 
GANWOLD'S CHILD

Book One of the Sergey Chronicles

by Diann Thornley Read

Smshwords Edition

Copyright © 1995 by Diann Thornley

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or portions thereof, in any form.

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Cover art: © 2011 by Douglas Fakkel

One

Darcie didn't expect to live.

With the hand she could move enough to reach them, she tore unit and command patches from her uniform shirt, leaving only her nametag, rank and combat surgeon's insignia. She drew out the chain from around her neck, yanked off the two crystal pendants hanging with her ID tags, shoved them into the corner behind her.

"Mama?" The child stirred on her lap, trying to push himself back. "Why are—"

She put a finger to his lips, her other hand cupping his head to prevent its bumping the metal bulkhead. "Hush, Tris."

She could barely whisper. She sat on the bottom of a locker meant only for a pressure suit—one of four lockers in the maintenance compartment—with the toddler held snug between her body and her drawn-up knees.

Outside noises reached her: the roar of engines crescendoing toward thrust into lightskip. The fourth attempt.

She braced her head back in the corner behind the pressure suit, hugged Tristan to her breast and locked her teeth. Clumsy masuki! They won't have a catch left if they strain the transport to disintegration first.

Lightskip warning horns screamed through the corridor outside the maintenance compartment. The vessel shook and groaned. In its turbulence, the child threw up.

Darcie swallowed against her own nausea at its sour odor. She wiped his mouth and the front of her uniform. "Don't cry, little soldier," she whispered. "Here now, hold onto me."

The horns wound down as they had before, and she relaxed her brace against the plasmic sensation of entering lightskip.

She waited what seemed hours in stifling darkness. Her legs grew cramped, then numb from their position and the toddler's weight on them. She tried to shift a little, to ease them, and pain arced up her back.

Her thoughts tumbled over each other without any order. She thought of Lujan, her husband, waiting for them at their destination. Remembered the way he had kissed her good-bye months ago on Topawa.

The locker had grown hotter, almost suffocating, despite the vents in its door. She wondered, in an oddly detached way, how long it would take for her and Tristan to smother. Wondered what Lujan would do when he learned they were dead.

The tremor of explosions shattered her reverie. Shooting? She heard the transport's minimal weaponry reply, and then running footfalls, thudding up and down the corridor beyond her hiding place.

Another hour passed before the craft rocked at the impact of electromagnets and shuddered in a whine of winch cables. She started at volleys of light arms' fire and bootfalls ringing through the passages. Armored bootfalls this time, not scuffing masuk footsteps.

Catching her lower lip in her teeth, she began to stroke the child's hair.

The maintenance compartment's door slammed open. Voices reached her—two or three of them, only yards away—but their words, modulated by their helmets' electronics, weren't understandable. Boots trod the circumference of the maintenance compartment. Over her pulse in her ears, she detected an oscillating hum.

She pressed a hand tight over Tristan's mouth and bit off a groan. She had used lifeform sensors before; the locker's construction wouldn't jam them.

The hum shot to a sharp whine; the boots stopped outside her enclosure. She heard an order, and then banging. Metal clashed on metal until she thought her head would split and Tristan's wail would be drowned in its clamor. When the locker door tore away, she stared up at three armored shapes silhouetted against the dull light.

Dominion legionnaires.

The nearest one shoved aside the pressure suit, seized her by the wrist, and hauled her to her feet. She staggered, numb legs nearly buckling, and almost lost her hold on her child. From behind tinted helmet visors the other two soldiers' gazes roamed her body.

Darcie jerked her wrist from her captor's gauntlet and wrapped both arms around Tristan. "This is illegal, you know! It's been a month since the hostilities ended at Enach, and the talks are—"

"I don't think so," the squad leader said. "Where've you been for the last few years?"

She glared at him. Forced herself not to let her breath catch when one soldier stooped to search the locker. Straightening, he handed something to his sergeant. "Look at these."

The crystal hologram pendants. Her wedding portrait, and a picture of Lujan with Tristan.

The sergeant held them up to the light, and she saw his eyes widen behind his visor. "Yeah, I thought the nametag looked familiar," he said. "The colonel will probably promote us for this!" He tucked the holodiscs into his utility belt and reached for her arm. "It's my duty to inform you, Lieutenant Dartmuth, that at no time in the last nine years has the Sector General recognized the governments of the Unified Worlds. He sealed the Accords under duress, so it wasn't a legitimate treaty."

She evaded his hand. "Nine years? Surely you can lie better . . ."

Her voice trailed off as she remembered the futile attempts to make lightskip. The masuk slavers must have succeeded at entering a time track whether or not they had crossed space. She questioned the legionnaire with a stare.

"The Enach Accords weren't ratified as easily as the Unified Worlds had hoped," he said. "They didn't fail as completely as Sector General Renier had hoped, either. You may be able to make that up to him."

"Mordan Renier?" Darcie stiffened. "Sector General?"

The squad leader smiled. "I wonder what kind of plea bargain the Unified Worlds might be willing to make in exchange for you?"

"It won't work, you know."

"We'll see." His smile turned grim. "Move." He shoved her shoulder, indicating the corridor. "Maybe the war isn't over yet."

She yielded, her thoughts racing ahead. This transport has a cross-corridor aft of the bridge with an emergency shield door. . . .

Hugging the child to her body, one hand rubbing up and down his back in reassurance, she set her teeth. One soldier strode before her, two behind. They hadn't applied restraints; they had no firearms ready to hand. They appeared to trust her feigned submission. But a glance back showed one soldier's hand resting on the hilt of a boarding knife, one of a dozen strapped naked about his hips like armor's tasses made of steel teeth. Boarding knives, she knew, could double as throwing weapons.

Several members of the crew lay in the corridor. She recognized Rahb Heike, the ship's captain, and recoiled. He lay face down in his own blood. Masuk work.

A hand pushed her back when she paused. She stumbled, slipping in Heike's blood before she could catch her balance, and moved around another bloodied body. Lieutenant Baraq. He had also died before the legionnaires arrived. She swallowed dryness and turned her head away.

She felt brief satisfaction at spotting several masuki sprawled in the corridor. The Unified soldiers had died fighting. But the ship was too empty, both of military personnel and civilians.

Light from the intersecting corridor cast a square across the concourse deck ahead. She shifted Tristan to her left arm and curled her right fist, keeping her head lowered.

Ten paces. . . .

She lunged left into the cross-corridor, her right fist punching the manual trigger on its bulkhead. The shield door dropped behind her with a whoosh that ended in a crunch and her pursuer's garbled scream. She pressed Tristan's face to her shoulder and forced herself not to look back.

The cross passage opened on one parallel to the corridor she had sealed. It led to the lifepods. If they've not been jettisoned already.

She pressed herself to the bulkhead to listen for pursuers and peer into the corridor. She saw nothing, up and down, but the smoke-obscured shapes of bodies on the deck. She tried to set the child on his feet, to rest her arm, but he clung to her, wide-eyed with confusion and fear. She smoothed his hair, kissed his forehead. "Come then, little soldier," she said, collecting him again, and slipped into the passage.

Smoke from screen grenades stung her eyes, making them run and blurring her vision. She stumbled over a body and paused, panting. One of the surface troops, a young man she didn't recognize. An energy pistol lay in his out-flung hand. She stooped to snatch it up. Glanced at the power cell in its grip when bootfalls echoed up the corridor behind her. Its charge light still burned.

Five or six armored figures emerged through the haze. She leveled the E-gun, squeezed the trigger. Its energy burst seared off the bulkhead into the knot of oncoming men. A cry rang back to her as one of them crumpled. Another, too close to avoid, sprawled over him as the rest sprang for cover. Darcie turned for the lift.

Its door stood jammed open, its platform suspended between decks. She glanced over her shoulder. Two armored shapes advanced on her, steel glinting in their hands. One drew his arm back, balancing blade and haft for the throw. She lifted the pistol.

Her shot went wide but her foes cowed, weapons still poised. She found the firearm's grip and weight too large for her small hand, and her other arm ached from carrying Tristan, but she fired until the power light began to dim. With her back to the bulkhead, she slid toward the door to the emergency ladder. Its portal yielded to her shoulder's pressure and she ducked into darkness, onto a clanging platform at the top of a spiraling stair. One shot through the door mechanism sealed her off from the legionnaires.

She stood still for several moments, panting and letting her eyes adjust to the dark. The toddler's weight shot fire through her arm. She tried to put him down and fumbled the pistol, almost dropping it.

Her breath caught at scraping sounds below her, several yards away. She stiffened, listening.

Nothing.

Nothing but her heartbeat, and Tristan sniffling on her shoulder.

Nothing but darkness, and the lifepods only yards away. . . .

Finger on the pistol trigger, she stretched out a foot, probing for the platform's edge and the first step. There would be twelve, she knew. She picked her way down slowly, leaning on the rail, eyes and ears and weapon searching the blackness.

Three . . . four . . . five . . .

She nearly missed a step when pounding began at the door above.

Eight . . . nine . . . ten . . .

Something tall and odorous clamped bulky hands onto her shoulders, dragging her off the step and into its hirsute frame. A masuk slaver. She didn't scream. Even the gasp died at the pressure of cold steel against her throat. The masuk snarled a command, but the child's crying rendered it inaudible.

Darcie didn't struggle. She only had to twist her weapon hand a fraction, only had to squeeze the trigger once.

Her captor's blade grazed the side of her neck and clattered unseen to the deck as he lurched backward. She felt a warm trickle roll across the base of her throat and into the neck of her uniform shirt as she steadied herself.

It's not serious. He missed the carotid and jugular. It'll stop. Ignore it; it'll stop.

She stepped around the corpse, reached the first lifepod bay. A red light glowed above its sealed entry hatch. Jettisoned.

Red lights burned over the second and third and fourth bays also.

"No!" she whispered. "He couldn't have launched them all yet!"

A green ready light beckoned above the fifth. She dropped the pistol, set Tristan on his feet. He reached up to her, sobbing for the security of her arms, but she ignored him. Her hands shook, searing muscles refusing to obey when she gripped the hatch handle. She tugged several times before it turned and the hatch shot open.

She had to duck through the low entry lock. She retrieved the pistol, took the child by the hand, and guided him ahead of her. "Come now, Tris. I'm right here behind you."

Inside, she pulled the hatch closed. Heard the cover suck into its seal and its three bolts slam into place.

Sinking into the nearest passenger seat, she gathered the toddler onto her lap and didn't move for several minutes. She just sat until the adrenaline receded and its quivering gave way to limpness. She stroked Tristan's hair and let him sniffle out his trauma on her breast.

When he relaxed she rose stiffly, still cradling him, and moved forward to the control console.

It consisted of three screens and an ignition switch. Two lines of text glowed on the center screen:

ALL ESCAPE VEHICLE SYSTEMS ARE AUTOMATED.

TO LAUNCH, PULL IGNITION SWITCH.

Darcie placed the child in the seat beside hers.

"Hold me, mama!" he begged, stretching up his arms to her.

She shook her head. "You're quite safe there," she said, and closed the acceleration bars about him. "Just sit still for a bit."

Secured in the command chair, she steadied herself with a few deep breaths. Recalling flying tours with Lujan, she reached for the ignition switch.

"Mama?" said Tristan.

She patted him. "Sit tight, little one. We're going now."

She felt a tremor when she pulled the switch, heard a muffled roar as rockets fired, and sudden acceleration shoved her hard into the contoured chair. Then the thunder fell behind, the swoon passed, the pressure lifted. Darcie opened her eyes and glanced over at Tristan.

She smiled at his expression. "It's all right now, Tris," she said. "We've escaped."

She looked forward, and her breath caught. Before the viewpanes, a half-shadowed world hung in an unfamiliar starfield. "My word, what's this?"

She eyed the astrogation screen at her right.

Data appeared line by line down its right margin. Green characters and graphics displayed the coordinates of the mothership at the pod's launch, the pod's present velocity and trajectory, the distance to and characteristics of its projected landing site.

"Korot system," she murmured. The masuki had crossed more than time, then—and small wonder they'd been boarded. They practically orbited Korot's only inhabitable planet, filled with Dominion exploration and agriculture colonies.

Her gaze rested on the emergency locator transponder. Slipped back to the astrogation screen. "A nine year timeskip." She rested her chin in her hands, kneaded forehead and temples with her fingertips. "Nine years! We're legally lost by now! And the legionnaires are tracking us, most likely."

She drew the energy pistol from the stowage bin under the command chair.

She fingered the transponder's case for catches, fumbled it open to bare its microcircuitry. Taking the pistol by the barrel, she smashed its handgrip over and over into gauzy components. Sparks leaped at her fingers; a bitter tendril of smoke coiled out.

Beside her, Tristan said, "Mama! You broke it!"

"Yes, I did," she said. "Now the legionnaires won't be able to follow us."

Not so easily, at least.

When Tristan fell asleep, Darcie inventoried the lifepod's equipage. Releasing her acceleration bars, she pushed herself from the seat and maneuvered in zero G. In overhead compartments and beneath the seats she found lightweight thermal blankets, water containers and food packets, a medical case, a large-display survival manual, and tools. She estimated she had enough supplies to support ten adults for about ten days.

She paused once, orienting herself to look out beyond the cockpit. Korot's inhabitable world, all beige and blue, filled the viewpanes. Ganwold. The astrogation screen showed the lifepod almost half a million miles from the planet. At its present velocity, the pod would begin its landing cycle in approximately twenty-eight standard hours and touch down near the equator about an hour after that.

* *

Darcie woke in dimness when the beeping started. She turned her head and saw an amber light blinking for her attention. A message glowed on the center screen:

APPROACHING LANDING ORBIT.

PUT ON G-PANTS.

She took two pairs from stowage under the seats and pulled on her own before dressing her child. The trousers dwarfed him, but she cinched the waistband snug enough to serve the purpose.

"It's too big!" Tristan said, kicking feet lost in the legs.

"It won't be when we begin to land," Darcie said. "It'll puff up like a bubble and squeeze you so that you won't faint."

"What's faint, mama?"

She smiled as she secured his acceleration bars. "It's when you become very dizzy and fall asleep for a bit."

A new message flashed on the screen:

ALL LANDING SYSTEMS GO.

PLEASE REMAIN SECURED IN SEATS UNTIL

LANDING CYCLE IS COMPLETED

Braking rockets fired.

Bracing herself in the chair, Darcie felt the initial deceleration, a mounting pressure from beneath. The astrogation screen's graphics vanished, to be replaced by digital readouts: altitude, speed, and time until touchdown. She watched the numerals change, watched velocity drop from seventeen thousand miles an hour to fifteen, twelve, ten, eight . . .

The roar of the brake rockets crescendoed as the pod passed from the outer atmosphere into denser layers. The elements embraced the craft, screamed at its heat, and shook it.

"Mama, hold me?" The toddler tried to reach out to her, his blue eyes very round.

"Not just now, Tris. You're safer right there." Darcie slid out a hand for him to grip and said, "Look at the panes. Watch now."

They blazed with the faint red of heat made visible, and they brightened, paling through pink to orange-red and finally white. Like riding the tide of the dawn, she thought, with a sense of awe that something beautiful could come from this horror.

Twenty-five minutes from touchdown, directional thrusters fired. The pod oriented itself for landing, decelerating still more. Tristan whimpered with motion sickness, and Darcie, caressing his sweaty face, put back her own head, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply.

She felt momentum ebb under the rockets' roar. The digital clock indicated twenty-one minutes until touchdown. The pod pierced a bank of clouds like a pebble dropped into a pond.

Eighteen minutes . . . twelve . . .

A pattern of blue lights on the left screen showed activation of landing gear. Darcie heard subtle clunks and pneumatic wheezes as the gear locked. Beyond the cockpit's viewpanes, the mantle of vapor glowed with the pod's reentry heat.

Nine minutes . . . five minutes . . . two . . .

Darcie felt the final scream of thrusters like a storm shaking the craft, felt a jolt and a settling before the thunder died and left her in silence. Moments passed before she realized the lifepod had landed.

Environmental sensors fed data to her left screen: atmospheric content and pressure, temperature, gravity, wind direction and velocity. All suitable for human habitation.

Darcie released her breath and gazed on the dark beyond the viewpanes. "Nighttime," she said, and shoved herself out of the command chair. Her body's sudden weight surprised her. "Come now, Tris. Let's get you out of those trousers and leave before the legionnaires come looking for us."

Something on the console beeped as she stuffed supplies into a duffle. She turned round.

A message blinked across the left screen:

LIFEFORMS APPROACHING VEHICLE.

DISTANCE APPROX 100 YARDS.

Legionnaires already? She moved to the console, switched on the visual monitor.

The screen revealed five quadrupeds moving warily toward the pod. Almost a meter high at the shoulder, she guessed, with eyes like embers and a slinking gait. Canine hunters. Jous, the computer library called them.

She bit her lower lip.

"Mama?" said Tristan.

"There aren't any legionnaires," she said. "Not just yet. We're better off to stay in here 'til morning."

* *

Grating noises intruded on her slumber. Lying across the front row of seats, Darcie opened her eyes but didn't move. She listened as the scraping sounds persisted, noticed how predawn light filtering through the forward viewpanes muted the control console's screens—and realized in another moment that the warning beeper, not the grating, had awakened her.

The noise came from the hatch. She knew it could be tripped from outside for rescue purposes.

"They've found us, then," she whispered, mouth suddenly dry.

When the first bolt depressurized and thunked back, she turned onto her belly and reached under the command chair for the E-gun. Her fingers closed round its grip; her thumb slipped off the safety.

Staying behind the chair's back, she watched the hatch. Braced the pistol on the arm when the second bolt shot back.

Tristan stirred beside her. When he yawned and tried to sit up under the blanket, she stayed him with her free hand.

She locked her teeth as the third bolt hissed and thunked. She adjusted her grip on the sidearm—and recoiled at a flood of early sunlight as the hatch fell open.

The two shapes silhouetted in its opening wore no legionnaires' armor. Except for leather leg-wrappings and loincloths they wore nothing but their own striped pelts. When the nearest one glimpsed Darcie, he ducked his shaggy head and touched his brow. "Yung Jwei!" he said, gazing first at her and then at her child. "Yung Jwei!"

Two

Tristan spread dust around his eyes and across his cheekbones, smeared it in streaks over his chest and shoulders until, in the moonlight, his skin appeared to bear the same dark stripes as his companion's. He glanced up. Pulou gave him an approving look and held out his knife. Tristan took it in his teeth and followed him, staying low in the long grass.

Peimus clustered in the clearing, bulls on the outer edge of the herd: blocky shadows on stumpy legs, hoofs stamping and tails twitching, heads tossing forward-curled horns.

Crouched beside Pulou, Tristan pointed at one bull a little apart from the others. Pulou grinned, a flash of fangs around his own knife blade, and ducked away into the dark. When the grass stopped rippling, Tristan squinted at his quarry, measuring the distance, and went to his belly.

He could smell the peimu's muskiness, hear its whuffing breath and the stamp of its cloven feet, before he could see it. He raised his head just enough to feel the breeze in his face, to be sure it hadn't changed direction. Almost within reach of the bull's left shoulder, he gathered himself into a crouch, muscles taut. He tongued his knife blade, waiting.

Something rustled beyond the bull. It raised its head, turning away from Tristan, its ears cocked forward.

Tristan sprang from cover in its blind spot, seizing its horns. The peimu snorted, tried to toss its head, but Tristan braced his feet and wrenched the near horn down and the far one up, twisting its neck. The bull's hoofs flipped out from beneath it, flailing the air; its shoulder struck the youth's hip as it went down, landing hard on its side. Tristan pressed a knee to its shoulder, pinning it, and said, "Pulou!"

The peimu only bellowed once, kicking, as Pulou cut its throat.

The rest of the herd fled into the trees. Still pinning the dying bull, Tristan watched them go, ambling and awkward, their tails in the air.

Three carcasses lay in the clearing. The other hunters, slim shadows in the moonlight, already crouched over their kills, groping with knives and clawed hands through the entrails to find the choicest parts, the liver and heart.

Minutes later they gathered around a small fire, eight figures squatting shoulder to shoulder, licking blood from their fingers and turning tidbits skewered on knife points over the coals. No one spoke, but Tristan read contentment in the others' faces, in the muffled growls that rumbled from their throats as they tore at their meat. He bit a mouthful of nearly raw liver from the chunk on his knife. Hot juice dribbled down his chin. He swiped it away with the back of his hand and closed his eyes, savoring his own contentment as much as the flavor of the meat.

Bellies full, they lolled in the grass, and Miru, the youngest, said, "It's good to be chosen, Haruo?"

By the ebbing emberlight, Tristan saw how Haruo stopped tonguing the half-healed cut at the corner of his mouth. Saw how he settled back in the grass and ran a finger down the white laceration beside his nose. He smiled at them all. "Yes, it's good."

"You bite her, too?" Miru asked.

"No!" Haruo looked briefly shocked. Then he smiled again. "But she is with young!"

The others grinned, fangs reflecting moonlight.

