lost his zoot. It was the role he was suited for.

"The shock of being blown apart disables the ability to reconstitute for a time. They've adjusted themselves. The transition's easier. This is the second time for most of them."

"Just fucking great," muttered Gless.

"Won't effect the mission," said Calvert. A motion to the right attracted her attention. A zombie drew itself out of the conglomerate mess so its reconstitution would be easier. Others along the arc of destruction did the same. The zombies went liquid when needful. The skill made it easy to negotiate gaps in storage racks too small to permit inflexible bone through. Calvert nodded to herself. Recently pulverized zombie appeared dried beef. Once the shock of dissolution was overcome, and control reasserted, dead flesh turned liquid and sought for itself. Each zombie calling on its parts to concentrate and unite. Like a ewe about her lamb, the flesh belonging to a particular zombie knew that zombie.

"Hey, Danby, wanna get your head in the game?" called Teal gruffly. Danby had been indulging in the equivalent of a stare into the distance.

Calvert saw beyond the edge of devastation to the shoulder of an upright guardian as its knocked away flesh returned. The upward creeping ichor filling rents. "That's incredible," she murmured.

"What is?" interjected Parnell.

She'd her distaste for him to overcome before answering. All of the team resented Parnell's eavesdropping. His comm and visuals' link piggybacked their power and communication conduit. "The zombies are—their flesh goes liquid, which makes it easier for them to reconstitute. I watched a wounded one as its tissues travelled up its body to resume the places they came from. It must be that every part of a zombie is capable of independent motion."

"Who is there back in the shaft?"

"Sir, there are Briggs, myself and Macdonald," replied Muller.

"Spacer Macdonald, I require a sample of the tissue and a claw if you manage it," Parnell said.

"He can't just pick up a claw," Calvert interrupted angrily. "The merest touch transfers a deadly poison."

"Then he can take precautions. As much tissue as you can get, and be quick about it, and so many claws as you can safely gather."

Calvert oozed sympathy for the reluctant Macdonald. Unlike the rest of them he wore only his standard issue coveralls. "Brick, you'll linger with your sled and help Macdonald collect his samples. Catch up when you're done."

"Aye, sir," Brick grumbled.

Calvert elaborated, "Solid chunks, Brick. The liquid will slither away and be too difficult to corral and collect."

"How does she know all that shit?" Meagher muttered, a comment Calvert ignored.

"Are we ready now, sir?" asked Teal.

"I believe so. Carry on, Teal," she replied. They had consumed several minutes of precious mission time while she observed and speculated, her subsequent embarrassment pumping heat into her cheeks.

"There are many more than the first time," concluded Calvert as her team started forward.

"You can tell?" asked Thorpe.

"Sir, I'm seeing higher heaps than last time." She also saw far beyond what her sensors could see.

"How many?" asked Swan from her rearguard position.

"Hundreds last time. Thousands this time. Very likely they encircle the entire shaft from where the racks begin."

"How the fuck are we supposed to get back?" muttered Meagher.

"Blast the crap out of the fuckers all over again," said Swan in a growl.

"We fly back," said Calvert with a nod to a near counter-grav sled and trailer combination. The inconvenience of remaining lighting equipment, extra magazines, and weapons would be dealt with by heaving all overboard. With two self propelled pallets they'd sufficient lift for everyone and to spare. "What can't reach us, can't hurt us," she said inside an artificially light tone. "Now listen up, people. We will proceed as far as we have to or to a depth of five hundred metres, whichever comes first. Stay alert and although our scans reach no further than a marine can spit that much space should give us all the time we need to set up an effective defence."

On the transport pallet were crates in which were ten each of drone flyers or drone crawlers, for whose deployment Nathan Brick was responsible. Danby and Meagher provided close escort for the transport pallet. Marco, riding the same pallet and perched in a corner, scrutinized the region through which they advanced for an artifact of the right size and for threats. Besides the crated spares, two dozen drones had been deployed. The screening crawlers and flyers advanced with the team fifty metres out in all directions, thus doubling the scanning reach.

"How long will those bugs last, Marco?" asked Swan, whose scanning and communication systems were linked with his network.

"The batteries are rated for five hours continuous use," said Marco. "Down here? Twenty, thirty minutes? Let me know as soon as you see a region go dark, and Nate'll get a replacement out there pronto."

"Nah-ah, that's your job, Mar-coo," sang the zoot driver.

"It's your ass that'll get swarmed through the blind spot, Swannie. How's that for an incentive?"

"Swan, help monitor the drones," ordered Calvert, annoyed by the zoot driver's childish teasing and attitude. She'd started alongside the gun pallet, but now walked in advance of Teal's scout position. Her sight went far beyond what her team's scanning was capable of. She appreciated vicariously museum-style art only she could see.

"Pardon me, sir, but shouldn't you be back there?" rumbled at her ear.

"Oh, ah . . ." Calvert exchanged looks. "No," she said after further thought. "I'm all right where I am."

"If you say so," muttered Teal, maintaining close contact with his commander until what had been agreed to beforehand compelled him to drift back in order to maintain his place in the formation.

"Ensign Calvert, you're even with the lead drone," warned Marco. They were limited to the speed at which their drone screen moved, little better than a crawl.

"Oh, all right." The pounding in her head had become loud enough to be distracting. She hadn't much time left. Pure oxygen had its limit as a stimulant. She'd identified several artifacts the right size; however, none adjacent with the lane the mission travelled in. You're toying with us again, old mole.

The challenge is in the manner by which you set about achieving your goal, not the goal itself.

True enough, Calvert grumbled. It might be necessary to abandon the current aisle in order to come to a right-sized artifact. If so, they'd have to leave the light line behind. She anguished over a child's flyer that would have been perfect to take, but was nine whole aisles away.

"Are you seeing anything up there, Ensign?" called Marco.

She crept ahead of the lead drone. Her suit scanners had the furthest-out look of all. "No," she grumbled as her headache achieved a condition of excruciating.

"Don't go beyond the reach of the lead scanner," advised Marco.

What is that? Calvert changed her angle to investigate a puddle many centimetres thick. It sprawled like obscene carpeting.

"Do you see one, Ensign?" asked Marco.

"No, just, no." Another black splotch was gone vertical, creating a triple thickness about a support pylon. Bacterial growth?

Calvert resumed the centre of their lane. The region was infested with the splotches. Most lounged at deck level. Others clung to pylons or draped themselves on tiers higher up. Zombies! Calvert realized.

Their efforts to disguise themselves comical. She noted a drone half sunk in oily goo and dying. Energy leaches. She heard murmurs—hallucination, she thought, owing to her melon of a head feeling about to burst. Then, she realized, the murmurs were voices. Zombies were not the only creatures capable of stealing energy from passers by. The voices spoke greetings. Tentative and hopeful. Joyous and apprehensive. 'Have you come for me?', 'Take me with you', 'Please take me with you'.

"They're prisoners?" Calvert gasped.

"What's that?" Parnell intruded.

"Nothing," said Calvert. She saw then what she'd been dreading and yearning for. Not far ahead, snugged into a ground level tier. Right size and shape—a sight to mend a brain about to shatter! The suffering youth resumed her advance at her best speed. Her shambling distressing to view had she been better illuminated.

"Ensign?"

"Have you found one, Calvert?"

Her glove would interfere with communing. She took it off.

"She's found one," Marco said.

"Bring up that pallet, let's get this done," said Steve Laurel. Calvert's lips mouthed his name through unconscious smiling, confirming a communication received by the very small part of her attention that remained with her companions.

The cloth everywhere, even where light struck, was pencil lead dull. "It absorbs energy," she said as Marco adjusted the settings of his cutting tool. "It will slurp up the energy from your laser like water through a straw."

"Huh?" went Marco stupidly.

"You can't defeat the cohesion that way. Not enough power."

"Are you saying we can't cut the cloth?" asked Teal, glancing over his shoulder at the crouching pair.

"It's not cloth. It's armour. Flexible armour."

"How do you know?" Marco was surprised by parted lips, tip of tongue protruding between them, the odd focus of her eyes, and reverent tone. She'd removed her glove, which startled him. He would have stopped her doing so had he been aware of it. "No, Julie, wait!"

She'd pressed her bare palm to the cloth.

Stiff yet also soft. Pliable to an amazing extent. A lump the size of her head could cover a house. Dark as the vacuum of space. Micro-thin skin with pudding underlay.

The material, after reaching its energy absorption limit, would still shunt energy for a time into its connections with the environment. It had a limit though. A plasma torch, such as the one Marco had fabbed to create the breach, could force it to fall, but not the handheld he'd brought.

A multipurpose farm machine slumbered beneath the armour-cloth. It sowed, nurtured, and harvested grasses, grains and oilseeds. It represented a mix of sophisticated technologies. Seeds and fertilizer sunk to precision depths, plant care at the cellular level, blights and pests eliminated by pinpoint radiation. Its drilling and cutting employed neither heat nor moving parts. Harvested materials went into sacks created on the spot out of straw and moisture. Scarcely a grain was ever missed or wasted. No part of its circuitry accessible as all was embedded. Its skin was imperious to weathering—even the vacuum of space could not hurt it. It had performed its tasks flawlessly for thousands of years in service to the family that had 'adopted' it.

Yet she hadn't known this! Something had happened to its family, which the machine mourned. It had thrilled to her touch, responded with unbounded joy, but now the flood of its great sorrow swept out and into her, numbing mind, body and soul.

The armour-cloth flowed off, absorbed into the deck in less time than it took to blink. The part of her team witnessing the event was amazed, but not Calvert. The gorgeous machine was revealed. Art and function both incorporated. Alabaster flanks, curves and cavities inscribed with whorls of mint green. A body sinuous, supple, and shining.

If she wished, it would plant for her a field of golden grain. Calvert stood on moist, dark earth, a field of wheat rising swift, healthy and green—the growing time collapsed dramatically so the process be easy to appreciate. Calvert marvelled also at enveloping sky, woods and mountains without a hint of pollution.

"Back! Get back!"

"No!" Calvert cried as she was pulled from beneath healing sky. For as long as she was subjected to the machine's presentation, she'd not suffered. Regret from the farming machine, whose thoughts she continued to experience despite the forced separation. Its fervent hope she would return turned to despair as the oppressive dark poured in. The girl stunned and heartbroken.

"Take her!"

"Hold fire! You'll hurt it!" Calvert struggled, Laurel's arm about her waist, for the renewal of contact as she was dragged clear. Black ooze poured over and through the artifact. Mind-gone zombies took the most direct way to arrive within attack range.

"Teal! No!" He swing his heavy rifle down. "Do not aim your weapon that way! You'll injure the artifact!"

"Are we taking this thing with us, or what?" the big marine grumbled and then cursed the tar-black heap forming over his feet.

"Get back, Teal. Don't anyone fire until they congeal," advised Laurel.

Brick, substituting for Marco on the extraction pallet, reported the swift forming gaps in their warning system with his: "We got lots more trouble coming!"

"It's an ambush!" Calvert cried. "Concentrate on me!"

Swan's weapons thundered.

The last light to be assembled crashed to the deck. The ambush progressed quick, energetic, and with substantial violence. Pulses of heavy rifles, cracks of pistols, thunks and roars of grenades, and obscene patters of debris.

Calvert's weapon stayed in its holster. Not all of her had returned. Energy from bullets and bombs was collected by the armour-cloths and slurped up by objects beneath. Whispering and images assailed her from many directions. The artifacts spent their energy lavishly. Someone at last was come and able to hear and understand them. A resolve ten times stronger could not have moved her one millimetre.

Calvert put up her fists, teeth grit, eyes tearing. Bumped when Laurel backed into her, a lull in the racket, and the voices receded. Calvert realized the first deadly incident was about to unfold.

Gless and Arnold stood back to back, sloths lurching in to surround them. Arnold broke away and ran to the marines. Gless, in a stupor of indecision, stayed put. He'd mere seconds left of life.

Calvert yanked her pistol from its holster and fired. The bullet glanced off the tough composite above and forward of Gless's right ear. He dropped straight down into a bone-jarring impact with the deck.

"What in the hell?" said Laurel, who stood closest to her. Zombies continued to pour through the racks and gather themselves at every point.

"We are so screwed!" Arnold howled from his body-clutching fetal crouch on the transport pallet. Calvert was euphoric. She imagined the praise—not for idiots Gless and Arnold—she would pen in her next report. Her marines blasted targets between quips and advice. Marco dragged an unresponsive Gless onto the transport pallet. With so much equipment gone they'd room for all but Swan on the pallets.

"Mount up and lift off!" Calvert cried. The largest wave of zombies poured in. Swan bounded away, clutching her reserve power. Another light pole crashed to the deck and the area went moonlit-dark. The maelstrom continued for a while, sparsely illuminated and misunderstood except for its clashing of blades.

"The poison," said Calvert informatively, "spreads not by fluid transport but through the invasion of tissue in all directions. The only way to thwart it is by amputation."

"Nice," Laurel commented. "As was that shot by the way."

"Oh, that . . . My aim slipped." She would be in a great deal of trouble should it be determined she'd shot a man on purpose. I've altered the sequence of events. That has to count for something. Your probabilities are not as certain as you thought.

We shall see.

"You made the cover drop," continued Laurel. The rest of the team had evacuated on the other pallet. Their helmet lights all aimed in Laurel and Calvert's direction. "How did you do that?"

"I'm not sure. I saw something—"

"What did you see?"

Calvert had her present audience, next the men at the shaft, next those aboard Polyphemus, next the men and women in future times, watching and listening in. She hesitated, her aching brain seeking after safe assumptions. "I saw the machine while it was covered. It's alive, they all are, in a condition like stasis. None of them want to be here. They all want to be free."

"This is screwed," said Laurel as he looked over the edge of their platform into the dark and ominous silence below.

"They're there still," said Calvert. "Standing—the intact ones. The ruined ones retreated to find places to collect and reconstitute themselves."

"What now, sir?" from Arnold, his tone almost sneering.

"End of attempt #2. Hello, Swan?"

"Sir," from the zoot who maintained contact via a drone approximately halfway between them.

"Back to the barn. We need to—ah, geez—we need to replenish our equipment and ammunition." And ourselves. In the meantime I will find and kill the fucking gremlin who's hammering against the inside of my skull.

An ice pack proved a good third therapy for headache. Application of knitter at low power and overdose of aspirin had been first and second, administered by a madly grinning medic. Girl and woman combo much too pleased with herself and to which a near blind youth had responded with no better than grunts. She'd come by slightly better steps from the infirmary than those that has taken her there. Not once had she crashed, despite it seemed with every other step she might.

The debrief took place in the wardroom. Parnell had insisted on attending. Jerome witnessed and recorded testimonies. Thorpe sat with Walsh and Marco at his end of the table. Calvert occupied her end alone. She would have even welcomed McKehan, had the Ensign been present, so she could be more than one. Walsh sat by Thorpe's right, Marco his left. Parnell sat halfway between Thorpe and Calvert. Jerome's chair was settled by the video wall.

Calvert was saying, "They're able to flatten themselves and adhere to surfaces, even vertical ones. At the time I did not know what I was seeing." I'm getting good at lying. I ought not to like it as much as I do.

"Begging your pardon, sir, we all saw them, and didn't recognize them for what they were either," contributed Marco, directing a critical look her way.

You heard me? Fine. I don't care.

"This adds another complication," declared Thorpe.

Calvert continued, "Sir, with respect, this time we failed because when we reached the target the zombies were already in position to thwart us. If we select an artifact from a location where they aren't lying in wait, we might succeed." Not really. The necessary criteria for a successful extraction are a lot more guns, people and equipment than what this crew can bring to bear.

"That sounds feasible," said Parnell. "How did you make the cloth fall?"

"I don't know." Owing to her muzzy condition, she nearly believed her own lie.

Parnell, teeth clenched in a rictus smile, retorted, "Oh, for the love of Great Black Heaven! You imbecile. Why do you think we'll fall for that bullshit? You're in contact with the alien, probably right now. Did you make the cloth drop or did you instruct the alien to drop it for you?"

"Neither. I touched it. I felt something."

"You spoke with the artifact. Did the artefact trigger the cloth to fall?"

"I didn't speak with it. What we did was more than language. Sound, sight, feelings, experience. It showed me what it was and could do. It was an agricultural machine, like none I've ever heard of or seen before."

"Finally, an almost honest answer. Can you repeat the performance?"

"I suppose so." Calvert pressed her bag of ice against her forehead.

"No one else?" Parnell persisted. "Could Mr. Pacini here coax the cloth to fall?"

I doubt it. "I don't know."

"You're lying again," returned Parnell in a wheedling tone.

"No, he can't." Calvert was compelled to respond truthfully more by her need for isolation and quiet than by Parnell's insistence. Marco's aggrieved look was noted and discounted. He'd no reason to feel left out. Her way he'd be one less lamb sacrificed.

"So, despite your intention to exchange Lieutenant Walsh for Ensign Calvert for the next attempt, it would seem that plan is unworkable, Captain," concluded Parnell. "An all or nothing enterprise. Just as it's been all along."

"You don't expect me to survive?" Calvert muttered irritably.

"You either do or you don't," Parnell replied and glanced to Jerome, who made what appeared a special note on her pad.

Calvert continued with: "It is possible to overcome the armour's adhesion if a significant amount of energy is applied to it. A plasma torch could do it, or an explosion of sufficient yield. But I wouldn't recommend either tactic here and now. The constraints of a torch are its cabling which could be severed. Our batteries can't carry sufficient energy long enough down there to provide adequate power. An explosion might damage the artifact and we cannot ethically permit that."

"Ethically," echoed Parnell and added a snort.

"The artifacts possess consciousness. They have memories. They're sentient."

"You say."

"It's true." Had she been in less infirm she would have pounded the table, and jarred herself up all the way to the soft tissues firing gamely to keep her upright. "You can choose not to believe me, but it is true."

"No matter. You've said the artifacts will gladly come if they can be freed?"

"Yes. As incredible as that sounds. They're definitely being held against their will."

"Which should make your task easier."

"Sir, to the extent that we can anticipate no resistance and even cooperation from the machine we are trying to save. It's the defensive structures inside the chamber that are giving us so much trouble."

"But the artifact, whatever it might be, will be happy to come?"

"I've just said that, haven't I?" replied Calvert crossly.

"Just clarifying matters," said Parnell before sending another meaningful glance to his accomplice, "for the record."

To her knowledge all that had been said here and elsewhere was for the record including some admissions she would rather take back.

"The next attempt shall happen when?" asked Parnell.

"Tomorrow afternoon," said Thorpe, gazing grimly at the raccoon-eyed junior officer at the other end of the table. "It will have to be our last for now."

"Why is that?" came from Parnell inside a humourless grin.

"Because the people can't handle it. One more is all I reasonably can ask for."

"Are you so sure?" said Parnell from his opposite opinion platform.

"Yes," said Thorpe sternly. "I've dedicated all the manpower I can afford to this effort. Those men and women are being used up and if you'd like to peruse the evaluations that substantiate this point I will gladly submit them to your queue."

"No need." Parnell waved dismissively. "That just means we'll have to get the job done the next time, doesn't it?" He looked pointedly at the girl with the sunken eyes, showing far too much grey beneath her tan, pressing covered ice to her forehead.

"If you'll excuse us, Mr. Parnell," said Thorpe and nodded to the door.

"Nice aim by the way, Calvert. Had you meant to shoot him in the face instead?" was Parnell's parting comment. Jerome danced her steps to the hatch, to reach it ahead of her boss, her recording device clutched tight to her chest. Her movements quick, sharp and energetic and the opposite of how Calvert could make her own and another reason to hate the hireling's guts.

"The hatch, Marco," said Thorpe once Parnell had left. Marco stirred himself not just to close the barrier but put himself on the other side of it. "Stay, Marco," said Thorpe as the technician was about to tiptoe out of the room. "We need your testimony as well for this."

"Aye, sir," said Marco and resumed his seat.

"He will survive." Walsh looked about the room and at no one in particular. While his gaze drifted over Calvert's place he did seem to smile however.

"He was meant to die. The anticipated outcome would have come about if you had not intervened, Ensign," said Thorpe. "Do any of you recall the circumstances surrounding the event as they should have been?"

"Sir, not I," said Marco. "I remember his being killed, but I didn't witness any part of the event other than its aftermath. I wasn't aware the time had come."

"Lieutenant Walsh?"

"Me neither, sir. I, too, recall he'd died, but I was never there. That's all the recollection I have."

"Ensign Calvert."

"I was looking directly at it. He was about to be mangled. To save himself he ought to have retreated, but he didn't—he hesitated, he froze. So I, ah, fired my weapon."

"So you did," muttered Thorpe. "You didn't think a shout or an order might have sufficed?"

"Sir, neither of those things was going to work. The man had frozen over his feet. He was not going anywhere."

"Was that your perception also, Tech Pacini?"

"Sir, I didn't really see it."

Calvert interjected: "Sir, Corporal Laurel saw the whole thing. He was standing right next to me."

Laurel's testimony was received through the wall screen. A card game went on behind him attended by personnel who ought not to be burning precious energy reserves by staying awake. "Aye, sir. Gless was not reacting at all. I doubt a warning would've sufficed. For what it's worth, in my opinion, the Ensign did the right thing and thereby saved the man's life."

"It would seem you've been exonerated," said Thorpe once the wall was restored to insensible white. "I caution against such radical therapy in future, however."

"Aye, sir," said Calvert and would have grinned had her face not felt made of glass.

"This implies, gentlemen, what we have now seriously to consider," said Thorpe. "That our dreams may in fact be prophetic and the event chain will continue as foretold, and bring about the consequences linked to those events . Individuals," and Thorpe looked particularly at the officer sitting by his end of the table, "may lose their lives unless special precautions are set in place. Calvert, you may have thrown a wrench into the works. Let's hope you have."

"Aye, sir," said Calvert with genuine feeling.

"As for our continuing with this endeavour, I must be concerned for the possibility of catastrophy. As this next attempt must be our last, then it must also be our best, and I mean best in terms of returning all of our people safe and sound first, and managing to bring out an artefact second."

"Amen to that," muttered Calvert and, realizing she'd spoken out loud, put a hand over her mouth to coincidentally hiccup into.

A stern sobriety accompanied the Captain's next words. "We've been lucky thus far. Or it could be the alien has been testing our strengths before revealing its true power." This was speculation Calvert considered true but inaccurate. "I want us to anticipate what might be next," continued Thorpe. "What contingencies can we put into place?"

"Sir, a rapid response rescue team," said Calvert at once and was certain that she was not being selfish in her suggestion. That a rescue sent her way would be delayed she understood very well. "Additional counter grav equipment could be activated and personnel assigned to it."

"That would do for a start," said Thorpe thoughtfully. "However, I'm thinking more in terms of being prepared to deal with types of defences we've not yet seen."

"Except for the web trap, sir," Marco said.

"Lieutenant Walsh, anticipating what we need and positioning that equipment where it can be of use when the time comes shall be your responsibility. Get together with Sergeant Muller. See what the two of you can come up with."

"Aye, sir."

"We'll activate additional sleds. It's likely we'll need them. Dismissed, gentlemen."

Chilling the brain had its benefits, Calvert was thinking—she'd performed nearly as well as she would have before her wanderings in hell. The meeting adjourned and its participants, including herself, stood to honour a captain on his way out the door. She'd forgotten that a crystalline condition did not like swift movement. Vision gone dark, ice pad dropped, contact with minimally padded deck inevitable. An unrelenting surface was awoken to and appreciated while Marco shone a penlight into her eyes. Bruising done knee, hip and elbow, and, if she was not mistaken, back of head. Someone had contributed a shirt to cushion her head and he stood over her in his athletic undershirt. Walsh gazed down with frank concern. Thorpe, owing to having to keep his high ranking distance, stood behind the rest and watched sternly.

"No concussion. Her pupils are larger than they should be however," pronounced Marco and leaned back. "How do you feel?"

"Bloody awful. Next stupid question."

"Pulse is rapid and thready," said Marco, who'd attached a patch from the medic grade handset she'd forgotten he had to her throat. "Low grade fever."

"Wait a minute," gasped Calvert as her fingers picked at the stranger stuck to her skin. "You can't be diagnosing me."

"You've been issued medication?" Marco asked as he deflected her hand before catching and pressing it aside.

"Yes, and I've taken it," she replied irritably.

"Analgesic," he said. "Too much."

She knew he'd chewed aspirin like candy himself not so long ago. "I've got a headache. It's made me dizzy."

"We all have headaches. There's no one else I know of who's fainted."

"I didn't faint."

"Then I have to tell you that you've been out for several minutes."

"Was I?"

"Sir, I think Tech Gowan should run a full physiological analysis. I confess I'm surprised that she hadn't scheduled one already."

"Gowan is an exceptional medical practitioner," said Thorpe gruffly.

Not anymore, was Calvert's mildly amused rejoinder.

"I'll just help the patient to the infirmary. Can you stand, Ensign Calvert?"

"I can stand," she grumbled. While climbing to her feet she picked up the loaned shirt to give it back. "Thank you, Lieutenant," Calvert said as a sudden infection of giddiness urged her toward including something idiotic.

"You're welcome," he replied while buttoning himself up.

Ah! went her alien mind-ghost.

Shut up and it's none of your business.

"Extreme fatigue," was Sandra Gowan's less than artful diagnosis several minutes later. She said so in Teresa's voice.

"I'll just go up to my cabin then," said Calvert, "and straight to bed."

"The mission resumes when?" Gowan asked and Marco told her. "That can't do. She won't be recovered sufficiently by then."

"All right by me," muttered the girl barely attending, eyes half closed and lying comfortably on the examining table. Even so bare a platform could be fallen asleep on when a patient was so destroyed as she.

Gowan was setting a pneumatic hypodermic applicator to Calvert's throat as she observed, "Electrolyte levels are depressed and she's below even her former state of fatigue. We can take care of those deficiencies while she sleeps."

"Yes, right," murmured Calvert, "so soon's I've come to muh . . ." Her eyes were not quite closed. A peculiar glassiness was in the slivers that were left.

"You've sedated her?" said Marco, his expression registering surprise and then consternation while he stared at the little tech who gazed fearlessly back.

"She would never have gotten a proper rest if I hadn't," replied Gowan defensively.

"But you sedated her," Marco protested. "Without her knowledge or consent."