Next to Haruo, Faral said, "You aren't chosen, Miru, because you don't bring back peimus. You scare them away!"

The youngster swatted at Faral, missed when he ducked, and the others grinned again.

"Malwi," someone addressed Miru's older brother, "you need new hunt partner, or your mother puts both of you out in the rain!"

"Maybe you get more peimus, Malwi, if you hunt by yourself!" someone else put in, and the proverbial impossibility of that provoked another round of grins.

"Tristan is good hunter," said Pulou.

Tristan felt the others' attention turn to him; he smiled and made a negating gesture.

"Him?" said Haruo, wrinkling his nose. "Mothers don't want flat-teeth!"

Everyone eyed Haruo, and Tristan saw two or three of them cock their heads in puzzlement before Pulou said, "Shiga wants him, but she's of same clan."

"Shiga?" Tristan stared at Pulou. "Your sister? But she's almost my sister, too!"

"Melu wants you," said Miru. "You bring back many peimus, and you're tall. She wonders how tall you would be in her bed robes."

Tristan cuffed him lightly and laughed off embarrassment. "She chooses me and she finds out!"

"In my mother's clan," Haruo said, "no one wants flat-teeth. They scare away peimus and claw up soil."

The silence that fell echoed with a challenge. Tristan met Haruo's gaze over the bed of coals, curled his hands like claws, and showed his teeth. He felt the others watching him, saw anticipation in their yellow eyes. But Pulou abruptly nudged him and rose to his feet. "We start home," he said, stretching. "Long way to go, and morning comes."

The others rose, too, reluctantly. Pushed soil over the embers with leather-shod feet and wiped their flint blades clean on the grass.

Tristan stayed quiet, scowling to himself, as he lashed the peimu's back legs to the carrying pole. He glanced up only when Pulou pressed a shoulder to his own.

"Turn your back, little brother. Ignore it," Pulou said.

"Why?" Tristan said. "I am flat-tooth."

"Outside," said Pulou, "not inside."

Tristan didn't answer. He took the rear position when they shouldered the pole, and furrowed his brow as they started out.

Gan companions had commented on his differences before now. He recalled how, as a child, adult ganan had fingered his tawny hair and stroked his pale, hairless skin, and gan children had asked him if he saw things in different colors than they did because his eyes were blue, not amber. But their curiosity had made him a desired playmate; they had begged him to join in their games.

When, by the age of fourteen, he'd outgrown even his older hunting companions, he'd begun to notice how the young females stared after him, how they teased him with their looks and their smiles. That had embarrassed him at first, but it hadn't left him feeling angry or hurt as Haruo's scorn had. No one before had ever implied anything bad about being a flat-tooth.

He spent most of the journey back to camp watching Haruo and wondering at the reasons for his animosity.

* *

He found his mother awake when he ducked into their lodge. She looked pale even in the firelight, he thought, but she had sat up unassisted to weave her faded hair into a waist-length braid with thin fingers.

"Mum!" he said, in the Standard she had taught him, and dropped down before her to touch his brow. "Are you feeling better?"

"For the moment," she said. Her voice rasped; she cleared her throat. With one finger she drew a clean line through the dust on his upper arm. "You look as if you've traveled a long way."

"Five nights," Tristan said. "We had to go that far to find a herd, but we had a good hunt. There's a peimu outside, gutted but not skinned yet." He offered her his game bag with a smile. "And I brought you some lomo eggs."

"New ones?" Darcie reached into the bag and withdrew a ball of leaves. Peeling off the improvised wrapping, she revealed a tan oval peppered with brown. She touched the rough shell —recently laid—and smiled back. "If you'll bring in some water, we'll boil these up straight away."

He felt her watching him as he pulled hot stones from the firepit with wooden tongs and dropped them into the gut cooking pot and then put the eggs in one by one. She watched as he pushed an old scrap of leather into the skin water bucket and used it to scrub his face and chest and shoulders. Watched him as if she had something she needed to tell him but didn't quite know how. He swallowed when he finally met her gaze across the flickering dimness. "It's—getting worse, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, and muffled a cough.

They both knew how it would end. They had seen it often enough in her gan patients, among whom she had contracted it.

Tristan felt suddenly weak. "How long—?" he asked. He couldn't finish the question.

"I don't know, Tris. . . . Seven or eight months, most likely."

Seven or eight months! He bit his lip. Stared at the soil floor between his knees for a long while, fighting back the pain of the loss to come. At last he rose, pushed aside the doorflap, and went out.

The sun had risen; it would grow hot before long. The camp lay quiet but for a baby's cry from a nearby lodge and insects buzzing around the peimu carcasses hung from tree limbs to cure. Tristan padded among the squatty dome shelters toward the hill which rose beyond, and climbed to the top.

There were no graves here, just the ashes of the pyre.

He had seen his only cremation at the age of four. Curious, he had crouched at the front of the circle among the gan children, had seen the old matriarch, her face painted white, drive her knife into the body on the pyre. Later he'd learned that the action symbolically released the soul to return to Tsaan Jwei, the Life Taker, but at the time he thought she'd killed the old man.

A wavering moan had torn his attention away from her. The people who brought the torches began it. As they thrust fire among the wood, others took up the cry. He had stood there sobbing, unable to look away from the flames that licked and charred the body, oblivious of the ganan swaying and keening around him, until his mother caught him by the arm and took him back to their own lodge.

He'd awakened with nightmares of the pyre for several sleeps afterward.

He'd hidden in the back of the lodge during the next cremation. Now he just left camp, on the pretext of hunting.

Tristan prodded powdered ash into tiny swirls on the morning breeze, blackening his moccasin toe. He shot a dismal look over his shoulder when he heard someone approaching behind him.

Pulou stopped, settling into a squat and blinking in the daylight. "Little brother?"

"I think," said Tristan. He shuddered. Fourteen years hadn't faded his memories of the pyre.

"To think," Pulou said, "is good to learn but not to be sad."

"My mother is ill, Pulou. She gets worse."

"That is way of life," the gan said. "Yung Jwei gives it and Tsaan Jwei takes it."

"Gan way," said Tristan. "My mother isn't gan." He used the personal honorific form of 'mother.' "She gets well if she's at her home."

"You know how?" Pulou asked.

"She tells me about it," Tristan said. "Her people have good medicines. Their lodges are tall as mountains, and they have things that fly." Squinting at the misted horizon, he added, "She tells me about my father, too."

"Father?" Pulou asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Flat-teeth aren't like ganan," said Tristan. "They choose once, not every time they come in season. Both choose, and they stay together like hunt partners. She says my father is—Spherzah."

Pulou blinked with puzzlement.

"He's—" Tristan furrowed his brow, thinking. He didn't fully understand it himself, except that his mother had made it sound important and heroic. He drew on the only comparison he could think of: "He's like Yung Jwei's Chosen Hunters in clan tales. He's strong and good and he helps people."

Pulou studied him for a moment, head cocked. "Maybe he can help your mother?"

"Yes," Tristan said. "Yes. We bring him to her and he can help."

* *

"Haruo!" Tristan said at the doorflap. "Haruo!"

He heard stirring inside, a noisy yawn, and nothing more.

"Haruo!" he said again.

Pulou nudged his arm. "It's daytime, little brother. They sleep."

But a hand pushed the doorflap aside and Haruo's mate, all maternal belly and sagging breasts, stared at them from its shadow.

Already squatting, Tristan and Pulou hunched lower still, ducking their heads and touching their brows. "Peace in you, mother," Tristan said, this time using the form for addressing all mature females. "It's needed, why I talk to Haruo."

She said nothing, just let the doorflap fall.

In another minute a different hand shoved the cover aside, a large hand with peimu blood still under the long hunter's nails. Haruo squinted in the sunlight, blinking several times before he recognized Tristan. "Flat-tooth!" he said then, showing his pointed teeth. "Night-sleeper!"

"Haruo," said Tristan, "flat-teeth are where?"

"Why? You go back to them?"

Beside Tristan, Pulou flexed his hand like claws.

Haruo glanced at him, then back to Tristan. He came out fully, pulling the doorflap closed, and dropped to his heels facing them. "Why?" he said again.

Tristan said, "I need to know for my mother." He used the personal honorific again, and Haruo raised what would've been an eyebrow, if ganan had any.

"That way," he said, pointing toward the northwest. "Cross flat land with bright twin stars on this side." He touched his right shoulder. "There are hills. Follow little river up to where it comes from ground, where my mother's clan is. On other side is big valley with big river. Flat-teeth are by river on near side, in lodges that don't move."

"They have—things that fly?" Tristan asked.

He felt Pulou staring at him, but Haruo said, "Yes. In white nests like this." He shaped a bowl with his hands. "They make fire and noise when they fly. They scare peimus away."

The humans did have spacecraft, then. Tristan asked, "How many nights to go there?"

Haruo wrinkled his brow, counted on his fingers. "Three hands."

Tristan nodded his thanks and glanced sideways at Pulou. "This night," he said.

* *

He could see just well enough by the embers' glow. Tristan moved quietly about the lodge, poking through baskets and skin bags for dried meat and roots and nuts, groping among articles hung from roof poles to find a canteen made of peimu gut. His hands closed on an object swathed in scraps of leather; he recognized it by feel. He untied it from the rafter and unfolded the covering.

The chain spilled out first, between his fingers. Its metallic discs clattered on the dirt floor. Tristan planted a foot on them, twisting round to see if the noise had awakened his mother.

She stirred. He waited, motionless, until her breathing steadied, audible but even.

The larger object lay heavy in his hand. The embers cast a bloody gleam along its barrel and grip. Tristan turned it over, eyeing its mechanisms. "E-gun," he whispered. He put the energy pistol into his game bag with the food and crouched to gather up the chain. He squinted at the characters pressed into its ID tags:

DARTMUTH, DARCIE

5066-8-0529

ADRIAT, FLT SURGEON

She had taught him characters as a small child, reciting the sounds of the shapes as she guided his finger across a patch of smoothed sand. Writing words and then sentences had been a game between them, until he'd grown big enough to learn to hunt. He hadn't had much use for it since then.

He remembered, though. Dropping the chain into his bag, too, he studied the form in the bed furs for several moments.

Myriad fears and feelings tumbled through his mind. Fear that if he left he would return to find she'd died in his absence. Urgency to go, to bring help to her. Guilt, for not telling her of his intentions.

He needed to tell her, somehow, so she wouldn't be left wondering about him. He took his knife from his belt and, using its point, scratched words into the hard soil of the lodge floor:

Mum I go to find my father to help you I come back soon. Tristan.

He sighed, slipping the knife back into his belt, and crawled outside.

Night had settled over the camp, stirring the ganan to activity. The midsummer evening breeze in Tristan's face felt like a cool breath after the day's harsh sunlight. Game bag in hand, he moved to the next shelter and squatted down at its entry. "Pulou!" he called.

His companion pushed the doorflap aside and motioned him to enter. He ducked inside, scanned the circle of faces around the fire, touched his forehead in respect to Pulou's mother.

Her face and throat bore the scars of many matings and her streaked mane had thinned and whitened, but the infant at her breast established her authority. Her title of jwa'nan identified her as clan matriarch, the mother of her people.

She said, "You go away, almost-son."

"Yes." Tristan bowed his head to her. "I hunt for my father."

The jwa'nan studied him, unblinking. "Why do you need your father? My children don't even know their fathers."

"I don't need him," Tristan said. "My mother does. He knows how to help her sickness."

"Ah! You go in jwa'lai, out of duty to her."

"Yes, mother." He used the word for her title.

"It's good," she said. "Your mother is like Yung Jwei to you, your life-giver. She gives you life, you give her your duty."

"Yes," said Tristan.

"But hunter who goes alone brings back no peimu."

Beside Tristan, Pulou said, "We hunt together, mother."

The jwa'nan nodded approval. "Good. You come home with almost-son's father." Shifting her infant, she reached out to brush each of their foreheads with the backs of her fingers in a sort of benediction. "Good hunt."

Tristan met her gaze cautiously. Her own kind held her latent savagery in dread respect, but she had shown sympathy to a pair of stripeless, clawless strangers. "Peace in you, mother," he said, and crawled backward from the lodge.

Pulou emerged beside him and rose in a fluid motion. He beckoned to Tristan. Like shadows, they melted into the dark beyond the clustered shelters. But Tristan couldn't help glancing back once at his mother's lodge.

Though twice Tristan's eighteen years, Pulou stood only to the human youth's shoulder. He took the lead, scanning the terrain with pupils so wide their irises seemed nonexistent.

Unable to distinguish obstacles in the moonlessness as easily as ganan could, Tristan watched Pulou place his feet, watched his hand for warning signals, and followed.

They skirted the knoll of the pyre and entered a gully which led onto open plain. It carried no water this late in the season, and the scrubby trees hemming it rustled in the breeze. Tristan stirred them no more than Pulou did.

They left the ravine and trees as the first moon edged above the horizon, illuminating untouched miles of prairie.

When Pulou glanced at him, Tristan looked skyward for the twin stars, turned his right shoulder to them, indicated the direction with a nod. Pulou moved off and Tristan matched his pace, a jog that crossed great distances with little effort.

* *

Face and shoulders streaked with dust, Tristan crept to the ridge's crest and settled flat on his belly. Early morning sunlight slanted over his shoulder, casting detail into minute clarity. He studied the valley below as if for game and blinked at the flash of sun on a ribbon of water. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he spotted the human camp where Haruo had said it would be. He put his hand back, motioning Pulou to join him.

Ten times the size of most gan camps, he guessed, the human one consisted of square lodges in rows, a brown patch in the midst of endless undulating green. Beyond the lodges stood larger buildings, and beyond those, a cluster of white bowls with walls higher than the lodges: nests for things that flew. Machines that looked like squatty animals with long necks loomed over the white nests. The steel necks moved up and down and swayed from side to side, lifting, moving, and setting down burdens hanging from ropes. Their creaking carried on the breeze like the calls of frogs on spring evenings.

Tristan studied it all for several minutes. The uneasiness he'd felt on the night of their departure from camp settled over him once more. But this new anxiety wasn't for his mother. Eyeing the square lodges, he remembered what Haruo had said about flat-teeth. Remembered the derision in his tone, and wondered again what had caused it. Wondered if it had anything to do with the things his mother had told him from his childhood—the real reason he hadn't told her of his departure. His stomach tightened under his ribs. "Flat-teeth," he said finally, in a tone like Haruo's.

"Funny to hear you say it that way," said Pulou.

Tristan didn't smile—he couldn't—and Pulou said, "Your father isn't here."

"No," Tristan said. "I know that."

Pulou cocked his head. "He's where?"

"There." Tristan pointed at the sky. "Where my mother and I fall from when I'm little."

"You fall in big, shiny egg," Pulou said. "Pelan and I find you in it."

"Yes. We go back in one, too." Tristan pointed. "Flat-teeth have them in those white nests."

* *

Sitting back-to-back with Pulou in the gathering dusk, Tristan watched the brush for the slinking shapes of jous and chewed on a strip of dried meat. Shifting enough to tip his head back, he studied the stars already visible over the ridge behind them.

"Little brother," Pulou said, "jous don't come from sky."

"There's no jou sign or howls for two nights," Tristan said. "Flat-teeth scare them away from here, like peimus."

"You do what?" Pulou asked.

"Look at stars."

Pulou moved behind him, depriving him of his backrest, and peered over his shoulder. "Your father is where?" he asked.

"I don't know," said Tristan.

"Your mother knows?"

"Maybe."

"You don't ask her?"

"No."

"Why? It's jwa'lai for her."

Tristan lowered his head. "I don't tell her that I go."

Pulou twisted around completely, staring at him through wide eyes. "She doesn't ask you to do it?"

"No."

"That isn't jwa'lai—"

"It is duty!" said Tristan. "But if I tell her I go, she tells me not to, and—" He shrugged with finality.

Pulou understood that. Disobeying one's mother was unthinkable.

Silence lay heavy for some time before Pulou asked, "Why does she tell you not to go?"

"Flat-teeth are like jous to my mother," Tristan said. "When I'm small there are big fights between my mother's people and other flat-teeth, and many are killed."

"Fights between clans?" Pulou cocked his head. "That's stupid! Why?"

"I don't know," Tristan said. "That's why we stay with ganan and don't go live with flat-teeth when we fall from sky. But they have things that fly to stars. No other way to find my father." Tristan's tone turned serious; his mouth had gone dry. He glanced at his companion. "It's dangerous, Pulou. You don't have to go with me."

"Hunter who goes alone," said Pulou, "can't watch for jous all ways at once."

His face remained almost expressionless but his tone reminded Tristan of a protective older brother. Tristan met his amber eyes. Studied them for a long moment, almost questioning.

Pulou looked around and rose. "It's dark enough," he said, and paused to stretch. "Come on, little brother."

Tristan scooped up their canteen and balanced its cool weight in his hand. Half full. He offered it to his companion first, then took a long drink himself and slung its strap over his shoulder.

Pulou chose their path down the side of the canyon, moving with an ease that still challenged Tristan.

The canyon opened onto a bench that rolled down to the human camp in a series of gradual slopes. At the bench's foot the brush and prairie grass ended, separated by a line of upright poles from grass that grew in rows, so tall that its seed tassels reached Tristan's chest. The breeze chased waves over its expanse like ripples from a pebble dropped in water.

"You lead," Pulou said. "You can see over it better."

Tristan strode past the nearest pole—and crackling light struck his shoulder, knifing through bone, tendon, nerve. He staggered back with a cry, gripping his arm.

"Tsaan Jwei!" said Pulou behind him. "You're hurt, little brother?"

"I—don't think so." The tingling already had begun to recede, dissipating to his fingertips. Tristan flexed his hand. "It's all right."

"It comes from poles?" Pulou asked. "It looks like lightning." He reached past Tristan.

His hand seemed to jerk back from the flash by itself. He shook it, hissing quick breaths through his teeth. "Tsaan Jwei!" he said again, and jabbed at his forehead.

Tristan eyed the pole, keeping his distance. Tristan had never seen bark that smooth, and the marks on it didn't look like knotholes. The pole stood taller than himself, and probably four full arm-lengths from the next pole, which looked exactly the same. He paced back and forth a few times, studying them.

Perplexed, he scooped up a stone from beside his foot and hurled it between the poles. It spun an untouched arc. Startled that no lightning struck it, he flung another stone after it.

"You don't hit anything," Pulou said.

"I know," said Tristan. "But there isn't lightning." He considered that, picked up another stone, hurled it at the pole.

It connected with a shatter of blue light and dropped.

"Tsaan Jwei!" hissed Pulou, and touched his brow again.

Tristan barely heard him. The first two stones hadn't touched anything, even the ground; he could imitate that with a long jump. He backed up a few paces.

"You do what?" Pulou asked.

"Jump," said Tristan, "like stones."

He misjudged his leap, hadn't quite cleared the line of poles before he tucked his head to take the fall in a roll. A scintillating blow caught him across the chest, smashed the breath from his lungs, stiffened his spine. He collapsed into the long grass and lay there gasping.

He didn't see the lightning behind him, didn't hear its sizzling strike. He heard only an urgent voice calling his name. Felt a quivery hand on his head and shoulder as the pain began to recede.

He opened his eyes. Pulou squatted beside him. Tristan turned over and sat up slowly, still gulping for breath.

Pulou sat panting, too. Sweat gleamed about his nose and mouth, and matted his mane on his forehead. His eyes bore a vicious glint in the aftermath of tsaa'chi, the ganan's physiological threat response.

"Be calm," Tristan said. "I'm all right, Pulou. Be calm. I'm not hurt."

He watched Pulou's breathing steady, watched the fury fade from his eyes. They rose together, and Tristan took the lead, wading into the field.

The second and third moons had risen by the time they emerged from the grass onto a trail wide enough for four or five people to walk shoulder-to-shoulder. It ran between the square lodges like a stream bed at the bottom of a gully, and Tristan, chewing his lip, paused to look for white walls above the rooftops. "This way," he said at last, and slipped into an alley.

Behind him, Pulou said, "Too close, too hard, flat-tooth lodges," and ran his fingers in a soft, rapid thudding along the ribbed shell of one. Tristan signed at him to be quiet and ducked beneath a square hole that shot yellow light across their path.

Pulou didn't duck. "Look, little brother," he said.

When Tristan glanced back, Pulou had stretched up to peer through the square hole. The light escaping from it cast garish patterns across his striped face. Wary, Tristan slipped up beside him.

A hand of humans, four adults and a child, sat in a circle to eat from something flat and stiff that seemed to rest on their knees. Tristan studied clothing not made of peimu hide that covered all but their hands and heads, eyed skin as bare and stripeless as his own, recognized snatches of phrases in Standard that sounded monotonous compared to his mother's. These flat-teeth were his own kind, yet everything about them seemed strange. More alien than the striped face at his shoulder. A shiver coursed up his spine.

"Look at their hair!" said Pulou. "It grows on their faces!"

On the three men it did, covering their chins as if to make up for the lack of it around their ears and down the backs of their necks.

Tristan felt sudden disgust. "Mine doesn't!" he said.

Pulou scrutinized him, and touched his chin with the back of a finger. He grinned. "It starts to."

"It does not!" Tristan raised a curled hand.

He started at a noise somewhere, a trilling like insects in the evening, but louder and harsher. One of the two young men stood and left the room, and the trilling soon stopped. He came back in a few minutes, securing a belt about his waist. Tristan recognized the object in its pouch; his mother had called hers an E-gun.

The older man began to question him, and the woman and child stopped eating. Tristan could only pick out a few words of their conversation.

"Something came through . . ." he heard. "Have to find out what . . . where it went. . . . monitors went crazy."

". . . know what it was?" asked the woman.

". . . thinks it's a couple of cat boys," the young man with the pistol told her. "Animals would run off."

"What would they want?" the woman wondered.

". . . don't know. We'll find out."

Tristan looked at Pulou, furrowing his brow. "Cat boys?"

Pulou shrugged. "They don't look for us. Come on."

They crept to the lodge's end, squatted to peer around its corner, and saw the man with the pistol step through a square opening that slid shut behind him. He paused to pull on a hat, glanced up and down the row of lodges, then strode off in the opposite direction, leaving a trail of crunching sounds under his boots. They watched until he disappeared around a corner.

Moonlight flooded the lane between the lodges, and a breeze stirred up swirls of dust. Tristan and Pulou sprinted across it, into a narrower alley. They chose a zig-zag route through the human camp, keeping close to the ground, crouching in a corner once at the noise of nearby boots and voices.

Waiting for them to pass, Tristan plucked nervously at bits of brown skin that peeled from the wall he knelt against. Huddled there, he listened to the sounds from inside: a baby's cry, a woman's quiet song.

He jumped when Pulou nudged him and beckoned him to follow.

Occasional humans moved among the long buildings beyond the lodges, busy at purposes only they knew. Watching them, Tristan and Pulou crept from shadow to shadow. Like peimus being stalked by a pack of jous, Tristan thought.

Open areas stretched between the long buildings and the walls of the spacecraft nests. Stacks of crates and barrels and the long-necked machines that moved them littered the open spaces. Plenty of cover. Pulou surveyed it and pointed; Tristan, teeth tight on his lip, slipped toward a pile of boxes.

Halfway across the loading yard, he signaled Pulou to stillness and froze on hands and knees, his heart hammering. A human paced among the pallets with a long weapon in the crook of his arm. He passed so close to their concealment that Tristan might have touched him if he'd put out a hand. He pressed himself against the crate instead and held his breath.

The human went by, oblivious.

"Stupid as lomos," Pulou said quietly. "But lomos know when there's danger. Flat-teeth don't."

Tristan glowered at him, and Pulou grinned. "Not you, little brother," he said. "Come on."

A curved wall loomed like a cliff's face ahead of them. They slipped toward an opening at its base, pausing to listen before moving down into darkness, into a cave that opened at the bottom of the bowl.

Two moons hung almost overhead by now, and their light silvered the skin of the waiting spacecraft. Tristan cocked his head, comparing it to the images in his memory. "Lifepod," he whispered in Standard.

Pulou eyed it, too. "We go where in this?" he asked.

"To my father's home," said Tristan. "Topawa. Maybe he's there."

"Maybe," said Pulou. "Maybe not."

Tristan ignored him; the spacecraft held his attention. He strode its circumference, raising a curious hand to run his fingertips along its hull, tracing lines meant to carve an atmosphere and slice cold space, studying its symmetry—until he heard footfalls in the entry.

He twisted around and froze, his blood suddenly cold in his veins.

A tall human emerged through the arch, taller still in armor borrowed from figures in Tristan's unforgotten nightmares, his long weapon leveled in his hands.

A Dominion legionnaire.

Three

The soldier shifted his weapon to one arm, a posture that looked no less threatening, and his free hand moved to an object at his waist. Light shot across the bowl.

Tristan winced, expecting a shock, but none came. The light ate concealing shadows, slid into corners like water—found him, then Pulou, by the ship's ramp. He squinted at its brilliance, showing his teeth.

Without lowering his weapon, the man spoke rapidly into the palm of his hand. His light never wavered from Tristan's face.

In moments three more legionnaires, dark shapes on dark beyond the blinding light, entered the bowl at a run. They spread out, invisible but for the noise of their boots, to close from both sides.

Tristan had seen jous hunt: surrounding a lone peimu, worrying at it, springing clear of striking forefeet and horned head while one attacked unguarded flanks and disemboweled it on its feet. The legionnaires seemed to be using the same tactic. Glancing from one side to the other to keep them in sight, he began edging clear of the ship, backing toward the wall; he saw Pulou at his periphery doing the same. He dropped his game bag, took his knife from his belt and gripped it in his teeth.

"Back to me, back to me!" said Pulou. He'd begun to hyperventilate with the onset of tsaa'chi and his mane stood on end. Tristan sidled closer, taking an attack stance, teeth clenched and hands flexed.

Lights closed on them from three directions, mesmerizing, blinding. Pulou grimaced at it, plainly in pain, and when one lamp thrust too close to his face he lashed out. The light spun away in a spray of red and its bearer sank back with a yell, clutching one hand with the other. The rest hesitated.

In that half moment, Tristan lunged. He seized the nearest soldier in a bearhug, throwing his whole weight forward. The man staggered, losing weapon and lamp. The beam cut a crazy arc across the blackness, struck and rolled between the combatants' feet. Pinning his opponent with one arm, Tristan reached for his knife with the other, twisting its point to the man's throatpiece.

The soldier got his left hand free. He caught Tristan's wrist and pushed it up and back, hard, behind his head. Pain lanced through Tristan's wrist and shoulder blade, but he didn't lose his knife. He felt the man's heavy breaths in his face, felt a twinge in his shoulder at an increase of pressure. "Drop it, cat boy!" he heard close to his ear. Tristan hissed through his teeth, tried to duck out of the hold. The grip only tightened, abruptly forcing his arm down and backward, behind his neck. He gasped, and the knife fell from his fingers.

The man wrenched him around, gripping both his arms, and someone shoved a light at his face. "This ain't no cat boy," he heard. "Look at his eyes and skin—his stripes are rubbing off! What's going on here, kid?"

Heart racing, still panting, Tristan turned his face away from the heat of the light. A gloved hand smacked his jaw. He snapped his head up, teeth locked.

"I said, what do you think you're doing, kid?" the soldier with the lamp demanded.

Tristan only swallowed. He slid a glance sideways, looking for Pulou, and the hand struck his face again.

"Somebody get over here!"

The voice came from a few yards off to Tristan's right. His captor jerked him around, and the lampbearer turned his light on the spot.

The man who'd been hit first, bloody hand pressed between his other arm and his side, stood over two shapes stretched motionless on the ground, one armored, one not. He held his weapon clumsily, like a club, in his uninjured hand and shouted, "Get some links on him before he comes around, will you? I had to hit him four times to drop him. He almost tore out Kreg's throat first!"

"Pulou!" Tristan's heart contracted. He lunged against the restraining hands as the legionnaires crouched over the gan, but his captor wrenched his arm up behind his back. He went to his knees, breath catching with pain, and a large hand shoved his face onto launch-kilned tarmac.

"Hey, Scully, hurry it up! This one isn't unconscious!" his captor called.

The lampbearer came back to crouch at Tristan's shoulder. Metallic rings glinted in his hand. He seized Tristan's pinioned wrist and crossed it over the other, clamping cold bands around both. He had no opportunity to resist. One man hauled Tristan to his feet. Steadying himself, he twisted to look around for Pulou.

The gan came to gradually. Using only feet and legs, he shoved himself onto his side, and Tristan saw the heaving motion of his ribs. He didn't sit up, just lay in a tight huddle.

"How's Kreg?" asked Tristan's captor from behind him.

"Dead." The other legionnaire glanced over his shoulder at the shape sprawled beyond Pulou. Crimson that appeared black in the moonlight splashed the figure's breastplate.

Tristan had seen the aftermath of tsaa'chi before. He turned his face away.

He counted more legionnaires now, almost two hands of them, covering and carrying away the dead man, flashing their lights all around, picking up flint knives and game bag and human weapons lost in the fight, staring at Tristan. He glared back from beneath disheveled hair, baring his teeth at them, and most of them laughed.

He watched two of them drag Pulou up by his arms and saw how the gan swayed, still dizzy, but they pushed him with the ends of their long weapons to make him walk. He seemed lost until Tristan called his name, then he raised his head and came, unsteadily. His nose had been bloodied.

The legionnaires prodded them from the spacecraft nest and across the loading yard to one of the long buildings. Tristan stopped at its threshold, staring into the square cavern beyond, but someone pushed him forward. He glowered at the armored man, and tried to steady Pulou when he stumbled.

Three soldiers marched them along the passage to a boxy space at its end, where one man touched a panel of small lights on its wall. Another wall slid across the way out, and the ground dropped beneath their feet. Tristan's stomach dropped, too. When he glanced around, startled, he saw the soldiers watching him and grinning.

The fall stopped abruptly, and Pulou almost buckled against him. The box opened. Tristan shrugged away from the legionnaire's prod, but the tunnel he faced seemed darker and colder than the one the door had closed on. He felt a cave's dankness on his skin, smelled it on the air. Confused and abruptly frightened, he planted his feet.

Somebody caught him by the shoulder and shoved him forward, out of the box and up to a wall, face first. He tried to twist away, hissing through his teeth, but the hand between his shoulder blades pressed hard enough to take his breath in a gasp. Hands probed around his waist, ran down one leg and then the other. He shifted his feet, trying to escape them. They grabbed the canteen still dangling over his shoulder, cut its strap, and took it away.

The pressure between his shoulder blades let up only so the soldier could shove him into another box, larger than the moving one and built of stones. They thrust Pulou in, too, hard enough that he fell into Tristan. Unable to catch himself, the gan sank to his knees, grimacing, and slumped forward on the floor.

Tristan dropped down beside him. "Pulou!" He struggled to loosen wrists locked at his back, but the rings bit into his skin.

He jumped, his head jerking up, when the legionnaires slammed a heavy door across the way out. He swallowed as its echoes rang between stone walls.

* *

Brigadier General Jules François scowled at the bundle on his desk and glanced at his console screen for an explanation. A brief message glowed back at him.

FROM DEPARTMENT OF SECURITY AND INVESTIGATION

2234L HOURS, 5/8/3307 SY

THE FOLLOWING REPORT WAS FORWARDED BY COL LANSILL, OIC DS&I, RE: INTRUDERS APPREHENDED IN LAUNCH BAY 12. POSSIBLE INTELLIGENCE VALUE; SAFEGUARD PENDING CLASSIFICATION. SEE CONFISCATED POSSESSIONS.

François secured the office door before he sank into the molded chair behind his desk. He entered his access code to call the report onto his screen and deliberately left the voice synthesizer turned off.

The military policeman's report contained only the circumstances of the apprehension, listed two casualties, and gave physical descriptions of the intruders. The MP's commander, Colonel Lansill, had safeguarded the report.

François caught the skin bag with a sweep of his hand and upended it over his desk. He had no idea what to expect—certainly not the handgun that clunked onto the desktop. Leaning forward in his chair, he poked among strips of dried meat, a handful of nuts in wrinkled shells, a pair of ID tags on a chain.

He took up the weapon to turn it in his hands, weighing and balancing it. Some type of energy pistol, probably about twenty-five standard years old. Not of Dominion make, and the Issel Sector hadn't produced its own arms then. He scratched at a raised place on the grip, and crusted grime chipped away to reveal part of a crest: an oval enclosing an eagle's head with a planet caught in its beak. "Unified Worlds," he muttered.

Setting down the sidearm, he gathered up the chain, activated the desk's illuminant with a motion, and held one tag to its light.

His fingers tightened on it as his casual gaze turned to intense examination. He punched the intercom to his exec's office, and when the major replied he said, "I want to see Colonel Lansill from the DS&I in here ASAP."

Returning to his console, he called up the stills retrieved from the guardhouse vid monitor for inclusion with the report.

The first two showed the native curled on his side in the middle of the cell floor, grid-marked with his own stripes and the sunlight that breached the small window. He lay with eyes closed and mouth open. The third image showed the youth stretching up to the window bars, his wrists still crossed in restraints at his back.

François flicked through the frames until he found one that focused on the boy's face.

The youth had sandy blond hair, long enough to brush his shoulders, and his skin showed a healthy tan under the smears of dust across his face and torso. François noted blue eyes and a cleft in the chin. He dredged his memory.

Boot heels clicked at the doorway; the colonel said, "Lansill reporting as ordered, sir."

"Come in. Have a seat." François motioned at a chair and leaned back in his own. "Your soldier's report neglected to state how the prisoners entered the base compound and what their intentions were. Didn't your people interrogate them?"

Lansill said, "No, sir. Neither speaks Standard. But I doubt that's your foremost concern."

"You're right; it isn't. Does your man know that you forwarded his report to me?"

"No, sir."

"Leave it that way." François' glance dropped briefly to the sidearm on his desk and he reached for his intercom again. "Major, contact the anthropology unit and get an expert on indigenous races over here. And while we wait, load the colonial history files and send me any references to contacts with the Unified Worlds during the last twenty-five standard years."

To the colonel he said, "If the kid doesn't speak our language, we'll find somebody who speaks his."

* *

Tristan had spent the rest of the night crouched beside Pulou; the restraints didn't allow him to do much else. As darkness gave way to gray he had tried to curl up for warmth, but the restraints made it awkward and uncomfortable.

Pulou slept now, uneasily, but Tristan couldn't. Anxious, he stretched up to the ground-level sill again to watch disciplined squads of boots tramp the gravel, sneezed at the dust they raised, and squinted at the sunlight beyond them.

A grating shriek tore his attention to the door. He jerked around, swallowing hard. On the floor, Pulou stirred and opened one eye.

The barrier scraped open. Legionnaires paced outside, shiny shapes in the dimness, but the man who entered wore no plating. He dropped to a squat, rested forearms on knees with his hands hanging down, and said, "Peace in you."

Tristan stared, embarrassed at being approached with a greeting given only to mothers, and startled at hearing a human speaking gan at all. He moved away from the window to place himself protectively between the human and Pulou. "You are who?" he demanded.

"I am Nuan to ganan," the man said, and paused. "I ask you questions."

Tristan said nothing, just studied him through narrowed eyes—a message in itself if this intruder knew ganan. A message of distrust, of warning.

"One man is dead," said the human. "Another is hurt."

"They attack us," Tristan said. "Tsaa'chi comes."

"Why do you come here?" the man asked. "Why are you in—" he resorted to Standard, "—launch bay?""

"Jwa'lai,"" Tristan said, and turned his back.

He heard a long pause, and the man rising with a grunt and crossing to the barrier, and voices outside, and the noise of the barrier closing. He kept his back turned to it.

"It's what, little brother?" Pulou asked from near his knee.

"Flat-tooth. He asks questions." Tristan glanced down at him. "Your head is better?"

Pulou tried to lift it and winced. "Hurts to move."

"Sleep more." Tristan settled himself on the floor, awkward with his arms bound. "I sleep, too."

He felt too scared to sleep. He still lay wide awake, every muscle in his body taut, when the barrier scraped open once more. He twisted just enough to glance over his shoulder—and struggled to sit up, to free one hand to touch his brow. The best he could do was duck his head.

The woman who entered the stone room appeared to be about the age and build of his own mother, but with hair the color of fire. She didn't crouch down, but Tristan didn't expect her to. He whispered, "Peace in you, mother."

Her smile held no cruelty, but it held no warmth, either. She said, "I am Marna. You are who?"

He eyed her. "Tristan," he said, and ducked his head. "Why, mother?"

"Flat-tooth name," she said, "not gan. Why are you with him?" She pointed at Pulou with her fingers straight, threatening.

Tristan tensed his bound hands at his back. "He's my brother. We hunt together."

"You come from where?"

"Out there." Tristan indicated the general direction with a motion of his head.

"Why?"

"Jwa'lai," Tristan said, watching her.

She nodded, and her smile warmed at last. "You live with ganan for long time?"

"When I am very little," Tristan said.

"Other flat-teeth are there?"

It seemed a harmless query but something about it made Tristan uneasy. He cocked his head. "Flat-teeth, mother?"

"Yes. Like me, like you. Humans. Think when you go to live with ganan. Other flat-teeth go with you?"

Tristan hesitated. "I'm little then," he said.

He hadn't answered her question and he saw her recognition of it. But she asked, "You come here for jwa'lai? Why?"

He hesitated again; his mouth had gone dry. "I hunt for—my father."

Her eyebrows lifted. He studied her, fidgeting with an increasing discomfort.

"He's in this—camp?" she asked.

"No, mother."

"He's where?"

"I don't know," Tristan said. He hunched lower, still watching her face. "Why do you ask me, mother?"

She paused this time, and then said, "We try to help you."

He cocked his head, questioning that.

"You're hungry?" she asked. "You and—your brother?" She pointed at Pulou again with her straight fingers.

"Yes," said Tristan.

She reached out then, slowly, and touched his forehead with her fingertips—not the backs of her fingers that kept her claws curled toward herself—and he braced himself and bore it. She might be the jwa'nan here; he wouldn't risk her tsaa'chi.

"I tell them to bring you food," she said, and the legionnaires opened the barrier and let her out.

* *

"Well, Doctor." François indicated a chair facing his desk and waited until the woman seated herself. Then he asked, "How do your interrogation methods differ from those of your colleague?"

"Ganan are matriarchal, sir," she said. "Your prisoners would have talked to any female older than themselves."

"Humph." The general shifted forward in his chair. "What were you able to learn?"

"It's rather difficult to take someone's history in a language which has no past or future tenses," the woman said, "but the boy claims to have come here out of jwa'lai—'duty to mother' in the gan language."

"What's that?" the general asked. "Some sort of native idolatry?"

She smiled. "You might call it that."

François raised an eyebrow.

"One's mother," said the anthropologist, "is his personal incarnation of Yung Jwei, the life-giving deity. Because of that, a request from or promise made to her takes higher precedence than life itself. One even approaches his mother—all mature females, in fact—with a gesture—" she touched her brow, "—symbolic of putting his head—his life—into her hands. That's jwa'lai."

"Interesting." François leaned back in his chair. "So what's the story on the native that came with him?"

"The boy referred to him as his brother and said that they hunt together," the doctor said.

"His brother?" said François.

She gave a single nod. "Male ganan practically live in pairs," she explained. "It takes two individuals to carry the large game they hunt for food and shelter, and it provides mutual protection against natural threats. After one's mother, a male gan's strongest allegiance is to his hunting partner, who usually is a brother." She hesitated. "It's not all that different from the cohesion you'd want among your troops in battle, sir."

"Hmm." François stroked his chin, considering that, and nodded.

"But I've never heard of a human-gan bonding of this type before," the anthropologist continued. "It suggests that the boy is deeply assimilated into the gan culture. This is definitely worthy of further study."

"Perhaps," said François. He shifted in his chair. "So you think we have a couple of—kids—down there who're trying to do their mother a favor?"

The doctor locked her hands in her lap and looked at François directly. "I don't think so, sir. The boy may use the language and mannerisms like a native but he made a few crucial errors in our interview. First, ganan have no concept of deceit, and he was evasive about answering some of my questions. That shows a human influence.

"Second, he said he was looking for his father. Ganan don't mate for life, and few youngsters even know what male fathered them. None would ever consider it important to find him."

François nodded, and toyed with the ID tag on its chain. "You believe that his mother is out there, too, then?"

"Probably. Or at least she was. I also expect that he can speak a human language. Thought patterns and language are necessarily connected. And he said that his name is Tristan—certainly not a native name."

"Humph." The general studied her. "Did he say anything about why and how he got out there in the first place?"

"Just that he joined the ganan when he was very small." The doctor spread her hands. "One can only speculate from that."

"What about his father? Did he expect to find him here?"

"No, he didn't. He said that he didn't know where he is."

François glanced at the ID tag again—DARTMUTH, DARCIE—and furrowed his brow. "We appreciate your time, Doctor."

Lansill pushed a stylus and memory pad across at her. "Nondisclosure statement," he said. "Sign it. It verifies your understanding that what you've seen, heard, and said doesn't leave this office."

She signed it, suddenly solemn.

François nodded; the colonel opened the door for her, closed it, touched his superior's vision with his own. François dropped the chain on the desktop and said, "Let's look at that colonial history."

Lansill moved to the console and called for contacts with the Unified Worlds. Several entries on the monitor index highlighted themselves. "Document number one," he said. When its text appeared on the screen he said, "Here we go, sir," and offered the general his chair.

It bore the date 12/6/3282 Standard Years, a month after the battle at Enach, in which the Unified Worlds had dealt its final blow to the Dominion and ended the Great War. A message originating from the government of Kaleo, one of the Unified Worlds, had been received by Comm Central, demanding the return of all passengers and crew from a captured personnel transport. When Comm Central denied having any knowledge of a lost ship, it had been included in the Prisoners of War issue at the Enach Accords. The negotiations produced an agreement which allowed each side to search, for a period of one standard year, any enemy world believed to be holding personnel who had not been accounted for.