"Oh, pshaw, it was only a little dose. She was most of the way there already. Help me with the table, won't you?"

"But I'm a witness to—" A surprisingly firm hand clamped his wrist and Gowan was saying, "She'll be better off here. Haven't you dreamt this?"

"No," he gasped before helping wheel the patient to the auto doc.

"She needs her fluids replenished and a vitamin boost and as much rest as we can give her. Have you not noticed how thin she's become?"

Calvert's malnourishment had worried him for a good long while already. Advice to improve eating habits had been given, and not heeded. "Ah, how did you—"

"It's no wonder so malnourished a person should fall apart while you others experience no worse than headaches and general weariness."

"But you just committed a court martial offence!" he blurted, determined he must state his point in the most unequivocal terms possible.

"Well, I suppose I did. Let's get her dressed for bed, shall we?"

Chapter Thirty-Nine - Expiation

Old Boston Academy's quadrangle was bordered on all sides by the fronts of its most prestigious buildings. Old Boston had not been named for the City of Boston, as tourists routinely supposed. Robert Louis Boston-Chastaine was its founder. There had been a Chastaine Military Academy in another part of the world back then, 1467 years ago. Boston Naval Academy as was then. Old Boston Academy now.

Buildings a thousand and a half years old must be built to last. Best steel, stone and veneers. Designs that welcomed renovation. A dedicated cadre of sponsors.

A scrupulously scrubbed Lieutenant Commander Harriet Dunsmuir, according to her bio 27 years of age and 1.68 metres tall, stepped to the foot of the stair fronting the Ingrid Sloane Building. Dunsmuir's car was slate blue and the type routinely employed for short trips by Admiralty staff. AI piloted and just one passenger, that being Lt. Cmdr Dunsmuir.

The Ingrid Sloane Building, West Quad, housed the Registrar's Office as well as the offices of the school's administrative staff, in particular the Commandant. Dunsmuir paused as if to admire her surroundings. Behind her, exact centre of the Quad, stood the twice life-sized statue of Horatio Nelson—his likeness in bronze on a four metre high granite plinth. Statue and stand were coated with a slippery compound that resisted well avian bowel evacuations and prankster paint both.

To Dunsmuir's left, South Quad, was McMaster Hall, venue for special events. To her right, North Quad, was Pierson Hall, upperclassmen lecture theatres.

Alcott Chapel and Museum—Alcott Chapel back when religion was a thing—occupied East Quad. Within Alcott were life-size interactive replicas of famous naval officers, ship models, military memorabilia, and wall-sized dioramas. Want to know all about the Battle of Midway? Ask the Alcott's Chester Nimitz.

As Dunsmuir tugged the hem of her uniform jacket to settle both it and herself, she glanced about for Shere Khan, the school's primary mascot. Tiger shape, Clydesdale-sized. On sunny days it sunbathed on the Sloane steps. Today was overcast.

Shere Khan was child smart, legal by special decree, and part of the school's security system. He knew every cadet by sight, smell, gait and habits. Solange and Anson had been tasked to ensure the giant artificial tiger was somewhere else. The mascots had the run of the school and might of a sudden appear anywhere, except for Kaa, who tended to freak visitors out. Her hangout was the gun range.

Dunsmuir took special care as she mounted steps. Her heels the highest she'd ever worn. Her garments kept her snug and perilously upright. No jogging up steps, which was her habit, which was to the good. Admiralty officers did not rush to places.

No sight of a tiger. The Quad was his domain. Bagheera roamed Destry and Peabody Halls, which were junior and senior residences respectfully. Baloo was the mascot for Yuma and Stowe Halls, which were the freshmen and sophomore hangouts.

The Sloane building marines came to attention and saluted as Dunsmuir arrived within range. Her return salute executed on the move. The brass veneer and battle plate double doors swung inward, welcoming her in—the AI had acknowledged her legitimacy or the doors would not have opened.

Dunsmuir slowed as she crossed the antiqued white and ocean-green porcelain and marble foyer. An oak reception desk was directly ahead. Another marine stood by the desk, which was manned by an elderly lieutenant, forty or so, clerical tabs on his collar.

"Lieutenant Commander Harriet Dunsmuir, Admiralty Data Research Boston Branch. I have an appointment with the Commandant's Office."

"ID please."

Dunsmuir had two cards in her pockets. One was her ID. The other was a cash card. For a moment she couldn't remember which pocket held which card—inside tunic pocket, she realized, was where the ID was.

Inserting the ID into a reader generated a thirty centimetre high 3D likeness of the woman the card belonged to. Dunsmuir realized she held her breath, forced herself to expel some stale air, and then to breathe normally.

The lieutenant compared projection with woman and not quite nodded. "Second floor, straight ahead, then right, can't miss it. If you prefer, the Corporal shall escort you up?"

"No, thank you. I can find my own way."

"Very well, sir."

Elevator or stairs? Except for reception desk and its team the foyer was vacant. Crowds were for the start of semester when cadets showed up to change their schedules, and mid semester when they showed up again to drop courses before the deadline, while hoping that doing so in person helped their cause. As a courtesy human clerical staff were on hand to talk to during peak times. Otherwise was a booth in which the cadet talked to a hologram about her elective choices and/or scholastic performance and aspirations.

Dunsmuir had already endured one set of stairs in stilt shoes. Elevator for the one and one half flights up then. Most cadets never saw the inside of the second floor. Head instructors had their offices within third through sixth. Every cadet was required to visit their Heads at least twice each semester.

Hush carpeting sky blue, dark wood panelling, white ceiling all-one lighting fixture. The commandant's office was sited half the way along, on the right as related in the brochures. A chime sounded in concert with Dunsmuir's arrival. Six centimetres of battle steel between layers of decorative wood constituted the door, which opened to allow her passage.

"Lieutenant Commander Dunsmuir," proclaimed Agnes St. Clair, 164 years old. St. Clair ran her department like a drill sergeant. The chief of secretarial staff had an encyclopaedic memory. She could name any instructor or cadet, as well as a great many graduates and former staff, including year of graduation or departure, without consulting a list. "ID please."

Yet another marine stood nearby. A stare of goodly duration was applied to the visitor, and then the guard resumed her usual stance and attention.

Harriet Dunsmuir's alma mater was Mars Academy, a long way from here.

The hologram comparison was repeated. Dunsmuir applied her thumb print to the screen St. Clair held out, which was for the next part.

"Commandant Spengler wished to discuss your research with you, Lt. Cmdr., but is unavailable. He's showing a visiting dignitary around campus. An Imperial. Colonel Burton is also away. It's his day off."

"I see," was spoken as if with regret. The purpose of her research project was to identify trends related to ways in which student discipline was handled by military academies and training institutes. Her study was to find out which strategies worked best to motivate youth to stay in school and on task and not act out.

"You may use Colonel Burton's office."

"Thank you." St. Clair might have provided the data Dunsmuir wanted on a disc or via a transmission except for its sensitive nature: names, dates, details of events, subsequent actions, and outcomes. By applying her genetics to the screen St. Clair had presented her with, Dunsmuir accepted responsibility for the security of the data she was about to view.

"Don't mention it. Would you like a beverage? Coffee, tea, soft drink, water?"

"No, thank you."

"Right this way then."

The data Dunsmuir wanted was to be found alongside other cadet information. Since most schools used their own systems to record and track individual histories, tuning was required to make all reports standard so that they fit the categories the Lt. Cmdr. had chosen to wallpaper her study with. What she did was make a copy of the files, examine representative samples for style, apply her conversion subroutines, and then direct the data be reworked so that it conform with the parameters she worked with. The converted files had all identifiers erased when transferred.

The Lieutenant Commander swallowed a gulp of excitement as she waited for St. Claire to open the door to the adjutant's office.

"If you require anything, let me know."

Even with the door firmly closed behind her, Dunsmuir was unable to relax. The window behind Burton's desk looked out into the Quad. She went to stand at the aperture and be noted by anyone who might chance to look up. Anonymity a good thing; mystery infinitely better.

Now to work. St. Claire had sent the files her survey needed to the screen in Burton's desk, which Dunsmuir linked to her handset. Included in the same partition were this year's senior exams.

Out came the flexible wafer, one of a kind, leading edge tech, appearing a gum wrapper, to which function it had been employed. Gum in mouth, smooth out folds, hide what she did in her lap. Her expression all business as she examined files, tapped keys one handed, and used the side of her other hand's index finger to press through headers—past, current and future exams were in the same folder and she wanted only this year's.

Glance down. Right header, right date. The transfer method a mite tricky. She must not leave a trace. An attempt to copy and download sensitive materials without leave triggered a freeze of the process and a very loud alarm to go off in the main office, which she very much wished to avoid.

The wafer, instead of downloading the file, made an image of it on the 'outside', and then took the image into itself. The original file would seem not to have been disturbed at all.

The rest was remarkably simple. Wafer folded and slipped into pocket. Five years of discipline action reports, adjusted to fit, copied to a disk, and inserted into a clear plastic pouch labelled: 'Old Boston Academy'. Turn off monitor and be logged off at the same time.

Stand, her respiration rate far faster than it ought to be. Breathe sternly through nostrils, swallow, and discipline fibres tuned for premature celebration to soberness. Could anyone else have pulled this off? Calvert wondered, indulging herself with the merest of smiles as she adjusted the drape of her uniform yet again before resuming the identity inside the cloth.

No touching her mask no matter it itched. The slightest touch sent a ripple through the nannite layer and did far more than hint at a subsurface identity. The super-fabric would resume its false shape right after. Coloured lenses for the eyes, green over blue. Hair chestnut red instead of honey blonde. Thigh to collarbone body shaper—flesh held in and pressed up or out by precision carved sheaves of lycra and plastic. Erect carriage and extra high heels. And the syrupy concoction she'd gulped down that altered her voice.

Authentic rank tabs, ribbons and Admiralty Records Department insignia. Hacking to install not only the request to be admitted on the day she wanted, but a history of the fictitious Harriet Dunsmuir. Calvert permitted the twitch her lips absolutely had to indulge, in place of the smirk she would otherwise have shown, while crossing Colonel Burton's soft grey floor covering.

Along her way through the door her confidence slipped—her imagination had put a prematurely returned Commandant Spengler to receive—and recognize her! But, no. He had to be entertaining still a visiting duke.

"Finished, Commander?" asked St. Claire. Calvert removed the plastic-wrapped disc from her pocket to be checked, and have a stamp applied to it.

"Didn't even take me fifteen minutes," boasted Calvert, and regretted saying so much. She must not go loquacious. Mannerisms she had bossy old St. Claire would recognize. She mustn't gloat now or ever. That was how one remained secret.

"There you are," said St Claire and returned the disk whose contents she'd verified as having been made anonymous using the reader within her workstation during the time Calvert silently shrank into her shoes. "When you've published, you'll send us a copy?"

"Absolutely," said Calvert, mentally crossing fingers.

"Is that gum?"

"Yuh-yuh-yes."

"There's no gum allowed on campus."

"I beg your pardon."

"Spit." St. Clair produced a paper tissue for Dunsmuir to spit her gum into. "Good day, Commander."

"Good day to you, Ms. St. Claire."

"It's Mrs. St. Claire." Correction—not the words but the tone—froze the parting smile on Calvert's face despite the rebuke had nothing in it to snag her balloon on.

"Oh, puh-puh-pardon me," she replied, and cursed to herself. Twice! She'd cracked twice! She had to get out of there before the water she furiously shed slipped past her hairline as well as into the creases of her too warm uniform coat. The descent off the mountain ofttimes more hazardous than the climb.

The car had gone to wait outside the school grounds. It did not occupy the same region of sky as the duke's cars, which was restricted air space. As Calvert descended stairs with necessary caution, sunlight streaked in through rents in the cloud cover. To beat the appearance of Shere Khan was her priority all the way to the car.

#

"Have you got it?" a heavily perspiring Anson Peabody asked. She showed him her palm in a fending off gesture. Playwright Julie Calvert preferred all Shakespeare Society members be settled before the results of a caper be discussed. The Golden Lyre Tavern was the least frequented of drinking establishments cadets visited. Its clientele was primarily locals and its decor smoky and medieval.

The Senior Folio of the Shakespeare Society consisted of Calvert as Playwright, Peabody, Prince Horace Eugene Panda, Solange Mayweather, Martinique Damphousse, and Henry Lee. The SS routinely conducted its business in The Lyre. Its itineraries included planning performances, charities, parties and pranks. The club, after little more than four years in existence, had achieved legendary status in terms of exclusivity, popularity and notoriety. Its executive had also turned away hopeful applicants by the score.

Drinks were delivered and still Calvert did not reveal her prize. Three security pairs occupied other tables. Calvert and the Prince had additional protectors outside. Barely half of the room's occupants were patrons or staff. Calvert judged the moment secure. It seemed all security staff minded their own business. The membership had been served. Their waiter had gone to pander elsewhere.

The soberly smiling senior cadet removed the thumb-print sized disc from her pocket, the only copy she'd created from an erased and hard formatted over original, and set it flat on the table.

Peabody snatched the precious relic up. "I can't believe you—"

"Sh-h-h!" came from three directions at once.

"You'll notice authentic seal and insignia are in place," said Calvert smugly.

"No one would suspect you of palming off a fake, Jules," said the Prince.

"I can't get past the title page," muttered Peabody, frowning hugely at the face of his reader.

"You aren't able to. It's voice-locked. I had thought to let the instructions show as well but the fact the document is in our hands, gentlemen, is sufficient proof of the deed."

"Voice-locked? Yours? How do we know it's real then?"

Calvert lowered her voice to its softest volume. "When the deed's done, then shall ye know."

"You'll substitute the real thing after," said Solange, overhead lights imparting glow to her café au lait complexion and starkness to her Egyptian features. "Or some of your friend will."

"When have I done any such thing?" Calvert replied defensively.

Solange was Peabody's particular friend. His sponsorship had helped her into the SS. After the prank she was required to commit won her membership, she'd been a lukewarm participant since. Calvert had not been Playwright at the time or Solange would not have been allowed in at all.

"You could still do it," Solange protested. "I think it's fake."

"I supposed you might, which is why the rest of us are going to add our voices to the lock. That way, there will be no chance of an after-the-fact substitution."

"How do we know you haven't made a copy for yourself?"

"Because that would be dishonourable," replied Calvert angrily. "When this caper was conceived, by you, Anson," She leaned aggressively toward the round faced, nervous youth, "we established the rules. Steal the thing to prove it could be done, but not use it ourselves. Since none of the rest of you were willing—"

"Jules, that's not fair," protested the Prince, "you know I offered to help."

"My apologies, Pan." Calvert bowed to the Prince. No matter how much more Pan might have helped, he would have left a trail for possible investigators too wide to follow. They couldn't both evade their security contingents without notice, and he was just too nice to pull off a deception so intricate and involved. Pan's part had been to persuade his uncle to tour the school, which was how they got Spengler out of his office.

Calvert had snuck out on her own several times thanks to an android double none of her family knew about, kept at Martinique's in town. As far as her security team was concerned, she'd been picnicking during the time of the theft.

Two types of pranks the Shakespeare Society was noted for. The type for public consumption, and the type whispered about. Few of the latter had ever been attempted, let alone succeeded.

Despite the idea had been Anson's—initially wishful thinking—Calvert had embraced it. She had devoted all of her ingenuity, resources and energy to the caper. The Senior Finals stolen to prove it could be done. Secrecy before, during, and after the event. No one outside the Senior Folio involved or informed. Even should news of her triumph never travel beyond the executive group, Calvert would be satisfied. The best capers were utterly unexpected, utterly unexplained and utterly secret.

"Apologies accepted, Jules. Have we all paid our share?" the Prince continued amicably.

"Myself, yourself and Martinique have paid." The amount due from everyone was the agreed upon share of the cost calculated when Calvert presented her initial invoice. Her expenses had run considerable higher since owing to personal touches to well past double her projection. Those extras Calvert hadd supported on her own. Cost sharing cemented all members into joint responsibility. No one afterward could protest ignorance should a subsequent investigation threaten the group with consequences.

"I'm still short," said Henry Lee quietly while combing his spread fingers back through his jet black hair. "My allowance hasn't come yet." Lee's family had financial difficulties, which everyone knew about, commiserated with, and forgave.

"Solange?" asked the Prince.

"If it's a fraud, we don't pay," said Mayweather.

"It's not." Calvert knew who was the rest of the 'we' without him having to declare himself. "I'd not be sitting before you otherwise."

"How do we know you spent the money for real?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," muttered Calvert darkly. "Do you want to see my god damned receipts, Solange? Itemized to the decicred? What is your problem?" Never had she worried about costs. Solange's belligerent attitude had her sweating in her Macdonald plaid and kelly green in that suddenly gone cold room.

"You say this is real, but we no way know it is," complained Solange and her slave Peabody nodded vigorously in agreement.

"I've told you. We voice-lock this to certify it is the copy. After finals, we unlock it to verify it's exactly what I'm telling you it is."

Solange's cool and haughty look preceded: "Non, I no pay. It's like you don't trust us."

"What?" Calvert gasped.

"You already locked the file yourself. Why you do that?"

"Because it had to be done." Because I knew you and Anson would want to peek at the questions.

"Why? We are all doing it? You say so. Well, why don't we do it together?"

"We are doing it together. That's what I'm telling you. Right nuh—"

"If this is the real thing we should not wait until—what you say?—a week after finals to know for sure. We should know it now."

"I haven't looked at the questions," said Calvert, which was her unadorned answer to what Solange was insinuating—that she had looked at the questions and intended to take her advance knowledge with her into the exam hall.

"How do we know?"

"Word of honour, you bitch," Calvert snarled.

"Non, I not believe you. You are the bitch. You are lying."

"Like hell I am. Don't put your voice to it. Screw you, and I could care less if you pay now or never. I don't know what you're doing here. The last time you came up with a decent gag was your initiation and that one was pure half-ass."

"You are full of shit, Julie Calvert. So big and everything, but you are so little and always brag: I do this, I do that. The only reason you are Playwright is because the Prince says you can be, so go fuck yourself too." Solange got up to leave, Anson with her. Soon after they left, Martinique gathered up her things to do the same.

"This wasn't a good idea," Martinique said, unhappiness radiating off her like heat from a stove. "What if she tells?"

"She'd better not," said Calvert gloomily. She was already seeing her future as it would unfold.

"She never paid. She's going to say it was your idea. Next that she tried to talk you out of it or something. You need to destroy that disc."

After all the trouble she'd gone through and how clever she'd been, creating her alias, covering her tracks, hiding her identity, disguising her methods and safeguarding her prize, how could she?

"You're crazy if you keep it." Martinique buttoned her coat. "If she informs on us, and you're caught with it, you'll be expelled and your naval career will be over. You can't seriously be thinking of risking your career!"

"Martinique?" Calvert tried one last time.

"I'm sorry. I'm guilty enough already, aren't I? If I put my voice on that—I just don't think it'd be smart."

The disk, without wrapper, which a flustered Anson Peabody had taken away, remained on the table. "I'll apply my voice to it," said the Prince and snatched up the disc to insert in his handset.

"Pan, don't," said Calvert, laying her hand on his. "If Solange tells—"

"You were right. She never was one of us." He dictated his name with current date and time to the handset for the disc inside. "You've the authentication you need. The best caper ever, Jules. The bitch is just jealous. That's where her objection comes from. Henry?"

Henry Lee's blank, pale look was his reply.

"Forget it, Hank," said Calvert. "Get the hell out of here, before I pound you one."

"Julie, you know I would," said Lee as he stumbled to his feet.

"I know no such thing." Calvert frowned at the water marks and glasses their waiter would be by soon to mend and take away.

"The end of the Shakespeare Society," said the Prince as he stood and pulled on his coat, a handsome, authentic styled, bomber jacket. With his blond hair, chiselled good looks and brilliant smile he was like every other Imperial spawn. He had bottom, too, though and a good heart.

"Nothing became it better than our leaving of it. No great loss," muttered Calvert.

"Walk you to your suite?"

"No." Calvert sighed. "I'll just wait here for the MPs."

"No, you won't." He put out his hand. "We'll go to my suite and listen to music, and, if you want, we'll get more than a little drunk while we reminisce about Old Boston times, because there won't be many more Old Boston times."

Her reaction was a tortured smile. All the fun was gone out of a crazy-mad scheme. She would have been so very blue other than for his good company.

Jack's reaction was every bit as rough as she expected it to be. "You stole your finals?" She'd waited eight hours, three of those past her bedtime, to hear him ask. "Of all the reckless, stupid things you could have done, why this? You've destroyed your chance at a naval career. You do know that, don't you? Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?"

Solange, stinking turncoat scum, had anonymously commed the Commandant's Office that a theft of sensitive material may have taken place about the time of the duke's visit. Events proceeded to their inevitable conclusion because plain thief artifice could not withstand the type of scrutiny acts of espionage were required to be subjected to.

Calvert had resisted the temptation to obsess over how tremendous her accomplishment had been before Mayweather turned her in. Her feelings and hopes were too shattered to let in any joy got from specious revisionism. "I didn't use it, Jack," she muttered.

"You don't ever get to call me 'Jack' again. I'm your Uncle Richardson from now on. I am so disappointed in you, niece. This is not how you were raised to be."

Calvert fingered the disc in her pyjama bottoms' pocket. At least one and possibly two more friends might go down in flames alongside her.

"Where is it now?" Jack asked. They met in her bedroom, which Calvert had been banished to after arriving home from her expulsion.

"Nowhere. I got rid of it."

"Are you lying?"

"I'm not. I swear. I stole the exam only to prove it could be done. I never looked at it."

"Bullshit." Her Uncle Jack, whom she loved most of all her relations, not believing her had been the worst consequence of all. "Tony and I both know how badly your marks had fallen."

"I was making all good!" she cried, tears in her eyes.

"By stealing the exam?"

"No-o-o! Never. That was something else entirely!"

Through a baleful look came: "Exam stealing is not the only thing you've been up to."

"Whuh-whuh-what?"

"Your allowance has been audited. Care to explain a single one of the many suspicious expenses you've rung up?"

"Those have got nothing to do with anything."

"They don't?"

"No."

"Well, that's it," he said with an air of finality and while slapping hands to thighs, "I thought you were serious about a naval career. I've been wrong all this time. We should've sent you to an overpriced prep school where you would have swum with the sharks and probably devoured not a few of 'em yourself." He was not in the least smiling.

"On my word of honour," Calvert said after five seconds of breathing the stunned air between them. Because she was desperate, sick, outraged, put upon, she looked fearlessly into his eyes. "Juh-Uncle Richardson, I never stole the exams to cheat from them. I did it only to prove it could be done. I never looked at any of them, not past the title page. I swear to you, on my mother's heart I swear it, and damn you, Jack, if you won't believe me."

Her energies had run down like the broken spring of a clock. Turning her back avoided showing the tears she was about to shed. Except she wouldn't cry. She'd invoked the highest power she knew of. If Jack wouldn't forgive her after she'd carved the biggest chunk from her heart anyone could and still circulate blood, he didn't deserve to be her kin.

She hadn't realized he could simply leave, not after all the blood she'd shed and flesh she'd rent, until she heard her door slam.

It was fitting, Calvert thought as she examined the action of her grenade launcher, that she should still be expiating her guilt this long after the event. The wrong a person did, no matter the reason, just kept calling for it.

"Satisfied?" Laurel asked and smiled in a manner painful to view.

"Ah, yeah." She set her gaze on her knees.

"You're sure you want to carry the cannon this time?"

"Got a feeling I might need it."

"Reloads," he said and handed the first over.

"Leave 'em in the box. If I need 'em, I can grab 'em." I sure as hell don't want to lug around more than the one I've already loaded into this thing. Waking up in the auto-doc had been both puzzling and shocking. She couldn't remember going in. Sandra/Teresa's response to her protests nothing like an apology. Queer half smile and shrug. While Teresa could be excused, owing to her ignorance of the rules, Sandra could not.

Pop-flashes of light gusted through the chamber as though flung from buckets. A three count of pause appreciated the result. "Gone," said Meagher.

Calvert paused to take note of the reactions of her team: uncertainty, fear, fatalism, fever, and the determination to see things through.

"That's bad, isn't it?" Arnold asked.

"Yes," said Calvert simply. What more need I say? "Time to go, people." Pallets and sleds only this time. No crawlers. No light trail. They were going in fast and leaving the same way.

Calvert, Laurel and Marco rode the first pallet. Danby, Meagher, and Arnold the second, a sled lashed on top. Brick flew a second powered sled, tethered to the second pallet. They had lights mounted on both pallets and eight over-charged scout drones to expand their view with.

"Why did they abandon the entrance?" Laurel asked discretely.

"That strategy wasn't working. There was no point in continuing it."

"Oh, yeah," muttered Meagher.

"There's going to be a lot more of them along our route."

"Fuck me," gusted Arnold.

"The danger should be no worse than last time," Calvert said as she and her crew of marauders sped up the main, by far the widest, aisle.

Does it know what our plans are? Danby asked.

It doesn't matter, Calvert answered. Whatever we do, what is destined to happen will happen. I'm so sorry.

Not your fault.

"A klick out?" asked Laurel.

"At least," Calvert said fatalistically. "We'll try for one beyond the main body of defenders." They'd be putting themselves nearer other nasties, unknown, that might be out there. Calvert saw hordes of flattened zombies, that as soon as her caravan sped past rose up to pursue.

Her hunch proved right. Deeper in the zombies were fewer. Those further in had not flattened themselves though, and so weren't delayed in joining the chase.

A creature large as a whale trotted along inside a neighbour aisle. As they raced past, it flowed into an amazing 180 degree turn in limited space, doubling upon itself as if it had never known solid parts. "First available gap is on our left," Calvert advised, her apprehension level rising by a whole leap in one go. "Afterward we keep veering left."

"Ah, we're almost going too fast for—"

"Eighty metres ahead, ten up."

"Eighty?" wondered Marco, dazzled by speed and confused by darkness. He had only Calvert's word that a slot large enough to accommodate their pallet was where she said it was.

"Here!" she cried, handing Laurel her grenade launcher and snatching up her handset. "I'll drive."

"Lost our first sparrow," noted Brick.

"Pallet Two, follow my leader," instructed Calvert as she flew up and to the left.

"Damn zombie swatted—whoa, low bridge!"