Six weeks after ratification of the Accords, a team from the Unified Worlds had arrived in the Korot system to begin an intensive search of Ganwold and its surrounding space. The team employed every technology, every method allowed under the treaty, but no one ever uncovered so much as a trace of the missing ship or its passengers. At the end of the year, the searchers sealed the required documents confirming that no Unified Worlds personnel, military or civilian, were being held on Ganwold.

That had been almost twenty-five standard years ago, François' estimated dating of the ruined energy pistol.

The next highlight bore the date of 23/7/3291 SY, the first entry of an incident serialized over several days' message traffic.

A lightdrive craft had entered the Korot system with no identification signals, and Colonial Defense had tried to raise communications. Receiving no response, Defense dispatched two skirmish craft to identify and investigate. The damaged transport, bearing Unified Worlds crest and registration numbers, had opened fire. The skirmishers took out its weapons and propulsion systems, boarded, and found it under the control of masuk slavers.

The legionnaires secured the ship and made a thorough tour of it. The captain's log listed Aeire City spaceport on Adriat, on 4/6/3282 SY, as its place and date of departure. Two lightskip points had been charted, but an officer of the bridge had dumped the rest of the astrogation program. He hadn't lived long enough to dump the crew and passenger rosters as well. Those had prompted a search.

Only two survivors had not been taken earlier by the masuki: a young woman and a small male child who were tentatively identified as the wife and son of one of the Unified Worlds' most decorated Spherzah. They had escaped the legionnaires as well, leaving a pair of holodiscs in the soldiers' possession, and evidently reached the lifepods. Five had been jettisoned into landing orbits around Ganwold.

The skirmishers had destroyed the transport before tracing the pods' locators. Colonial Defense had been instructed to take occupants of all lifepods into custody and inform the Sector General at once.

Hours later they picked up the first transponder signals. Over three days, surface troops recovered four pods, including one from a southern ocean. Each was empty. The fifth, tracked briefly by radar, lacked a functional transponder. More than two weeks later searchers had found it at the bottom of a canyon.

Unlike the others, its hatch had been opened, but all evidence to confirm human occupation had been obliterated by marauding animals. With the trail already cold, search efforts had been abandoned as futile after a few days.

But its occupants had surfaced at last. Only that could explain the Unified Worlds sidearm in the skin bag, and provide sufficient reason for its owner to evade questioning.

Pursing his mouth, François called up images of the holodiscs confiscated by the boarding legionnaires years before.

One showed a laughing young man with a toddler riding on his shoulders, gripping his hair. The other contained a wedding portrait: the same young man in a ceremonial uniform with several medals, and a girl in a pale blue gown standing in the circle of his arms, one hand resting on his chest.

François noted the young officer's sandy blond hair, blue eyes, the cleft in his chin. . . .

He had never seen any of the Spherzah in the flesh—and quite frankly, he hoped he never would. The Unified Worlds' Special Operations Force had originated on Kaleo and taken its name from a Kalese bird of prey, a night hunter which swooped and struck without warning. The word 'spherzah' translated literally as 'talons of the night,' and by all the accounts he'd heard, it fit the crack force very well.

François also remembered how, like a phoenix from his father's ashes, Lujan Sergey had flown in the attack on Dominion Station when only a few years older than the youth now pacing in the guardhouse.

"Well, sir?" Lansill said at his shoulder.

François glanced away from the screen. "No question in my mind of the kid's identity, Colonel. But we still have a few unanswered questions, like why he came here looking for his father, and where the woman is these days. If the anthropologists are correct, the kid's not ignorant of who he is or of the danger to himself in coming here."

He pushed himself back, rose to pace a few steps, paused to meet the colonel's look directly. "Sector General Renier must be notified at once, in any case."

Four

"Captain, you're to report to the Department of Security and Investigation immediately."

"Security and Investigation?" Reed Weil's finger slipped off the comm button. He punched it again, caught an electronic, "—still there, sir?"

"Yes. Is it a medical situation?"

"No, it isn't."

He hesitated. "Can you tell me what it is, then?"

"Not over the comm, sir."

Weil rose, finger still on the button, and said, "I'm on my way. Out here."

He found his palms suddenly damp. He wiped them on the front of his lab coat—then took that off and removed his service jacket and cap from their hook.

In the base clinic's outer office, he fumbled the jacket's clasps as he asked the NCO receptionist to reschedule his next appointments.

He felt surprise at finding the base commander in the Security office, too, but General François just returned a perfunctory salute and said, "At ease, Captain," when he reported in. Shoving a handful of papers aside, François added, "We're sending you on a new assignment. Your change of post orders are being cut as we speak."

"Sir?"

"I apologize for the short notice, Captain. This morning I received orders from Governor Renier for the immediate transfer of a prisoner to his headquarters on Issel. Colonel Lansill,"

—he indicated the security commander— "and I have discussed it and concluded that sedating him will be the most practical method, so I'm putting the case under your charge; you may use whatever method you prefer. You'll leave Ganwold aboard the merchant ship Bonne Fortune at twenty-two hundred this evening."

"Yes, sir." Weil glanced from one to the other. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but I wasn't aware there had been a court-martial."

"There wasn't," said Lansill.

Weil didn't understand until he stood outside the cell with them later, wearing his lab coat once more. Peering through the grid in the door, he asked, "Who is he, sir? How long has he been in here, and how did he get the bruises on his face and chest?"

"He's been here five days." Lansill clipped his words. "The bruises are the result of his lack of cooperation under interrogation."

Weil winced. "May I ask what he's done to deserve Issel?"

The security officer's voice and features turned hard. "You have no need to know that, Captain. Your duty is to get him to Sector General Renier alive."

The security briefing he'd received burned in the back of Weil's mind. "Yes, sir," he said, and paused. "I recommend medical stasis. It'll guarantee his controllability and prevent trauma due to lightskip travel."

The colonel only said, "Humph," and motioned to the guard. "Open it up."

The door grated back. Two armored soldiers pushed up from behind Weil, but he motioned them away. "No. Let me try it alone first." Ignoring the way one man shook his head, he stepped into the cell.

He didn't see the native, crouched on the bench beneath the window with his knees drawn up to his chest, until his eyes reflected a dull yellow light out of the shadows. Weil hesitated, then turned his attention to the youth who sat on his heels with his back to the wall, his face showing suspicion between the bruises. Weil took only a few steps, then dropped down in a squat—a less threatening posture—and said quietly, "I'm not going to hurt you, kid. Can you understand that?"

The youth glared at him and shifted like a predator gathering for a spring. Purple swelling practically closed his right eye.

"Thugs!" Weil said under his breath. He put out a hand, empty palm up. "Look, kid, I want to help you, okay? Will you let me close enough to help you?" Still crouching, he advanced a few steps.

Like a cornered animal, the boy showed his teeth and hissed at him.

Weil paused. "It's all right, kid. If you don't take it easy they'll be in here beating you up again. Understand?"

When he moved, the boy raised his hands before his chest, palms forward, fingers curled like claws. Restraints had chafed his wrists raw, and his left hand appeared swollen and discolored; the fingers didn't curl well.

"Watch it, Doc," someone behind him said. "That's a warning."

"I'm sorry, kid," Weil said, showing his empty hands in return and sidling nearer an inch at a time. "It's okay. It's okay. I can help you, if you'll let me." He drew close enough to detect fear behind the defiance in the blue eyes. His hand closed, gently but firmly, on the boy's right wrist.

A hissed threat distracted his attention to the native crouching in the shadows—

—directly into a blow across his face that bowled him backward, cheekbone throbbing, skin burning with deep scratches. The boy shot to his feet, hands still curled, his eyes wild.

Weil hadn't even picked himself up before the legionnaires lunged in, closing on the prisoner from both sides. The youth launched himself at one soldier, a tackle at the waist that threw him to the floor. The native lunged at the second, staggering him under a rain of cuffs at his helmet. The man tore at the clinging fury until he freed one hand enough to grasp his nightstick and lash out. It connected with a crack like a rifle-blast above the scuffling. The gan crumpled, mouth bleeding.

The youth saw it and stiffened. Horror etched his face, drained it of all color. He gasped out an alien word, screamed it over and over as he tore at his opponent with hands like claws.

Watching as the boy fought to free himself, teeth bared and limbs flailing, Weil couldn't help wondering if he was entirely human, if there might be as much alien biology as upbringing behind his attack.

The legionnaire, larger of build and obviously heavier than the youth, found leverage with a foot and wrenched himself over. Straddling the boy's chest, pinning his arms, he panted, "Here—you go—Doc. He's—all yours!"

Weil dropped down beside them, but glanced up at the sound of footfalls. Lansill and François stood over him.

The colonel motioned at the second soldier. "Put the cat boy outside the electrifield—if you haven't killed him already."

"Yessir." The man hauled the limp native up over plated shoulders.

On the floor, the youth kicked and strained against his captor, screaming that alien word.

"Get the drug into him," Lansill said.

Weil reached into his coat pocket for a plastic packet. He pulled it open, revealing two pads like coins made of stiff gauze. Peeling the backing from one, he reached for the prisoner's face.

The youth twisted his head away. The soldier, knees planted on his upper arms, leaned forward to seize him by the hair. The boy stiffened, paled under the shift of weight, choked on a gasp.

"You'll break his arms!" said Weil.

"Yessir. You want him hitting you again?"

Weil glared at him. He pressed the pad to the boy's temple. He couldn't meet the youth's eyes, wide with fear, as he turned his head to apply the second patch.

The youth's rigidity subsided in moments. His clenched hands uncurled, his bent knees sagged. He lay turning his head from side to side, blinking, his panting reduced to sighs.

"That's good," the colonel said behind Weil, and unclipped an audicorder from his belt. "Sit him up against the wall, Gerik."

"What, sir?" Weil stared up at him.

The soldier caught the youth under the arms and propped him against the wall. His head lolled; he shook it, tried to lift it. He barely managed to hiss when the colonel squatted in front of him.

"Now then, Tristan Sergey." Lansill drew two pendants on a thread from an inside pocket and dangled them before him. "You can stop playing ignorant; we know who you are. We've had these for several years. Do you know what they are?"

The youth's eyes widened, fixing on the slowly revolving holodiscs. He swallowed.

The colonel's sudden slap snapped his head to the side. "Answer me, Tristan! Where is your mother? Why did she send you here?"

"Sir," Weil said, "the drug's disoriented him."

The colonel scowled at him. "It'll also break him, Captain. We need answers." He faced the youth again. "Where is she, Tristan?"

"Sick . . ." the boy said, "fr'm th' coughing sickness. . . ."

"Why did she send you here? Where is she?"

"Ou' there . . . man' nights away. . . ." Tristan shook his head, trying to hold it up.

The broad hand struck the other side of his face. Last daylight through the window grid showed a red print there. Lansill tapped the patch adhered to his temple. "You'll give us answers sooner or later," he said. "It'll be easier for you if you don't keep me waiting. . . . Now, why did you come here?"

The youth sagged, his eyes showing confusion. "T' find . . . m' father."

His interrogator grasped his chin, jerked up his head. "Your father. Where is he? Where are you going?"

"Don' know." Tristan tried to shake his head but the hand at his jaw prevented it. "I don' know. . . ."

"And why must you find your father, Tristan?"

Weil recognized the drug's effect in slurred words that spilled without reservation. He knotted up his hands.

"Gotta help 'er. She's sick," Tristan said. "Gotta . . . find 'im t' help 'er. . . . Don' know where 'e is."

Weil cringed when the colonel slapped the boy once more, but it roused him only enough to shudder this time. Lansill switched off the audicorder, rocked back on his heels, rose up. "Give the doctor a hand with him, Gerik."

"Yessir." The soldier let the boy slump sideways to the floor and motioned at a cohort to bring in a med sled.

"With your permission, sir," Weil heard the colonel say, "I'll set up a low-level aerial search for the woman." Weil didn't glance up, just eased the youth onto the sled and drew its cocoon over him.

"Good," the general said behind him. "Governor Renier doesn't want her taken into custody yet, but she must be kept under surveillance in case that becomes necessary."

When Weil straightened, turning the sled over to the soldiers, the general had already gone. But Lansill stood in the doorway. "The shuttle lifts in two standard hours, Captain," he said.

* *

Weil clenched his teeth, watching the soldiers place the comatose youth on the ER surgical table. Only when they withdrew to stand near the door did he move away to scrub.

He removed the boy's aboriginal clothing, washed him, shrouded him in the metallic chill of a hypothermic sheet. Reaching over the table, he uncoiled wires from the monitor bank in the medical capsule that waited like a coffin on a wheeled cart. He switched on its computer, scanned the temperature control and life support units, and put the thermostat on its lowest setting.

He applied cardiopulmonary sensors to the boy's chest, poked a thermocapsule down his throat, then catheterized him. Placing intravenous shunts in his external iliac artery and vein required minor laser surgery. Weil eyed the vital signs monitor when he had finished, noting blood pressure and body temperature, pulse rate, respirations, and blood chemistry. The computerized infusion system purred on, managing oxygenation and dialysis and the boy's electrolyte balance.

The temperature reading already showed a marginal drop. Weil stepped back, peeling off bloodied gloves, and said quietly, "Good."

Waiting for temperature and pulse rate to drop further, he placed the youth's battered left hand under the holoscanner and examined it for fractures. He found none, but he applied medication and braced the hand, then spread salve over the contusions on the boy's face, arms, and chest.

"Maybe you should cut his nails so he don't claw you again, sir," said Gerik from near the door.

Weil touched the discoloration swelling on his cheekbone. "Get out of here, Sergeant!"

The boy's pulse had dropped to fifty and his respirations came slow and shallow when Weil glanced at the monitors again. He reached for the electrocardio patches.

Peeling backing from the metallic discs, he adhered one over his patient's heart, the second in the corresponding spot on his back. He checked wiring connections, then synchronized the computer's weak impulse to the rhythm already sketched on the monitor. Opening the current, he watched the pulsemaker's green line parallel the youth's heartbeat; his body didn't twitch at the mild shock.

Pressing his mouth tight, Weil keyed in the stasis program: twelve heartbeats and three respirations per minute, with body temperature maintained at 72o. Coordinating the data, the vital signs monitor and computer would gradually reduce the boy's metabolism to the set level and support it there. Once established, stasis required only minimal IV nourishment and no anesthetic.

Weil watched the pulsemaker's oscillating pattern shift into the primary rate decrease, the critical point of initiation. Might it trigger fibrillation or total arrest?

The first hesitant heartbeat faltered, then caught up, righted, on the second shock. Weil released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

Assured that the transition would progress smoothly, he called the guards back in to help move his patient from the table into the capsule. Untangling monitor wires and rewrapping the hypothermic sheet, he avoided looking at the youth's face.

An hour later he switched on the capsule's repulsors. The military police maneuvered it through automated doors toward a freight hauler with terrain treads, and two more legionnaires eased it aboard.

Colonel Lansill glanced at the form beneath the transparent capsule cover as it slid past him, and thrust a strongbox at Weil. "Proof of the prisoner's identity," he said. "Give it only to Governor Renier." He inspected his timepiece. "The crew of the Bonne Fortune is waiting. You'll go with them as far as Adriat, where the Sector General's personal voyager will make rendezvous. Questions, Captain?"

Weil set his jaw. "No, sir."

"Very good. You're dismissed."

Weil clipped off the expected salute and mounted the freight hauler. He thought for a moment that he glimpsed amber eyes blinking up at him from between its treads and shook his head. Still, huddled with the soldiers under the hauler's shell, he shuddered with the feeling that something in the shadows watched him, questioned him, assessed him.

He couldn't shake it even in the shuttle; he kept thinking he'd felt something brush his leg as he helped maneuver the capsule aboard.

In another four hours he strapped the medical capsule into a berth in one of Bonne Fortune's cabins. He tested the bands with a tug and looked around the cubicle before he snapped out the illuminant, half expecting to glimpse a ghost in a corner. Latching the door, he found that someone had attached a handmade placard that read AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. He left it there when he retired to the crew lounge for departure.

Thrusters bore the merchant ship clear of the orbital station where the shuttle still hung in dock. Real-space engines cut in, and Ganwold began gradually to shrink on the lounge viewscreen.

Three days until lightskip to Adriat, Weil thought. What am I doing here? He glanced about the compartment at twenty-six merchant spacers and three legionnaires and felt again that someone was watching him.

When a voice over the intercom gave clearance, he rose and returned to his own cabin, next to the one with the placard on the door.

He'd just stretched out in his berth and pulled the microreader with the anthropologists' report from his front pocket when he heard the wail. He tried to ignore it at first, but he couldn't help listening as it swelled to a mournful pitch and ebbed to a sigh at irregular intervals. It rose over the throb from the engine room belowdecks; it emanated from the bulkheads. Weil felt his scalp prickle.

After a few moments he rose and slid open the portal. Listening, he stepped into the passage.

The moan reached him clearly, coming from the compartment with the AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY sign. He'd known that had to be its source. He stood still, heart beating hard against his ribs—and in a distracted clinical way briefly wondered at its rate. Be sensible, he chided himself. There's a logical explanation for this.

He seized the lever, flung the door open.

Amber eyes glowed at him out of darkness. The keening turned to a hiss. Weil substituted several jabs at the light button for a gasp, and missed three times before he connected.

Crouched in the lower berth beside the capsule, with clawed hands spread on its cover, the alien drew back bloodied lips from his teeth. A bottom canine had been broken. He raised one hand like a readied weapon.

Weil sank back from the doorframe, his heart still racing. But when the alien began groping at the capsule's seals, he shook his head. "Don't! Don't! You'll hurt him, understand? He's not dead. He's—he's asleep. Don't hurt him!"

The frantic hands paused. The striped face tilted and the eyes narrowed, questioning.

"That's it," Weil said, nodding. "That's it." He felt his tension ebbing, felt his heart rate beginning to calm. He drew a long breath and said, "He's all right." He kept his tone calm, soothing. "I won't hurt him. I won't hurt you. It's going to be all right, understand?"

Hunched by the capsule, the gan eyed him for a long time before he gave a single acknowledging blink.

* *

Sitting alone in the spacers' mess, Weil placed the meat portion of his meal in a paper towel, wrapped it carefully, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Though synthetic, a protein concoction of some type rather than real meat, it would have to do. He rose, slid his utensils and tray into the collection bin, and made his way back to the prisoner's cabin.

The alien peered down at him from the upper berth when he stepped inside. He pulled the soggy package from his pocket, unfolded the wrapping, spread it out in front of the gan. "This won't taste like what you're used to," he said, "but it's all there is."

The gan sniffed at his offering, wary. Wrinkled his nose at it. But, plainly hungry, he hesitated only a moment before he picked it up, smelled it more carefully, then ventured a cautious bite. He cocked his head as if puzzled by its flavor but continued to eat.

Feeling oddly relieved, Weil returned to his own cabin.

The anthropology report still lay on the berth where he'd left it. He scooped it up, sank into the cabin's single chair, and flicked it on.

As he read, questions began to curl up in his mind like wisps of smoke. What would the authorities do with the alien if he were discovered? Dispose of him through an airlock? What would they do with him if he made it all the way to Issel? Weil felt certain they wouldn't return him to Ganwold. And how would the boy react when he learned what had happened to his friend? Remembering the way he'd fought in the guardhouse, appearing more animal than human, Weil set his teeth.

The questions kept him awake through the ship's simulated night, kept him restless in his berth. They tangled themselves with portions of the anthropology report and ran through his memory again and again as if caught in a loop.

The anthropology report! That's it! The scientists had emphasized the strength of the fraternal bond between gan males. Could he perhaps claim a psychological link as well? That the companionship was as necessary for psychological stability as for physical safety in their primitive lifestyles? What he had witnessed in the cell would certainly tend to support that.

Weil shoved himself out of the berth, his heart racing. He fumbled through the stowage compartment, among his clothes, for the microreader containing the report. He had to create a medical record for the prisoner, documenting his instability and tendency toward violence when separated from his alien companion. Weil could even claim, after watching the alien try to tear open the capsule, that the instability went both ways. He'd have to embellish it some—but then, that would be nothing new. Every officer evaluation he'd ever written or received, he well knew, had been as much fiction as fact.

Half-way through tapping his conclusions and recommendations into his microwriter, another set of questions crossed his mind: Why are you doing this? What does it even matter to you?

He sat for several minutes trying to rationalize his actions, but there didn't seem to be any reasonable answers. The authorities on Ganwold had accused the boy of criminal activities, after all. Weil could be court-martialed himself if his attempt to "obstruct justice" were discovered.

He didn't believe the criminal story. Something else motivated this, something that left him uncomfortable. He felt as if he'd been made an unwitting accessory to an abduction.

* *

Waiting inside the hangar shell, out of the early winter sleet, Dylan Dartmuth scanned the roiling darkness for flashes of a shuttle's approach lights.

Nothing yet. It left him with an odd sense of reprieve, a sense that there might still be a chance, if he could come up with a plan.

Better forget it, he counseled himself. He's a prisoner being transferred. Most likely a dangerous prisoner, to be transferred in stasis. So there's an uncanny resemblance, that's all.

He narrowed his gaze on the outline of Bonne Fortune's landing boat. Its skin shimmered with receding heat. Around it, the private landing area resembled a topographical map of icy lakes.

Dylan shivered and crossed his arms over the Academy flightline patches and tech sergeant rank on his field jacket. The Sector General's private spaceport had no permanent staff; Dylan had been conscripted for duty here today much as he'd been conscripted into the Sector General's service in the first place.

He felt a lot older than thirty-five. The Great War had ended his childhood before he reached the age of ten, in a single night of torture that had left him maimed and his twin brother dead. There had been no access to medical care then, to repair the damage done by his mother's interrogators; he still limped. His gray eyes had hardened to steel, his mouth to a serious line beneath his dark mustache, and most of his hair had gone gray.

Leaning against the pressmetal siding, he couldn't keep himself from glancing over his shoulder toward the center of the dome hangar. His cohorts ranged about in pairs and small knots, some leaning on grain drums stamped GANWOLD, which they had unloaded and stacked. They all kept a distance from the soldiers, the alien, and the medical capsule whose cover still bore beads of rainwater.

Helping to unload the capsule, Dylan had glimpsed its occupant's face and found himself remembering a childhood hero, a combat pilot with a Topawan accent and a ready smile who had flown in the battle which bought Adriat's short-lived liberation, and survived to marry Dylan's older sister.

It had been years since Dylan had seen the man that young pilot had become: hero of all the Unified Worlds now, but very much alone despite his place in the public eye.

Held by the youth's familiarity, Dylan had asked the medical officer, "Who is he, sir? What's the matter here?"

He'd read wariness in the captain's appraisal of him. Had half expected the younger man to disdain replying to an enlisted man's question. But the doctor had said, "He's a prisoner being transferred to Issel."

Dylan had recoiled. "To Issel? He's bloody young for a sentence like that! What's he done, sir?"

The doctor flicked a glance backward and, noting how the legionnaires stood off, cradling their rifles, he said, "I don't know. They wouldn't tell me that."

In another moment the soldiers began to saunter toward them, and the medical officer had given him a warning motion. "Dismissed, sergeant."

Dylan had turned away, but not before he'd read the distress creasing the doctor's face, and he knew the captain from Ganwold didn't believe the boy was a criminal any more than he did himself.

Five

Tristan became aware first of being cold, of shivering, and then of voices, and hands massaging sensation into his limbs, and moving him, and wrapping him in something warm. The shivering didn't begin to ease for a long time. He tried to open his eyes, tried to lift a hand to rub them, but the effort left him exhausted.

A hand slid under his head and neck, raising him slightly, and a voice above his head said, "Come on, kid, try to drink a little now." Another hand put a drinking tube to his mouth.

Suddenly aware of his thirst, he took the water in gulps, so he almost choked on it.

The tube drew away. "Easy there!" the voice said. "You'll upset your stomach. That's enough!" The hand eased him down.

Without any warning discomfort, he retched. Hands supported his head until it ended, then wiped his mouth and nose and chin. The voice held an apology. "I was afraid of that. Your stomach's been empty for too long. Go back to sleep now. We'll try some more later."

He remembered moments of rousing, vague memories of the drinking tube and vomiting, and hands, and a shadow leaning over him between stretches of sleep.

Tristan sensed that several more hours had passed by the time he woke enough to perceive his surroundings. Dim light from his left drew his attention; it filtered through a cover hung over a large opening. Turning over to face it, his hand slipped off the surface on which he lay. He jerked it back with a gasp.

Through eyes that wouldn't focus he scanned ceiling and walls. He estimated the room at about four arm-lengths wide and maybe twice as long—half the size of the stone room in which he'd lost consciousness. And he was alone.

"Pulou!" he whispered.

He struggled the covers off, puzzled at the effort it required, and pushed himself to a sitting position. His vision spun—momentarily tunneled. Waiting for the dizziness to pass, he tried to shed the loose garment that hung from his shoulders, but it had twisted around his thighs. He untangled it enough to slide one leg over the edge and reach for the ground with his foot; the other leg followed. He stood up slowly and staggered, strengthless as a newborn peimu. Gaining a little balance, he stumbled toward the opening, pushed its cover away with one hand—

—and crashed into something as solid as the walls.

He crumpled, robbed of wind, weak, his nose and forehead throbbing. Drawing on the shred of strength he had left, he dragged himself to his knees, panting hard. He groped for a way out of the curtains but they clung like a spider's web, and dizziness swallowed him. He reached out for something to steady himself. One hand found smooth solidity; he leaned against it.

As the giddiness ebbed he opened his eyes, and his breath snagged in his throat. He shrank back as if the wall might give way into the thin air it appeared to be.

Beyond it, open space dropped away to a depth he didn't want to glimpse the bottom of and stretched across smoky daylight to a skyline of cylindrical towers. The scent of the wind burned his nostrils, making him wrinkle his nose. He saw movement against the skyscape, and glimpsed vehicles that careened between the towers like insects through tall grass. His stomach turned under his ribs.

He still sat there staring, not daring to move for fear of losing his balance and toppling out, when something clicked and rasped softly behind him. He turned slightly, in time to see part of the wall sliding closed behind a man in uniform.

Shadows concealed his face but Tristan recognized him at once. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. Tried once more to push himself back from the edge, to gain his feet. He raised one hand like bared claws in a desperate attempt to warn the man back.

But the man set down the box he carried, crossed to him in two strides, and dropped to his heels beside him. "Good grief, kid!" he said. "I leave the room for two minutes and you get out of bed!" He caught Tristan by the shoulders when he swayed. "Are you all right?"

Tristan managed to hiss at the grip—a combat posture among the ganan—and tried to struggle.

The man didn't let go. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said. "Come on." He steered Tristan back to the bed and settled him in. "You're still groggy," he said. "You shouldn't be getting up unassisted like that. The oxygen level here is lower than you're used to, and the grav is higher, and stasis always leaves a person weak and shaky for a few days anyway. . . . Now, how did you get that knot on your forehead?"

Tristan tried to touch the bruise but he could barely raise his hand. "That looks open," he said with a random wave at the curtain, "but it's hard—like stone." His speech sounded garbled even to himself. His lips and tongue and mind all seemed thick, fuzzy, disconnected. And that increased his sense of urgency. "Have t' find Pulou," he said. "They hurt 'im." He tried to push himself up.

"Take it easy." The man pressed him back down with a hand on his shoulder. "There's no need to get upset. Your friend is fine; he's asleep in my room. I'll bring him in later. Let's just take care of you right now, okay?" He reached for Tristan's wrist.

Tristan twitched his hand away from the man, baring his teeth.

"Hey, relax!" the other said. "I just need to count your pulse!"

Tristan swallowed and watched the other's eyes. He tensed under the doctor's touch.

"How's your stomach?" the medic asked. "Are you getting hungry yet?"

"No," Tristan said.

"Does it still feel upset?"

"Yes."

"We'll wait to give you anything else, then." The man closed up the cloth over his shoulder and reached for his box. Tristan watched as he selected a small vial. "This is for that bruise on your forehead," he said, pressing something white onto his fingertip. "It should be pretty well healed by tomorrow."

Spreading the salve, he added, "I'm Reed Weil. I'm a captain in the Isselan Surface Forces Medical Corps. I'm—really sorry about all of this."

Tristan said nothing, just watched him.

"Look," Weil said, "I don't blame you for not trusting me. You're thinking I'm just another of the thugs who beat up on you—"

"You didn't stop them!" Tristan said. "You put—those things—on my face!" The thick feeling had begun to leave his mouth.

The medic winced at his accusation. "I didn't want to, kid, but it would've been a lot worse for you if I hadn't." He sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm just trying to help you."

Tristan didn't answer.

"I'm trying to help your friend, too," Weil said. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. "I told the—the people here—that you and he would both become violent and dangerous if you were separated."

Tristan stared at him. "Why did you say that?" he demanded. "That isn't right!"

The medic motioned him to be quiet. "I did it to protect you both," he said. "I had reason to believe they'd take your friend away and hurt him."

Tristan's puzzlement deepened. He furrowed his brow. "Why would they do that?"

The other shook his head. "Because they don't have any use for him. They—think he's not important because he's not human, and he's just in the way. Do you understand that?"

Tristan understood the meaning of the words but not the thinking behind them. He nodded, but his forehead stayed wrinkled.

"Okay," the medic said. "Even if the part about being dangerous isn't true, it's important for you and your friend act like it is if anyone tries to take him away. Do you understand that?"

Tristan swallowed hard and nodded again.

"Good." The medic straightened and returned to his normal tone of voice. "How's your hand?" he asked. "The left one. Can you move it?"

Tristan lifted it, and stiffened. His fingernails had been cut off. He looked at his right hand, too, and felt shock. "You cut off my claws!" he accused. "Why did you do that to me?"

Weil appeared startled. He put out his own hand. "Look at mine."

"It's naked!" Tristan said. "Only babies don't have claws! I need them to hunt and to—"

"You won't have to hunt here," said the medic. "There's no need to have claws here."

Chagrined, Tristan knotted his hands together between his knees and turned onto his side, his back to the man. His throat suddenly seemed so tight he could scarcely breathe.

Several seconds passed before Weil asked quietly from behind him, "Tristan, is there any pain or stiffness in your hand?"

"No," he said into the pillow.

"It was very badly bruised. What happened?"

"I hit one of the humans wearing the—shiny shells."

"You mean armor?" The medic said, "You're lucky you didn't break it!"

Tristan didn't reply, didn't stir. Just squeezed his hands more tightly together.

"Tristan," Weil said after another pause, "I'm not done patching you up yet. I need you to turn onto your back again."

Tristan waited for several more seconds before he complied, and then he watched, wary, as the medic drew the covers away, applied more salve to his finger, and reached for the cloth covering his groin. He stiffened, suddenly suspicious, suddenly angry. "What are you doing?"

"I had to make a couple of cuts in your thigh to place some tubes," Weil said. "They need fresh salve, too. Would you rather do it yourself?"

"Yes," Tristan said.

"Hold out your finger, then."

He did, and Weil wiped the salve from his own finger onto it.

The healing cuts in Tristan's upper thigh glared pink and still felt tender. "Why did you put tubes in my leg?" he demanded.

The medic drew a deep breath. "You've been in—hibernation—for over two weeks, except in medicine we call it 'stasis.' The tubes were to feed you."

"Weeks?" Tristan furrowed his brow again at the unfamiliar word. "How many nights is that?"

"You were asleep for fifteen."

"Fifteen!" The shock returned, along with a dry-mouthed fear. "Three hands of nights!" Tristan stared at the man. "Why?"

Weil studied him briefly, looking uncomfortable. At last he sighed. "They wanted to move you," he said. "I did it to make the trip easier for you. It took almost fifteen days to get here."

Tristan looked away from him, toward the gray skyscape. His throat felt tight again. "It's—too close in here," he said. "It's ugly."

"Yes, it is," Weil said, very quietly. "I'm sorry." He pulled the bedcovers back up over Tristan's legs and sighed once more. "You're doing fine," he said, "but I think you should try to sleep some more. I'll be here if you need help."

Waking again later, Tristan thought maybe he had only dreamed it all, until the medic brought him more water and he drew one hand from beneath the bedcovers to take the cup and saw his naked fingers.

He turned back toward the wall and didn't sleep after that. When a dull ache began at the back of his skull, he curled deeper under the covers, wrapping his arms over his head. He heard the medic moving around the room. Ignored him until he heard the wall open and close. Then he shifted onto his back, grimacing with the headache.

Evening had come. The walls glowed pink with light reflected from a red sun that slid down behind the far away towers. He watched the smoky sky turn bloody, then black. He saw no stars, heard no insect noises or jous howling. Just watched lights wink on in the silhouetted towers and heard sounds he didn't recognize.

He lay for a long time staring out on it all, lay with his violated hands clenched together, wanting to keen out his loss, his fear and confusion, but the sound caught like a bone in his throat, swelling the ache in his chest.

He didn't hear the wall open and close again, just glimpsed a shadow's motion from the corner of his eye. He thrust a hand from under the covers in an ineffective shove. "Leave me alone!"

Another swifter hand caught his, and claws gripped it in brief reprimand. "Little brother."

"Pulou!" The tension left Tristan's hand. He freed it to nudge his companion's chest with his knuckles. "You're all right?"

Pulou grinned, a flash of teeth in the dimness. Tristan saw a broken bottom fang, but Pulou said, "I'm all right."

He crouched close, stroking Tristan's hair with the back of one hand while the medic counted his pulse again.

"How are you feeling now?" Weil asked.

"Head aches," Tristan said.

"What about your stomach?"

Tristan shrugged.

The medic opened his box, removed the seal from a tiny cup of dark liquid. "Drink this. It'll stop the headache and help you relax. Can you take some more water with it?"

Tristan accepted the water as well, drank it with Pulou and the human watching him, and kept his hands curled so Pulou wouldn't see they were naked.

He waited only until the medic left to get out of bed. He tried to tug its cover off but he still felt shaky and weak. "Help me," he asked Pulou.

"You do what, little brother?"

"I sleep on ground," Tristan said. "I don't like this; I'm afraid I fall off."

When he sank into sleep again, rolled up in the bedcover, Pulou sat cross-legged beside him, gazing out on the night skyscape with his head cocked in bewilderment.

Light filtered through the curtain, and Pulou had curled up in sleep beside it, when Tristan woke at a clinical touch on his forehead. He shifted onto his back and blinked up at Captain Weil.

"Why are you on the floor?" the medic asked. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," Tristan said. And then, "I need the bushes."

Weil appeared puzzled. "Oh," he said after a moment, and offered a hand. "Let me help you up and I'll show you where the latrine is."

He took Tristan by the elbow and helped steady him on his feet before maneuvering him around the bed toward a curtain in the wall. Tristan flinched, putting out a blocking hand when the medic pushed the curtain aside.

It hid a tiny room full of shiny things, oddly shaped. Weil explained their use, showed him how they worked, but Tristan hung back, wrinkling his nose with revulsion.

He felt the medic eyeing him. "What's wrong?"

"At home we go away from camp for that," Tristan said. "We never do it in the lodge! It's not clean."

He saw several expressions, including mild amusement, flicker across the other's face, but the eyes that met his held only sympathy. "Look, I know this is all really strange to you," Weil said, "but you can't 'go away' here. I'm trying to make it as easy for you as I can. You'll get used to it. Do you want me to wait outside?"

"Yes," Tristan said.

Even then, he stood staring at the toilet until his bladder left him with no choice.

When Weil came back, he pointed at a cylinder in the corner, like the trunk of a large tree. The side slid open when he touched it, revealing a hollow big enough to stand in.

"It's a hygiene booth, for washing yourself," he said, and pointed out small holes in a ring around the top. "The water comes in through those. You push the buttons here—" he tapped a panel just inside the door, "—to start it and make it cooler or warmer. It'll stop by itself when the ration's spent. I think you'll feel better after you've washed."

Tristan held onto its doorframe with both hands and let the medic assist him out of the loose garment. Wadding the cloth and tucking it under his arm, Weil helped him into the booth. "If you start getting shaky or faint," he said, "just call; I'll be right here."

Tristan watched him push the buttons, and stiffened when he slid the door closed. He glanced around the enclosure and tested the door panel's seam with his fingers until a soft hiss jerked his vision to the water ring over his head. Remembering the creeks he'd bathed in since childhood, he braced himself for a downpour of icy water. The water that streamed down on him was warm, but he gasped anyway.

Only then did he realize he'd seen no way for the water to escape. Wet hands clawed at the door's seal, pulled at the grid in the ceiling. "How do I stop it?" he called out. "I'll drown in here!"

The water turned to lather, white and slippery, matting his hair. He shook it out, and lost his balance. Staggering, he flung out an arm to catch himself and caught a swath of white spray across his face. He gagged on its bitterness in his mouth, swiped at burning eyes, began to choke and spit.

From outside, Weil's voice asked, ". . . all right, Tristan?"

"Let me—" Choking cut him off. He coughed, spat, managed to drag in a breath. "Let me out of this!"

One hand brushed the button panel. He slammed at it blindly, and an icy deluge broke over his head. The cold took his breath, but it swept away the lather.

He reached out to save himself, shivering violently. His legs gave way; his fingers slid down a seam in the cylinder's wall. He tore at it, scrabbling on wet metal, and yelled again, "Let me out of here!"

Pale light shot over his shoulder through the opened door; the waterfall ceased at once. "Are you all right, Tristan?" asked Weil.

He had turned the wrong way, had been tearing at the wrong seam. He twisted around, glaring at the medic as he pulled himself to his feet. His hands shook, and his legs. "Am I—all right?" he said, teeth chattering. "Y-you—put me in this—this water thing—like a lomo—in a burrow—with no way out—and th-that white slime—almost made me go blind, and—" He broke off, coughing again. "Why didn't you—just kill me—before?"

"Tristan, calm down," Weil said. "I'm sorry. That 'white slime' is just body cleanser; you're not going blind. I should've told you what to expect. I'm sorry." He reached out, but Tristan, still shaking, raised a curled hand and bared his teeth. The medic hesitated. "All right," he said after a moment. "Do you see the square black button? Push that one."

Tristan eyed him, suspicious. "What'll that do to me?"

"It'll send in warm air through the vents above your head and dry you off," Weil said. "If you stand there cold and wet much longer, I'll be treating you for pneumonia instead of just stasis shock."

Tristan fixed him with a warning glare from beneath his dripping forelock as he reached for the square black button.

The shivering subsided after a few moments in the rush of warm air, but it took longer for him to begin to relax.

The medic held out a fresh tunic when he stepped out of the hygiene booth. Tristan took it, wrapped it snugly around his waist, and knotted it.

"That's not how it's worn," Weil said.

"It's like a loincloth this way," Tristan said.

The other didn't argue, just shrugged, helped him back to the bedroom, and asked, "Are you hungry yet?"

"Yes," Tristan said. He sat down on the floor, deliberately avoiding both the bed and the medic's look.

Weil collected a container from beside his box and twisted off its lid. "This is cracked grain gruel," he said. "It's good nourishment but it'll have a laxative effect. Stasis tends to make your bowel sluggish."

Tristan eyed the thick liquid, smelled it, stuck a finger into it and licked it off to taste it. The gruel had a vaguely sweet flavor and a chewy texture in his teeth. His stomach growled. He tipped up the container for another mouthful.

"You're making a very good recovery," the medic said, "but I suggest you rest again today. I'll come in from time to time to see how you're doing."

Occupied with eating, Tristan didn't answer. In a few minutes he put his head back to tip the last bit of gruel into his mouth, then swept a finger around the inside of the container to make sure. Licking his finger clean, he thrust the empty canister at the medic.

Weil accepted it with a dim smile. "Are you still hungry?"

"No."

"Fine. I'll wait a while to bring you anything else, then. Just go ahead and rest now," Weil said, and picked up his box and stood.

Tristan watched, eyes narrowed, as the wall simply parted when the man approached it, and closed again after he stepped through. Glancing back once at the sleeping gan, he rose.

The wall didn't open when he drew up to it. He tried to force his fingers into seams that his nails might have succeeded at, then sat down to brace his feet against the wall and strain to slide the panel back.

The effort left him weary, left his arms and back sore. He searched with eyes and fingers for latches or buttons but found none. Realizing that it must be secured from the outside, he gave up and sat down to stare out on the skyscape.

In another moment he shot back to his feet, pushing the curtain aside. He held to the wall, still not certain the pane wouldn't give way when he pressed his face to it to look down. The view made his stomach roll as it had before. He squeezed his eyes shut, pushed himself back, and released his breath.

The pane had been set into a square hole in the wall that reached from the floor almost to the ceiling, sunk several fingers' width into the wall. He tried to get a purchase on it, around its edges, but he couldn't without fingernails. He hissed his annoyance through his teeth.

Behind him, Pulou stirred, opening one eye. "You do what, little brother?"

Tristan curled his naked hands against his body. "I try to find way out."

"Not that," said Pulou, and motioned at the opening wall. "That's only way out."

"I try that," said Tristan. "It doesn't open."

Pulou shrugged one shoulder; he still lay on the other. "It's daytime, little brother. Go to sleep."

Sighing, Tristan dropped down and stretched out on his belly beside the gan. He didn't feel sleepy. He felt restless and frustrated and more than a little anxious. He began an agitated picking at the fleecy floor covering with the hand not supporting his chin.

"Pulou?" he said after a minute.

"What?"

"We are where?"

He heard a noisy yawn, and Pulou said, "Far away."

"We go out how?" he asked.

Pulou turned his head, blinked at him. "I don't know. It's like tsigis' nest."

Tristan remembered a honey tree he'd seen once, pocked and tunneled through and mostly hollow, and crawling with the insects. He questioned Pulou with his look.

"Go to sleep," the gan said. "We talk at night."

Pulou fell asleep again in a moment, but Tristan didn't.