"Shut up, Brick," said Calvert as she increased speed still further.

"We're going too fast," said Marco uneasily.

"No, we're not." Her vision had extended itself well beyond what it had before been. She noted and rejected right-sized artifacts whether or not zombies swarmed by them. They must build a distance ahead of their key pursuit. The whale-sized zombie was not the only one of its kind in the chamber. Two others converged on them. The second right ahead. A third ahead and left. "Veering now right." Sharp down, abrupt deceleration, sideways slip done neat. Punch it. The detour put them on a path inline with that #1 raced along. They continued building a lead, not as rapidly, and coincidentally away from #2 and #3 as well.

"We outta go back for my lunch," quipped Brick.

The other giants had abandoned their inbound paths to follow, exhibiting the same rubbery flexibility as the first. The three, seeming to act in concert, raced to catch the team, pouring through obstacles as easy as water. A situation made worse, not better, by her efforts.

"We're beyond a kilometre," said Laurel, staring at her profile. They trailed filaments to know how far out they were.

Calvert's concentration was with her piloting. Pushing her talent and equipment to their limits, she watched the gap between the team and the lead monster build, which only she saw and was able to measure. Once their lead was large enough, the very next right-sized artefact would be the one they'd steal.

"We're about to have power issues," warned Marco.

"They're too close," she muttered. The giants followed at 160, 170, and 200 metres, slicing through racks with barely a check.

"Coming up on 1.5 klicks," said Laurel.

Better one than all three, decided Calvert as she usurped Pallet #2's navigation from Danby and tied it to her Pallet #1. Accelerating remorselessly, she sent them at an opening which a sloth crouched in the middle of. "Everybody duck!" she called merrily as the impact with the grizzly bear-sized obstruction shuddered through her deck.

"What in the hell?" said Marco, checking his handset to know whether anyone had fallen off. Each team member had at least a strap to cling to. Their equipment was securely tied down.

"Man, I am gonna lay me down and stay that way," contributed Brick in a shivery voice.

"Coming up on two klicks," reported Laurel.

"Power consumption, Marco?

"Another two minutes at this rate is all we can afford."

"Fine, we're here."

"We are?" he gargled.

A right-sized artefact at ground level. Danger coming hard from three angles behind. Jumping down, she urged her crew to work and lent a hand. Marco and Arnold set out the counter grav equipment. The marines tossed out proximity mines and sensors. Brick deployed all the drones he had left.

Calvert knelt to apply her magic. A matter transfer portal, one of precisely 8427 in residence. Ivory with azure blue script across the front. Arch atop midnight black pedestal. Declare destination, step, and you're there. Its type site to site and world-based. A larger type whisked travellers and cargo planet to planet. Transit time in either case near instantaneous.

"What is it?" asked Marco while applying his jack. Calvert paused, hand over cover. The trigger for all the bad to come. The armour-cloth not dropped as she'd not yet asked it to.

"Matter transfer port." Something science fiction to her species up to now.

"You're joking," said Marco ahead of a disbelieving chuckle.

"Fuck your incredulity, Marco," she said with mock sweetness. Armour-cloth flowed away. Revealed was the recumbent, four metres in height transportation marvel. Soothing to view because it had been built by a species passionate for instilling art in all their creations. Beauty underappreciated and then turned stale owing to frequent use.

The portal had been annoyed. Its makers stopped using it and it became lonely. It beamed a welcome to her. Which part of the ship should she like to visit? Thousands of locations were available. All portals were connected in a ship-wide network. One was less than a hundred metres from the Crew Quarters. Calvert blinked surprise as her crew applied their equipment. She'd received a map with every portal highlighted. "Hurry," she said. "Oh, crap, we might as well forget it. There's not likely going to be enough time."

Chapter Forty \- Dragon

An interval of time passed, sufficient for a single flight of stairs, when the sense of security got from being surrounded by highly competent men and women evaporated and chaos ensued.

Calvert's warning had sent her marines into the middle of the aisle. AS Nathan Brick was on the wrong side of things, having gone into the adjacent aisle to install his portion of lift equipment. Marco stayed on the populated side. Both Marco's jacks were in place.

Brick's situation wasn't as dire as it seemed. The AS had taken sled #2. He could always escape upward.

"We've seconds only," Calvert said conversationally as Brick completed his first installation and set about his second.

"Brick, forget that one! We can move it on three!" shouted Marco.

Unnecessary, his shouting, Calvert was thinking, her mind racing, her feeling detached, our comm system works just fine.

The team realized a first wave of adversaries had arrived when the mines put out went off in gangs. Concurrent with the explosions were showers of zombie muck. A surprisingly clear-headed youth repositioned herself. More explosions and splatters. At the opportune moment Calvert gripped Meagher by his harness from behind and yanked for all she was worth. An inconvenient claw spun along a deadly trajectory and missed. A deeply satisfied Julie Calvert patted the shoulder of the marine. Her yank had shifted a 110 kilo marine and his equipment a whole half-metre. Something inside her felt snapped. She'd know and appreciate what it was in due time, once the adrenaline wore off. Meagher merely grunted his thanks.

The perimeter mines had all gone off. The enemy attacked in the same old way, pouring into the defence zone at a dozen places at once. Legions more rushed to the attack. Brick had sensibly fled. Calvert helped Marco draw the made feather-light artifact to Pallet #1. Arnold had uncoupled Sled #1 from Pallet #2 and was about to run away with it.

None of the marines dared help. Each protected the extraction from his or her part of a rapidly shrinking oval. The pair had the artifact on the pallet, Calvert was about to order the withdrawal when the first giant zombie arrived. It flowed swift and voluminous through the floor level gap created by the removal of the artefact, across the intervening space, into the artifact, and through it to somewhere else. For as long as the flood continued they could not lift off.

The marines retreated to the pallets, while lurched after them the mindlessly persistent and ghastly remnants of their victims.

"Leave now!" shouted Meagher.

"Marines to the gun pallet!"

"We're leaving!" shouted Laurel.

"Yes!" cried Calvert as the last of what had been an immense animal in life exited into void. Next she realized another inky flood was sinking her boots. The second giant was pinning Pallet #1 to the deck. A simple strategy had thwarted them. Though they hadn't much intelligence left, still zombies could work in concert. The first had delayed them so the second could glue them down. Now the third was heaping itself behind Pallet #2.

"Calvert?" asked Marco. He had to have realized what was about to happen. She stared back. The next trigger moment was now. Julie Calvert saw the situation clear, despite she had never dreamt this part. Pallet #1 and the artifact were lost. Dumping the gun off Pallet #2 would provide enough lift to get everyone left clear, but they hadn't the time to uncouple and jettison the gun and its ammunition boxes before giant zombie #3 attacked.

"Julie?" asked Danby, her tone hugely different from Marco's.

The four of them will make it, Calvert thought.

Arnold had run away with Sled #1. Brick was on the wrong side of things with Sled #2. Both sleds being gone, the crisis could not be averted. Someone must stay. Calvert had something she absolutely had to do.

"Calvert!" cried Laurel as she leapt out of ankle-high muck, twisted in midair, and fell as near to horizontal as she could into the portal.

"Holy crap," muttered Marco as he was caught from behind by friends and lifted bodily onto the gun pallet. The image of Calvert vanished as though she'd never existed had fixed on his inner sight. He furiously debated himself what he could or couldn't do about it.

Danby gazed into the glistening transport well, at its inked-glass sheen. Marco, turning, noted the yearning and intensity in her stare. She made a move that way and he seized it, using all of his strength to catch and then drag the two of them back as Laurel was leaping in.

"What the fuck are you idiots doing! What the fuck did they just do!" shouted Meagher aghast.

"It's not time," Marco urged the woman he loved more than his own life. "This isn't it. Damn it, it can't be."

"She needs me, Marco!" Danby cried.

"Ah, guys, we're about to be swamped here," Meagher pointed out.

"I need you with me! We all need you! We'll get her back! Now is not the time!"

The couple stood upright, locked in an embrace. "We're leaving," said Danby in choked syllables, relaxed and was let go. The portal was tarred over and no longer accessible. "Back us away from that . . . shit." Pallet #1, two of their number, the artifact, and significant amounts of hard to replace equipment had been lost. The dead beast that had done it assumed shape over the result, as did the other that, being further along in its forming, reared back to attack.

Dragon? thought Danby to the great horned head and glistening eye towering above her and gathering momentum and mass.

"Either of you know how to fly this thing!" shouted Meagher.

"Out of the fucking way." Danby brought up her handset. Back at a steep angle as the forward leviathan darted at them, its movements more liquid than flesh.

"God damn giant salamander," said Meagher. "Where do they get the fucking things?"

"Dragon," said Danby distractedly. "Arnold, get your sorry ass back here. Brick, where the fuck are you?"

"This is so fucked up. Are we done? We have to be done. Those two are so gone."

"They're not gone. Shut the fuck up, Meagher," said Danby. "Arnold, you useless sack of shit, get back here!"

"She's gone?" Parnell demanded not much later, breaking into Danby's after action report, his expression in their HUDs by turns perplexed and outraged.

The extraction team had been out of contact for an hour. "Sir, yes, she is," answered Danby as the ranking representative of the quintet of shell-shocked survivors.

"You have to go back in there and get her," said Parnell brusquely. "We have to have her back. Immediately. Do you understand, Corporal?"

"Sir, we don't even know where she is," interjected Marco. Like Meagher he'd lain down during the return trip to conserve energy. He did not intend an adjustment in his altitude any time soon.

"What do you mean? How could you lose her? Why her and not any of yourselves?"

"Sir," Danby answered angrily. "We did lose someone else."

"Ensign Calvert is vital to the success of this mission. You all realize that, don't you?"

More than you damned know, you puss-filled parasite, Danby directed to the image ahead of her left brow.

"She could be anywhere," Marco said, glad for the respite from the effects of the chamber and its dangers, glad Beth had survived, hopeful for the rest. "We don't know enough about this place to even guess where to look for them."

"Calvert is the key to unlocking every treasure down there," Parnell said fervently. "She understands that ship. She commands it. The writing. Everything."

Thorpe was staring into a corner of bridge compartment, chin in hand. Parnell could not know for certain Calvert could understand the script, and had to be probing for confirmation from someone who did.

"Er, yes, sir?" said Marco uncertainly, for which answer and tone he was silently applauded by his senior.

"Well, what are you people going to do!"

"Our people will be getting together to discuss outcomes and strategies," said Thorpe and adjusted his position so he might address the Galaxy Corporation's CEO directly. "We will use every resource at our disposal to bring the Ensign and Cpl. Laurel out of there."

"Of course you will," muttered Parnell, showing a smile ice from the lips up. The CEO had taken off his scanning helmet and gloves. He abruptly abandoned his couch to pace. "No artifact, John. All this bother. Three attempts and nothing to show for them."

"We have our mission logs. The Admiralty can decide if another mission is warranted."

"There will be another mission," said Parnell stolidly. "Don't doubt it. With or without her. I'd much prefer to have her along—you're certain she did her best? Do you suppose we should have sent someone else to oversee things?"

"It's pointless to second guess ourselves at this stage," replied Thorpe cautiously.

Another ice smile. "You're right, of course. It seemed so simple and . . . encouraging when we started. Ah, well, I'll just have to be a little more persuasive when I consult with the Admiralty. I suppose you'll want to be a part of that effort, John?"

"I'd rather not. When the Ali arrives I'll be too busy to have time for anything else."

"So be it," said Parnell as he passed judgement on the Captain's decision and seemed as glad as Thorpe was to sever ties. As he was about to leave the bridge the CEO paused. "When she's recovered, John, we need to careful with her. As there's to be no artifact to show, she becomes our promotional item."

The grim featured naval captain had to agree.

#

"The atmosphere down here has two functions," Calvert was saying. "It leeches the life from everything and everyone who enters as well as impairs our ability to scan our surroundings. We can't see as far as we should be able ta 'cause there are tiny machines here which impede our efforts. They are in the air and cannot be seen by the unaided eye. They beat the living crap outta you, which's why I feel like I'm about to throw up."

Steven Laurel answered with a grunt. He regretted his exit from the destination portal, which had been boots and knees on her defenceless body, bruising her chest, thigh and forehead. The lack of a medical kit let her suffer the pain from her injuries since.

"There flows from us heat. Well, that's understandable. Also we're losing bio-electrical energy at an inordinate rate, which impairs our ability to walk, talk, think and act."

"Ensign, don't you think you ought to conserve as much of your bio-electrical energy as you can?" You really should shut up.

"I would be as concerned as you, if I wasn't sure of where we're going." Don't tell me what to do. This is for the official record. For after.

"Where is that exactly?"

"You see that glow over there?"

"The glow we can't seem to get any closer to?" They'd crossed through a dozen racks, sometimes after lengthy detours to find spots sufficiently spacious to cross through, while striving to stay within sight of the glowing.

"That's the one," said Calvert and pressed near her mouth to suppress what she could of her incipient nausea. She swallowed painfully before continuing. "Inside is a place immune to debilimatin' affects, and do you wanna know why?"

"Sure."

"Cuz there's no nasty little fucker bots in it!"

"Ah."

"So we pop in for a refreshing fifteen minutes er so. When we get out we're fresh as daisies and we can head back and I won't feel as though my goddamn head is going to split open like an overripe melon."

"We could go back to the mat trans port."

"We could if it wasn't swarming wit zombies."

They'd been chased from the fortunately upright interplanetary portal they'd popped out of. Over multiple obstacles, along precipitous ledges, down stanchions. Calvert shoved and sometimes carried in order to keep up a pace. Laurel had ignored her increasing febrile protests and curses.

The destination portal had been five tiers up. It had taken a herculean effort to bring the two of them down safely in the dark. They would not be returning the same way. Two other portals Calvert knew of were at ground level. Another one was second tier. The nearest 200 metres and the furthest 350 metres away presently.

"We want to be a teensy bit fresher than we are right now when we gib dat a try, don't cha tink?"

"Ah, sure." Laurel grinned. He'd liked the kid from when his dreams started. Navy and society royalty both, but that hadn't deterred him. Her uniqueness transcended rank and position. She was the real treasure down here as far as he was concerned.

"You know, dere's nuther large probsum we gotta take inta consisteration."

"Which is?"

"The mat transport system ony good fer mebbe nutter couple rides. After that, kaput!"

"Why's that?"

"Well'sa closed system. There's more'n eight tousand ports in da whole place. Takes a lotta energy ta keep dat many goin'. They's self chargin' like you'd figger."

"I would?"

"Oh, yeah. Anyways, how's they gonna collect 'nergy here? Na positif, posibub, whatever. Oh they geys some. Ever' zombie come along gives a little static, not much. Da port sucks it up. Allsa 'chines in here do, do, ah. Keep's 'em amused, somethin'."

"Shut up, Calvert, can't you? You're running down like a clock. I need you alert."

"Um hum?" She grinned blearily at him.

"This way." He took her by the arm. Their next crossing encountered a cart. Its joy so effusive that Calvert very much regretted leaving it even after so brief an acquaintance. Their destination rose ruddy ruby red before them, empty space here to there. No zombies.

"Matt er, matt er," Calvert attempted as they approached the slowly revolving, massive upright cylinder. "Dish inta grub."

"Disintegration."

"Yah, that's it!"

"The zombies don't venture here because they fear death?"

A wobbly head shake. "Dead aw'ready."

"Then why?"

"Parta condish."

"They're conditioned not to? They're not let to destroy themselves?"

"Bingo!" Her giggle was disconcerting because of its lack of inhibition and febrile quality. They stood within a few paces of voracious red glow which cast no heat.

"Where the door?" Laurel asked as Calvert collapsed onto her bum.

"Coming," she said whimsically.

#

Thorpe stared sternly into a corner. Marco speculated about what his boss might be thinking. Despite Gless' reprieve from death had seemed to tumble a chain of events into disarray, that chain seemed now renewed. They might yet follow the links to deadly resolutions. For now the situation seemed positive and even upbeat. Shipmates only missing and not gone for good.

"I've no intention of abandoning them," said Thorpe heavily. "Yet we dare not dispatch a rescue until we know where they've gone."

"Your sparrows?" asked Parnell. The survivors had received mugs of coffee and stim candy. Despite lightheadedness, Marco felt reasonably alert. He didn't fear going back in. He looked forward to getting the damn thing over with.

"Sparrows have a limited range," interjected Marco. "As you know, sir, the map from the initial survey is now useless. We're back to having only a general idea where things are." Walsh and McKehan, seemed substitute players for this team. Sitting next to each other at the side of the room reinforced the impression.

Thorpe asked: "Marco, the matter transporter, did Calvert explain anything about it to you?"

"She told me, begging your pardon, sir, 'fuck my incredulity'."

"Couldn't you," said Parnell, his looks stark under the current light setting, "return to the same portal and use it to go where she is."

"We might, sir, assuming it's still there, it still connects with where she went, and the setting is still active," mused Marco. "Also that the cloth will drop, the portal will work, and we can avoid mobs of zombies both before and after transit."

"You posit all sorts of impediments, Pacini," said Parnell testily. "It could work."

"Any such attempt is more likely to end in a massacre," said Thorpe. "By now the portal is covered over again. Isn't that so, Marco?"

"When we left it was totally obscured."

"You still don't know how to get the covers to drop without an application of large energy?"

"That's right, sir. Calvert touches one and it sloughs away. Our plasma torch might take several minutes to do the same thing. We'd be up to our eyes in zombies by then."

"I can't believe there's nothing you can do!" cried Parnell in exasperation.

Thorpe leaned his chin into a splayed hand. "There are things we can and can't do. We can't go haring off with the vague hope we'll find them when we haven't a clue where they are. The alien's defences won't permit that tactic in any case. We'd lose equipment and personnel for no gain and likely not come anywhere near them. We have to suppose Calvert is working her way back to us, in which case we need to be able to respond quickly when she sends us a signal. What we do in the meantime is prepare." The Captain might have comforted the CEO by reminding him that Marco was destined to rescue the missing officer, but chose not to.

"Sir, we can help the process along," said Marco, a tingling started at the base of his skull.

"How so, Technician?"

"By putting out beacons. Our encounters thus far indicate the zombies do not interfere with our equipment except by accident or when we pose a threat. We should be safe setting out whatever we need, provided we stay mobile."

"Good idea, Pacini. With six of you setting out beacons we should have a reasonable hope of having a system in place in time."

"Suh-six of us, sir?"

"Corporal Danby is a proficient pilot, is she not? She may take Arnold. You shall pilot another craft and have Swan. Ensign McKehan will pilot the third sled. Sergeant Muller shall ride with her. You will instruct the Ensign what she has to do."

"Yessir." Marco sighed.

"Everyone will follow all necessary precautions and return back safe." Thorpe dismissed Marco and, after a silent communication from Parnell, sent his subordinate officers as well from the room.

"It is incredible, is it not?" said Parnell once they were alone.

"What is?" asked Thorpe irritably.

"That the success of this mission, and of the subsequent mission, should hinge upon the survival of a girl who, until this afternoon, was considered little more than a nuisance."

"I never made any such assertion," said Thorpe.

"You didn't have to." Parnell walked through the opening hatch, leaving Thorpe with a freshly vacated space to brood in if he wished.

#

Marco entered Boat Bay as the extraction team was relating their experiences to others lucky not to have been involved. He could tell by his pale looks that the gutless coward and screw up Brad Arnold had not gotten over his fright. If the pasty AS had been a smoker, he'd be a house on fire. "New jobs for all," Marco said briskly in order to have the thing out there and underway.

"Like what?" asked Arnold. Marco explained what needed to be done while the spacer shook his head over and over. "No way. No fucking way! Nobody's paying me anything like enough to go into that place three fucking times already. I am not going in there a fourth fucking time."

"You think you got a choice?" said Marco, his anger and upset bubbling to the surface.

"Fuck that. You wanna be a hero, go right ahead and be one!"

"She saved your ass, B. T.," rumbled Teal. "She saved all your asses."

"Yeah, well, maybe you're forgetting she's the one put us in harm's way in the first fucking place? You ever think about that?"

"You got the wrong attitude, man."

Two strides brought Marco into contact with the front of Arnold's EVA suit, which he seized in both hands, and hoisted him onto his toes with. "Listen up, monkey shit," he spat to the other man's face. "My wife is going in the same sled with you, and if you think you can dodge the job in any way what-so-fucking-ever, you haven't reckoned having me to deal with. If I find out you've gone gutless again, I will kick your sorry ass all the way to the brig when the Ali gets here. Do we understand each other?"

"Yeah, right, got it. Take your meat hooks off me, Pacini." Arnold had gotten some colour back into his cheeks. Marco was more than glad to drop the AS back onto his heels.

They'd homing beacons to fabricate. The work would go faster with many human hands to speed it along. A tremulous Stan Gless, his participation restricted to chores his condition, suspected by most as faked, could manage, along with Gowan, Danby, Arnold, Swan, Brick, Lannier, and Macdonald set to work. Participants either provided raw material and components to the fabbers or snugged parts together. Marco was about to snap together his tenth beacon when a far too energetic appearing Valerie McKehan bounced into the room.

"Can I help?" she asked while seeming unaware of smouldering tensions.

"Yes, sir." Marco smiled grimly to the newcomer. "Right over here. You've used a power tool before?"

"No."

"You can start screws in holes, I suppose?"

"That, Tech Pacini, I can do."

#

"Ow-chuh!" cried Calvert, back of hand to forehead. Press real hard and the pain would lessen. Something was wrong. She'd been sleeping deep and dark, and then somebody had picked her up and shaken her hard enough to rattle her teeth. "Whuh thuh?"

"You're not dead," Laurel said grimly.

"Oh, gawd! Why arn I though?" He'd removed her helmet and loosened her suit during his efforts to revive her.

"I thought . . . you said it . . . would be better here?"

"It isn't? Whah ah we?"

"In the column, and wherever . . . this is."

They'd the light from their helmet insertion rings to see by. Laurel's face glowed eerily in the dying light. "Ta, ah, nanos here?"

"They are," he confirmed.

"Not 'sposed ta be. Hep me up." The throbbing in her head had achieved a critical stage. The fluid leaking from her right nostril was blood. Has something broken?

No.

Why are the nanos in here?

Something like a shrug came back to be appreciated. "Wha kinda ans'er's dat?"

"I just told you—"

"Nah, you. Ah, hum-m-m." Close her eyes.

"Don't you dare go back to sleep!" he shouted in her ear.

"Oh fer . . . nah, gotta concen-tray. Shaddup min-hut."

"We should have brought a med kit," Laurel muttered as she leaned into him so she wouldn't have to expend precious energy to maintain herself upright. Understanding why she did it, his arms wrapped her in an embrace. His own headache he could live with. When the opening had arrived, which he saw travelling at fast walking speed, he worried they'd stumble along the way and fall against the deadly, unforgiving side of the column.

The door had a width of five metres and height the same. He'd a large enough target to aim for but did all the work for both of them. Calvert had collapsed and passed out. His own energy hovered at a crushingly low level. Despite a concentration pinched its best, he nearly mistimed his leap. They landed in a heap of limbs and equipment, his body crashing on hers once more and adding to her hurts. They had arrived, but not to the sanctuary she'd insisted was here.

"What are you doing?" he asked. She'd made a cross of herself, the top of her head pressing his chest well beneath his chin. Her eyes were closed. What she muttered he strained to hear.

"Go, go, go away, don't come back 'til nuther day," she chanted.

"You have got to be kidding me," he muttered sourly.

"Go, go, go away . . ."

"Are you a witch?" he asked softly as their environment lightened rapidly. The transition to healthy air took no time at all. The chamber they stood in white and small, well lit, and cosily warm. "Hey, you," he continued gently. "You did it."

"Hum-m-m, yah." Turning her head, her cheek collided with his chest. Along with that contact was a pleasurable bumping elsewhere.

"We, ah, got to get going?"

"Whah? Just a min, oh-kay?"

"Take all the time you want," he muttered. The shelf of her butt pressed his groin and, although now was neither the time nor place to entertain that kind of thinking, he couldn't help what wasn't entirely an involuntary reaction.

"That is . . . hum-m-m." She had turned about and stared at the knob below his waist while he gazed innocently back. She only looked a moment. Her eyes right on his after. "Ah, well, we needa buh goin'."

"To where?" Their unadorned sanctuary was the size of a walk-in closet. No opening besides the one they'd entered by, which neither of them was anxious to go back through.

"Hab a lil fate, Corpril Laurel." Calvert stepped at the nearest wall and right through it. Not a ripple to mark her passage.

"Ensign!" His reaction was to frantically look for the mechanism she must have used to open a door with.

"You cummin?"

"Through the wall?"

"Yah." Her head and shoulders reappeared. At a different place than through which she'd gone. "Dis'll do fine. Come dis way."

"You're not stuck in there, are you?" Laurel warily approached where her parts protruded.

"Lemme check." A glance at toes. "Hope not."

He pressed his hand near the halo of her hair. "This is solid."

"Only s'if you wannit be," Calvert backed out of sight. He had no choice but to try to follow.

"Da innerface, well dere zint one—nuttin fizz cal nenny case," Calvert was saying as the pair reunited. "Da zip s'ponds ta thought. Dah's da innerface. Da telligen run the shuh—no, doesn't, wait. Dere's a main telligen guides stuff but s'don't order utter tings ta do . . . er stuff. Dat's da, ah . . . da, ah . . . Collector."

"The Collector? Why that name?"

"It peffers call dat. Nitial func-zen, tink."

"All right." Laurel looked behind himself. "How did you know you could walk through walls?" They were in a corridor, milk-white, spacious, unadorned, appearing endless.

"It hadda be so. Utterwise we be stuck."

"And chasing the nanobots away?"

"Wern s'posed be in here. Obber da years dey came more n'more into 'stricted space 'til dey were ever-where. I fixed ta wha was before. Wha shudda been all long. Da zip's telligenz was lazy or din't care. Dis is crew space, buh dere's no crew, prolly nebber was one."

"The ship lifted off without a crew?"

"Prolly," said Calvert thoughtfully.

"Are you feeling better?" The blood leaked from her nostril worried him. He would have liked to wipe it clean.

"Some. Still a, umph, wicious head hurts. How 'bout you?"

"Same. I don't like feeling this way. I've no energy." He'd a tremor in his legs and his guns and reloads felt twice the weight they'd been when he started.

"We fix dat." Calvert walked her slow way along, her skull likely to shatter if any more pressure of air than it currently experienced was felt. "Da place zis lil furter 'long dis way—no, way," She chuckled, "zit rye here." A step through the wall to her right. Again the marine was obliged to follow. An enclosed space, milk-white, closet-sized, nothing inside.

"What's here?" He could see for himself there was nothing.

"Whah-effa," she replied whimsically, uncoupling her EVA suit collar ring, "we wan dere be."

He watched her disrobe. Weapon, battle harness, clothes, undergarment put into a heap. When she was entirely bare she paused to gauge his reaction while swaying precariously over her feet. "Dis par you need ta 'magine so may true. I dunno you can, but should try."

"What do you mean?" he asked thickly. She'd a neat curl of hair down there, informing him of something he'd not expected.

"Dis," she said and the wall past her right hand moved and the room's volume quadrupled. "An dis." A cabinet rose out of the floor, coffin-sized. Along its flanks was a script in gold like the silver script coating the surface of the wreck.

"What is it?"

"Fix-it bux. Dough ye be dead migh yuh lib 'gain."

"How dead?"

"Wery."

"Days?"

"Weeks." She tottered along an inelegant sideways fall-kneel through the top. He was once more saddled with the panic he'd felt when she left him at the entrance. The extruded box gave off neither light nor sound. He supposed its embedded symbols to be instructions. He knew that he might strive to the end of his days and never understand them.

"Are you almost done in there?" he asked stupidly, as though she applied makeup. Was her condition capable of responding?

"Hum-m-m, dunno. Headache's gone."

"Then what are you . . ." up to?

"Feels so go-o-od!"

"What does?"

"You gotta try this!"

"You're kidding, right?"

"Get your ass in here. I'm not leaving until I have to."

"Two can be in there at the same time?"

"Umph, well, yee-ah! You need to take all your stuff off first."

"How do you know I haven't already?" Laurel set down his weapon and unsnapped his battle harness.

"'Cuz I can see you."

If she could see him, why couldn't he see her? They were both members of the same species after all. He'd the impression while he removed garments that she indulged in things other than healing in there, and disciplined himself to not imagine her doing them.

After he was bare, he faced the same dilemma as before: a solid impediment that his mind told him would resist his passing through. The other times he'd managed magic had been owing to his desire to preserve and protect the woman he'd dedicated his life to. He'd had to keep up. Could he do it again? Focus his will and get to where she was?

Her hand surged through solid medium to capture his wrist. Then her other hand clutched him and he was drawn in. Her smile warmed and encouraged him on the other side. Another milk white interior—why is everything so white? Plenty of room to float about in. His many hurts, which he'd been conditioned to ignore, mended. Fatigue poured out of his body like smoke from a wet wood fire.

"You're going to love this." She soundlessly laughed and their space became immense. They floated near the top. She swam them deep, her hand in his. "This is therapeutic as well as restorative. It's swimming, or flying, with no drowning or smacking the ground!" She shoved off from his shoulder, swam a little away, somersaulted, and returned, grinning madly the while. "Come on, try it, won't you?"

They were in a hazardous situation and cut off. Comrades risked lives to find them. With all his heart he wanted to share in her joy, but his duty was as stones wrapped about his heart. His headache was gone. His ability to think and his strength were renewed. "We need to head back." Her expression drooped, going from ebullient to sober between one instant and the next.

"All right." She regaled him with a wondering smile. He could not help but be embarrassed by it.

How do we get out of here? he asked.

The next instant they were in the room above, the healing box no longer in view. Garments and gear where they'd left them. They faced each other, lying on their sides. She gazed at him still, no longer smiling. Abruptly, she rolled onto her bum, and brought herself upright. He applauded with appreciative looks the return of her strength, stamina and balance.

"We have time yet," she said, her focus on garment and equipment heaps and hands on hips. "Not a lot, but ah hum." A glance over her shoulder took him in head to toe, and she burped a laugh.

What's that for? He had detected differences in how his body felt, functioned and responded. He examined his palms. Their callouses were missing. This observation alerted him to other differences. His six pack was less half a can, and his thighs, calves and biceps had shrunk. "What in the hell?" Laurel thrust himself to his feet.

"Sorry?" Crossing her arms and legs created a pose concealing, protective and apologetic.

"What have you done to me!"

"I didn't do anything. I swear! The auto doc did it." A mirror rose out of a section of wall and he saw what had been done to him.

"I'm a kid again!" Years of training erased. Absent were the scars and tattoos he'd been comfortable with. He was the raw recruit again and looked ridiculous.

"The 'doc must have a baseline that looks to be about sixteen years of age," elaborated Calvert. Seventeen year old Julie Calvert was sixteen again and looked hardly different at all. "I didn't know it was going to do that."

"I'm not as strong as I was."

"I don't know 'bout that."

"I do know." He picked up his rifle to test its heft. "For sure not as strong."

"You're younger. That's a benefit. You've all of your knowledge and skills still."

"Maybe." The marine tested the workings of his main weapon and decided he knew what he was doing.

"You needed a recharge. We both did."

"I won't argue that," the pragmatic marine grumbled.

"You're even cute now."

A snort. "What was I before?"

"Scary looking."

"That was on purpose. You don't know the places I've been."

"Uhn huh."

"I don't have the time to check myself out."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that. Give me your hand." When he did, she said: "You trust me, don't you, Steve?"

Minutes later he was saying, "Are you changed?—I mean, really changed?" She'd conjured out of thin air for herself a knee length linen shift and panties. He wore the matching shorts and Tee she'd arranged for him the same way.

"You've nothing to fear from me." Her confession wistful.

"Why are you sad?"

She gazed at cotton clouds in pale robin's egg blue sky. They lounged on a knoll in grass shin high and horizon to horizon. The drowsy hum of insects and the trickle of water were the only sounds intruding. "The current era must soon end. My metamorphosis triggers the change—that sounds like hubris, I know."

"I don't think so."

"You're a convert to my religion?" she asked softly.

"I give my life for you." The hardness of that fact had been with him many weeks, but he did not regret it.

"That's not for sure." She gazed at him overlong before sending her look again to pale sky.

"You're a god," he murmured, intending she not hear.

A barking laugh. She gestured to their surroundings. "The Maia were able to generate these spaces with ease. They'd merged art and philosophy with science and technology seamlessly. They were the most powerful and enlightened species in the universe.

"Except they paid a price. I haven't yet found out why or how."

"Oh?" he asked.

"They're dead. Their entire race. Associated species succumbed at the same time. The zombies that guard the cargo hold are from the same worlds and were dead or dying when they were installed."

"I thought you said you didn't know what happened."

"I'm speculating. A virulent plague, a kind begun by accident, I think. They were wiped out so fast and so thoroughly that only their machines remain.

"The machines aren't merely servants. Flesh and blood and metal and electricity were equal in rights, responsibilities and freedom. No machine harmed a being. No being harmed a machine. The alliance of Maia and machine explains how and why their civilization flourished for so long as it did."

"Yet it didn't last."

"It did last a very long time. Hundreds of thousands of years. The Maia colonized thousands of worlds during their existence. Next to them, we are the children of savages."

"If they colonized so many worlds, why haven't we encountered their civilization before?"

"They're not of this galaxy. What's in this ship isn't a tithe of what remains, not one hundredth, not one billionth. There are other ships besides this one, too, lying in wait throughout the universe for the purpose of testing fools who blunder into them. The real treasure here isn't the artifacts, it's their technology. The artefacts are like museum pieces, past time of usefulness, except for the type that's worth an empire to possess. It is the most fiercely guarded here."

"Which one is that?" he asked and she told him.

"Anyone who manages to steal one will have tremendous power."

"You," he accused, pointing. Calvert shook her head.

"I don't want a target on my back all the rest of my days. I'd much rather go about my business unmolested when all this is over and done with."

"Too bad you can't conjure up a ham sandwich." Laurel's stomach grumbled in sympathy with his musing. "Or better yet, a picnic."

"Who says I can't?" Their meal appeared, complete to white and red checkered ground sheet and basket heaped with food. Wine, beer, and bread. Meat, egg salad, and cheese. Fresh baked cinnamon apple pie.

"I love—this!" She stared at him because of the slip he'd made. "You can create all of this so easily. I can't even imagine how to do it." He regaled her through sparkling eyes and a mouthful of sandwich.

"You could do it yourself, but you'd have to be adjusted first. It's their tech. Humans are only marginally compatible with it."

He thoughtfully chewed, swallowed, and followed the mouthful of sandwich with a mouthful of beer. "You're one of a kind."

"Unfortunately." Her dainty munching was in step with his vigorous chewing, and she'd been far hungrier when they started.

"That confirms what I expected."

'Hoped' being what he meant to say. She nodded.

"We need to get you back."

She touched his arm, paused to admire how firm his flesh was, and rethought her argument. Also the shift in his aura made it more attractive and appealing to her. "Steve, I don't want you to think I absolutely must get back. I don't want you taking risks on my account."

"To get you back safe is why I'm here."

"I know that. I want us to be reasonable. When we start out, we'll be fresh and we can head right to the handiest portal, scoot through, and come out very near the shaft. If we stay on the move, we can avoid the zombies and whatever else is out there." She was feeling anxious for Beth's safety as well. The longer they tarried, the greater the danger to all her friends.

"Sounds like a workable plan," he said through a fresh bite and more chewing.

"Not if you're going to be a lunkhead. I'm not sure, but I think the zombies—except the sloths, which come by insanity naturally—only attack when provoked or while protecting an artifact. Otherwise they'll do no more than follow us."

"Makes sense."

"Promise me." She applied her look in its full intensity on him. "Promise me, you'll watch out not only for me, but for yourself. Forget about what we've dreamt. We are both making it back. You remember I saved that ugly slug of a human being, Gless? He should have died."

Laurel smiled and nodded. "Yeah, that's right."

"I saved Meagher, too, which you probably didn't know because he never told anyone what was fated to happen to him. I'm saving you, too, Steve," she finished earnestly. Turning, her nipple pressed along his biceps and went rigid as a consequence. "You only have to trust me."

"All right," he said. "We'll do it. We'll get out. Both of us."

What she did next was either horribly right or horribly wrong. Her lips went to press against his, her leg between both of his, her hand on his thigh.

Chapter Forty-One - Sacrifice

Marco stared into the crate of beacons. His sense of for how long absent owing to a much dulled perception. "Hey, Marco, are we parked or what?" Swan had gone to assume a guarding position several metres away. He'd been meaning to advise against continuing that practice. Save energy, rest easy, only one of them need beat himself to death.

"No, got it." He snagged the nearest fist-sized beacon from the box. To conserve onboard power the beacons would pulse and transmit helpful telemetry only when something living came within range. They couldn't react to zombies, whose bio-electric fields weren't powerful enough to initiate a response.

"Then let's get to it. There's one of those really big fuckers two aisles over."

"How big?"

"House."

"Nah." He chuckled. "That's not big."

"You're shitting me, right?"

"Time to boogie." Two hundred fifty beacons were to be set out. His one hundred went into the fan deepest in. Six layers, the first at 500 and the last at 5000 metres in. It was unreasonable to suppose they'd be able to retrieve the pair should they reappear beyond five klicks from safety.

"I can't take much more of this mind numbing shit," grumbled the marine as she climbed in behind him, her knees in his back at kidney level.

"Me neither," Marco said as he watched for openings on his left. Five aisles over was the next spot to site a beacon in.

"You think they're still alive in here?"

"I do. Don't bother asking me why." Prolonged exposure to the chamber wore everyone down. Calvert and Laurel had been gone nearly one and a half hours. It was a fool's hope to suppose they could survive so long. Yet he knew his dreams could not be lies. Calvert was out there and he was going to rescue her.

"Get this done, Mar-coo, and I'll buy the beer."

"You bet your ass you will," he muttered, for calling me 'Mar-coo'.

#

Danby coasted into a landing. She sensed nothing dangerous. She'd not once touched her weapon. They'd flown past and over zombies and not one had tried to stop them. First and second beacon rings were complete. Arnold had calmed down or he was too tired to complain. She'd the memory of Marco putting him on his toes before her mind's eye. Too bad Marco hadn't popped him one while he had him there.

She wondered, watching Arnold stagger away, what am I hearing? Whispers, chants or prayers was as close as she could come to an interpretation. Same notes sometimes, with variations that were much alike. She saw, now and then, what an artifact looked like under its cover. An odd hallucination, and needing to be ignored. She was supposed to watch out for trouble. Once a whole section, at least one million cubic metres worth of volume, appeared as though lit. The illusion of colours, shapes and sizes distracted her so far that she collided with a stanchion.

"Ready here," the AS muttered.

Being so bagged, it was no wonder she hallucinated. Is that snakes and ladders? A tall, oblong box shape, mostly hollow, jet black, with child-sized tunnels through it everywhere.

"Hey! Ready here!" The AS shouted in her ear.

"Right," Danby said irritably and glanced at the energy consumption rate and reserve power displaying in her bare-bones instrument panel. Below a quarter on the reserve. Six beacons left to distribute. She'd be taking a chance staying to put them out: run out of power, drop like a lead weight, and need to be rescued themselves. Prudent to go in for a recharge, and then come all the way back out again.

"Problem?" asked Arnold.

How much time does Calvert have left? As weak and disorientated as she was, Danby supposed Calvert's condition to be worse. During each of several recent rants, Parnell had insisted the girl was retrievable.

The piggyback nature of their comm system, stringers and relays connecting arcs of beacons, and the beacons themselves also relays, made long distance queries possible. "Dan . . . you . . . levels?" Danby heard. Marco's voice, which she'd know no matter how fractured and garbled.

"Less than half on reserve."

"What?" gasped Arnold.

"I want you . . ."

"Say again, Marco?"

"I . . . you . . . recharge."

"I was about to head in anyway."

"Almost . . . here . . . you . . ."

"Roger that. See you in a bit."

"Beth, hi." A transmission bell-clear.

"Ah, sure, 'hi' back at cha." McKehan? The snippet of conversation heard could not have come from the red-haired ensign, who worked the other side of the shaft beyond local comm range.

"It's taken me a while to realize I can do this."

Eastern North American, 'Massachusetts' accent. Danby knew of only one woman within a dozen lightyears of her current location who spoke with a Massachusetts accent, and that woman ought to be near death.

"It's me. Julie!" Calvert sounded far too cheerful. "Laurel and I are in the Crew Quarters. We're safe, and we've been recharging. We're heading out in about a half hour. I need you guys to be ready to pick us up."

"It's really you?" Part of her resented that an apparently high functioning being, a girl they'd thought to be on her last legs, could sound so chipper.

"I'm okay. This structure is clear of nanobots. We've been recovering our strength. In a half hour we're making our run."

"Nanobots? What?" Danby estimated the shaft to be within 500 metres of her current location.

"I'm downloading a file to you. It'll explain everything you need to know."

"Oh, all right," she grumbled.

"Calvert out."

"Corporal Danby, any news?" Another intrusion by the obnoxious civilian, who ought to have heard everything she had, though apparently hadn't.

Danby belatedly grinned. "Quite good news actually."

Parnell had been so anxious to be kept informed of ongoing affairs, that he'd donned his hated outdoors suit to come out. While the CEO occupied his chair behind the fire control console, Coxswain Briggs smoked a cigarette in a corner. Owing to clutter everywhere, Danby was obliged to park outside. McKehan was on her way in. Communications with the missing pair having been restored; it was not necessary they put out any more beacons. The amount already set out would suffice.

"You've said she is well and uninjured?" greeted Danby as she crept cautiously over skid resistant cargo netting to meet face to face with her reception.

"Aye, sir. They've been picnicking."

"What the fuck?" said Teal, whose current responsibility was to help personnel in and out of the shaft. "You shitting us, Danny Girl?"

"No," went Danby, wondering, not for a first time, where the newcomers' penchant for nicknames came from. "Apparently the Crew Quarters is stocked with provisions."

"Million year old club sandwiches?" said Teal disbelievingly.

"I've no clue," replied Danby and shrugged.

"Did they take food with them?" asked Parnell.

"They must have," Danby replied with a confidence she didn't feel. "The Ensign had to have taken some provisions in her ruck."

"Did she take a rucksack?" mused Parnell. Danby suspected he consulted a memory as nicely tuned as hers. "Well, no matter. She is on her way back?"

"Yes, sir. Pretty soon."

"Excellent. The best possible news." Parnell put his hands into a clasp.

Arnold had followed Danby over the ledge, assisted bodily by Teal. He drooped into a heap once inside. Grey-skinned and sunken-eyed, he had gone as far as he was able to. Victim number two, Danby thought. "We need to get you to the infirmary," she said as she helped him to his feet.

"Beetle, you look like shit, man," said Teal, breathing small owing to the funk of stale sweat, bad hygiene, and halitosis the able spacer exuded.

Beetle? That's apt!

Arnold's response was to throw up.

"Fuck me!" ejaculated Meagher as the reek of voided stomach contents filled their work space.

Parnell, seeming impervious to noxious stimuli, motioned Danby aside before she could help Teal place Arnold on the levitating platform that served as their elevator. "Corporal Danby, a word, if you will. These others can deal with the spacer's problems."

Danby whistled toward the fire control station. Macdonald vacated his stool to help the casualty and accompany him to the surface. After a sip of canteen water, Danby took up the seat Macdonald had abandoned. Teal, standing within the breach, resumed his vigil over their little fort and the region beyond. Meagher and Briggs piled empties to free up space.

"Hey, Mac, don't forget to send a meanie down to clear up this fucking puke!" called Briggs.

"The ensign appeared in good spirits?" Parnell asked.

"Sir, yes. You'd hardly know she'd been out there all this time."

"Good, good. She also passed along some useful information? You've now a complete map of the alien's interior?"

"Would you like to see it?"

Parnell nodded that he would. Danby exported a copy to the fire control console. It projected a generously sized three-dimensional representation for viewing. Briggs had resumed his tobacco and now put his attention to the map. Meagher joined Teal within the breach. Both marines also watched the map.

The sight of so much treasure pleased the CEO. He chuckled hugely. All of the matter transfer ports were highlighted and appeared evenly distributed. "Now, you've a mathematical mind, I've no doubt, Corporal. Can you hazard a guess as to the number of artifacts contained within the volume this map represents?"

Danby was having difficulty concentrating. She took several seconds longer than she might otherwise have simply to say: "Millions."

"Millions, millions." Parnell indicated with a wave the pleasing representation could be banished from view. "I am very pleased with the work you've all done. Our find shall benefit all of mankind."

Danby squinted sourly to the air before her nose. Galaxy Corporation would take everything, apply its stamp to the last notch and fastener, and then license the result to whomever could afford to pay. The Navy had an arrangement to share in any tech with military applications. Average Joes would not benefit at all. Julie Calvert must succeed in thwarting Parnell from realizing his ambition or he would become immensely, unassailably rich and powerful.

McKehan gleamed a smile to the shaft as she entered. Her look scrunched as she encountered the reek Arnold had left behind. McKehan was nothing like Calvert in appearance or personality and so Danby took no comfort in the girl's presence.

Muller climbed in after and everyone except Parnell greeted him with respect. The rock-hard career marine as steady over his feet as when he started out. McKehan's bounce was noticeably diminished.

Danby was anxious about Marco, still out there somewhere. "Marco? Are you there?"

"He was the furthest out of us all," said McKehan.

"Marco?"

Marco skimmed at head height altitude, one aisle over from the main and a little more than six kilometres out. Swan had detected a vibration and they were investigating it. The only lights they had on came from his flight panel and their helmets. The searchlight in the nose of their little craft was unutilized. Its drain on the reserve too severe to indulge.

"Here," said Swan. Marco dropped into a bumpy landing. He'd economized on energy and his concentration was off. The marine hopped out, stood and listened. "Oh, yeah, this is it."

"This is what?"

"Big trouble." Swan climbed back in. "Keep going."

"Swan, I'm in the rosy part of the reserve already. If you absolutely think we have to check this out, then I'm gonna jettison the trailer."

"Do it."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, man, serious times."

"Hitch power off. Trailer uncoupled." He flew as quickly as he thought the reserve, deep into amber, allowed. One hundred, two hundred, four hundred metres and if he hadn't gauged their requirements to the erg they were going to walk at least part of the way back. "Swan, this is it. We got no more reserve to squander."

"Set us down." They landed, the zoot driver hopped out and took her grenade launcher with her. "If I get creamed, get the hell out of here fast." After verifying the condition of her weapon, Swan squirmed halfway into the rack separating them from the main aisle. Marco heard the pops of illumination grenades. Next was a breathless silence.

"Go, go, go! Get us the fuck out of here!" Swan flung herself into the passenger seat, her knees jamming his back. A one eighty turn, and as much speed coaxed as he could out of his failing power system.

"What did you see?"

"Armour, big, lots of it."

#

"Time to go." Calvert wished the leftovers away. Checkered cloth, basket, foil wraps, half empty bottles gone. Might the comfortably full sensation she was enjoying go away the instant they vacated the Crew Quarters? Would a return of nausea coax her stomach muscles to convulse and send what she'd enjoyed out of her stomach and into the bowl of her helmet? A sour look pasted the grass beneath her shins. Imagining a vomit had enticed bubbles of acid to gurgle up her throat and into her mouth. A belch of hard-surfaced and tart air the consequence.

"You all right?" asked Laurel, and she managed to smile back at him. "What's the scoop?" he added.

"The scoop is we scoot."

"How far to the exit?" He enjoyed blue sky for as long as he could.

"Not far." They were back in the 3-sided booth, the familiar dark horror ahead, the next instant.

"Maybe you could use that same skill to teleport us the rest of the way out?" Laurel said hopefully as he checked over his equipment.

"No can do. I am only able to manipulate time and space inside the Crew Quarters. A critical component of the cargo chamber's defence system is to deny rapid movement place to place."

"But the mat trans works."

"Barely. Ah, Steve?"

"Yeah?" She could tell he was anticipating what she was about to request.

"We shouldn't talk about what we did."

"Don't intend to," he said gruffly.

She'd said virtually the same thing to Kevin Walsh mere days ago. If the two men got together and compared notes, one or two egos might suffer. Her marine coughed politely at her side. Months of a monastic existence and then sex with two different men within mere days. Am I become promiscuous? They needed to get going or she would give away what she was thinking. "Steve, you know an intimate relationship would be difficult to keep up?"

"Hey, yeah, I know."

"There are too many complications in my life already."

"Don't sweat it."

Calvert, gazing at his profile, interpreted his feeling did not match his words. She took a deep breath. They'd not their helmets on yet. Pressing against his arm for leverage, she went on her toes, reached as high as she could, and managed to kiss his chin. "Don't think that what we've just discussed makes me feel any less than I do about you."

They might have finished so. As she was slipping down, he seized her by the arms, bent low, resumed contact with her lips, and the kiss that should have been all along was shared.

Eyes shining, Calvert backed a step. He had devoted himself to her, and she had just done the same. She squeezed his arm a last time and stooped to pick up her helmet.

"Take this." He showed her a capsule extracted from his battle harness.

"I'm not killing myself." She eyed his pill warily.

"It's stimulant. For the final push. Wake you up even if you're a centimetre from death."

"A whole centimetre?" She put up her brow before taking and putting his pill in her pocket.

"Ready?" Laurel, helmet on, looked down at her.

"Sorry for the delay."

"Come up with another feast like the last one, and I'll forgive you."

"I'd have to fix it by hand, and I'm not much of a cook." They grinned at each other. "I lead, you follow, no argument, right?"

"Roger that. Lead on, sir."

Her thoughts returned to the field, his naked body among the crushed grass, the feel of his muscled torso beneath her hands. Lush smells, soft earth, motionless air, animal panting.

"Is there a chance I'll change back?" To his mature physique, he meant.

"Nope, isn't. Sorry. The change is permanent."

"Those jokers are going to laugh their asses off."

"I wouldn't worry about it."

"We'll take this at an angle." He seized her distracted self. "Watch out behind."

"Mine or yours?" she asked softly.

"Yours," he said and took them outside.

As they began their run, Calvert's determination to get them both safely home was as large as it could be. Full air, ample ammunition, to the brim full with energy. It was possible.

Beth, we're started back now.

Julie, you need to come in as fast as you can!

"Why?" Laurel turned to her spoken word and saw her joy run out as Danby told her what she needed to know.

#

"We've a dozen shoulder-fired HV missiles, but only one launcher," Danby was saying as she jogged at the head of the group. They travelled the corridor from Boat Bay forward that linked with the armoury. She consulted a list within her handset. "No heavy mines but plenty of the thermite grenades you asked about, Sergeant Muller."

"With contact adhesive?" asked Teal.

"If you ain't chucked it by the time you've counted to three, you can say goodbye to this world."

"I don't aim to chuck them. Dual purpose?"

"Standard type. They double as mortar rounds." They arrived at the armoury hatch. Walsh inputted his ID and authorization to trigger its lock mechanism to release.

"Anything else we can use?" asked Muller as their quintet, drawing three unpowered sleds, entered the armoury along the way to the munitions bay.

"Cluster bombs," said Danby, noticing the item on her list.

"Yes!" said Meagher. "I'm for that."

"And raw explosive. Quite a bit of that."

"One of the techs could whip up a bomb," said Teal.

"Marco could, I think."

"We're going to need more bodies to help with this," said Muller as the group shifted cases of munitions into sleds. "Thermite grenades and cluster bombs this sled, missiles that. You'll want to come back for the raw explosive."

"Ah, yeah," said Danby uneasily.

"Don't worry, Danny Girl," added Teal. "You and Mar-coo are gonna enjoy a whole lot more of that wedded bliss you're entitled to."

#

Thorpe smiled fiercely into the view his wraparound console provided him atop his captain's chair within the bridge. McKehan, fresh returned, towed the trailer Marco had had to leave behind. The Ensign drifted over a work party. Macdonald, Brick, Lannier and Briggs, Swan in her zoot helping, assembled a four metre wide and three metre high arc of battle steel purposed to serve as a forward shield for the fort. The shield's mirror finish was for deflecting energy strikes and its sculpting for deflecting missiles.

"Lieutenant Walsh," Thorpe said.

"Aye, sir?"

"You will stay to oversee the withdrawal."