He'd never slept before daylight began to fade into evening and the medic arrived with bowls of food and a pair of tiny sealed cups.

"You'll need to take one of these before you eat for the next few days," Weil said, peeling the seal off the cups. He gave one to Tristan, the other to Pulou. "The food here is different than what you're used to and this'll help your bodies adjust without the typical upset. I'm sorry I couldn't just immunize you for this along with everything else while you were still in stasis."

The white liquid caked Tristan's mouth like mud. He grimaced, fighting the desire to spit, and watched Pulou wrinkle his nose over his own.

Weil put a bowl in his hands: red soup with meat in it. He smelled it, felt its scent bite his nostrils, and glanced up. Pulou had begun fishing meat out of the broth with his fingers. Tristan did the same.

It tasted like—burning! He managed three or four chunks before thirst drove him to tip up the bowl and drink. That only worsened it. Choking, he pushed the bowl away. "I want water!"

Weil poured a cupful from a container. "Never drink water from the faucets in the latrine," he said. "It's not safe."

"Why?" Tristan asked—and suddenly thought of a whole string of questions: "What is this place? Why won't the wall open for me? Why can't we go outside?"

The doctor made a calming gesture. "You'll only have to stay in here until you're well. Governor Renier wanted to let you recover without disturbance."

"Governor? What's that?"

Weil looked briefly bewildered. "He's the—the leader—over this sector of space. Do you understand that?"

"Of space?" Tristan furrowed his brow, feeling more confused than before. "Why does he want us here?"

"I don't know."

Something about the other's expression and tone frightened Tristan. He held the steady gaze and swallowed. Glancing at Pulou, he pushed himself back, started to rise. "But we can't stay here! My mother is sick!"

Weil caught him by the arm. "Tristan, listen to me."

Tristan's reaction to the grip, just above his elbow, came as sheer reflex: a warning hiss, a flexed hand.

The medic let go at once, but he said, "Sit down, will you, kid, and listen for a minute?"

Pulou set down his bowl, and Tristan saw the wariness in his eyes. He felt a tightness in his own stomach as he squatted again, facing the human but staying beyond his reach.

"You're not on Ganwold anymore," Weil said, his voice quiet as if he didn't want to be overheard. "We're on a different planet in a different star system. Do you understand that?"

Tristan felt disbelief. He glanced over at Pulou. When the gan confirmed it with a single nod, he said, "In a—spacecraft?"

"Yes," Weil said. "That's why I made you sleep. Lightskips and gravity changes are sometimes hard even for experienced spacers. Your friend was sick most of the way."

Tristan looked back at Pulou, who nodded again.

"The Sector General," Weil said quietly, "is in exile in this system—but I guess that doesn't mean anything to you, does it?" He glanced uneasily around the room and lowered his voice still more. "I think he wants revenge, mostly. He knows your mother is sick and that you're trying to find your father."

"Revenge?" Tristan cocked his head at the unfamiliar word.

"That means to get even. Somebody hurts you, so you hurt them back." Weil hesitated. "Doesn't that happen where you came from?"

"No." Tristan exchanged looks with Pulou. "There's only tsaa'chi."

"What's that?" Weil asked.

"It comes into your blood when there's danger," Tristan said. "It makes your heart beat fast. It makes it so you don't feel pain and you want to fight, and when the danger is over it goes away. You can't go hurt someone back; it's already over."

"Always," Pulou said in quiet gan, "someone dies. It's better to turn your back to anger."

Weil looked at Tristan for a translation, and nodded. "Too bad most humans don't have that kind of sense." He sighed. "Look, kid, just be careful, okay? Don't believe everything you may be told. . . . And if you ever need help, you can trust me."

Tristan met his eyes. Searched them with his own for a long while before he gave a slight acknowledging nod.

The medic forced a smile. "You haven't eaten very much."

"I'm not hungry anymore," Tristan said.

"I'm sorry," said Weil. He gathered up the discarded bowls and left the room.

Six

The medic named Weil didn't come back in the morning.

Tristan already lay awake, watching daylight pale the smoky skyscape, when the wall sighed open. He turned his head, then reached over to nudge Pulou and sat up.

He didn't know the two men who stepped inside, one tall with gray hair and features that made Tristan think of a hawk, the other a little older than himself, stolid of face and stocky in his uniform.

Tristan got carefully to his feet, eyeing them, and saw Pulou in his periphery slipping up to stand at his shoulder. "Where's Weil?" he asked.

"It's all right, Tristan." The old man smiled and moved toward him stiffly, leaning on a walking stick. "The captain has been transferred to a more urgent position. You don't need his treatment any more."

Something about that left Tristan uneasy. Made him remember what Weil had said the night before. He studied the old man's face, studied those eyes through his own narrowed ones, and read suffering in them, as plainly as a scar upon his face. That startled him.

The other must have seen Tristan's surprise. He smiled once more, dimly, and said, "It's good to see you again."

The tone held warmth, not threat, and Tristan's wariness gave way to bewilderment. "Again? I've never seen you before," he said.

The man appeared amused by that. "You wouldn't remember, I think. You were only a baby the last time I saw you."

Tristan cocked his head, his puzzlement mounting. "Who are you?"

"Governor Mordan Renier," the man said. "I'm an old friend of your parents. It's been a very long time."

Tristan knew the name. Knew it from something his mother had once told him. A chill shot up his spine and he edged back a step, shaking his head. He let his hands curl at his sides. "You're not my father's friend!" he said.

The governor looked at him with hurt in his eyes, in the deep lines around his mouth. "Didn't your mother ever teach you to forgive and forget, Tristan? To let bygones be bygones?"

Tristan shook his head and backed up again. A ball of ice seemed to have settled in his stomach. "Why do you want us here?"

The governor's smile still held that suggestion of hurt. "To help you, of course. I was told that your mother is seriously ill and you believe your father can help her. Isn't that right?"

Tristan recalled again what Weil had said. He hesitated. "Yes."

"Do you know where your father is, or how to contact him?"

"No."

"Well then, you're going to need some assistance, aren't you?" The governor reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.

Tristan cringed under the long fingers. His stomach lurched, too. He locked his teeth to hiss a warning but then glimpsed the other's eyes: full of gentleness, completely devoid of the provocation implied by his grip. Thoroughly confused by mixed signals, Tristan braced against reflex, keeping his curled hands close to his sides.

The voice bore gentleness, too. "It may take some time to contact your father, you understand. I hope you'll find this room suitable until then."

"No!" Tristan said at once, and made an angry gesture toward the skyscape. "It's ugly! We don't like having to stay in here!"

"I'm sorry, my boy," the governor said. The gentleness left his tone; his voice took on a hard edge. "I would like to return to my own motherworld, too. But neither of us has a choice right now."

He motioned at a sensor near the window, and a white panel slid out from its frame, covering it just as the sliding wall covered the doorway. With another motion the panel seemed to vanish, giving way to a view from a grassy hilltop that sloped down to sand and water. Water that rolled out to the sky like prairie grass in a wind and curled to white crests that crashed on the sand. Sunlight painted rainbows in the spray and flashed on the wings of circling birds whose cries sounded over the water's thunder.

The roar fell silent. The water turned to desert sand as white and hot as the sky it reflected. Rock and dust stretched to the horizon, rippled by a wind that tossed the sand and rattled the brittle plants.

Then the desert disappeared under the growth of a forest floor, trees with trunks wider than the room and ferns drawn up from black loam by fingers of light reaching down between the shivering leaves. An unseen bird called.

Tristan reached for the window frame, tried to push the panel back, wondering what had happened behind it. He cocked his head at the governor.

Renier smiled. "The city is still out there," he said. "This forest and the desert and seashore are recordings made on my motherworld. They provide a little variety."

He left the forest on the screen and moved away from it. "I expect you're hungry by now, Tristan. I would be pleased to have you join me for breakfast."

"Pulou's hungry, too," Tristan said. Remembering Weil's advice, he curled his hands and gave the words a threatening tone.

The governor flicked a glance at Pulou. "He can come, of course. But first—" He reached for a strand of Tristan's hair, lying loose on his shoulder.

Too close to his throat. Tristan evaded the touch, bared his teeth—

—and saw fury shadow the other's face, hardening his eyes and jaw.

The hardness vanished in an instant. The governor said, gently, "You need proper clothes and grooming first, Tristan, beginning with your hair." He drew two crystal pendants from his breast pocket and displayed them for the young man in the uniform. "Cut it like this, please, Rajak."

Tristan eyed the pendants in the governor's hand, and recognized the woman in one. "Those are my mother's!" he said, and what she had told him flashed across his mind.

"Yes, they are," the governor said. "These did belong to her once. Please sit down on the bed."

Tristan stood still for a moment, staring the other in the eye. When at last he sat, he immediately wondered if he'd made a mistake. Rajak advanced on him with a shiny tool that looked like a weapon. He shot a half-panicked look across at Pulou.

The gan crawled up on the bed beside him, fangs bared and ears pinned back, and crouched close enough to strike should it be necessary.

Rajak didn't seem to notice. "Sit still," he said. "Don't move your head."

Tristan recoiled when the instrument came too near his ear, buzzing like a tsigi. He felt Pulou stiffen, heard his warning hiss.

Rajak barely paused. "Hold still," he said.

Tristan squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his hands and teeth as the instrument vibrated at the nape of his neck. He reached up to shove it away. "Don't!"

"Move your hand or it'll get cut," said Rajak.

Tristan saw shock in Pulou's face and bit his lip. Hands knotted on his thighs, he bore it until the buzzing stopped and Rajak withdrew and the governor stepped closer. His face heated under the old man's scrutiny; he kept his head lowered.

Renier said, "Well done, Rajak. The resemblance is truly remarkable." He returned the holodiscs to his pocket and continued, "I'll send Avuse with clothing for him. In the meantime, you will show him how to use the hygiene booth and beard foam. Breakfast will be served in one hour."

"Yes, sir," said Rajak.

When he heard the wall rasp open and closed behind him, Tristan lifted his head just enough to slide a glance across at Pulou. "It shows?" he asked, mouth dry.

"Yes." Pulou looked away from him, too decent to stare.

He felt as if he'd been stripped and put on display before his whole clan, more violated than he'd felt when he found his fingernails cut off. Reaching to the nape of his neck, he pressed his hand over the tiny raised tattoo there, the clan mark meant only for the eyes and touches of mates. His face burned with humiliation.

"Come on, Tristan," said Rajak.

Hand still clapped over his clan mark, he rose and strode past Rajak without a look at him.

Emerging from the hygiene booth several minutes later, he caught a glimpse of himself in the reflector on the wall. A fresh wave of humiliation made him twist his face away.

But something about that split-second image caught at his memory, drawing his reluctant gaze back.

Undistorted by ripple or shadow, like the reflections he'd always seen of himself in water, he found himself startled by a sense of new familiarity, a realization that he'd seen the same features somewhere else in a way detached from himself. He turned his head to study his face from different angles, to see if that would make the connection.

When he paused to smooth his shorn hair down over his ears and neck, familiarity became recognition. He looked like the young man in the holodiscs.

The trousers pinched at his groin, unlike his loose loincloth. Tristan shifted from foot to foot, tugging at a chafing inseam to relieve it. "I don't like this," he said through his teeth. "It's too tight!"

"Stand still," said Rajak. He adjusted the shirt across Tristan's shoulders, made tucks at his waist, fastened the collar.

"That's too tight!" Tristan said.

The other thrust a finger between fabric and flesh. "No, it's not."

"Yes, it is!" Tristan pulled at it, but the catch didn't give. He slid his hand around to the back of his neck and felt a measure of relief when he discovered that the collar concealed his clan mark.

"Put on the boots," Rajak said, pointing.

They were tall and black, and as stiff as peimu hide that hadn't been tanned properly. Tristan picked one up and studied it. "How?" he asked.

Rajak looked at him as if he were stupid. "Push your foot down into it. The other foot," he added when Tristan tried. "It's easier if you sit down. And tuck your trousers into the tops."

The boot tops rubbed at Tristan's shins; the foot part chafed his ankles and heels and insteps. Their stiffness from ankles to knees made it difficult to walk, so he stumbled.

"Here's your jacket," said Rajak, holding it out.

"I don't need that," Tristan said. "I already have this on." He tugged at his shirt.

"This goes over that one," Rajak said.

"Why? It's too warm even for this one!"

"It's proper. Put your arms in."

Tristan glowered at him but obeyed, and then braced himself while the servant tugged at shoulders and sleeves and fastened the clasps.

The jacket bound his chest and upper arms, restricting his movement. His shoulder blades and ribs itched, and the jacket made scratching futile. Turning away from Rajak, he glimpsed Pulou through the corner of his eye, studying him. He didn't dare meet the look, didn't want to see Pulou, with his mane and his claws, grinning at him. A fresh wave of heat swept over his face. "Stupid!" he said under his breath.

"Come on," said Rajak. "The governor is waiting." He held the wall open for Tristan.

Beyond lay a passage that went both left and right, wide enough for three people to walk side-by-side, and gradually curving away so Tristan couldn't see either end. Smooth whiteness covered the walls and short gray fleece quieted their footfalls along the floor.

Rajak turned left. Tristan followed, trailing a hand along the curving wall and trying to ignore the way he sweated under the shirt and jacket.

They passed a smaller corridor on the right with a door at its end, and three or four doors on the left indistinguishable from his but for the numbers on them. He hadn't noticed if his own had a number.

"Here," said Rajak. He stopped at double doors on the right. They parted as he approached. He said, "Tristan, sir," and stepped aside, beckoning.

Tristan's room would have fit inside this one nine or ten times. He looked around it, barely noticing the chairs at one side for the fireplace they stood around, scarcely seeing the cabinets that lined the back wall for the way they drew his vision up to sunlight flooding through panels in the ceiling. It didn't even occur to him to wonder whether or not it was real sunlight; it was the first bright, cheering thing he'd seen here.

"Come in, Tristan." The governor, standing beside a table in the center of the room, surveyed him and smiled. "Much better," he said. "Now you look like the son of an admiral."

Tristan said nothing.

Behind him, the doors opened once more and someone said, "Lady Larielle, sir."

Tristan glanced over his shoulder and immediately brought his hand to his forehead.

She appeared to be only a few years older than himself, tall for a woman, and willowy slender, with dark hair framing her face in loose ringlets. She said, "Good morning, Papa," and placed her hands in the governor's to allow him to kiss one side of her face and then the other.

Tristan watched her unabashed until she seemed to sense it and turned toward him. He ducked his head and touched his brow again and murmured, "Peace in you, mother," in gan—the only proper way he knew to address her.

"My daughter, Larielle," the governor said. His features tightened with some deep but indiscernible emotion as he added, "The last blossom left to the House of Renier."

The young woman's expression turned solemn at that; she pursed her pink lips and lowered her eyes.

"Lari," the governor said, "this is Tristan Sergey, son of Admiral Lujan Sergey, the Commander-in-Chief of the Unified Worlds' Spherzah. He will be staying with us for a time."

Larielle reached out and took both of his hands. "Hello, Tristan," she said. Her voice conveyed genuine warmth, as did her gentle squeeze of his hands. But her eyes, searching his, showed fear. Fear for him, Tristan realized.

"Please be seated," the governor said, and motioned to the chairs beside his own and Larielle's.

Tristan watched them draw their chairs back from the table and seat themselves. He imitated them, feeling awkward. Eyeing the space between the chair's seat and the floor, he braced his feet and held to the edge of the table.

Pulou refused a chair altogether. "Flat-tooth things," he said, and stood, studying the trays of food on the table. But he didn't reach for any of it, and Tristan didn't either. Mothers ate first.

A boxy machine entered the room on hidden rollers and produced hot dishes and mugs of bittersweet black liquid from racks inside itself. The dishes contained circles of meat, crumbly chunks of white bread under dark gravy, slices of green fruit with black seeds clustered in the center. The smell of the meat made Tristan's stomach growl. He pressed a quick hand there to still it and glanced up, embarrassed. The girl and the governor hadn't noticed; they had already begun to eat.

He watched Pulou gather up his dish and knife and settled in a squat on the floor, placing his plate before his feet. Familiar and practical. He took up his own knife, started to lift his own plate, but the governor glanced over at him. "Aren't you hungry, Tristan?"

"Yes," he said.

The governor studied him for a long moment. He stayed in the chair.

He could see no use for any of the utensils except the knife; he ate the meat circles in chunks from its point. Then he broke the bread and mopped up the gravy with its pieces, salvaging the rest with his fingers and licking them clean. The gravy's saltiness left him thirsty but the aroma from the mug made him wrinkle his nose. He pushed it away.

"Here, little brother," said Pulou, reaching up to deposit a handful of green fruit on the white tablecloth. "I don't like this."

Tristan picked up the slices one by one and sucked at their sweetness. They assuaged his thirst. He licked the green juice from between his fingers.

"Tristan," the governor said.

He looked up.

"There are handcloths for that." The governor pointed. When Tristan cocked his head, puzzled, the governor took up his own and demonstrated.

"But that would dirty it!" Tristan said. "You clean your hands first so you won't dirty things."

The governor looked annoyed at that, but Tristan noticed the girl hiding a smile behind her hand. A smile about him. He shifted his vision away from her and shoved himself back from the table. "We don't have things like this at home! This is a stupid way to eat!"

The governor pushed himself to his feet, his expression a forced calm, his words a controlled quiet. "Come here, my boy. I think it's time that we talked."

Tristan watched him cross to the fireplace and lower himself stiffly into a chair, but he didn't follow. The governor favored him with a stern look and indicated the facing chair with his walking stick.

Tristan strode past it to the hearth and put out his hand to the flames. They gave no heat. "This isn't a real fire," he said.

The governor chuckled. "No, Tristan. It's a holoprojection, like the scenery in your room. A real fire is unnecessary where technology provides more efficient means of heating. . . . Come sit down."

Tristan glanced from the governor to the chair and back, and leaned up to the mantelpiece instead. He watched the boxy servos clear the table. Let his gaze wander the room again. Lady Larielle had slipped away, he saw, but Pulou still squatted in the shadow of the chairs, vigilant with half-closed eyes.

"I'm being patient with you," the governor said at the edge of his awareness, "because I know this is all new and different to you. But don't try me, young one; I'm not a good man to press too far." He pointed his walking stick again at the empty chair and his tone went taut, like his jaw: "Sit down."

Tristan held his place. Watched the governor turn the walking stick in his hands so the artificial firelight reflected, red as blood, up and down its metallic length. Watched him curl his hands about its handle like a knife or club. He touched the governor's vision once more with his own, saw the controlled fury there, and waited as long as he dared.

Then he deliberately settled into a squat in front of the indicated chair.

The trousers pinched hard enough to make him wince. The boots made balancing on his heels almost impossible. He leaned back against the chair's leg and locked his teeth against his discomfort.

The governor fixed a narrowed gaze on him. "Tristan, you are a human among humans," he said. "It's time you began to behave like a human instead of like an animal."

Tristan glared at him. "Ganan aren't animals! Pulou is my brother."

The governor cut him off. "Your mother was an officer, a refined and accomplished woman in her own world. Your behavior would be an embarrassment to her."

"My mother taught me what was right in my world," Tristan said. "She had important things to do, like helping sick people."

The governor sat silent for a moment at that, and his features softened. "I'm sorry," he said. "I can't begin to imagine what she's suffered all these years!"

"She's sick!" Tristan said.

"I know that. And I admire the way in which you are trying to help her. But you have no idea how vast the galaxy is, young one. No concept of what you've taken on. You can't possibly accomplish it without assistance."

"Then take me to my father!"

"If only it were that simple." The old man grew momentarily distant. "But it isn't. Not now."

When his vision lifted again, he locked it on Tristan's. "I don't doubt your father will want to help you and your mother when he finds out," he said. "In all the years since you and she were lost he's never married again, never fathered other children." His tone and expression grew enigmatic. "I have no doubt he'll want you back."

Something about his tone and choice of words sent a chill up Tristan's spine. Sent his mind racing through the story his mother had once told him. He glowered and curled his hands.

"Perhaps we should send him a message," the governor said. He beckoned to the uniformed man standing near the double doors. "Avuse, please bring us the strongbox General François sent from Ganwold."

Avuse nodded and left the room.

Tristan could no longer resist the urge to put space between himself and the governor. He shoved himself to his feet and moved back to the mantel, his vision fixing on the old man. "My mother told me you tried to kill my father. Why did you say you were his friend?"

The governor met his steady gaze, appearing only mildly surprised at the accusation. "We were friends once," he said. "Good friends—until he betrayed me. What he did almost cost me my life."

"My father didn't betray you!" Tristan said. "My mother said you betrayed him!"

The governor's expression darkened. "Your mother," he said, "knew only a small part of what actually happened. She couldn't very well tell you the truth of situations about which she had no knowledge, Tristan."

Tristan searched the governor's face for several seconds, and shook his head against a churning confusion, an edge of doubt. "That's not right!" he said, but realized even as he spoke the words that he said it more to convince himself than the governor.

The old man studied him, eyes still smoldering but features relaxing now. "Your father is not really so different from me, young one," he said. "Every man has something in his life for which he will sell himself. I had mine, your father has his, you have your own. Remember that."