"Sir, there's only the three of us qualified to operate the launcher. Our marines are needed elsewhere." Walsh, from anticipating the role he was to play, had simmed extensively the shoulder-mounted hyper velocity launcher they were to use. He'd impressed even Sergeant Muller with his proficiency and accuracy with the weapon.

"That role not one I had in mind," grumbled the Captain. The evacuation needed no onsite commander and they both knew it.

"Sir, it's what I have to do."

He'd had such high hopes for his protégé. Walsh had been through so much already. Not one spacer in ten had come back from Fan Bahr. The knot in Thorpe's gut kept growing larger and harder. This was a battle they should not be fighting. They were not at war with these beings.

"Captain Thorpe, sir?"

"Take every precaution you can. Come back to us in one piece." Thorpe leaned back in his seat. Events were for sure gone bad again.

Within the shaft men and women threw off EVA suits and donned fatigues, harnesses and body armour. A locker room atmosphere in effect. Five of his marines and Walsh, Macdonald and Brick climbed into the sleds and sped away. The shaft and defensive works eerily empty after.

"She will make it back," said Parnell from his spectator seat and Thorpe wished the CEO to the devil. He didn't care if Calvert made it back. Measuring costs to benefits, he thought the former not worth it. Walsh might command a ship of the wall one day. Pacini also. His marines were 'best of the litter'. Muller had been with him over a decade. If he'd had any inkling before coming into range of the damned alien what might happen, he would have brought the Ali. A full company of marines, half of them PACs, would have reduced the oncoming threat to splinters. This ill-conceived horror show should not be happening. The Captain felt his teeth on edge, the virulent insult the civilian deserved clenched behind them.

#

"That way," Calvert was saying, handset out before her. The Red Column was well behind them, but they still saw where to go by its glow. Racks had been crossed past or over a mining engine, kelp harvester, gravel crusher, and portable smelter. The youth had acknowledged each as sparsely as she could, so not to be distracted by gushed greetings and dreary disappointments.

"How much further?"

"300 metres." Arriving into the next aisle, past a self-cleaning tub, instant full water, any temperature she wished, scented any way she wished, attracted a sentinel. Calvert little worried the zombie might catch them before they reached the portal. Two more racks, and a sharp turn right. Going through snug openings impeded and slowed zombies far more than it did humans.

A second to coax the portal's armour-cloth to drop, instantaneous journey, hop out into the open, sprint to the entrance, and all would be well. Calvert felt calm and settled enough to hum. Dash through another rack.

A travel disc. It took you to where you wished at horse trot-speed. "Steve, wait." Riding the disc, they'd make it to the transfer portal in a fraction of the time. It had more than enough accumulated energy to take them all the way there.

"What?"

"This artifact is a convey—" The zombies swarmed them and she hadn't even put out her hand. A ceratopsian flowed into being on her left. The disc was convenient and anxious to help, but the zombies were hemming them in. They might bump their way past them all the same, but she worried for Steve, sensing his time of danger was soon. Seizing him by his harness one-handed, she dragged his unresisting body away from the easy solution to their dire difficulties.

"That's nuts, why did they do that?"

"You're not playing by the rules, old mole," she grumbled.

"Who's not playing by what rules?"

The test is mine. The rules are mine. Adapt or fail.

Bastard.

While the ceratopsian churned massively into shape, sloth types, fully formed, lumbered after the trespassing humans. "These guys are faster than the ones before," Laurel said. "Two settings?"

"Must be." Dash and squirm through a very narrow gap after many straight-ahead steps. The sloths had to liquefy to follow, and were forced to slow. What exactly does the extra complication prove?

You've done well.

What does that mean? I thought you wanted me to win.

They sprawled into the next aisle. The youth was up and running before her marine. He was far more encumbered than she. "We're past the portal. We have to backtrack. I was right!" She suspected the zombies would pursue them directly on. Though easier passages were available to them, they chased through the same tight way the humans had used.

Laurel responded with a grunt.

"We need to circle back."

"All right," he drawled.

"Wait a minute. There's too many." Their pace slowed. "They've surrounded the portal." She scowled at the image in her handset. You're cheating again.

They were always there. You hadn't noticed.

The transport disc was now unguarded and available though. All its guardians had engaged in the pursuit. Calvert decided upon a plan. Go back for the disc, ride it past the portal, draw the guards there away. Every zombie nearby would chase the disc.

Build up a lead, double back, activate the portal, escape.

Laurel said, "Let's do it."

Cross right, jog a hundred metres up, cross three racks left, and approach the disc from the opposite side. Some zombie puddles along their intended route demanded a detour to avoid. Although she ought to have expected it, Calvert discovered the disc's location had shifted, thanks to a system that could sink a section of rack in one location and raise it somewhere else. Five racks instead of three here to there. "Sonovabitch," the girl complained as she flung herself into a gap. "Come on, Steve, this is going to be a race."

Up and dash. Leap, squirm through. Up and dash. Laurel could not keep up, he'd too many weapons and pouches, nor was he as strong as he'd been before. "You go on ahead, bring the disc back. I'll keep coming after you."

No. The ease with which the alien could change its geography and turn a body around so that she thought she went in the right direction when she went in the wrong direction, was too great a danger. Once separated, they might never find each other again. She stripped his reloads and dropped them. Rifle next. They kept only their pistols. "It's all we need. We're not fighting our way back. Now run!" The last part was screamed to his ear.

The travelling disc's cover sloughed away as though anxious to comply. Its joy splashed into her consciousness. Calvert had to tell it that they only required it for a short ride.

Steve chuckled as a sloth plummeted from above, barely missing them with its flailing and landing with a liquid splat. "Stupid shit," he muttered. "Damn, but that was close."

"How's this for a plan?" said Calvert tartly as she coasted them by the portal and its guardians rose as one from their drowsy puddles to gave chase. "Can you believe these idiots?"

"Ay yuh." He showed her the white of a lazy smile through his faceplate.

A little further and then roundabout back to the portal, she told the disc. Pleased that her plan had worked so well, Calvert felt her anxiety drain away. She and Steve sat side by side, enough power left to the disc that, if they wanted, they could go back and pick up the bullets and guns they'd discarded. Her marine went limp. She noticed, but didn't react. He'd died, but she didn't know how or when his fatal injury had come about.

A thread-thin line at the crown of his helmet less than five centimetres long. The mere tip of a flailing claw had cut through. The wound fatal the moment received. Death had come so quick neither of them realized it. Such a cruel way to go! Her tears sped down cheeks and past lips. Bastard cruel! You had to have him though, didn't you? Why, damn it?

You will need him when you've come back.

"I'm not coming back!" One grenade would ruin him. He'd be no use to anyone. One grenade.

You need him.

"Shut up, miserable fucker." Her sight went bleary as she stepped disc to portal. "I wish I didn't know you so well as I do." If it had been possible, she would've taken Steve back to the Crew Quarters and restored him, but the black poison couldn't be cured, couldn't be fixed. She understood this to be so without having to be told. Her last view of her valiant marine was of him posed as though asleep, and nothing could be further from the truth.

Chapter Forty-Two - Ambush

Marco, with Macdonald's help, lifted the ten kilogram, finned bomb to the top of the rail beneath his sled. As Macdonald supported the weight, Marco applied the stopper that held it in place. A cautious test verified the release mechanism secure. "On my way." His handset, clipped to the meagre console next to the flight display, showed him dispositions. Marine green faced alien red. Amber distance-to-contact measures gleamed beneath the green.

Swan had seen armoured tripods. A rocket-propelled scout linked to the exit shaft by comm filament observed a numerous and strong contingent rolling powerfully up the main aisle before the scout was targeted and blown apart. The alien reaction force appeared to be in no hurry, as though to encourage the trespassers to leave while they still could.

The marines had inserted themselves on either side of the main aisle approximately two kilometres out. Between ambush site and shaft were Swan in her zoot and Brick. Brick would lob cluster rounds and Swan would barrage with her main gun at the survivors to sew confusion and cover the retreat.

"Lieutenant, I'm above the fall back position now," said Marco.

"Roger that, Pacini. You've cut things close."

"I came as soon as I could." The delicate and dangerous bomb fabrication ought to have taken place outside of the ship. A dozen safety protocols had been sacrificed to the twin demons of time and expediency to build the bomb in time.

"We appreciate the effort, Tech."

The success of their plan depended on whether the aliens were as limited in their ability to view their surroundings as humans were, that they not identify Marco as a threat should they detect him, and that the bombed-out survivors would be too few to force a withdrawal.

Marco shifted his sled into the neighbour aisle and began climbing. The one mm cable reeling off a rear-mounted spool provided him with targeting data as well as a communications link. At ceiling height he noted inadequate-seeming pillars failing to make contact. The 190 metres plus high racks were free standing. "At launch position now," his amazed and fascinated self reported after a fresh review of map and dispositions.

"Wait for my go, Pacini," instructed Walsh. The marines had set out sensors to inform them when the tripods arrived in the ambush zone. The Lieutenant monitored the feeds from those sensors.

"Aye, Lieutenant." The bomb release was basic tech. At uncoupling—a modest pressure from his thumb would accomplish this—the cradle drooped and the bomb slid down and away.

An anxious time. On command, he'd dart forward, position the sled, drop his bomb. Afterward he would put as much distance between the blast and himself as possible.

"In five seconds." Marco glided forward over vacant air.

Marco? Calvert's representative icon popped into view.

"Four . . . three . . ."

Could they pick her up and get her back in time without initiating their attack? A simple calculation concluded a cosy time margin between Calvert's retrieval and the tripods' arrival at the shaft. This ambush wholly unnecessary. "Two . . ." He'd an instant in which to abort the attack. His lips gave shape to the first syllable of a warning that would cancel a moil of destruction, danger and death—and save Beth! His hand slippery inside its glove. He eased away from the fatal switch. "One . . ."

The tripod commander's predecessors had policed the places of the people. Their experiences had been passed down numerous, informative, and intact. As a consequence the commander was conversant with a great many situations, tactics and strategies.

A party of thieves was inside the ship. The Commander was tasked with leading its troops to the shaft, driving the marauders before it, neutralizing weapons and sources of power along the way, and guard the shaft until a repair team arrived to seal it back up.

Moments earlier the Collector had warned of an high altitude bomb. The Commander was wary of this menace, but its ability to scan its surroundings was hampered to a severe degree. Fifty metres in all directions was as far as its squadron could see. Above you now. At once it and all of its command opened fire against the threat.

The air around Marco went metal, the sled took scores of hits, status lights went green to red without touching amber. The bomb had deployed and was gone; its sling shot away. As he and his powerless sled dropped Marco realized something. This event would initiate the fatal final sequence. He wanted to curse and to weep, but he hadn't the time or concentration to spare. The bomb's proximity fuse would detonate its explosive package at a height of two metres, a catastrophe he fell directly onto.

Run! the tripod commander heard, and the squadron surged forward. Not all of its command would make it clear in the seconds that were left. The explosion rendered the rearmost machines shrapnel and damaged several others to varying degrees. The blast energy diminished swiftly as it propagated, drunk by greedy artifacts or deflected and diminished by instantaneous baffles and barriers generating in its path and created by the nanobots.

The effervescent surface of a baffle was thumped into and slid across. Armour-cloths dropped and artifacts shifted. Zombie minions rushed to the disturbances. A hypervelocity missile entered the tripods' recovery area, smashing an intact machine into bits. The squadron responded with a mass volley down the missile's path. A second missile obliterated another intact machine. Flying apart, it damaged two others. Once more the survivors responded with mass fire and then furiously followed their response forward.

Danby had 'seen' the explosion despite her position was over a kilometre away and tens of thousands of obstructions were in the way. The energy release, orchid-shaped, had sped half way to the ceiling, and illuminated a speck now gone from view.

Calvert gaped in shock and wonder. Zombies large and small, some in pursuit and some not, seemed to do the same. "You idiots!" she shouted.

"Shot in the dark, sir?" Lannier asked. The AS was the missile team's loader.

Walsh agreed. The tripods, when last seen, were in a corridor-wide formation. A safe 'shot in the dark' had a good chance of becoming a hit.

"You're hot, sir," said Lannier and put herself flat.

"Ready to fire. Fire three." No recoil or the microscopic spot of antimatter that gave impetus to the missile, pushing it to an appreciable fraction of the speed of light, would have thrown him all the way back to the shaft. Shoot and go flat. They'd wait until the tripods arrived within the next zone to know if he'd managed another hit.

"Reload ready, sir," said Lannier as a rabid return fire washed the artifact they crouched behind on its opposite side.

"Load me. We need to change firing positions. Let's hope the aliens don't learn any new tricks."

"Aye, sir."

#

A third of his sled rested over nothing, its sides dangerous for splinters. Marco guessed he'd travelled, after losing power, one hundred metres diagonal and down. His crash site mid-height in terms of altitude. No part of his sled was repairable, or even salvageable, Marco decided as he carefully levered himself away from a long dark drop.

McKehan asked urgently: "Marco, are you there? Marco, do you read me?"

"Is he in position to retrieve Calvert?" Parnell wanted to know.

"Sir, stay off our comms, please," Danby said bitterly. Marco, can you hear me?

An anxious five seconds passed before: "Beth, hey, honey, I'm okay. I'm looking at a dead console here though."

Your handset?

"Intact and operational. I had Calvert pinpointed seconds ago."

I'm still here, you idiot. What in the hell are we up to?

"Getting you out."

You call that . . . I have to report Laurel didn't make it.

"Was that supposed to—"

I don't want to talk about it. Can you send someone to get me?

"Where are you? Are you where you're supposed to be?"

I had to move. I'm about 150 metres from where I was.

"What's the status of the ambush?" Marco asked.

Danby answered: About a third of the enemy was destroyed, but there are still nine fully intact machines.

"They need you to help with the retreat," concluded Marco.

I'm on my way to pick up Walsh and Lannier, replied Danby.

"Don't worry about me. I'll manage. I've got a tricky rappel ahead of me. I've also got a decent fix on the Ensign. Ensign Calvert, what about you?"

I can see you. We'll meet half way.

"You see me? Well, screw it. Good enough. Beth, as soon as a ride becomes available, send it after us."

I'll be there myself, if I can.

"Roger that. Another half hour and we'll all be out of here."

Love you helped him onto his feet. "Baby, I'll never stop loving you back."

"Doesn't anyone know anything?!" Parnell called angrily.

Danby replied: "Ensign Calvert has returned. She's approximately four kilometres out. Marco's sled is a wreck, but he's okay. He's going to rendezvous with her on foot."

"Then go pick her up."

"Sir, we've all things to do already."

"Have you forgotten what you're supposed to be doing in there?" Parnell scowled to the man riding Polyphemus' high chair, who read prefixes and their attachments on a screen.

The time estimates for extracting all teams if they pulled out now couldn't work. The tripods would be at the breach well before the last team came in. This unhappy consequence was come about because they were now one sled and one pilot short, otherwise a full-tilt retreat would work. Fabbing another sled would take too long. "Everyone to next attack positions," said Thorpe. "Marco, how near are you to Ensign Calvert?"

"Sir, they're fifteen minutes apart," replied Danby.

"Marco?" Thorpe insisted.

"Sir, he is outside of radio contact at the moment."

"Can I not piggyback through your comm to him?"

"Sir, I am able to relay messages back and forth," she replied cautiously.

"No matter then. Please inform them both to hurry as much as they can."

"Aye, sir, I will pass that advice along."

"Is there not something expendable?" grumbled Parnell. "The longer we delay—"

"None of my people are expendable," replied Thorpe in a growl. "We are all of us coming away from there."

The tripods approaching the next ambush were still too many. Brick launched a single volley before his remote-fired mortar was blasted to ruins. The grenade blasts were shrugged off by intact shields and with lesser efficiency by damaged shields. Two women saw the results clearly. Danby directed her sled as if by instinct as her attention was gripped by cacophonic flashes and terror tree explosions. Swarms of incandescent blots and three rabid dissolutions were accompanied by spinning shrapnel—a scene like inept fireworks.

The volume of return fire was disheartening. The deluge of bullets humans desperately squirmed away from. Two recovery sled and trailer combinations sped up aisles.

Calvert viewed the attack in its entirety. The tripod survivors had advanced beyond the sensors set out to watch them and she still saw them. Their resolve unshaken and their advance inexorable. It seemed to Calvert that her species always chose the harder of two paths, and for no other reason than a willingness to challenge the odds.

Calvert consoled herself not to worry. Enough good things had happened for matters to turn out well. She'd saved Gless and Meagher when they ought to have died. But I didn't save Steve!

She hadn't come out where she told the portal to send her though, but from a different portal much further out. Why did you screw with me? Weren't we finished? You took Steve and gave me back my brain bursting headache. Haven't I done enough? What do I have left to do?

She was always very tired by the time Marco caught up with her. Could it be that to wear her out was why the alien had sabotaged her exit? Why else torture her so?

#

Thorpe gripped his armrests hard enough to numb his hands. Muller, Meagher, Macdonald and Teal were on their way to the next ambush zone. Walsh and Lannier were pinned down. One of their three besiegers was a headless wreck. The other two were intact. Five wrecks and seven intact machines had sped past and continued to the shaft.

"Stay put. We'll get you out, Lieutenant," Thorpe advised.

The tripods' energy shielding had thwarted the thermite. What could not stick could not burn through. All machines eliminated in the second ambush hadn't effective shielding.

"Sir, I've a plan," said Walsh. An attempt to slither away would not work. Danby would come as near as she could to the trapped pair, and they would pass their weapon down to her on a wire. Swan would attack at the same time to provide distraction. Danby would retreat a sufficient distance to permit her to shoot the besiegers without their being able to detect and target her.

"Do it." A strategy creating an outcome outside the anticipated chain of events ought to be safe. Walsh had dreamt himself killed while firing a missile—they'd interpreted the abrupt end of his dream that way. They'd interpreted Gless' dying the same way. That event having been derailed, they hoped Walsh would be as fortunate.

Swan approached the besiegers. Walsh made ready to pass his launcher to Danby. McKehan was in position to retrieve Walsh and Lannier as soon as the tripods were eliminated or driven off. Macdonald and Meagher were installing a fresh section of sensors to be the forward eyes for a next ambush. The battle of attrition would continue. Its success dependent upon a single, irreplaceable piece of equipment.

"That is very much as our side would have done it, don't you think?" Parnell said.

"I beg your pardon?" Thorpe replied irritably.

"They left sufficient strength to pin your missile team down and the rest continued on. Do you suppose a human commander would have split his forces the same way?"

"A high order AI no doubt."

"Can we negotiate with them, do you suppose?"

"We don't know their language. Whatever we said would be screeches and muttering to whomever is in charge."

"Calvert is able to talk to them."

"Corporal Danby," called Thorpe. Danby had gone still with a breath just taken. The intact tripod, its image relayed through the link her handset maintained with Walsh's, was in her cross-hairs. Her breath let go as her trigger depressed. Missile launched and gone flat on her belly in case of return fire.

"Sir!"

"Where is Ensign Calvert now?"

"Ah . . ." Bullets spattered the artifact the marine had appropriated as her shield. The armour-cloth absorbed most of a slug's energy while directing it into a harmless trajectory. Danby all but snuggled against the artifact. An office suite in a ebony dark polymer that with remarkable clarity asked would she like to sample screens?

No, thank you, Danby replied.

You will be quite safe here. Inside a room that could be as large or as small as she wished it to be.

"Corporal Danby?"

Those were the aliens, the creators, she saw through a window that appeared as she, or whomever's memories she accessed, moved toward it. She passed through a door onto a balcony over an exceedingly long drop and looked down to a street. Although she was hundreds, or even thousands, of metres high she clearly saw individuals far below. The artefact included the room she had stepped out of.

"Corporal Danby, respond, please."

"I'm, ah, here, sir."

"Are you in contact with Ensign Calvert?"

"Ah," and check her handset. She detected nothing of either Marco or Calvert. Julie? Marco? Nothing that way either. What's happened? "No, sir. They're gone from my screen."

"It would seem that option is denied us as well," muttered Thorpe as he returned his attention to the man occupying the scanner suite beneath him. "We either fight them to a standstill or get the hell out of their way."

"Ah, well." Parnell shrugged.

Walsh was saying, "We're clear, sir. Captain, we're not registering any zombies out here."

Whole legions had been noted surrounding or converging on the exit. "That's right, Kevin."

"The trikes can't be working in concert with them."

That lack of coordination could work in their favour.

#

Calvert had dreamt this part of her ordeal so many times that she was able to anticipate where the next sentinel would appear. Referencing her mind map, she noted her position, next where Marco was, next routes taken and how those routes converged. Despite a trembling fatigue that, despite recent wholesome rest, had come on faster than she could have anticipated, as though she suffered the effects of a perilous wound, Calvert was sure she would make their rendezvous within another ten minutes.

She planned only to when she and Marco met. Whatever happened after she'd no thought for or memory of. It must be they continued along their dreary way to when they were picked up. Agony over, test over, on to whatever awaited her.

"If I'm to be a queen, I suppose this suffering will be worth it," she muttered crossly. "But you know I never asked for power or position. I'm letting you know right now, I'll trade whatever I'm destined to have to be out of here—except not just me, all of us, us humans. Are you listening, old mole? You're damned quiet all of a sudden. Was it something," a weak giggle, "I said?

"Okay, I was mad about Steve. Who wouldn't be? You went out of your way to take him—what kinda nasty rat-fuck scheming was that anywah-way? Dropping that damn sloth on us out of nowhere! You let me know the other times. That was the dirtiest trick. Nasty and low—" Her mind map with its shortest, best path to safety went dark between one instant and the next.

"What are you up to now?" On loan, did she hear? "On loan? On loan!" Calvert unclipped her handset and thumbed up its power setting to max. "You heartless, feckless, double-crossing bastard son of a bitch!"

The girl scowled into the tiny screen. "I should have known you weren't finished with me! The 'Torment Julie Calvert Until She Can't Stand It Anymore' theory has now absolute certainty!" Her handset had been recording her movements. Despite how certain she'd been about her way up to the moment the mind map collapsed, Calvert saw she'd meandered badly. What is this crap! I was going the right way. Marco is there—isn't he?

Thumbing up the 3D projection for once only, for soothing if nothing more, she needed to verify her position and Marco's. The tech showed within the cube of projection and hers relative to it. What had been true before her far-seeing power was taken away was verified. Something like a kilometre separated him from her. Her part 500 metres give or take.

A long, slow walk ahead due to her condition. We never should have gotten into a fight with the tripods. That had been incredibly stupid and made no sense at all!

"Marco, are you there? Marco, can you hear me? Beth? Anybody! Damn it!" Four of the six-legged, locomotive-sized species of sentinel followed her at no more than fifty metres separation. The more dangerous sloth types could appear at any time. The way dark, cold and lonely. She'd never been more tired. "Come on," Calvert growled. "You can't give up now. You've a whole hour left in you." No, I haven't, but maybe I have another ten minutes?

What an idiot I am! Trudging past artifact after artifact without bothering to identify the function of a single one. The chamber was filled to the rafters with vehicles—passenger cars and powered carts the largest category by far. Many, like the friendly disc, had energy enough for a ride of a hundred metres or more.

The notion of a ride was immensely appealing. Off her feet, many metres nearer her goal. Walking beside a rack, a handy target for sloths to fall on, she examined engines, artworks, farm and factory implements, an escalator, a power generator. Each saluted her with a hopeful greeting yet none could carry her over any distance whatsoever.

"There's gotta be one 'a you guys kin do it." Calvert continued along her dreary way. She would cross over to the next aisle when a suitable space presented itself. She'd not once changed her direction, for sure she'd not reversed herself. "What the?" Her green line had turned about and now treaded on itself—so her handset told her.

If she believe what her screen told her, despite she could not recall going insane and turning herself about, during the past minute she'd been moving away from help. "Impuss bull." Calvert closed her eyes to rest them because it must be she hallucinated. Open her eyes and the screen showed her what it had before. Despite she'd not turned herself about, and was on the right seeming path, she went the wrong way.

Cross the rack, turn about, uncertain about what her handset relayed to her, anguishing quietly, no handy alien conveyance here either.

Where are all the fucking cars? Hundreds of thousands of cars and carts and not one convenient to her path? Handset consulted again. She moved in the right direction. Yet, as she watched, her icon, its arrow representing her direction of travel, did a turn-about. She stared, mouth open. Had she hallucinated? Had she done a one-eighty turn without moving? Had the alien manipulated her mind or her handset into believing she had? How could she trust either?

#

Marco stopped. He stood next to a matter transfer port and it was not where it was supposed to be. Calvert's map had pinpointed the location of every portal in the chamber. Calvert's coordinates were wrong, she'd been mistaken, she'd lied, or the coordinates of everything had changed. Changed, he concluded, filing the datum for later dissemination. A while ago a sloth had tried to splat him and he'd dodged without thinking. He'd passed by two large sentinels. One had stayed put and the other followed him. The latter seemed only to keep tabs. "Calvert, can you hear me? Calvert, are you out here? Calvert, are you still alive?"

Chapter Forty-Three - Final Desperate Acts

The missile smashed the tripod situated furthest left. Revenge fire slashed back on its trajectory. As in every case up to now, the result was ineffectual. The Commander, experiencing frustration indistinguishable from the human variety, paused its command, reduced now to eleven in number including wrecks, and performed the equivalent of a stand on stirrups.

It was likely the enemy missile crew would destroy the last intact machine before the formation reached the shaft. The mission to secure the ship must fail, unless the Commander change its tactics.

Despite all the ammunition expended, and machines lost, the formation's magazines were at sixty percent full or better. They would not run out of bullets before reaching the shaft. The leader considered options for milliseconds more and informed its command what it had decided to do.

"They're beyond our sensors again," said Walsh.

McKehan sped the missile team down the aisle just left of main. She coincidentally watched out for an artifact of the right size to steal, in case there be an opportunity to try again. Her handset, fixed to the side of her flight panel, showed what she had to choose from.

"You've done an excellent job so far, Lieutenant," Parnell, unsolicited, opined.

"We appear to have matters under control," Walsh replied.

Macdonald and Meagher, with Danby providing aid and transportation, set out a fresh batch of sensors for the next targeting snapshot. Brick and Swan, with a replacement mortar, had retreated to the shaft. The situation seemed under control, but also tenuous.