He motioned to the servant, who had resumed his place near the doors. "Thank you, Avuse," he said as the man handed him the box. He opened it on his lap, withdrew a pair of ID tags on a chain and a gray object that fit in his palm. "Your mother's identification," he said, "and a recording of your voice. Shall we include the holodiscs as well?"

Tristan glared at him and said nothing. But he watched as the governor drew the pendants from his pocket. He caught a glimpse of the images—the young man with the toddler, and the wedding portrait—before he put them into the box and latched it and returned it to the servant.

"When does the Nebula Wind leave Delta Station?" the governor asked.

"In two days, sir," the servant said.

Renier nodded. "Convenient. Mark this 'Personal for Admiral Lujan Sergey' and entrust it to the Wind's captain. It's to be delivered to our embassy on Sostis and couriered to Spherzah Headquarters."

* *

Tristan stripped to his shorts when he got back to his room, hurled boots and trousers and jacket into a corner on top of each other, and squatted before the holograph screen. He fingered its edge. Pulled once, experimentally, but it didn't budge.

Moonlight had turned the ferns and grasses silver and made silhouettes of the foliage above. He wanted to run his hand up and down the roughness of a tree trunk, take up a handful of soil and crumble it, moist and aromatic, between his fingers. Maybe that would help him relax.

His stomach had knotted. He hadn't eaten much at breakfast, and thought now he shouldn't have eaten at all, though he knew the food hadn't caused the knots.

He started when Pulou squatted beside him, nudging his shoulder. "Something's wrong, little brother."

He nodded but didn't look up. Pulou's mane and claws reminded him of his own nakedness. He felt ashamed.

"It's what?" Pulou asked.

He shrugged. Tried once more to sort out the turmoil in his head before he sighed and said, "He tells me things about my father."

Pulou questioned him with only a blink; he caught the flash of amber through the corner of his eye.

"He tells me things different from what my mother tells me," he said. "He tells me bad things he says my mother doesn't know about."

Pulou cocked his head. "Why?"

"I don't know." Tristan stared at the carpet between his feet and shook his head. "He says they're right but I don't think they are. I—don't want them to be right!"

The knot in his stomach tightened. A knot of fear, he realized. Fear that perhaps the things the governor had told him about his father were true.

Seven

The hallway formed a circle. Four short corridors crossed it in the center, intersecting at a row of doors. Tristan watched the man called Avuse approach one, touch a square of metal on the wall beside it, and step into a tiny box of a room when the door opened.

One of those rooms that moved, he knew. They called it a 'lift,' and it carried people up and down to different places in the building. He touched Pulou's vision with his own. "Maybe one of those goes to way out."

Pulou looked doubtful. "Maybe," he said.

Tristan waited until the door closed behind the servant to touch the metal square on the wall as he had done.

The door didn't open.

He tried each lift in turn, but none of them opened. He punched each panel harder, two or three times, and got no response.

Glowering with frustration, he strode all the way around the circular hall, Pulou at his shoulder, trying one door after another. None yielded to his efforts.

At one place the corridor widened into an observation lounge with chairs and small tables. Only tinted panes separated him from the skyline. He stayed well back from the panes, gripping the back of a chair when the view made his senses reel.

He saw distant mountains beyond the city of towers, faintly visible as hazy silhouettes through the thick air. Catching Pulou's attention with a glance, he pointed with a motion of his head.

He stood there gazing out at them for some time, his chest aching with homesickness the way it had when he'd first looked out on the darkening city three nights before. Throat tight, teeth light on his lip, he looked at Pulou again and turned away and returned to his room.

He went to dinner sullen that evening. Kept his attention fixed on his plate until he felt the governor watching him. He glowered when he looked up in response.

Renier said, "You're very quiet this evening, Tristan. Is something wrong?"

"The doors won't open for me," Tristan said.

"This one and your bedroom door open, don't they?"

"Yes."

"Well then, there's no need for concern," Renier said. "The others have not been programmed to accept your hand scan."

"Why?" Tristan demanded.

"Because you have no business in those rooms." The governor gave him a stern stare. "This world and its people and their customs are completely unfamiliar to you. You must realize this confinement is for your own safety."

Tristan questioned that with a silent scowl. He shot a look at Larielle for her confirmation but she wouldn't meet his gaze.

He suddenly had no more appetite.

* *

The governor hadn't arrived when Rajak led him and Pulou to the dining room the next morning. Only Larielle sat at the table. Tristan paused in the doorway and touched his forehead when she turned toward him.

"Come in, Tristan," she said. "My father will be late. He had a message this morning."

Tristan sat down and watched without speaking as the servos distributed the plates. When Pulou retreated under the table with his, Tristan picked up the knife from the collection of utensils spread before him.

He glanced over when Larielle said, "It's really easier to eat this way. Try these two." She showed him her own utensils. "Watch how I do it."

He watched her, his utensils motionless, feeling awkward in his hands. His mind wandered from her lesson. "Who is the message from?" he asked.

His question startled her; she stopped in mid-motion. "I don't know," she said. "Why, Tristan?"

"He sent a box of—" he shrugged, "things—to my father the other day."

"The box wouldn't have been delivered to your father yet," she said.

They both jumped when the double doors abruptly opened. ". . . make the arrangements right away," the governor said to someone outside. "We'll leave directly after breakfast tomorrow."

Striding into the room, he came briskly around the table to Larielle without the aid of his walking stick. "Good morning, precious," he said, running a hand down the mahogany tumble of her hair, and bent to kiss her forehead before he seated himself.

Tristan eyed him as he unfolded a linen napkin over his lap. "Was the message from my father?" he asked.

The governor frowned. "No, it wasn't." For a moment he seemed about to add something else, but he changed his mind. He turned to his daughter instead. "Lari, it's become necessary to make an unscheduled inspection tour of the mines on Issel II. It will require a week at the moon residence. I would like you to accompany me."

Tristan saw how she froze. "I really don't want to go, Papa," she said. "Examinations will begin soon at the University and I still have a great deal of work to do on my presentation for Intersystem Issues."

"You can work on your studies at the moon residence." The governor's tone held a firmness Tristan hadn't heard him use on his daughter before. "You don't have to accompany me on the actual inspections."

Larielle lowered her gaze. "Yes, Papa," she whispered.

In the brief silence that followed, Renier set his gaze on Tristan. "You and your little friend will go with us, too, of course."

* *

"Level, please?" said a female voice as the lift's door slid closed on the governor's party.

Tristan wondered if Larielle had spoken, but her attention appeared fixed on some troubled distance.

"Shuttle bay," said Renier, and the floor rose up under their feet.

Tristan steadied himself, scanning the cubicle again. "Where's that girl?" he asked.

The governor smiled. "There isn't a girl," he said. "The voice is synthesized by a computer which is programmed to recognize certain words and take the lift to that level."

Tristan furrowed his brow, more confused by the explanation. But before he could ask what 'synthesized' and 'computer' and 'programmed' meant, the lift's ceiling spiraled open, revealing sky, and its floor rose until it became part of a larger floor.

They stood on the round tower's roof, a platform hollowed like a dish and blackened by the fire of launch. It had no walls like the shuttle bay on Ganwold, not even a rail. Just the city and the distant mountains rising on all sides, and a warm, fitful wind, laden with the bitter smell of burning, tugging at their clothes. Tristan stood paralyzed, surveying the view, as if from the edge of a cliff on Ganwold.

A shuttle craft waited at the center of the platform. The governor paused at the foot of its boarding ramp to shift his walking stick to his other hand and offer Larielle his arm. "Come, Tristan," he said. "We're on a schedule."

The ramp led into a passenger lounge furnished with reclining acceleration seats and viewpanes that arched high enough for Tristan to see the sky beyond. He cocked his head at a series of handles running the length of the overhead. "What are those for?" he asked.

"They're for moving around the cabin after we reach zero gravity," said Renier. "Take a seat over there." He motioned to a chair close to the viewpanes.

Tristan dropped into it and beckoned Pulou to the one beside his own.

Movement outside caught Tristan's eye; the curved viewpanes reflected it upside down. He looked up from the buckles of his safety harness, reached over and nudged Pulou. "Look!"

Steam erupted from beneath the shuttle, lit pink and gold by the fire from the thrusters. Sudden pressure crushed Tristan into his seat. He gasped, wind-robbed, and blinked at the blur of the horizon falling away. It tilted precariously, sweeping past far below in a replay of a nightmare he had never forgotten.

A lifepod. An acceleration seat big enough to swallow a child not quite two. He wanted to cry, to reach out for his mother, but it pushed too hard, and the rushing starfield made him dizzy.

He locked his teeth, closed his eyes against the memory, clenched his hands on the upholstery. Beside him, he heard Pulou's breath coming in hisses through his teeth.

The pressure eased gradually until it lifted completely. By the time he opened his eyes, the craft had fled the atmosphere; but the planet, a turquoise globe veiled in white, still filled the viewpane. He watched it recede, almost imperceptibly at first. Wondered if Ganwold had looked the same way.

The thought of that sent a pang of homesickness through him. Swallowing against sudden constriction in his throat, he tore his vision away from the viewpane.

"We are now on course for the Issel II Command Complex," said a voice from the overhead, a voice like the one in the lift except this one was male. "Flight time will be approximately nine and one quarter standard hours."

Across the aisle from him, the governor asked, "Haven't you ever flown before, Tristan?"

Suddenly self-conscious, he made himself let go of the chair's arms. "When I was small," he said.

"A pity," the governor said. "Your father was already an accomplished pilot at your age."

Tristan eyed him. His features appeared neutral but his voice held the barest suggestion of mockery. Tristan didn't answer.

Still eyeing Tristan, the governor released his straps, pushed against his seat, and shot toward the overhead, leaving the deck completely. Tristan stared.

The governor caught a handhold and pulled himself up. "Feel free to move around the cabin," he said, ignoring Tristan's surprise. "Just do so with care until you're comfortable with zero gravity." Using the handholds, his body drifting parallel to the overhead, he made his way forward with less effort than if he were swimming and disappeared through the forward hatch.

Tristan didn't move. His stomach felt as if a large stone slowly rotated inside it. He closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth to ease the discomfort, keeping his face turned away from Larielle and the servants.

Some time later, looking out on unfamiliar constellations, a glitter against the starfield caught his eye. He unfastened his straps and tried to stand, and found himself falling toward the overhead. His hands shot out to catch himself, grasped for anything to save himself, but he couldn't reach the handholds.

One foot struck the back of his chair, sending him into a somersault. He flailed, expecting to strike the deck on his shoulder. Seizing the chair's back as his roll brought it within reach, he pulled himself down and struggled to bring his feet back to the deck.

More upright than not, he held onto the chair, gulping for breath, and glimpsed Pulou staring at him with eyes wider than lomo's eggs.

"Are you all right, Tristan?" Larielle asked. Her features showed genuine concern, but he saw Rajak and Avuse laughing behind her.

Tristan tightened his jaw. "Yes," he said. His face burned with humiliation.

He didn't move for several minutes, until he found he could reach the rail that ran along beside the viewpanes. He let go of the chair with one hand, stretched, locked it hard around the rail. Holding his breath, he tried to step up to the pane. His feet left the deck again. His other hand clamped onto the rail, too. Reorienting himself, he spotted what looked like more handholds on the deck below the rail, and he shoved the toes of his boots under two of them to keep his feet planted.

The cluster of lights had brightened by now, taking on shape and dimension: a structure adrift in space. Tristan studied it, brows knitted; and when the governor unexpectedly joined him, he asked, "What's that?"

"Our main orbital station," Renier said. He floated between overhead and deck, anchored with a single handhold. "It's the port of entry to the Issel system. We'll pass close by it on our way to the moon."

A few more minutes cast the station into silhouette against Issel's bright globe. It appeared as fragile as spider's webbing, a scaffolding of girders and gantries about a rotating cylinder, festive with red warning lights and green guidance beacons. Tramcars glided between the cylinder and spacecraft as massive as mountains, caught like flies by docking umbilicals.

"What are those?" Tristan asked, daring to let go with one hand long enough to point.

"Freighters," Renier said. "They're part of our trade fleet."

The shuttle slid over a long line of berths, and Tristan pointed at three ships docked in a row, bristled as hedgehogs. "Are those freighters, too?"

"No, they're destroyers. They're being refitted for return to service."

"Destroyers?" Tristan cocked his head.

"Warships," the governor said.

Tristan studied his narrowed eyes for a moment and didn't ask anything else.

In another half hour the orbital station slipped from view in the shuttle's wake and Tristan pulled himself back to his seat.

He had sunk into a doze when the voice from the overhead speaker roused him: "We are now on approach for landing. Please secure your harnesses and remain in your seats until landing and pressurization are complete." Blinking awake, he pushed himself up in his seat and looked out through the viewpane.

The shuttle glided over a black desert, craggy and cratered and lifeless, its features finally fading into a bowed horizon. Only red pulses of light from occasional manmade towers and the reflected flash from scattered metallic domes—like shelled water creatures half submerged in silt —he thought, indicated human habitation of the moon.

Tristan watched the descent, felt the trembling roar of the retro rockets illuminating the terrain below and turning it ruddy, until billows of dust and vapor obscured the view. He glimpsed only a moment's flash of lights encircling the dome over which they hovered, then saw the dome spiral open like an alien mouth to swallow them. He curled his hands around the chair arms as the craft sank into the opening.

As they settled, the roar subsided and billows of firelit steam dissolved. Tristan looked out on launch bay walls like the ones on Ganwold—had that been only three weeks ago?—and watched the dome, above them now, spiral closed before a noise of wind surrounded the shuttle.

Several minutes later, lights came on in the bay and doors in its walls opened, admitting a number of men, some wearing uniforms and others in coveralls.

The weight of his own body, like carrying a peimu across his shoulders, pushed Tristan down the ramp after the governor and Larielle. At the bottom, Renier conversed briefly with the men in uniform. They eyed Tristan with masked expressions. He met their looks.

They left the launch bay through an airlock with shield doors as thick as his body, and strode down a passage bored from dark stone. Tristan saw how Pulou wrinkled his nose, sniffing. His pupils widened, cat-like, in the dimness. Following, he trailed his hand along the wall, feeling its cragginess, brushing off loose bits with his fingers, and realized he could have trailed his hand along the low ceiling, too. A grating of hard plastic underfoot muffled the noise of their footfalls.

They passed through another airlock into a lift the size of a small room, and when a new masculine voice said, "Level, please," the governor answered, "Command Section."

The lift dropped swiftly. Tristan watched a light blink its way down a graph on the wall, passing levels identified as Flightline, Shuttle Maintenance, Supply & Storage, Personnel Maintenance & Quarters, Mine & Life Support Offices.

Shield doors opened, two levels from the bottom of the shaft, into a corridor with a carpeted floor. These walls had been hewn smooth, covered in a neutral tan color, and lit with hidden illuminants.

"The residence here is two miles below the surface," the governor said.

Tristan stared at him. "Two miles?" He remembered how his mother had measured gan migrations, tried to imagine those distances turned on end underground, and shook his head. "That can't be right! It can't be that far!"

Renier smiled. "There's a stairwell at the far end of this hallway for emergencies. If you doubt me, you have my permission to climb it."

Tristan surveyed the corridor, and its low ceiling seemed to settle on him. "Why?" he asked. "Why do you live under the ground?"

"You saw the surface," the governor said. "It can't support life. There's no atmosphere or light, and no protection from radiation and meteors. Our survival depends on putting solid rock and shield doors between ourselves and the outside." He turned to the servants. "Show Larielle and Tristan to their rooms. Avuse, we'll dine in my suite for the duration of our stay."

Avuse, carrying the travel bags, acknowledged with a stiff nod, and Rajak said, "This way, Tristan."

His room was smaller than the one he'd had on the planet, and its latrine connected with another room: Rajak's. Tristan wrinkled his nose at the musty smell of the place, almost willing to believe it was a cave, except for its dry walls and even floor.

A white screen covered most of one wall. A holoscreen, Tristan realized. He found the sensor that activated it and flicked through the choices of scenery twice. This one had no forest; he settled for a fishing stream tumbling through a meadow, and sat on the floor to pull off his boots and shirt.

From his place he spotted three small openings in the floor spaced along the base of the wall, each about as long as the width of his hand and two fingers wide. He slipped his hand cautiously into the nearest one and felt warm air blowing up around his fingers. Reaching as far as he could, he felt moisture on the sides of the duct, but he couldn't feel its bottom. He withdrew his hand and peered into the duct. He couldn't see anything besides darkness, but the air brushing his face bore the moist odor of a cave. He sat back, grimacing.

Pulou watched him, head cocked. "You find what, little brother?"

"Where air comes in," Tristan said. "It smells like cave."

Pulou only blinked, clearly as puzzled as Tristan.

He hadn't even taken his seat at the dinner table that evening before he asked, "Why did people come here if it isn't safe to live on the outside?"

"Because this moon is one of the richest sources of carmite ore in the known galaxy," the governor said. "It's a mining colony."

"Ore?" Tristan cocked his head. "Mining? What are those?"

"Mining is the method of collecting ore," Renier said. "This ore looks like red rock when it's first brought from the ground. But when it's refined it produces a red metal which is heat-resistance, a nonconductor, valuable for the construction of starcraft and high-powered weapons. It was a great asset during the Great War. It still is."

"Who brings it from the ground?" Tristan asked.

"We have workers for that."

"Where are they?"

"At the various mine complexes." The governor studied him briefly. "Perhaps you would like to go with me when I begin the inspections tomorrow. It's often easier to understand a thing if you can see it for yourself."

Larielle looked up, shaking her head. "No, Papa. Tris, you don't—"

"I want to go," Tristan said.

* *

They rode the lift up only to the level marked Mine & Life Support Offices and emerged, Tristan and Pulou and the governor, into another carpeted corridor with doors on either side. Lettering identified them: Oxygen & Water Development, Laborer Control & Maintenance, Power Production, Ore Assessment, Mine Production Records. Tristan looked around, suddenly self-conscious, from trying to sound out the words when he sensed the governor watching him.

"I didn't know you could read," Renier said.

"A little." Tristan ducked his head. "My mother taught me when I was small."

"She is a remarkable woman," the governor said. "I hope you appreciate her."

Tristan's vision locked on those dark hawk's eyes. "You won't let me help her!"

"I told you at the first it would take time." The governor leaned on his walking stick and started back up the corridor. "At the moment I have more pressing concerns. Come now."

Tristan glanced at Pulou and followed, glaring at the governor's back.

The door at the end of the hall read Control Center. Beyond it lay blackness broken only by the minimal glow of monitors, and the heat and scents of people and machines working together in close quarters.

"Sir!" said someone at Tristan's right. He jumped, and as his eyes adjusted he made out the form of a man with a paunch standing before the governor. "We weren't expecting you so early in the day."

"Will that disadvantage your presentation?" the governor asked.

"No, sir," the other said at once. "Not at all. Follow me, please."

The man guided them through the monitor room, talking too rapidly of things Tristan didn't understand—'tonnage' and 'labor lines'—and pointing at screens with red lights scattered at random among green lines that twisted like a river seen from the rim of a canyon.

Tristan followed them down a close aisle between terminals and illuminated maps, past people who seemed to be only shadows seated at the keyboards, except for their faces, tinted garish colors by the displays on their screens.

"I received a message from Production Records," the governor said, "stating that for the past two periods the Malin Point mine's production has dropped to less than fifty percent of its quota. What do you know about this?"

Tristan saw the man's face contort as if he'd been struck. "Only the most sketchy facts, sir. Come over here." He led them to a terminal across the room and said, "Put the Malin Point map on screen."

The young man seated there bent over his keyboard.

A shape that resembled a spread hand with one of its fingers colored red appeared on the monitor and the man began rubbing nervous hands together. "There was no explanation given for closing the shaft, sir. The officer in charge said only that it was an emergency."

"I want an explanation." The governor narrowed his gaze on the other. "Contact the OIC. He will report to my office at thirteen hundred tomorrow."

"Yes, sir."

The governor asked, "What about terrarium development in the Beta segment?"

The man visibly relaxed. "Ahead of schedule, sir."

"Good." Renier turned away, seeming to remember only then that Tristan had accompanied him. "What do you think, Tristan?" he asked.

Tristan pointed at a screen full of illuminated dots and lines. "What are these for?"

"They're maps. Each red light marks a mine complex." The governor tapped one. "This is Malin Point."

"Where are we?"

"Here." Renier indicated an amber light near the map's center.

Tristan traced a green line with his finger. "What's that?"

"One of the terrarium caverns, the moon's life support system," said the governor. "They run for miles among the mine complexes. We'll see one in a little while."

Tristan leaned closer to study markings, names, notations, and the way the red lights seemed to be linked by the twisting green lines. He didn't touch the screen, just glanced over at Pulou.

In a moment he asked the governor, "Will we see a mine, too?"

"Not today. Each complex can be reached only by flight to its own shuttle bays."

"But you said those green lines—" he began.