Observing from his seat, Thorpe was tempted to suggest matters were about to go to hell all the same. He worried that Walsh still commanded the missile team. He worried that, if their dreams were to bear the bitterest fruit, the result would be more lives lost to save one.

"What of Calvert?" Parnell asked.

"Pacini still is looking for her."

"Do you know why we've been unable to contact her?"

"No." He suspected the alien had changed its mind or toyed with them. Either speculation was not something he could voice out loud.

"How will you get them out?"

"Danby will retrieve them."

"Ah, yes. You have great faith in your crew." Parnell resumed his seat within the scanner station.

Thorpe had faith his people would do what was possible, although he wished he'd never sent them into danger in the first place.

#

Calvert was near the end of her rope, which, she thought, was a whimsical way of imagining her condition. Had she been at the end of an actual rope, she might have swung on it. The enticing vision of herself in dungarees, sneakers and plaid shirt swinging beneath a fat, leafy eucalyptus amused her. She giggled despite a burgeoning headache about which she could do nothing in any case.

Laurel's pep pill was a minor bulge in her breast pocket. When to use it? What kind of stress would it impose on her weakened organs? Would it kill her or help her? Should she use it at all?

Not much point speculating. She still managed to put one foot ahead of the other, to maintain a pace. She had to maintain a pace or be trampled by the ceratopsians crowding her wake.

Calvert knew they were right behind her, even though they made no sound nor were capable of breathing down her neck.

At the very end, when she hadn't any energy left, she'd take Steve's pill. Afterward she could sleep or die. She took solace in the notion of complete and utter surrender, while she also sucked from its fear the will to drive herself on.

#

Kevin Walsh did not think that exposing himself this time was any more dangerous than the times before. He did not see the tripods yet, but the sensors Teal and Muller had set out gave him points to aim for. Another intact tripod about to be destroyed. He'd enough missiles left to destroy all the healthy ones.

The tripods arrived into an area in which were devices that did not belong. The Commander recognized his opportunity. Trajectories along which a missile was likely to come were calculated and assigned. It ordered his formation to open fire.

Walsh noticed when the tripods came into view that they were dispersed with damaged machines in front, and then his upper body was rendered mist.

Thorpe collapsed into his chair while engaged in staring straight ahead. McKehan sobbed quietly into her comm. "Ensign," he called.

"Sir, Captain Thorpe, sir, Lieutenant Walsh is dead."

"Did the launcher survive?" he asked dully.

"Whuh-what?"

Thorpe repeated his question.

"Nah-no, it's . . . no." They hadn't the components to fabricate another. The missile attack was done with.

Thorpe saw via McKehan's helmet view the condition the launcher had been reduced to. "Sergeant Muller, suggestions?"

Several seconds later came the reply: "We could cobble together another of those bombs, sir. There are still plenty of explosives in storage."

"Tech Gowan, what condition is Tech Gless, please?"

"Sir, Tech Gless is comatose at present."

"Can he be roused?"

"No, sir, he cannot."

A different sort of death? Thorpe frowned thoughtfully. "Sergeant, could you rig something?" He clutched at straws. Muller's expertise was weapons, small unit manoeuvres, and hand to hand combat. He was no demolitionist.

"Sir, I think I could," said Danby.

He nodded to the view her helmet cam transmitted. "Right then, get yourselves back here to pick up what you need. Ensign McKehan, once you've returned AS Lannier to the shaft you will recharge your conveyance. As soon as you're recharged, you are to go after Pacini and Calvert."

"Aye, sir—sir, the lieutenant?"

The lower half of his corpse might be gathered and given a proper burial. They hadn't the time. "Leave him where he lies. Hurry back, Ensign."

"Regrettable," said Parnell, and it seemed to Thorpe he meant it.

Thorpe replied nothing.

#

"Come out, come out, wherever you are." Marco had a remarkably clear head, owing, he thought, to its crystalline condition. Hours roaming the alien fun house had saddled him with a numbing headache. He had not detected Calvert's presence though he estimated he had reached the region for their rendezvous. He was not concerned. They were destined to find each other, and so they would. Afterward someone would give them a lift back to the shaft. He'd a nagging concern for Beth's safety, but worry wouldn't help her there or him here. "Come on, Calvert, send me one clear note."

Marco?

He gasped. "There you are." From where came her reply? He'd heard his name like she stood at his shoulder, or he'd heard it in his head.

Marco, damn it, you s'posed ta fine me.

"All right." He walked a circle, handset out. Despite how clear her communication had sounded, her icon was absent from his screen. "Where the hell are you?"

Marco, I can keep doin' dis.

"Can can, or can can't?"

Mar-co!

How could he hear her so clear and not detect her in any direction he tried? He stayed uncertain whether he had heard her in his head or through his handset.

Sleepy bay-bee, sleepy bye.

"Calvert, do not go to sleep!"

Mar-co, Mar-co, Mark-coo. Id-ee-yot.

"Back to the bitch attitude, are we?"

Doan call me'sa bith. Mark-coo.

"Calvert!" His shout was meant to clarify matters for them both.

Waddaya waitin' for, you gonna cum geh me er nah?

"I'll come for you, when I've figured out where you are." His handset showed him naught other than racks, aisles and zombies. A gang of four ceratopsians moved at a crawl up an aisle parallel to his and in the same direction as he. He wouldn't be going that way.

Ping! said Calvert and giggled weakly.

"Ping back at cha."

Ping! Ping! Ping!

"What the hell?" Going by a hunch, he turned off his handset. "Calvert?"

Ping! she cried merrily.

Handset back on. The four zombies were further back relative to his place than before. Calvert had to be—probably was—in front of them somewhere. Why did he not detect her? Why did her handset not communicate with his. "Calvert, is your handset on?"

Corse s'on. Why wunnit?

He shouldn't be able to hear her, if her handset wasn't on. "Check for me, please."

Sis'on. Oops, nope, t'isn't. T'isn't. Giggle.

There she was. Or rather there her handset was, leading the zombies by their noses. Barely did she move, or she'd stopped altogether.

He'd his own coterie of deadly followers. None as near to him as hers were to her.

"Whoa, gree light, gree light!"

Was she gone bug-nuts? "Calvert, can you get any distance on them?"

"Dem? Dem, who?"

"The zombies behind you!" After he shouted, he feared he might have upset a tenuous balance. Why they hadn't crushed her into paste before now might be because she hadn't realized they followed so close.

"Oh, yeah, dey's rye dere. No probsum. Gotta take dis pill. Sec."

"What pill?" His own gang had closed the gap between them. He'd slowed to keep pace with Calvert and her mob. As he watched into his screen, the number of racks between their spots increased from two to three. "Calvert, did you just move one aisle over?" Crap, here we go.

"Ho boy—I t'ink I's gonna throw up."

Three aisles gone four. Marco marshalled what remained of his strength and stamina, most of him having worn away by now, to dive and squirm through the right hand rack. He checked his handset and saw three aisles go four aisles again. "Calvert, you have to come to me."

"Oh, gawd."

"Don't believe what your handset tells you! It lies!" He glanced down while jogging through open space. She went the wrong way. After his next crossing, three aisles became four became five. "Calvert, turn around right the fuck now! You're going the wrong way!"

"A'right. Keep yer shirt on, why doan cha?"

Four aisles became five became six. His next glance caused him a collision with a stanchion. "You're going the right way now!" Clambering, colliding, slithering. Bashing elbows and skinning knees. The air he breathed had the consistency of soup, which a vivid imagination had him smell and taste. Was she still moving toward him? He hadn't time for another look. He couldn't afford the distraction and drop in speed. "Come to me!"

"Almost . . . there!" She squirmed through her last rack, fell, heaved herself up and showed him a goofy grin. Next she stumbled onto him. She'd ditched her helmet. With her last strength she planted a kiss on his faceplate and then collapsed.

"Calvert, hey," he said gently, relieved beyond all powers of description, "come on now, kid. Julie, you gotta help us here." Her body had slid along his length to find equilibrium, ending wrists against his ankles, her cheek on his knee. Nothing he had the time for could rouse her. No plea, shout, pinch, stimulant. "Captain, I have her."

"Your . . . weak. Mac . . . coming . . ."

"Roger that. On our way home." Pistol, harness, reloads and backpack jettisoned. Like Calvert he kept his handset—a spacer never ditched his handset. Too precious and expensive. You paid the replacement cost if you couldn't prove the loss was owing to the job. Calvert was easy to carry. She'd lost a lot of weight and fit well over his shoulders. "You would have to pass out," he grumbled. "You better not be faking." She'd been in-chamber the longest of them, and was the least fit and able of them to withstand the effects besides.

#

"Our last chance to stop them," Muller said. Danby gingerly handed him the two kilo bomb she and Polyphemus had made—Marco's version in miniature. The crucial part of the build had consisted of loading, aided by hologram, the shaped charge into the cartridge. The bomb's inert parts had come out of the fabber.

On the other side of the main aisle's ten metre divide was Teal, in a support position. His determined grimace visible owing to the pale glow inside his helmet.

"You're laying low after, Sergeant?" The cause for concern was owing to the compilation-dream record, which they'd all seen. Muller's personal recollection was either inconclusive or he'd chosen not to accept it. He might not survive.

"No sense getting blown up for no good reason." His task was to lob the bomb. A ninety-metre drop and proximity fuse would do the rest.

"McKehan must be close to picking them up. We might not have to do this."

"It's less than one klick to the shaft from here. We don't have a choice."

Danby wished him luck, waved to Teal and mounted her sled. Her place was fifty metres further in. Her role that of forward observer. She communicated with Muller via filament.

Danger close. The tripod leader slowed to a crawl as the Collector communicated the nature of the threat less than one hundred metres ahead. An instant of deliberation, decision made, advance renewed.

Vibration, and squeal of misaligned metal, warned of the tripods' approach. Danby consulted scanners salted ahead of the ambush site at floor level. Hers was a wholly safe means of observing the enemy. Eight survivors. Three wrecks in front.

The formation abruptly split. Two wrecks and one intact machine sped on. The others idled in place to await results.

"They must have spotted the sensors. One third of their strength only has gone on to draw fire!" she whispered urgently. Muller saw for himself, thanks to the visuals she provided him with, what approached his position. The intact machine glowed white, the wrecks dull red in the tactical schematic. Muller had no choice. He could let the wrecks by, which Swan could deal with, but not the intact machine. He lobbed his bomb.

The explosion reduced the unshielded machines to shrapnel. The intact machine was severely damaged and rendered a smoking ruin. Its smoke folded into itself and ended within seconds.

The blast displaced the nanos or they had concentrated themselves to form baffles and shields. Artifacts drank the energy sent their way. A single armour-cloth dropped. All zombies nearby responded.

"We got problems!" shouted Teal. Sloths swarmed his and the Sergeant's positions.

"On my way!" Danby neatly turned her sled-and-trailer rig about. Three tripods, two of them intact, matched her performance below. A last intact pair stayed to wait in place.

"That's clever," Danby remarked as she arrived alongside Muller, beset with zombies but not panicked. A sloth lunged her way.

Danby shrugged apologetically at Muller's scowling. He'd nearly stepped into the gap she'd created while dodging to avoid her attacker.

To reach Teal, Danby set off along a diagonal. Sloths flooded his position. He retreated the wrong way, deeper into the chamber. Muller added covering fire.

Their skirmish took place between two powerful enemy segments that ought not to be able to see them, but might hear them. 90 metres of vertical separation avoided detection when an enemy could only see through 50. However, a displacement of the unnaturally thick atmosphere had taken place. Nanobots had been shifted or bunched to make baffles and shields. Volumes of light and dark had been created at differing levels.

Danby grit her teeth and mentally crossed fingers. She tingled with an overabundance of nerves and adrenaline. They supposed the aliens wouldn't see gun flashes. They supposed the aliens might not hear grenades going off.

The counter fire she dreaded was spectacular. What came at them from forward started an instant after what came at them from behind.

Danby's Utility Sled 1023-H was a metal canoe strapped to a metal plate. The bulk of its mass was in its counter grav keel plate. The keel made an effective bullet stop. The fuselage, and wings for lift and tail for navigation components, were sheet metal a half centimetre thick. The bow of the sled protruded an exact 22.3 centimetres beyond the keel. Inside the bow was where the operator put her feet.

The inside of the sled had barely room for two adults. An adjustable backrest was for the pilot. The space behind the backrest, with or without comfort pad, was for cargo. The US 1023-H was powered by a single turboprop engine electric-charged.

A single small navigation display showed air speed, route, heading, altitude, energy/fuel status, operational status. Most sleds, in particular the base model, which the US 1023-H was, were not equipped with AI and were flown manually with joy stick or flying yoke. Danby's was equipped with a joystick.

The aliens fire-hosed the space she sped through with their bullets. More bullets would have been avoided if she hadn't so limited a space to manouevre in. Most of them missed. The tripods were firing blind after all.

Danby made of herself the most compressed shape she was capable of. The tripods used tracer rounds. It seemed energy beams crisscrossed the sky. The rounds coming from in front arrived at a sharper angle. She watched in horror, and worried for her toes, as the bow of her little boat was shredded apart. Glowing bits of shrapnel fluttered past.

The bullets coming from behind were worse. The angle less, and the chance of the steel-jacketed rounds penetrating end for end trailer or sled was too high to contemplate rationally.

On terra firma you could hunker down somewhere. Airborne it was stay on course and hope not to be killed.

Bullets spranged into two counter grav keels with a noise like upside-down hail. Both pairs of wings took multiple hits. "Go! Go! Go!" cried Teal as he tumbled into the back seat and half of him managed to fit. Danby set her teeth together again. Sluggish acceleration. Busted power coupling, she thought. Rupture a fuel cell and the sled was likely to explode.

"Can't you go any faster!"

"Sergeant?" The coupling status indicator was solid red. Right after it started blinking, the hitch would come apart. "Sergeant Muller?" They were past the bullets.

"They fucking saw us!" said Teal.

"Shut up. Check on the Sergeant." She brought them into a bumpy landing alongside a small, just right-sized artefact. They'd travelled less than fifty metres after being shot up.

"He's fucked up, man. He's fucked up bad."

"I gotta power coupling to repair or replace. Take a jiff. Do first aid, get him in the sled, uncouple the trailer."

"Trailer's fucked."

"Yeah. Teal—"

"That's okay. I wasn't supposed to make it back anyway. The Sarge . . ."

"Dead, dammit, he's dead," Danby gazed heartbroken at the blood spattered corpse of a man she'd thought invincible, who'd responded like a grouchy old bear but still gave her away in marriage. "Gowan, we need a stasis coffin ASAP." They'd a few life-sustaining sarcophagi within the shaft in anticipation of just this sort of emergency.

"I can run the rest of the way back," said Teal.

"The leaders are past this position."

"I can take them on from behind."

"The hell you will. Stay mobile. I'll be back for you."

Every minute until Muller could be sealed in a stasis box was crucial to the length of time required to repair and restore him. Every minute past the limit added years of rehabilitation. Too much time gone by and he would not be recoverable at all. Danby pushed her shot-up machine to its limit. Not only had she to get Muller to the shaft as soon as possible, but she had to go back for Teal before the enemy advance made any more rescues impossible. Gowan met her within the shaft, stasis coffin open and on a platform for transport.

Briggs, Danby, Macdonald, Brick, Lannier and Meagher took up the Sergeant's corpse and laid it reverently in the box. Gowan made connections and adjustments. "He's is good shape, I think," the medic said, consulting a diagnostics panel. "He should make it."

"Thank Heaven," muttered Danby. Her ride, shot up, entirely out of power, rested on the ledge. "Teal, I won't be picking you up."

"Figured as much."

"When McKehan gets back, she can—"

"We got that much time, do you think?"

The tripods would reach the shaft in under fifteen minutes. McKehan was out of contact. Danby snatched up a rifle and bandolier of grenades. Swan in her zoot sheltered between the forward shield and their fort. The zoot and sentry guns would take the tripods under fire when they came within range. One or two might be knocked out before the end. Their shields were just too good. Danby vaulted a sheet of battle steel and began jogging. "Teal, I'm coming out. Don't do anything stupid in the meantime."

"Corporal, that might be a bad idea," said Thorpe.

"I agree with the Captain, Danny Girl. I'm fine on my own, maybe do some good along the way. I wasn't supposed to make it out anyway."

"That's bullshit, Spec. We're not done yet." She'd a plan that had germinated along her way in. It now presented vividly before her mind's eye. She knew how to stop the tripods long enough to win the time they needed. She had seen as Calvert saw. The destiny she'd feared and committed herself to approached swiftly. Danby saw the trove of artifacts clear as day. I can do this. For a long while I could. I just didn't believe it.

A fabrication machine, more efficient than the human version. No materials handled. It accessed pure atoms, be they hundreds of metres underground and thousands of kilometres away, and teleported them into its formation chamber. It had built millions of devices. Its worth fabulous.

A car was jade green and curvaceous. It had belonged to one family for over one hundred generations and not once had it required maintenance.

"I have a plan," Danby said, and told all those listening those parts that she could.

#

The aftermath of his rescue was tedious trudging. Marco's mind stumbled in sympathy with his steps. Calvert's ceratopsians had joined with his. Nine like-sized monsters shuffled patiently in his wake. Every now and then Marco turned and favoured the rabble with a grin. They were polite, kept their distance, and were resolute. He supposed they would follow him all the way out if he made it that far. "Ensign McKehan, can you see me yet?"

"No, sorry. I can't."

"You're on the right heading?"

"I think so."

"You're far enough out?"

"I think so."

"Well, then you need to shift yourself port or starboard."

"Yes-s-s?" was the Ensign's uncertain reply.

"You can't be very far away. I hear you clear. We'll keep talking. If reception breaks up, you'll know you've gone the wrong way.

"Cutting across aisles now."

"Don't worry about sloths. Unless you run right under one they shouldn't bother you."

"I haven't seen very many lately."

"Most of them are gone to the entrance."

"Probably."

"You recall doing this?"

"Yes-s-s."

"You recall finding me?"

"No. Sorry, Pacini."

He'd assumed his Calvert-burdened walk would end when McKehan picked them up, a nice ride to the shaft to follow. His undead escort followed so close it might stamp on his heels was he to stop. He stopped, and so did they. A peculiar behaviour for deadly guardians to display.

Marco stared at sized-grand, tar-black and deathly silent creatures posed as though made of stone. They would not attack provided he behaved himself, Marco realized, and they would follow until he was rescued or collapsed. McKehan can't see me, but can she see them?

"I can. There are nine of them. One really big one in the middle."

"That's 'Spankie'. You've found us."

"I have? Where are you?"

"Right in front."

"Is your handset on?"

"Sure it is." No, it wasn't. When had he turned it off?

"There you are! Your signal is clear. Can you get a little distance on those things?"

"I can, I think." Marco drove himself to the end of his strength and endurance to build up the crucial metres of separation McKehan needed to coast into. With a gasp of relief he toppled Calvert off his back into the sled's back seat, and felt renewed, a little. He'd enough energy then for himself, to cling to and clamber over the side into the trailer.

"Welcome back, Technician," gasped the youth. Glancing over her shouder, she saw her rescues slumped in their places.

#

"Brick?" Tripod-caution had provided Danby with the time she needed to link up with Teal. The two of them crouched side by side alongside the artifact she'd selected.

"Ready," Brick replied.

"I'll tell you when I need a round on the money spot."

"Roger that. One round in the spout and good to go."

Danby would have preferred continuous fire, but was unwilling to chance the courageous AS becoming the latest to die in a losing cause.

A nod to Teal and a breath was taken to steady herself with. She put out her wounded hand, unsure whether what she could achieve the equivalent of what Calvert could do. She'd only a feeling to base her belief on. Danby felt a subsurface response, next the anxiety of the artifact. It was happy to be chosen, it had missed the joy of work, its function was to serve. Immense sadness was passed along also. Danby saw cities, pastures and forests empty of life. Great cities, spectacular art, massive orbitals and ships. The many, many machines that remained appeared frozen in time. They waited for salvation or the end of all hope.

"If you're gonna do it, do it now!" Teal urged.

"Timing is a critical component of this plan," Danby replied calmly. Zombies were gathering. The horde waiting at the shaft were shifting there to here. Outliers and scouts, alerted by what she was poised to do, crawled, lurched or trotted to where the pair crouched.

"You can do it, right?"

She'd told Teal, and only Teal, she was able to shift the armour-cloth, because she'd had to. "They won't attack, not until after the cloth drops," she said soothingly.

"You better be right!" Zombification the consequence, should she be wrong.

Behind them zombies squeezed together to squat or stand, toe to heel, rank upon rank. In the main aisle this happened also. The area all about was plugged solid. In tiers above the sloths poured into places to drop from.

Danby communed with a new friend. It understood her thoughts as well as she could understand its. She felt the vibrations owing to the tripods right to when they stopped.

"When the cloth drops lean in. You'll pass right through to the inside."

"What!" was her companion's gargled reply.

"Trust me. This will work. You ready?"

"Yah, I got it!"

"Brick, on my command." Danby felt mild resistance, mild hesitation. The cover sloughed away. "Now, Brick!" she cried while tumbling into the artifact. Amazement, satisfaction and joy of accomplishment bubbled within her.

With knowledge in advance of the artefact's interior, plus understanding the not quite magic that placed her right where she wanted, Danby finished in an upright seated position. The small console before her faintly glowed. Teal sprawled in the space behind the seats. The cluster bombs fell and detonated among the tripods which were trapped inside the zombie horde. A five metre hemisphere of violence created far more confusion than damage, as she'd meant for it to do. Pulverized zombies made gooey piles for tripods to try to wade through and become stuck. Danby viewed the carnage in the waist to shoulder hologram appeared as if by magic beside her. I want to go to the exit, she told the car.

Right away, the car replied cheerfully and drifted sideways out from its parking spot. As Danby supposed they would, the zombies retreated to allow the car space to move in, slithering into and over their fellows. The tripods did not open fire. They, too, were tasked to preserve and protect the chamber's treasures. Teal flopped into the seat next to hers, that adjusted itself automatically to accommodate and fit his far larger body.

"Heya, big guy." Danby showed him a grin which her fatigue made garish.

"You're fucking amazing." He glanced with satisfaction about himself, overjoyed to be alive and out of a life-sapping atmosphere.

"This is us coming in," Danby informed the fort. "Don't shoot at our ride."

"You've done it!" Parnell exulted. "I want covering fire to when the artifact is secured."

"No," said Danby sternly. "This car is too big to pass through the opening."

Forgive me, Elizabeth, but you are mistaken. I may pass easily through the wall itself.

I know. I'm sorry. We're not taking you with us. I thought you understood this.

I do. I just wish with all my soul I could go with you.

"Park us between the forward shield and fort wall, Danny Girl," said Teal, rubbing his hands together.

You have a soul? You believe in such a thing?

I don't just believe, I know. Our great disadvantage is we cannot transcend. Thus are we different from our masters.

Your masters are dead.

Physically they are; however, their souls endure.

What do you mean?

I'm unable to explain. We have arrived.

Wait. I need to understand.

I am unable to hover very long. Shall I park?

Park near the fort. What did you mean?

"This is maddening!" cried Parnell. "Can't someone do something? Why not cut it into pieces small enough to fit?"

"Shut up, damn you," growled Danby.

"You are not in charge of this mission, Corporal!" Parnell's tone was furious and manic.

"You will not harm this being!"

"We should bail," Teal said nervously. "Do we get out the same way?"

"Yes. They'll take the car back where we got it after we've left." Can't you tell me?

It is not permitted. Another voice.

The Collector, Danby realized. It's you. Why are you talking to me now?

It's almost time. This part is nearly over.

This part? What do you mean, this part? Not the whole thing?

"Danny Girl, we gotta bail. Now. The route's choked up solid, but that's not gonna last. And we don't know what kind of deal there is between zombies and machines."

"I concur, Corporal." Thorpe said. "Get yourselves out of there."

"Aye, sir," said Danby. Have I cheated death or does it wait for me just outside this car?

"Danny Girl, you are fucking amazing."

"You said that already." Danby smiled gently. Soon, she thought. To where the tripods were mired was the niftiest road block ever. McKehan would return very soon. Marco and Julie and all that yet survived would be saved and this nightmare have its end. A calming enveloped Elizabeth Danby. Now that she understood so many of its secrets and had seen into the alien ship's heart, she understood its sadness and the peculiar hope at its centre. What is this about? What have we done here?

Calvert was returning a changed being. The girl's future uncertain, her life and security tenuous. Danby was willing to be her friend's guardian, mentor and friend. She mustn't reveal any more of her own startling conversion than she had already. Parnell's babbling protests that something still could be done to salvage the artefact, she heard as if from far away.

Seizing her resolve as if it was something to hold, Danby moved through the near side of the car to come upright between conveyance and fort. Two steps, heave herself up, and she would be safe. Teal had landed in a sprawl at her feet and she paused to help him up.

The way to life and love was right above her. The glad looks of comrades within the fort caressed her. The largest undead, two of the hugely flexible dragons, flowed into their shapes at either side of the car.

It did not matter that they did, Danby had time to get clear, it wasn't necessary to fight them. Brad Arnold, a last moment stand in for the fire control console, without consultation or instruction, in a panic pressed the safeties off. The sentry guns erupted and their explosive rounds spewed out. A claw, knocked free, was sent twirling along an opportunistic trajectory. Danby did not see it, did not avoid it, and it grazed her flank. The wound, excepting for the poison delivered, was a scratch. Also was it death.

Danby blinked, and a second time blinked as she realized a prophecy had been fulfilled. She was angry, sad, regretful, resigned. Strong hands pulled from above or pressed from below. She tumbled over the wall and onto the deck on the other side. Except for her untidy landing, and that she did not move after, no one would have thought her hurt.

Teal landed beside her. The defenders, of a sudden aware of the tragedy in their midst, gathered about the body as though about a mortally wounded, cherished commander. McKehan's sled arrived and the rescue ended. Danby stared at the stubbled chin of the big black marine. His tears impacted her cheeks. Her lungs were failing, her vision dimming.

"You made it," Teal gasped, brokenhearted.

Danby barely nodded. Equipment, bullets, bombs, blood, bone and flesh littered the battleground of an alien ship. All would be made right again before the next attempt.

"Where were you hit, marine?" Teal asked gently.

"You'll tell him," she whispered, "I loved him to the end."

"Hey, Danny Girl, don't go," Teal said softly as fresh tears rolled unabashedly down his cheeks. "You did okay." It may have been the last of all things she . . .

"We should blow every one of those motherfuckers straight to hell," growled Swan, the zoot posed as if staring into the black.

Please not. They've only ever done what they were supposed to do.

"This has turned into one truly fucked up day!"

#

Captain John Thorpe watched as Hyder Ali grew to immense size within the curve of viewport ahead of his chair. Beneath him glowed grey and brown planet. The yacht Zenith drifted to starboard and ahead. The cruiser filled the sky with its familiarity and assurances of strength and competence.

"I thought I'd find you here, Captain," called Parnell merrily.

"Mr. Parnell," Thorpe replied, feeling not at all cheery himself.

"I'll be leaving now," said the civilian. "Much to do," he added unnecessarily.

Thorpe nodded.

"I'll take good care of Richardson's niece." The CEO was taking Calvert along with him after all, along with Swan, Meagher and Teal as her guards, and her body in stasis. When she'd not responded after five days of cautious therapy, Gowan recommended it would be best to store her until she could be revived by specialists. Matthew Parnell had volunteered to take Calvert in his speedy Zenith to Orion Prime where such expert medical care was available.

"Safe journey," said Thorpe before resuming his appreciation of the view outside.

"Thanks, and to you too, John," replied the CEO. He left while yet in his cheery mood.

Thorpe waited to see the boat with Polyphemus' replacement crew start across from the Ali before going down to the infirmary. "You have the conn, Ensign," he said to McKehan along the way.

"I have the conn, aye, sir," the youth replied from her Nav Station seat.

Thorpe found Marco in that place where he'd sit and watch during his every off duty hour since leaving the planet. "I want your answer before I go across," Thorpe said gently. He'd waited long already to hear it.

"Yes, sir," said Marco, looking pale, thin, and wasted still. "I will."

A glad smile honoured his new lieutenant's reply. Walsh's death had been as losing a son. Here was his other son come home at last. "Good," said Thorpe, understanding why Marco made his choice and hoping that he should not regret it.

"I've a place within Ali for you," said Thorpe. Not Walsh's. Marco would take the place of the officer promoted to take Walsh's place.

"Thank you, sir, much obliged." The change in career path not what he'd planned for them, but it would do.

"We will see her taken across when you're ready," said Thorpe, trusting his man could carry on without what had happened destroying him.

Marco resumed his attention on the plain locker with the head of his beloved inside. Madcap Sandy Gowan had done it. Desperate measure, decapitation, before the poison could finish its work. As an officer Marco could better keep her safe until she could be returned in whatever form her resurrection might take. The rest of her, gone inanimate black putty, had been boxed and then shot with solemn ceremony into the system star.

#

The sky stayed overcast, in colour smoke-grey. The rain no longer a steady downpour but was delivered inside gusts of wind, as though selecting targets beforehand. The rollers, spawning out of deep ocean, had for a time threatened the tree line, but were less now. Where the waves had travelled furthest were shattered fronds, slanted trees or uprooted brush and the occasional dead fish.

Calvert squatted above the high water mark. She had taken off her boots and her service coverall was open to the navel. With her hair so tight to the scalp, her head appeared unnaturally small. Her body, owing to its emaciation, also small and childlike.

Beth approached from the direction of the hut, her legs from knees down bare. She wore trousers with the cuffs rolled up and an oversized muslin shirt. She didn't mind the pelting rain. Her saturated garments impeded her hardly at all. Once near enough her youthful ward, she stopped to stand, watch and wait.

Calvert rubbed her hand hard across her eyes, to clear away rain and tears. She stood. Although she did not look to make sure, she knew Beth had come. She pulled open the rest of the way the sodden coverall, forced it down, and tugged her legs free from the stubborn fabric with gasps and curses. In her underthings, she set off for the sea with running steps that the waves caught and turned sluggish. Each wave she met directly on, she laboured against their steadily increasing masses, but was as determined, as they were to stop her, to reach deep water.

"Hey!" called Beth.

One more step.

"Hey!" again.

"He didn't save me!" The next wave, largest of the current roster, would strike her at face level.

"You're not dead!"

"I'm not alive either!"

"Come in now, Juliana!" Only Tony called her 'Juliana'.

"Fuck it," Calvert said with intense feeling. She turned to take the big wave against her back, and gave up an undignified squawk as her legs were swept out from under.

I know you're hungry.

Calvert arrived to the shore in a sprawl where she was seized, hefted upright, and wrapped in a fierce hug. "What now?" she gasped tearfully against her friend's breast. Shivering flesh nestled against warmth and saturated cloth.

Elizabeth Danby took the face of her girl in her hands. She aimed features so that each saw the other directly on. The ex marine was neither sad nor angry any longer. That time and its reasons were over with. "We get you ready for the next part," she said resolutely.

The End

Thanks for downloading Metal Hearts and taking the time to read it. After many revisions over many years, I've decided this is its final form, the final edition. Not the end of the story, of course, only its beginning, notwithstanding a 250 000 + word count. What follows is the first chapter of the sequel entitled The Mercenaries. It relates what happens when the intrepid Julie Calvert and a new gang of thieves go after 'the type ( of artefact ) that's worth an empire to possess'. Comments are welcome. I may be contacted at darkegabriel@gmail.com .

The Mercenaries

by Gabriel Darke

Chapter One - A Change in Plans

The Jack of Hearts no help despite how well it complimented her other face up cards. Wheeler scanned her competitors' hands with a purposefully glum look. The only other card showing and valued higher than her Jack was the Queen of Diamonds. Its recipient, despite obtaining her services early on, had abdicated the betting, even after the ten of the same suit arrived and was slipped beneath the Queen to respect her better.

Every other face up card was a nine or less. False comfort to a marooned naval officer reduced to pin money to finance her day to day expenses with. Every player had two cards face down, 'in the hole', with which her opponents might produce some ruinous combinations.

Wheeler sucked in tobacco smoke. Her almond-flavoured cheroot courtesy of the civilian sitting across the table from her. The smoke coated the inside of her mouth before being expelled gangster fashion: lips ajar, nostrils flared, eyes narrowed, cheeks drawn in.

"A tenth," declared Engineer O'Shea, as the next to last distribution of cards delivered the Seven of Clubs to twin the Seven of Diamonds he already possessed. His token, denomination the lowest, yellow, skipped into the desultory heap centred on green cloth—the game as lacking in worth as in enthusiasm.

The suede jacket warming the back of O'Shea's chair backstopped a canary yellow polo shirt, top buttons undone. Features rugged and stubby were moustached and topped with curly brown hair. Bushy brows, snub nose, mildly protuberant lips. Age a cosy late thirties.

The civilian, whose name was Shore, a man in his late sixties, followed the bet. The tenth of a credit hazarded would not be missed by the many tokens in the neat stacks piled between his elbows. Dove grey suit, red tie, crisp white shirt by now a mite melted. Jet black hair, lustreless pale blue eyes, dimpled chin. Shore cared more about winning than competition, socializing or even money. His mood was continuously sour, at times passing into surly. When he won he neither gloated nor grumbled. Rather he exhibited a grim satisfaction.

The Queen, insulted by the Three of Clubs landing on her crown, was quietly put on her face by the other engineer. Grandfather frumpy in plaid shirt and denims. Wrinkled face, lump of a nose, white hair. Embers was one hundred and seven years old. His associate O'Shea, two seats away, sniffed significantly.

Wheeler's turn arrived to either follow or fold. A slender, dark-haired, thirty-seven year old in plain blue uniform. Her hole cards were the Five of Diamonds and Two of Clubs. The aforementioned Jack along with her Two of Spades, Five of Clubs and Three of Diamonds were nothing to be proud of—her paired twos easily done in by O'Shea's paired sevens. The Jack with promise now that the Queen had retired however.

One more card was to come. With the betting so low, a player of modest means could afford to stay in, even should consequences be bad. "See you." Wheeler added her token. Should it and the others hazarded be lost, a dozen siblings were in the tumbled pile before her seat. Two others, red, she'd squirrelled away into a trouser pocket.

"See and raise four." The fifth player was a politico with a title as long as her arm: Assistant to the Chairman of the Naval and Civilian Joint Committee for the Overview of Colonial Development and Economic Policy, Capri System. The right honourable Darcy Edmund Thackery Collingwood.

Collingwood was in his late twenties. An excess of amber-blond hair was tucked inside a thumb-sized onyx clasp. Hook nose, ice blue eyes, flawless complexion. His trim, athletic figure and Nordic good looks had the power to appeal to either sex.

Collinwood's features had stayed clean thanks to the competent depilatory he'd used the day before. Both engineers had started scruffy. Shore's lower face was blue and spotted.

A suit of pale green silk draped the bureaucrat. One of the two rings he wore had on its face a cross of diamonds. The other was a naval academy ring with graduation date fifteen years past Wheeler's. Early on Collingwood confessed a single tour of duty. A tidy service record was a prerequisite for a career in the Colonial Bureau.

Plenty of well to do kids dabbled with naval duty until the careers they felt better suited for came along. Instructing youthful dilettantes in the basics of navigation, command and combat had often been a waste of Lt. Cmdr. Catherine Wheeler's time.

O'Shea and Shore followed the raise, as did Wheeler, despite that to lose this game would end her night's entertainment. A last card was doled out by Shore, and the four remaining contenders contemplated whether to hazard even more or fold.

"Two," declared O'Shea and tossed a blue token in. Shore stoically followed. As a seeming afterthought, the civilian adjusted his wager, saying: "Plus two."

Wheeler sensed neither was enriched by their last card and played to form because they could. The wagering threatened to pass beyond her means to follow. The tokens banked in her pocket were for the entertainment she now and then treated herself to while waiting for her ride. "See you," she said and tossed in her tokens as if their risk was trivial. She had not laboured through a mediocre hand and dull play to succumb to faintness of heart when courage was called for.

"Four to me." Collingwood dropped two blue tokens in. Looking Wheeler squarely in the face, he continued: "And five more." A green token represented the five.

Wheeler sucked in her cheeks. Collingwood's face up cards portended a flush, in diamonds. She wasn't about to cave in to what was likely a bluff. A prize arrived to a condition of respectability must not be let to be won by junk.

"Fold," went O'Shea, flipping over his cards.

"See you and . . ." Shore mulled over options long enough to annoy at least one of his spectators, "raise five."

A full ten credits Wheeler's way. One red was drawn out and tossed.

"Five to me," Collingwood declared, taking up a green token. Another calculating look sent the Commander's way. A tap of the green on a red stack. Two tokens went in instead of one. Green and red. "Plus ten."

Shore reacted as would a mouse startled by a suspicious movement in a clump of grass. He drew each hole card by turns to the edge of the table to peek at, next all three together. He pursed his lips, gazed at the bureaucrat's cards, next at Wheeler's. The single red token she'd hoped for was dropped in.

Wheeler drew in a gulp of smoke while fishing the last of her casual wealth out of her pocket. Another gangster exhale pursued the token on the way to a landing.

Collingwood turned over his cards. No flush. Two pairs. Queens and nines. Shore blinked, muttered a curse, and put away his cards.

Wheeler revealed her Two of Clubs, the hidden part of the pair she at no time was proud of. Next the last card received. Two of Diamonds. Three of kind bested two pair, no matter how pretty or powerful the pairs. Collingwood inclined his head in defeat. He smiled ingratiatingly as she gathered her winnings before taking a sip of wine from the glass by his elbow.

Wheeler returned the two reds plus one to her pocket, and made a modest construction with the rest. When done, what she displayed was still nothing much compared to what were arrayed against her.

"Well played, Commander," Shore said dryly. He'd been reluctant to permit her a seat at the table. By looks, comments, and body language since he'd exhibited lingering resentment. The rest played conservatively to respect her poverty, was his reason. Yet he'd not taken advantage of opportunities when he might have paupered her out of the game.

"Thank you, sir," Wheeler said demurely and exchanged glances with O'Shea, who appeared glad for the improvement in her fortunes. Her look neither conspiratorial nor flirtatious, merely friendly. After a fifth session of managing youngsters half her age, she was glad for mature company.

O'Shea kept grinning as he shook his head. "Thought for sure you had the flush, Mr. C. Still you had me beat for sure. Commander, that last card must have done the trick for you."

"It did," Wheeler replied. A prim smile took in the compliment while she examined her down cards. Junk again. A heartfelt sigh was firmly clamped before it could manifest.

"A well played hand," commented Shore, sucking in his cheeks before letting out the smoke inside them. Saying so, he seemed to imply he was owed a part of the credit for her success.

Her first face-up card paired nicely with one of her hole cards and Wheeler wriggled in her seat to ease the tension building in the small of her back. Perhaps not such junk after all.

"What ship is it you have orders for, Lieutenant Commander?" Collingwood asked in an offhand manner.

"Nassau," was followed by a sip of the neat whiskey O'Shea had given her.

"Your transport arrives when?"

"Two weeks." She was being allotted a berth in a courier. The accommodations so cramped she would employ them only to sleep in. Her anticipatory sigh elicited sympathetic murmurs from the engineers, who must have had similar experiences of their own.

"A necessity of the service," Collingwood said with the air of yet another space traveller who'd suffered a plain berth and a long journey. He led the betting with two credits. "You've been planetside some time already?"

"Four weeks." Four plus two weeks more was an inordinate amount of time to wait for a ride, yet Wheeler had learned patience early on and so did not indulge in complaint.

All players followed the initial bet with no raises. Wheeler's next face up card was an ace. Its power entitled her to set the pace for the next round of bets, leading off with two credits.

"Your previous posting was in a frigate?" Collingwood saw her two and then raised the betting by another two. He'd the King and Queen of Spades he was proud of.

"ISS Cassius . . . training vessel." Her pause was due to a look out the window. The Sparrow Club games room was soft lighting, dark panelling, cosy mud-brown leather chairs, and pale blue plush carpeting. 3D wall decorations depicted jungles and grasslands and the large animals that inhabited them. Red-felted billiards tables and green-felted card tables. Cosy padded seats. The ground-based military complex, Planet Cimarron, Capri System, whose inky landscape she saw out the window, was the primary avionics and technical training campus for Frontier Fleet.

Twenty square kilometres of lecture halls, labs, dormitories and simulation theatres with attached marine base. The planet's primary defence structures were three massive missile platforms inside asteroid-forts sized in the hundred kilometre plus diameter range. Capri System's manufacturing facilities, set about its fifth and sixth planets, both gas giants, turned out ships' missiles by the gross besides minor space craft, including latest edition starfighters.

"Crewed by cadets."

"Yes, sir." The majority of her students came from the prestigious Old Boston and Annapolis Academies, receiving her instruction after ten or more months travelled in suspension.

Wheeler had been a popular fixture in Cassius owing to her war hero and Fleet Medal of Honour status.

In the midst of the current game's third round Embers folded as Wheeler's third face up card was an ace. Shore and O'Shea followed his example. Collingwood welcomed the twin for his king and seemed unintimidated by the power displayed on the other side of the table. The fourth up-card did nothing for either player. Wheeler bet ten credits to honour the strength of her cards. Her bet seen and not raised. After examining his last card, delivered face down, Collingwood buried the rest, conceding the game to the naval officer. Wheeler let go her relief in a little gasp, which she capped with another modest smile. Two red tokens to the pocket bank. Neat towers constructed with the rest.

"That's two in a row, Wheeler," Shore grumbled. He'd not paid near as much as Collingwood had to better her position. Wheeler offered neither protest nor excuse. She'd no control over the cards dropped before her seat.

The next three games saw her dropping out when her developing hands showed little promise. Embers won the next round with three aces despite he flirted with folding throughout the play. The betting, owing to the power displayed was slight. Wheeler had again dropped out early.

"A good hand," Collingwood commented dryly after the Embers game ended, intimating that had he Embers' cards it would have played better.

The deck returned to Shore, who declared a game in which highest and lowest hands split the pot. All players stayed in, Wheeler and Collingwood winning. Her part over one hundred credits. "Fortune seems to have smiled on you, Commander," Collingwood remarked affably as they matched tokens while splitting the pot. Wheeler had won low while for Collingwood the difference between her Two of Diamonds to his Three of Spades had kept him from winning both ends of the play.

"And on you, sir." Collingwood had regained all he had lost in earlier rounds, thanks to the ignorant play of Embers and Shore.

The next game accumulated an even larger pot that O'Shea outlasted Collingwood and Shore to win. Wheeler had stayed in too long, dropping out only after the final distribution of cards. She regarded the diminishment of her fortune with constrained anxiety, having lost near all she had won except for the money sent to her pocket.

When it was her turn to deal Wheeler named a conservative game, which she narrowly won, recovering fifty of four hundred lost in the previous game. Collingwood initiated another split winnings game which Wheeler and O'Shea won. Wheeler dropped out early in the next game and won small after.

Draw poker next. The betting frantic with everyone staying in to the last draw. Wheeler fanned her hand, and looked to O'Shea whose turn it was to lead off the betting. "Fifty," he said and five red tokens made their splash. Six hundred credits enriched the play already—a fortune to a naval officer of modest means waiting for her ride.

Shore studied how the other players held their cards as if he might predict an outcome through a divination. "Your fifty and fifty more."

Wheeler drew the last puff from her cheroot before stubbing it out. Shore not likely to renew the gift of tobacco.

"See and raise fifty," Embers announced. Had any other player made that bet she would have folded and left the table right after. Instead Wheeler followed, but she did not raise.

"One hundred fifty to me," said Collingwood, putting up his brow at Wheeler. "And one hundred more." The naval officer twitched, one hand over the bulge in her pocket.

"Two hundred to me," O'Shea said, squinted at his cards, and set them face down. His sidelong, gone spectator, look he put on Shore.

"Humph!" was the businessman's comment. He pushed fifteen red tokens to the centre, creating an enormous wealth from Wheeler's perspective, and added another ten.

"Whazzit to me?" Embers asked.

"Two hundred," O'Shea translated.

"A whole two hundred to me?"

"Yup," O'Shea confirmed.

"Oh, boy . . ." Embers fanned his cards, ditched them, held them back up, gazed long and hard, ditched them again, opened and closed their fan, near set them down again, and then took two stacks of reds from his diminished hoard and with trembling hands pushed the tokens to the centre of the table.

Wheeler knew that what she needed from her table and pocket stakes to follow the wagering was considerable. When she was finished less than twenty credits tenanted the table, and nothing in her pocket.

Collingwood matched the bet and raised another two hundred credits. Shore matched the bet but did not raise.

Embers looked at his cards, at the backs of his opponents' cards, at the heap in the centre of the table, at his cards again. He sighed, appeared about to say something, sighed again. When he had not committed himself a minute later his friend O'Shea cried, "Ferchrissakes, Mike, pay up or fold!"

"I'm thinking, goddamn it."

"Either you're in or you're out," Shore grumbled.

"I'm in," Embers muttered, his expression half and half misery and hope, and cast in his tokens.

"I don't have enough," Wheeler announced quietly.

"Do you wish to play the hand?" Collingwood asked.

Collingwood resembled a cadet she remembered from the training cruise before last. Relation, Wheeler thought. That youngster had stepped right into a prestige post every bit as lucrative as Collingwood enjoyed. "Yes, I do."

Collingwood pushed two piles of red tokens to her elbow.

"Sir, I have no collateral."

"I'll trust you for it."

She set the tokens next to the accumulated wagers.

"Flush!" Shore announced triumphantly, laying down his hand, cards all of a suit though in a spaced order.

"Full house, aces over tens," Embers responded, chuckling with relief.

Wheeler, gazing at Collingwood, revealed her cards. "Straight flush to the king," she announced quietly.

Collingwood nodded and discarded his own cards without revealing them.

Wheeler gasped softly, restraint admirable despite how close she'd come to financial ruin, and pulled in her winnings. Embers muttered to himself. Shore went very dark in the face.

"Gentlemen," announced Collingwood as he pushed himself to his feet. He bowed to Wheeler, "and lady, a pleasure. I believe I will call it a night. Shore, I look forward to the conclusion of our dealings. Commander Wheeler," He took her hand to squeeze, "may you make your way from here and nothing but good things encounter you."

"Your money, sir," she reminded him while sensing a double meaning in his farewell.

"Of course," said he and accepted the tokens she gave, dropping them into his pockets with little concern. "Such a clumsy system. Paper script would be so much easier to deal with." Paper money, no matter how intricately devised, always could be counterfeited.

"I believe I've had enough too," announced Embers and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. "Will you be coming along, Davey?"

O'Shea directed a gaze Wheeler's way. "In a minute, Mike. Your game, Commander."

"Showdown for five hundred credits," Shore declared angrily.

Collingwood and Embers, despite they were poised to leave, stayed by their chairs.

"Come then, Wheeler," Shore sneered. "Five hundred credits. Certainly you can afford it now—after all the cash you've taken off Embers, Collingwood and me. What do you say?"

O'Shea shook his head. "Count me out, Shore."

"It's not you I'm asking. Five hundred, Wheeler. You got the guts?"

Catherine Wheeler was measuring her loot by the way it felt between her hands. "Very good, sir," she heard herself say and with jaw set added, "Mr. O'Shea, if you would be so kind as to shuffle and deal the cards?"

Shore drew a fresh cheroot from inside his jacket and lit it.

While O'Shea shuffled the cards the players measured and matched wagers. Collingwood and Embers, spectators, resumed their seats. O'Shea offered the deck to Shore to cut, next to Wheeler to do the same, and dealt first cards.

Wheeler a ten. Shore a seven.

Wheeler a six. Shore another seven. Shore grinned and puffed his cigar extravagantly.

O'Shea dealt Wheeler a three. Shore a king. Wheeler gazed at the fortune in the centre of the table, and reminded herself, without looking, of the ample wealth she'd kept and would take away. She would live with the consequences if they be bad, and regret them only a little.

O'Shea dealt Wheeler a second six. Shore a second king. O'Shea gazed at her sympathetically, his thumb caressed the last card she would receive. A six.

"Son of a bitch," Embers muttered. O'Shea dealt Shore his last card. An ace.

"Fuck," said Shore with extreme coarseness.

#

"S'fine," a happily inebriated Catherine Wheeler pronounced an hour later, crowning her comment with an undignified giggle. She'd had too much to drink, yet it did not matter for she had no duty in a morning less than two hours away. She had been entitled to indulge herself owing to the skill and fortitude she'd displayed while amassing a fortune recently disposed of. Three fourths of her winnings had gone home. The one fourth kept was set aside was for a new dress uniform, shoes to match, and contingencies, including two weeks of entertainment.

David O'Shea leaned them at the door and, precariously off balance, pressed his palm to the lock plate. "Sus-sus-silly!" Wheeler hissed, patting his shoulder several times fast. "My door, my door."

The Fourth Floor of the Female Officer's Dormitory their location. Wheeler, owing to rank and privilege, rated a room with two beds and attached bath rather than one with four bunks and a share of communal facilities. During her first week, the Commander had shared her accommodations with another mid-ranking female, who had since gone to stay in the town, and there'd been no replacement.

Wheeler concentrated on the lock, her hand wavering as if reluctant to follow her command. She giggled once more. "Too many of 'em."

"You're drunk," O'Shea announced merrily and helped her wrist with a gentle pressure.

"No-o-o, I'm not—maybe a little."

With O'Shea's help, palm met pad. The door opened and they stumbled in. "Thanks." A lazy upward flip of one hand joined the other in a palm-to-wrist grip to drape his neck with. They kissed, and drew apart to view and appreciate the result. "You wanna stay?"

O'Shea took in two beds with his next glance. "Your roommate won't mind?"

"What roommate?"

"You mean . . ."

She shook her head 'no'.

"Lieutenant Commander Catherine Wheeler?" They'd neglected to close the door. A naval officer, silhouetted by hall lighting, stood within the opening. Behind him was a marine in undress olive green.

"Whah? What is it?" Wheeler asked as she broke her comfy embrace with Davey O'Shea while desperately ordering a muddled mind. She had broken no rule nor regulation she could think of. Being tipsy while off duty was in no way a punishable offence.

"My apologies for the hour, Lieutenant Commander," the officer said, putting up his salute. "Lieutenant Anders Beaufort, sir, at your service. I have been instructed to bring you to an interview with Admiral Crane."

Beaufort looked a typical admin staffer, but who was Crane? Admiral Jeffrey L. Martinsen was C-in-C Star Base Cimarron Terrestrial. Rear Admiral Hal C. Umbers was Director of Personnel dirtside and had indirect authority over her, including the privilege of overview of any activity she might indulge in. Beaufort tilted his head to the side, his slightly off kilter gazing taking in Wheeler and O'Shea, their proximity, and what their intentions might have been, but appeared neither to approve nor condemn.

David O'Shea squeezed her hand in farewell. "I guess I better leave you to . . ." He jerked his thumb in the direction of a full-stop interruption.

"Yeah, sorry, Davey." Wheeler felt sick to her stomach. While O'Shea beat a hasty retreat, she was asking, "What's this about?"

"Admiral Crane has requested your attendance for an interview," Beaufort repeated.

"I need to—give me couple minutes." She was going to be sick and came into the attached bath barely in time to avoid a splash that passed with amazing ease stomach to toilet bowl. Not a good start. "Oh, bother." Wipe mouth with back of hand. Most of her overindulgence in pretzels, beer and whiskey floated unpalatably before her eyes. She dropped the lid, flushed, and pushed her trembling self up. The aftermath of a fabulous win and its consequence she regretted only because Beaufort with his unexpected warning of an abrupt appearance before an unknown admiral with unknown intentions had upset her digestion. She wouldn't have drunk so much nor eaten so much if she'd known a flag flunky would pounce on her before her night of fun could be finished.

A glass of water and aftereffects pill, from a bottle a thoughtful former resident had left in the cabinet above the sink, was followed by another glass of water which she forced down while seated on the toilet, its cover down. Supporting her head in her hands, she waited to see was she going to be sick again and was relieved when she wasn't.

Stand, turn, brush teeth, apply mouthwash, gargle, swirl and spit. Another glass of water she managed to drink the top half of while staring at her reflection and wondering whether it was possible to repair anything about her appearance and knowing, that aside from a quick brush, she'd time for nothing more. One kept an admiral waiting at one's peril, she knew without ever having read or heard the rule spoken out loud. By her reckoning she'd delayed their meeting ten minutes already.

The lieutenant got up from the only chair in her reception space when she reentered it. The marine waited not in the hallway, but within the room in front of a door now closed. His uniform told Wheeler he belonged to the regular watch detail. He was as normal in his appearance as Beaufort was in his. Neither man extraordinary or threatening, yet there was something peculiar about the pair. The clarion ringing in her head, however, contained nothing she might decipher with certainty. She didn't want to go with them, but hadn't the option not to.

An air car waited on the asphalt in front of the dormitory. A glow on the horizon, presaging the start of the new day, the nearest lights overwhelmed. Another marine stood before the car and triggered the hatch to open at her approach.

The street was deserted, Wheeler noted with disquiet. People were made to disappear in circumstances such as these, never to be heard from again. "After you, Lieutenant Commander," invited Beaufort.

Wheeler hesitated. If there was to be a last opportunity to change her mind, demur, run, then this was it.

"Sir?"

Taking a breath to hold, she entered the vehicle. The conveyance was ordinary and supplied with basic power plant, seats and fittings. After rising into the dim, cool, moist predawn air, it sped east. Wheeler swallowed against residual nausea and unease, and willed both into a corner, into a case, with a lid she could lock. She had been caught unawares, unprepared and unwilling, but she would have to bury all that. Whatever the unknown admiral had to tell her was important or she wouldn't be on her way to see him. The aftereffects pill gave her a headache or her hangover had beaten the drug. Stoically she suffered in silence. The pill contained a late-acting analgesic tailored to counter headaches.

They did not fly southwest to the Rotunda in which was Naval Headquarters Cimarron Terrestrial as she'd anticipated, but to the suburb where high rankers domiciled. The lights of the sprawling campus receded behind them. Beneath were domestic roads, floating street lamps and large houses. A hill on the right boasted a Spanish mansion adored by its exterior lighting, skirt of wall, and mature oaks, but they did not go there although it seemed they might.

On another hill was another walled-in estate, the property less grand than the Spaniard and carpeted with sumptuous grass, mature elms and occasional statuary. A horseshoe drive. Three stories of house. Wheeler glimpsed water shimmer as the car coasted to a landing.

What she'd seen, she liked. Even she could imagine, owing to her recent acquired fortune, living in such a place.

The trip had lasted five minutes. The passengers exited—a lieutenant commander with no authority over anything other than herself must, by logic, exit last. Wheeler, feeling more shanghaied than asked for, hung back until Beaumont looked in at her, no part of her cosy inebriation left, only cold, hard worry.

"Sir?" he queried what had to be a second time.

"Right," said Wheeler and thrust herself up. The path was crushed rock with a pebble texture cemented together. Basalt slabs in concentric arcs made the one-two-three step to an oak-slab door with brass fittings. The door swung in at their approach. Beaufort hung back to allow her to be first in. A new day would start in an hour. Many potted plants added colour, scent and life to the interior of the house. At her back three stories of windows had curtains rather than blinds. The interior walls were mint and cream. The inside was cool and moist. Cimarron winters could be extreme.

"Commander Wheeler, your cap?" A butler stood before her. Most house servants were artificial. His/its looks seemed of a pattern. She surrendered her cap—should she keep it she'd worry over what her nervous fingers might do. After her motion resumed Wheeler became aware of her smoke and whiskey aroma. If she'd allowed herself another five minutes, she would have donned a fresh uniform.

"This way, Commander," invited Beaufort. The foyer, being so large, must double as a space for leisure. She would have liked to lounge here on a summer's day, windows at full permeability, book in hand, lightly dressed.

Could she be comfortable in such a house? She could admire high ceilings, bright surfaces and inspirational art, but a lifetime of stinting would keep her from experiencing better than a casual joy in so grand a space. With an inward shrug, she came, after a mildly circuitous way into a room remarkable for being unremarkable, and was left alone.

"Have a seat, Commander. I'll be with you shortly." The invitation seemed to come from inside the room which was unoccupied except for herself. No windows, and only one door. Oak panelling, a ceiling with painted-on fixture casting a diffuse light, pale carpeting of good quality. Table and two chairs, sturdy, yet out of place inside a room skinned so elegantly. No pictures on the walls, no plants, no statuary. Nothing on the table. No notepad, pens, pencils, folders, flimsies and no inlaid screen.

"Admiral Crane?" she asked, glancing sideways.

"I'll be right there. Do sit down." He had to be watching if he knew she remained standing. She supposed he was with others, whom she wouldn't try to imagine for appearances, purposes or personalities, otherwise her speculation and suspicion would fill her with unhelpful doubt. She sat, choosing the chair with its back to the door. Had she not been expecting an admiral she would rather have taken the other chair.

The sound of his approach did not reach her until several minutes later. Wheeler stood to attention when she judged the great man about to enter the room. He brought himself to a stop ahead of her. They were near the same height or the admiral was a tad shorter. He was younger than she by five years or more, and his dark blond hair was trimmed neat and short.

She'd the impression of a soft-spoken disciplinarian who liked being liked. She wouldn't trust his smile, because it touched his eyes but did not enliven them. His handshake was dry and smooth. Her own hand felt rougher during the contact. He'd blue eyes and a snub nose, a face square rather than wedge, a firm chin and a well tuned body.

"I'm so pleased we've finally met," Crane said while still holding her hand. "It's not every day I have the privilege of hosting a Medal of Honour recipient."

"Thank you, sir," replied Wheeler quietly. She'd long since reconciled with her heroic stature; its mention no longer made her blush. He'd campaign ribbons she strove to identify. Charybdis Corridor and Bola Noy. What was Bola Noy? A skirmish, not a battle. The brass picked up ribbons for merely passing through combat zones. Yet he'd a ribbon for valour. Green with a narrow silver stripe next to a gold one. The silver was bravery under fire, and the gold said he'd distinguished himself. Her FMH was pale sky blue with a chevron next to a circlet of stars, all gold. She had also her Carlsbad System campaign ribbon, red with gold sunburst, her blue and silver aviator's ribbon, Cassius red with a tiny five star formation in silver surrounding the digits 376 and Tiger black with two bars yellow then eight stars surrounding the digits 1077.

"Sit, sit," he invited, going to the chair on the other side of the table. "Of course, you'd like to know what this is all about?"

"Yes, sir, I would," replied Wheeler, near to gasping.

"I've bad news to start with. I regret to inform you that your assignment aboard Nassau has been cancelled." He'd watched her as he spoke. If she'd been able to think clearly, she might have provided him with a better reaction. As soon as she heard that her wished for assignment had been cancelled, her mind refused to operate in any manner that resembled coherent thought.

"Cancelled?" she managed, her reply like frogs croaking. She didn't believe it. Nassau was a sure thing. Reward for fifteen years of dedicated service. It wasn't right she was not to be rewarded. It wasn't fair.

"You've a new assignment, one better."

Wheeler straightened in her chair. She'd been about to impart stridency to the very next word out of her mouth. Crane was looking at her keenly, gauging her emotional state by her reactions, which she was painfully aware she'd exhibited too many of already. "What might that be, sir?"

"Ah, yes . . . wait here a moment, won't you?" He was out of the room before she could protest. Nassau's newly cancelled Tactics Third officer frowned darkly at the table top that even the muted lighting could not keep from shining. What had winning the FMH ever done for her, other than keep her in the same job for a decade? But had she cause for complaint when so many other, capable and equally deserving officers languished on half pay? The Imperial Navy was a club that anyone qualified could join, yet not everyone was allowed to enjoy its benefits. That men like Crane, from wealthy families, his connections so high she could only imagine them, should achieve the rank of Admiral far before she, a person who'd experienced combat and lived and worked in warships half her life and who had last seen promotion five years ago, no fairness was in it.

If Crane had been the exception rather than the rule, she'd be far less likely to protest. Her type rarely rose beyond the rank of Commander. The number of working class captains in the Imperial Navy numbered less than ten, and not one commanded a ship larger than a cruiser. The practise of preference had not been so widespread during the war, when abuses had seemed to be remedied. After the peace, a bad practise had been resurrected and a great many capable lower class men and women had gotten cast aside in favor of the privileged classes again.

"Here you are," said Crane, settling in her hand one of two folders so haphazardly that if she'd been anymore distracted its contents would have spilled. "The mission is straightforward. You're to proceed to the planet identified by the coordinates which will be given in your orders, pick up a cargo there, and transport it to another location." Because Crane remained in the room, and she was obliged to continue to respect him as a superior officer, she might only overview the images in the proffered folder for now.

"Sir?" She could hardly believe her ears and now her eyes. She'd been torn from a solid berth in a man of war to pilot a dick transport A to B to C?

"You have right of refusal, of course," said Crane, perched on the table and looking inverted onto her pages. "However, should you decline, all that you've been shown will have to be kept secret. You may not disclose any part of what we've discussed to anyone under penalty of forfeiture of rank and position, and even there is a possibility of imprisonment."

Wheeler wondered what could be the nature of the cargo she'd been picked to handle that her freedom of a sudden hinged upon. "If my position aboard Nassau has been cancelled, what might I expect should I turn this job down?" She looked up in time to note the queer look her question caused an Admiral to make.

"Well, wuh—I hardly expect you to refuse."

"Will I be given an equivalent position aboard another ship?"

"I cannot foresee an equivalent position coming free any time in the near future." This she'd expected to hear. She'd reckoned the same thing back when she'd been happy with the turn her fortunes had made, and not very likely the alternative now confronting her.

"Do I have time to consider my choice?" A choice which was no choice. Cargo jockey or nothing.

"I'm afraid not." She wished he would sit properly. Perching so close to her was irregular behaviour in a superior officer who had been until minutes ago an absolute stranger. She wondered if he meant to coax acquiescence with proximity. Was his leaning over her a substitute for the lack of a relationship between them? "We need your decision tonight."

This morning, you mean. "What are the assets I would command?" she heard herself ask. Stalling, she realized, and cursed inwardly therefore.

"Persephone, transport, and her crew of course."

"There are no other items involved in the mission? My mission is a simple transport solution?"

"No and yes."

She had in her lap a few pages with the identification, specifications, and general description of a starship, but curiously no images or diagrams, not even the standard six of flanks, bow, up, down and stern. "Could you be more forthcoming, sir?"

"I'm afraid not. You will be under my command. As such you will answer to me."

"This is a covert mission," she said.

"It is a sanctioned naval expedition. You need have no worries on that score."

She was the right kind of officer routinely recruited for capers, she realized. An officer with few connections, competent and loyal, and anxious to advance her career. She'd have a better than average chance for distinction and promotion, provided she be successful. The results of the mission would never go past the highest circles of the Admiralty. All that had come before, including the parts that were strange, along with Crane's earnest and uncompromising approach, and the crush of time, were good causes for second thoughts.

Something was not right about the offer, she'd been given insufficient details, and she had to trust a man she'd never heard of with her career, future and perhaps life. Yet her other option was no ship and half pay, her splendid winnings eked out to the decicred while she embraced a miser's lifestyle. She'd hoped for much on account of her recent good fortune. "Very well," she heard herself say.

"Excellent!" Crane beamed at her. "You'll leave at once."

"I beg your pardon?" gargled the startled officer as Crane deposited a second folder into her lap. Her official orders, sealed, and coated in the right places with appropriate marks of authenticity. Before she could finish reading the cover note, instructing the recipient to proceed at once to take command of ISS Persephone, and to break the cover seal only after having been sworn in aboard that ship, Crane had her on her feet.

"Beaufort, the Commander requires a ride to the launch zone," said Crane to the lieutenant in the next room. To Wheeler, "Congratulations, Commander, you won't regret your decision. Allow me to wish you a safe journey and a successful mission."

"Er, thank you, sir," Wheeler replied as he applied a confident pressure to their handshake while she gave back as much as a distracted mind was capable of. She was given back her cap, whisked through the house, and marched out to and into the waiting car. "I need to return to my apartment to gather my things," she said upon being seated.

"No need, Commander, your things have been removed and are waiting at the space port," replied Beaufort, who chose the seat next to hers to occupy.

"I beg your pardon?" Wheeler replied crossly.

"As per the Admiral's instructions, sir."

"When did this happen?"

"After we picked you up, sir. A team arrived to pack up and remove your things."

"Damn . . ."

"I was given to understand extreme haste was required. I apologize if you've been inconvenienced."

"It's not your responsibility to apologize, now is it?" Wheeler replied sharply. "Am I assured no part of my gear was left behind?" She'd an image of anonymous hands heaping her underwear and toiletries into her space chest before her mind's eye.

"Absolutely, sir. All was accounted for, you can be sure."

"Hum-m-m," was returned inside a scowl.

"Your transport voucher," Beaumont said and gave her the plastic chit which would see her into orbit, which she put into a pocket. Again were her thoughts disturbed. How she was being treated was not how things were done in the Imperial Navy. Hurry even during wartime was not usual. Deliberate preparation, months to reach the battle zone, detailed plans of action, coordinated attacks. What had happened this morning nothing like what she was used to. Yet consolation was in knowing she travelled to meet her new command—a measly transport. She felt far better suited to a frigate, like the one that had been her life for the past decade.

They arrived to the landing zone after gliding past automated watchtowers and sweeping lights. In front of hangers squatted medium sized ground to orbit transports. A lone small jumper stood engines hot over a faded white square. A single person stood before the transport: young, dark-haired, earnest looking.

"Lieutenant Commander Wheeler?" he queried as soon as she dismounted from the car, folders in hand.

"That's me," she said while throwing up her salute in answer to his.

"Ensign Jeff Brady, Persephone. This is your ride, sir."

"Very well. Lead on, Ensign Jeff Brady." The transport was a six seater, including pilot and copilot seats. The barest ride she could have been provided with. A single pilot occupied the cockpit, who, being outside of it, grinned and nodded as she climbed in before resuming his place forward. "I have to don my skin suit," said Wheeler, stating the obvious after noticing her trunk strapped in the rear of the passenger compartment.

"Ah, yes, sir," said Brady and backed out through the hatch and onto the tarmac.

"Welcome aboard, Commander," Wheeler heard as she unfastened the top of her tunic.

"Thank you." The straps securing her chest to the deck must have been cinched by a marine twice her size and three times her strength. She struggled to loosen them.

"I'm Pilot Tech Ione, sir."

His name sounded familiar. She was uncomfortably aware that her struggle with the straps was taking an inordinate time to finish. "Good morning to you, Pilot Tech Ione," she replied as she lifted the lid and noted the neat disposition of her things inside. She could not have packed them better.

"I was a flight crew tech aboard Tiger."

"Yes, I remember," said Wheeler after a pause. She had peeled out of everything by then. Nude, she was rolling up the slippery fabric of her skin suit to step into, long practise made drawing the protective cover up and over easy, and even the plumbing insertion was accomplished with only minor discomfort. Her body long and lean even as she stood on the threshold of middle age. If there'd been more time, she would have selected a coverall to slip over the 'skin'. Rather than keep the three of them grounded a moment longer than they needed to be, she put back on the smoke scented garment she'd worn better than eighteen hours straight.

"A pleasure having you aboard, sir."

"Thank you, Pilot Tech Ione." She resealed the front of her tunic. Next she called on the Ensign to enter. The pair strapped themselves in. Wheeler recalled the last time she'd ridden in an orbit jumper, and was concerned for the tender condition of her insides—dry, empty and apt to clench.

"Begging yer pardon, sir, but you've something for me," Ione said.

"Yes." The transportation chit. She'd secured loose objects—key card to her apartment, which she would give to Ione to return, cash card with ten credit balance she'd made for herself after banking the rest of her winnings, the folders Crane had given her, and the chit—into a pouch attached to the bulkhead next to her. A moment of fishing within the sack produced chit and door card. Both were inserted into a slot ahead of her seat.

"Thank you, sir. Couldn't launch without it." She'd ought to have dealt with the matter of the chit right away. Her thinking still foggy.

Whump! The jolt not unexpected. Wheeler had clenched her teeth at the moment of launch and forced herself to unclench them. The long rumbling, thumping, guts-shaking climb pushed the contents of her stomach high enough she appreciated their sourness, discomfort suffered without complaint. In the seat across from hers Brady appeared in tune with the rumble and vibration. Even were his eyes closed.

Inevitably the jarring lessened, became trembling, and then nothing. The shuttle passed from atmosphere into vacuum. Wheeler's stomach settled and began to feel normal. Cimarron Star Base Orbital grew within her viewport. Built into a spherical asteroid five hundred kilometres in diameter, glowing in hundreds of places, inside a swarm of sentry buoys, it hovered behind the protective arc of three Monolith class missile forts. Despite her conveyance was the better part of an hour from the port she could see into its harbour and at the handful of ships parked there.

Rear Admiral Arthur Cullum Daigleish was Commander Cimarron Orbital. His flagship, the Sulla, heavy cruiser, was the most powerful vessel within the anchorage. Also were a frigate, two commercial freighters, and a small passenger liner. An inbound courier—not the one she waited for—made flaring in her view's upper right. No military transport could she see, nor any ship that might be mistaken for one.

"We're not in the harbour, sir," Brady explained.

She'd been focussed on the port—structures, ships and the base itself. The jumper flew on a course away from all that, she realized.

"There she is, sir," called Ione.

"Persephone." Brady rapped on his porthole. Small jump shuttles had no artificial gravity. If she released for a look while Ione was in the midst of manoeuvres, she'd be likely to plaster herself against ceiling or bulkhead. She had to wait until the shuttle brought them to the ship, which it did in short order, before unfastening herself.

"You can release from restraints now," Ione announced.

After freeing herself, Wheeler drifted to Brady's side of the cabin, peered out, and saw a section of fuselage with an entry hatch. No boat bay. Montana class super-transports had extensive boat bays. Persephone was too small for one, being between forty and fifty thousand tonnes in mass. Ione appeared within the dividing hatchway, his body not quite floating owing to the toe strap he'd notched a foot into. "Sir, would you like a look before going aboard?"

Wheeler needed no time to decide. "I'd like that very much, Pilot Tech."

"Aye, sir," said Ione, grinning, and resumed his cockpit. Wheeler followed, strapping herself into the copilot couch. "She's old, that's for sure," Ione said as he set them on an elliptical path away from and then circling the transport.

Not just old. Ancient. Wheeler felt disappointment, which she forced from mind. She could hardly expect to walk into the command of a new ship, being a nobody in the pecking order. Still she hadn't expected what she saw. Ships half Persephone's age, which a conservative guess pegged at one hundred years, had greyhound profiles. Persephone had the look—if one included the bulges of her antiquated stardrive—of a middle-aged washerwoman.

"Her engine design's a hundred years old," Ione offered.

"That's about right, sir," said Jeff Brady from the hatchway. "Lieutenant Butterfield looked up the launch date and checked it against the ship's clock. She's seventy-eight years in service." Seventy-eight years 'in service' did not include storage times. Persephone had no doubt been stored many times. To the seventy-eight might be added fifty years or more of idleness.

"Who?" Wheeler asked, not trusting what her ears had registered.

"Lieutenant William Butterfield, sir."

"Well." Wheeler blew out her cheeks, and smiled. This was a night for surprises.

Persephone's distinctive bulges implied her propulsion system had to be every bit as old as the ship. The basic principle of travel Star A to Star B had remained the same for centuries while improvements in engine design and performance made the process more reasonable in terms of time and comfort. Was Persephone capable of even one hundred gravities of acceleration? The newest drives put out from one fourteen to one twenty-five. Wheeler did not have her ship's specs handy to examine but felt certain the old hauler would fail miserably to achieve even the one hundred gravities standard for her type.

Unlike the majority of her far larger sisters, Persephone was atmosphere capable, owing to a quartet of Cummings-Lothar Hydrogen Fuel Secondaries. The exhaust ports of the Cummings-Lothars pierced the ship's counter grav keel with their bell-shaped ports.

Secondary engine design had also changed over the years. Modern exhaust ports were flush to the keel. Wheeler didn't mind the bulbs, which bespoke reliability despite they ruined contours and made extra demands on shields.

Above the primary nacelle a disk-and-rail hitch was integrated into the transport's superstructure. The disk squatted atop a pillar ten metres thick and twenty metres high. The rail extended past the stern another sixty metres. Forward of the hitch was something she'd never seen before, a long, low box embedded in the ship's spine.

"Ah, not sure, Commander," was Ione's judgement.

"Sail, sir," said Brady cheerfully.

"I beg your pardon?" Wheeler gasped, and leaned eagerly forward. Ione slowed their progress to a crawl.

"Complete set of sails with masts in collapsed mode. Lieutenant Butterfield examined the specs just the other day. If we run out of fuel we won't have to get out and push."

"I'll be gosh-damned," Wheeler muttered. When had solar sails last been employed by a service vessel? Someone's idea of a renovation, tried once and afterward abandoned as too much bother. Should Persephone's engines experience catastrophic failure, the ship herself would be their lifeboat. Nothing could be finer and safer than that. "That's interesting."

Brady beamed at her.

An energy cannon mount attracted her attention next. After that a rapid-fire small projectile launcher that curled against the hull like a snake, its metal markedly different than that which surrounded it. Persephone should have no energy cannon and no more than six or eight heavy calibre rifles.

Ione directed the shuttle into a turn and Wheeler decided she had to thank him for his care and efforts once the tour was done. Their light struck the energy cannon and she had to stare. Was it? Certainly it was. An ITA-120EPBC. Independent targeting. Enhanced beam. The most potent and sophisticated energy weapon available and currently in limited production.

An ITA-120EPBC could be run either by its AI or a human operator. Targeting was exceptional, rate of recovery excellent, and power demands nothing short of excessive. They wouldn't be running away at reasonable acceleration from anything while the cannon was in operation. Powerful enough to punch a hole through any shield less than Triple A class. The Yard dogs had removed a twenty metre swatch of hull plate, including a crane and mount, and its underlying supports to accommodate the gun.

What was such a weapon doing on her ship?

Persephone ought not to have either the AI upgrade or the power runs for such a gun—but, wait, she must have them. An ITA-120EPBC wouldn't be tucked into the side of a ship if its support systems weren't also in place. What type of console? The last upgrade to the TAC3300 was the TAC3750A. Cassius had recently upgraded to the TAC3510, which was better at coordination than the old system, but incapable of intricacies the TAC3750 series managed with ease.

The shuttle slid past the primary engines' exhaust ports beneath the docking rail. Wheeler noted the rear sensor array, and the gatlings mounted at either side of it. The rapid-fire guns sufficient to discourage even the boldest commerce raider. What need had Persephone of so much bang power?

A matching ITA-120 nestled into Port Side Aft, its location diagonally opposite from its twin. Having completed a lap, Ione delivered the shuttle back to its original position parallel with and approximately ten meters away from Persephone's starboard personnel lock. "We have to walk, sir," Brady said.

You can't be serious. Wheeler recalled the shuttle sported a docking assembly in collapsed mode tucked against its fuselage.

"Persephone's external coupling design was discontinued decades ago. This shuttle's hatch ring won't seal on it." They wouldn't be able to pressurize the transport tube.

"Perfect," Wheeler muttered angrily. She hadn't expected a stumble through vacuum to cap her long night with.

"Pardon me, sir?"

"Nothing, Brady."

Brady had brought vacuum suits from Persephone which the pair donned. Ione watched from his cockpit hatch. He would seal himself inside his piloting booth before the pair opened the door to start their walk. "This," he said, offering a fingerprint-sized medallion on a gold chain, "belonged to a Tiger shipmate of ours. One that didn't make it back. I think it right you take it, Commander."

Her impulse was to refuse, except former Tigers felt for one another a special kinship because of their Citadel experience. Ione put the necklace into her hand. One side of the medal showed an angel haloed and kneeling. The other a harp. "Thank you, Ione," Wheeler murmured and slipped the chain over her head. The pressure suit hadn't a convenient pocket.

"Good luck to you."

"Good luck and good fortune to you."

Brady waited for her at the hatch. While they performed suit checks, Ione sealed himself into his cockpit. Brady secured her space chest to his wrist with a cord. He intended drawing it across after he got to the other side. Wheeler had her orders inside the pouch that was now attached by a cord to her waist. She felt the same emptiness as when she said goodbye to her family, when leaving Tiger, when leaving Cassius.

What had she gotten herself into? Should she have refused? Crane told her the assignment for Nassau was cancelled and she'd taken him at his word. She ought to have demanded to see her orders. She'd been hung over, stupid with fatigue, and famished. She'd attended with only half the attention she ought to have, and accepted everything Crane said without question. What a fool she'd been! With worry singing to her inner hearing, she wished she could be anywhere but inside a claustrophobic pressure suit at the edge of an unknown future. Brady hummed beneath his breath, the hatch slid open, and she moved forward.

Persephone's high wide flank blocked the stars. Despite extreme age, feeble acceleration, and small size, she was still inspirational. Transport dwarfed taxi. Ten decks of scrapes, dents, and parts seemingly attached at random. Brady waited for his Captain to start across. She hesitated. He had to think her a queer sort of officer to be so easily distracted.

Wheeler had stood long enough for the moment to feel prolonged, and then decided as her inspection was done so must her doubt be. She could not have refused. Not in front of Crane and not with stark reality before her. Persephone would become her home as Cassius and Tiger had been. She'd a mission to perform. Gauging angle of best approach and appropriate amount of spring, Wheeler launched herself. She was halfway across before realizing she would miss the entrance by many metres. Resigning herself to the inevitable, Wheeler skidded patiently the rest of the way, knowing the worst thing she might do was flail about in a futile effort to correct her trajectory. Persephone's flank beneath her fingers provided restorative to her stretched nerves. Gathering herself like a spider she looked up to see Brady within the port he'd had no difficulty landing four-square inside. Crossing two intervening plates, refusing a crewmate's assistance, she managed with only a little extra bother to put herself beside him.

"Takes practise, sir," Brady volunteered as the exterior hatch slid along its rail and sealed behind them.

Wheeler declined to comment. The familiar pull of three-fourths standard gravity assured her of a return to the life she'd been missing. After weeks of 1.05 standard, three fourths was balm to overworked muscles. Atmosphere cycled into the lock. The indicator light over the interior hatch changed to green. Wheeler heard as well as felt a joyful springtime note, and then the inner hatch slid open.