"No, Tristan," the governor said. "Those are connected to the mines only by shielded ventilation shafts and water lines, to ensure against depressurization accidents. If you want to see a mine, look at the patrol monitors." He gestured at a bank of screens tucked up next to the ceiling.

Tristan studied rows of narrow wire cages enclosing huddled, dusky figures on one screen; figures in coveralls and oxygen masks wielding laser boring tools and loading reddish rock and soil into pneumatic transport tubes on another; shadows shuffling single file through a ragged tunnel on a third. Expressionless eyes stared out of faces thin as death and caked with grime. They marched stiffly, slowly, as Tristan had seen only the very old and feeble move.

He recoiled. "What's wrong with them? Why are they in those cages?"

He noticed the silence, the shock in the stares of the people around him, before the governor said, "They're criminals, Tristan. They're dangerous, both to other people and to the security of their motherworld."

Tristan shuddered. He didn't want to look at the screens any longer but he couldn't tear his vision away.

"Come now," the governor said behind him, his tone taut.

The lift took them down past the Command Section to a level that said Life Support Facilities, and opened onto a passage as bleak as the one from the shuttle bays. It had little lighting. Glowpainted arrows on the wall pointed toward Utility Plants 1-5 on the left, Utility Plant 6 and Terrarium Main Access on the right. Tristan mouthed the words to remember them.

A worker in coveralls emerged from the dim office of Plant 6 to lead them down a clanging metal stairwell guarded by shield doors and through the hot near-dark to another door with a cipher code box. The man punched in the sequence. Electronic locks clicked, an unseen bolt grated back; the door swung inward at his push.

They stepped from black into teal green.

It might have been a canyon without a sky above its walls, Tristan thought. Walls and ceiling glowed turquoise under ultraviolet globes floating like small suns at regular intervals. The air lay warm and heavy with the scent of mildew, and vapor rolled along the floor in clouds.

"Our life support system," Renier said. He moved out onto a walkway of plastic grating, planting his walking stick with care. "We've cultivated the indigenous lichens with imported light and water until they can provide enough oxygen to support the entire population. We're even experimenting with growing edible plants in some of the caverns."

Tristan wrinkled his nose at the odor, the same musty scent that came up through the ducts in his room. He scrutinized boulders and walls layered with blue fuzz and sparkling with crystal humidity. Behind his back he signaled "Go" to Pulou, and asked the governor, "How does the air get up to my room from down here?"

Renier described collector vents which drew oxygen into personnel areas or into condensation systems that infused hydrogen to create water. He explained power plants supported by their own production, and elaborated on recycling systems and rationing. "It's a most delicate balance," he said. "We could have water brought from the primary in an emergency, but not sufficient oxygen to sustain life here."

Tristan understood almost none of it, but he nodded in response to the explanation. When knuckles nudged his shoulder, he glanced around.

Pulou wore a smug expression. "We talk at night," he said.

When the lift stopped at the Command Section, the governor said, "There's one more visit to make, at the Command Post."

The lift's back wall retracted. They stepped through another shield door into an office area where a man in uniform rose sharply from his desk. "The troops are waiting for your inspection, sir," he said.

"And the areas have been properly sanitized?"

"To unclassified, sir."

"Thank you, Major." The governor gestured. "You may come, Tristan."

The major escorted them down a corridor with tiled floors that echoed underfoot, past doors with markers that read Operations Planning, Advanced Warning, Communications, Command Post. He stopped at the door to Operations Planning and fingered a rapid code. As the door clicked open he called, "Room, atten-tion!"

Tristan heard movement—abrupt, and stilled as suddenly as it started—and then silence weighty with expectation. He followed the governor into a room full of empty tables, blank wall screens, and a crystal pillar in the center so large it would take four people with outstretched arms to encircle it. But his vision came back to the soldiers.

They stood motionless. Stiff. Expressionless. Unblinking.

"They look dead," Pulou said at his shoulder.

The governor surveyed the soldiers and smiled. He strode about the room among them, glancing at ribbons and gleaming boots and faces with shorn hair. Following him, Tristan studied eyes that wouldn't meet his own and saw tension in hands curled at trouser seams.

Renier said, "Carry on." The soldiers relaxed, almost as one, and the governor nodded to their officer in charge. "Commendable, Colonel." To Tristan he said, "In wartime, this room is used to develop battle plans and campaign strategies."

He moved to the pillar in the center of the room and touched a switch at its base. Images appeared inside, a globe that Tristan recognized as Issel, orbited by two moons and several smaller objects.

"What are those?" he asked, pointing at the small objects drifting around it.

"Orbital stations," said the governor. "Most of those near this moon are smelting plants where the ore is purified and tempered and loaded aboard freight ships as carmite for trade with other worlds. The rest are defense posts. Some are bases for fighter squadrons, others are maintenance depots. They are all directed in wartime from the Command Post at the end of this hall."

Renier touched the buttons. A three-dimensional astral map replaced the planet.

Tristan leaned up to the column, searching. "What are these worlds?" he asked. "Is my father at one of them?"

More buttons clicked. The rest of the starfield vanished as one system magnified and focused on the planets circling its yellow star. "He's at the one in the center," said Renier. "Sostis. My motherworld."

"Sostis." Tristan stared into the holotank, fixing its position in the astral map in his mind.

"This way," the governor said behind him.

They went from Ops to Communications, a cooled room equipped with vidphones of different colors, a row of comms terminals and printers—all idle or covered at the moment—and receiver banks with headsets hung on hooks. More soldiers, standing at stiff attention, guarded the equipment.

"All information that enters or leaves this system passes through this center," the governor said, but Tristan felt someone watching him. He glanced around, over his shoulder—

—into the face of a man with skin as black as a midnight sky and NIEDDU on the patch over his uniform pocket. He couldn't have been any older than Captain Weil, but something ancient and dangerous burned in his eyes. Tristan drew back, curling one hand in warning.

* *

When the governor's party had gone and all the equipment came back on line, Tech Sergeant Nieddu returned to his terminal keyboard.

His name wasn't really Nieddu—it was Ajimir Nemec—and he wasn't really a tech sergeant in the Isselan Space Forces. In fact, as a commander in the Unified Worlds Spherzah, he outranked the officer in charge of the Comms Center.

Spherzah Research had put meticulous effort into developing his alias and getting him a tour of duty at the Command Post on Issel II. Providing him with an Isselan military ID—even creating a complete military record for him and slipping it into Issel's central military database—had been relatively easy. But Spherzah Research provided far more than that for its deep cover operators. Nemec had spent months learning the dialect and culture of his "native" region on Issel, learning the customs and courtesies of Isselan military forces, and memorizing the details of all his "previous assignments," from descriptions of the bases as they had been at the time to the personnel he had "worked with" and the places they had frequented off-duty. Anyone who had served tours at any of the locations would be able to corroborate the details. His cover—his very life—depended on it.

Memorizing secure frequencies and call signs had been easy by comparison.

Keeping one eye on the OIC as he moved about the room, Nemec set up a directional transmission, which would evade the Command Post's myriad receivers, and typed out a cryptic message:

URGENT

021247L 9 3307SY

TO RELAY RACER

FM CHAMELEON II

T O P S E C R E T

GOVERNOR RENIER COMPLETED AN UNSCHEDULED INSPECTION TOUR OF THE ISSEL II COMMAND COMPLEX APPROXIMATELY ONE STANDARD HOUR AGO. DURING THE INSPECTION THE GOVERNOR WAS ACCOMPANIED BY A MAMMALIAN HUMANOID ALIEN AND A YOUNG MAN APPARENTLY IN HIS LATE TEENS WHOM THE GOVERNOR ADDRESSED AS TRISTAN. NO FURTHER INFORMATION IS AVAILABLE ON THE IDENTITIES OF THE VISITORS OR THE REASON FOR THEIR PRESENCE. CONSIDER THIS HIGHLY UNUSUAL. WILL CONT TO REPORT. DNT ACK.

E N D O F M E S S A G E

Nemec glanced once over his shoulder when the MESSAGE RELEASED line blinked on his monitor and let out his breath. A few more keystrokes deleted the record of his message from the terminal's log.

Eight

"Here, Tris." Larielle placed a flat box on the table, barely longer than Tristan's hand, and opened its lid to reveal a monitor and a compact keyboard inside. "This is my Pocket Tutor," she said. "Let me program it to respond to your voice and then I'll show you how to use it."

The dishes of their midday meal had been cleared from the table in the governor's sitting room and Tristan leaned on it with both arms, observing without speaking as Larielle touched the Tutor's "on" button and watched its monitor to light up. As it did, a distinctly masculine voice said, "Identify user for access."

"Larielle Renier," said Larielle.

"Voice pattern of Larielle Renier recognized," said the Tutor. "You may continue." A menu appeared on the monitor.

Glancing at Tristan, Larielle indicated the first item and said, "Expand work parayards." When a new menu replaced the first, she pointed at the fourth item. "Identify additional user for access."

"Please enter voice pattern for additional user."

Larielle turned to Tristan. "Say something now, Tris."

He stared at the monitor for several moments, his mind gone suddenly empty. "What should I say to it?" he asked at last.

"Start with your full name," Larielle said, "and then tell it something else about yourself, enough for it to establish a voice pattern."

Tristan nodded and returned his attention to the monitor, half wondering if the owner of the masculine voice stared back at him from behind it. "Tristan Lujanic Sergey," he said, and paused. He caught sight of Pulou napping under the table. "Pulou is my brother, and we live on Ganwold." After another pause, he shot a desperate look at Larielle. "I can't think of anything else to say."

"That's probably enough," she said, and requested, "Please confirm identity of additional user."

"Additional user is identified as Tristan Lujanic Sergey," said the Tutor.

"Good. Now then, Tris," Larielle said, "let's see what we can find for you to read. . . . Open library, please. Show titles available."

Three columns of titles filled the monitor, from right to left, and a line at the bottom read SCROLL DOWN FOR ADDITIONAL TITLES.

"These are my university texts," Larielle said. "I bought the memory chip versions for this Tutor but you can get them by online subscription as well."

She must have realized when she glanced up that her explanation didn't mean a thing to him. "I'm sorry," she said. "Would you like to try some history?"

"All right," Tristan said.

"Open 'A Concise History of the Great War,'" said Larielle. "Begin at chapter eighteen, with dictionary and discussion options on and audio play option off."

As the titles list disappeared and the requested text came up in its place, she pushed the box over in front of Tristan. "Start from the top," she said.

Eyeing the screen full of characters, Tristan shook his head. "I don't know those words!"

"Sound them out, one word at a time," Larielle said. "After you read a little, we'll put on the audio option and you can listen as you follow along. . . . Now then, what's that?" She pointed at the first word.

Tristan furrowed his brow, cocking his head at the characters glowing on the display. "El-e-men-ta-ry."

"That's right," Larielle said. "Every character makes a whole sound, or syllable. Just put the sounds together, one after the other."

Tristan nodded, but his hands gripped the sides of the Tutor tightly. He'd never seen some of these characters before. The Standard language had over seven thousand characters formed of various arrangements of basic marks and shapes, and the characters formed words much longer than those his mother had taught him to read. Some had five or six characters instead of two or three, and almost none of the words held any meaning for him. He drew a breath like a sigh and started again: "Ele-men-tary log-ic suj-ges-ted—"

"No." Larielle stopped him. "That's sug-gested. That's a different character."

"It is?" Tristan questioned her with a scowl. "How is it different?"

"The tail here is slanted. See?" She pointed out the difference on the display.

"Oh." Tristan eyed it. Sighed his frustration. "My mother didn't have things like this," he said, waving at the Tutor. "All she had was sand and her finger to write with, and the characters didn't all look square like this."

He glimpsed sympathy in her eyes. "You'll get used to it," she said. "It just takes practice. You're doing fine. Go on now."

He shifted forward, planted his elbows on the table, put his chin in his hands. "Elemen-tary logic sug-gested that it was—what's that?"

"Sound it out one character at a time," she coached.

He furrowed his brow. "Es-sen-tial?" He glanced sideways at her, cocking his head.

"That's right." She smiled. "Essential."

"Essential," Tristan repeated. "But what does it mean? I don't know what any of this means!"

"Ask the Tutor," said Larielle. "The dictionary option is on, you know."

"Dictionary?" said Tristan. He wrinkled his nose.

"That gives you the defi—the meaning—of words," she explained. "Like this: please define 'essential.'"

"Essential," said the Tutor. "Of great importance. Necessary; requisite."

In the outer office beyond the living area, the servant Avuse said, "Sir, Captain Krotkin, officer in charge of the Malin Point mine, is here."

Tristan looked up in time to see the governor, seated at his desk, nod acknowledgement. "Admit him, please, Avuse."

Tristan watched as Krotkin came in. Studied him briefly as he stood inside the office door with his jowls tense and hands clenched white-knuckled on his cap, before Tristan returned his attention to the Tutor.

"Captain," he heard the governor say, his tone cool but cordial as he rose from his desk. "Come in and be seated."

"Go on, Tristan." Larielle touched his arm.

"Ele-men-tary logic sug-gested that it was es-sential to the . . ."

Krotkin approached the chair facing the governor's desk, sidling as if to keep his back to a wall. "Thank you, sir. Thank you." He stayed at attention even seated, his spine rigid, and kept wringing his cap. "There's a good explanation, sir, actually."

The governor moved behind his desk, out of Tristan's line of sight through the doorway, but not beyond his hearing. "Please make it then, Captain."

"Yes, sir. Yes." Krotkin kneaded his hat. "It's the new line of workers, sir. When they proved to be unmanageable as a unit, we divided them among the other lines."

"And now they've stirred up the others, too," the governor said.

"Yes, sir." Krotkin nodded. "Exactly, sir. In fact, last week the guards over the oh-eight-hundred Chi line moved in to discipline a couple of them—some big men from Thrax Port, sir—and they'd sabotaged the supports to make them collapse. It knocked one guard senseless and practically buried the rest of the line before reinforcements got there."

"How many casualties?" The question fell without emotion.

"Seven injured, sir. Four seriously, including the guard. There were no fatalities."

A moment's silence. "There should have been several," the governor said. "The ones who were caught under the cave-in."

Tristan stopped reading and looked up.

"But, sir, they weren't the ones who caused it," said Krotkin.

"It doesn't matter. It would've caused second thoughts for anyone else considering such a tactic." The governor paused. "Put the men from Thrax Port and any other troublemakers through a disciplinary shift. They don't have to survive it. And cut rations for the rest of the Chi shaft lines—or double their shifts—until they've cleared it and made it workable again."

"Keep going, Tristan," Larielle said urgently beside him. "That was very good."

He glanced at her, actually startled to find her still there.

Her eyes bore a confusion of emotions dominated by fear and shame. "Please," she said, "just keep reading."

"But, sir," the captain said, "the production level will drop even further."

"Krotkin, Malin Point's attrition rate is even lower than its production rate. Fear of being culled promotes diligence and prevents collusions. If you doubt me, talk to Captain Sylte at the Firnis mine. He turns over the equivalent of two lines per month but his tonnage is increasing."

The governor had risen. He paced, crossing past the doorway as if oblivious of the two young people beyond it. "You won't lack for replacements," he said. "I recently had to stiffen the sentence for rioting in three regions on the primary." He shook his head, hands interlaced at his back. "Ungrateful young people! They'll learn what it means to work for the good of their motherworld if they don't put an end to their troublemaking!"

"Yes, sir," said Krotkin.

The governor paused in his pacing and faced the officer. "Malin Point will see an improvement of twenty-five percent or better within the month. There are smelting quotas to be met."

"Yes, of course, sir."

"You're dismissed, Captain."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Krotkin snapped to his feet, saluted, and withdrew in haste.

Tristan jumped when Larielle touched his arm. He shifted the Tutor between his hands, thumbed its scrolling button over and over, but his concentration had evaporated. He heard the silence, deliberate footsteps coming across it, and his pulse pounding in his ears. He looked up.

The governor stood in front of the table. "Please forgive the interruption," he said, drawing out a chair. "How is your reading, Tristan?"

From the corner of his eye, Tristan saw Larielle's hands clench in her lap, her lips press into a firm line. He traced the characters embossed on the Tutor's cover with one finger and said, "I wasn't reading. I was listening."

The governor shot a swift look at his daughter—she met it, her face unreadable—and he said, "Well, listening can also be instructive." He interlaced his hands on the table. "What did you learn from listening, Tristan?"

He looked directly into the governor's eyes. "Do frightened people really work harder?" he asked.

He saw Renier's mouth purse. "In a labor camp, yes," he said. "They can always see the consequences of disobedience."

"Why are the young people—ungrateful?"

"They're unhappy at the measures we've had to take recently," Renier said. "I can't blame them entirely, but their strikes and marches won't resolve anything." He sighed. "They don't remember the War. They don't remember when Sanabria was a city of charred shells, or what my generation sacrificed to rebuild it and our other cities." He lowered his head. "I'm sorry so many have had their educations interrupted to fill the shock forces in the factories, but it can't be helped just now. Other goals must be reached first. It's very hard, young one."

Tristan cocked his head. "Why?"

Renier sighed again. "I was installed as Sector General during the Great War," he said. "Issel had already been devastated. While the young men of Sostis were conscripted and its industries utilized to support the Dominion war effort, I revitalized Issel's mining guilds. Under my governorship, the carmite in this system was used to finance Issel's reconstruction and rebuild both worlds' economies.

"Then the Dominion's back was broken at Enach with the attack on its orbital command station and the assassination of its leadership by the Spherzah. All Dominion-sponsored trade ended. We were pariah to the Unified Worlds for the role I had played. . . ." His voice trailed off, his jaw tightening. He stared for a long while into some bitter distance of time before he shook his head again.

"Issel finished reconstructing alone," he said at last, to the tabletop. "It's been difficult. We've struggled. We've known starvation, deprivation of all kinds." He made a loose gesture with both hands. "I understand the young people's unhappiness, but unlike most of them, I know their real enemy." He lifted his gaze and looked directly at Tristan. "We're in a position to stand up to that enemy now. The mines are paying again. We've signed new trade contracts sufficient to raise the standard of living and our levels of defense, and we've made new alliances."

He paused. Eyed Tristan again. "Aren't you a little curious, Tristan, as to how you fit into all of this?"

"How I fit into it?" Tristan stopped tracing the Tutor's embossing and stared at him, suddenly angry. "I don't want to fit into it! My mother is sick!"

"I know that." The governor sat back, looking thoughtful. "It will be most interesting to see how your father responds to our message."

* *

Tristan paused before the holoscreen when he came into his room. He gazed out on its meadow as he peeled off his jacket and shirt and dropped them on the bed. He settled to the floor to tug off the boots and flung them after the jacket.

Sitting cross-legged, he smoothed a patch of carpet with his hand and closed his eyes. The map of lines and lights from the monitor room glowed in his remembered vision. He traced it in the carpet's nap with his finger and studied it for a few moments, then shook his head in abrupt frustration and erased the sketch with a sweep of his hand.

Watching him, Pulou asked, "You do what, little brother?"

"I think how we go away from here." Tristan leaned forward, elbows on knees. "There are stairs and lift. We make lift go down so they chase it, and we go up stairs to shuttles."

"Too easy to hunt us," said Pulou.

Tristan cocked his head, questioning him.

"Think of lomos in burrows."

"Lomos?" Tristan wrinkled his nose. "But they're stupid!"

"Maybe," said Pulou. "Maybe not. Lomos do what when children pour water into burrows?"

"Go out other burrow."

Pulou nodded, watching him.

Tristan grinned. He began tracing the map in the carpet again. But then he stopped and looked at Pulou. "But governor says you can't go out of caves another way."

"Not right," the gan said. "You can."

"You find what?"

"Green cave goes on and on for long way," Pulou said. "It has places to hide and water to drink and burrows that go up to gray cave we walk in. Small caves go out like tree branches from big cave, and I find flat-tooth footprints that come out of one but not that go in."

"That come out?" Tristan held Pulou's amber gaze for a long moment, considering that, before he returned to the map etched in the carpet. He finished the drawing. "We go down stairs here," he said, pointing, "and hide in caves if they hunt us, and," he drew a finger along one mark, "come out over here, or here, or here." He looked at Pulou. "Like lomos from burrows."

"Good." The gan gave him a fanged smile. "You learn to think like hunter, not like flat-tooth." He evaded Tristan's playful cuff and said, "At night, little brother?"

"Yes," said Tristan.

* *

Sleepless night paled too slowly to an angry dawn.

When the stars over the screen's projected meadow began to fade, Tristan reached up to turn it off, letting the blanket slide from his shoulders. He stood slowly. His thighs ached from hours of sitting cross-legged. He limped into the latrine.

The face that stared back at him from the reflector as he washed seemed older than it had the day before, he thought. He pushed dripping hair away from his eyes, unsure of what caused the illusion. Except that he couldn't meet his own gaze.

When he'd come into his room after dinner the previous evening, he'd dismissed Rajak and held the door for Pulou. Held it until he heard the valet's door close down the corridor. Then he fished in his jacket pocket for the clasp he'd pulled from it, placed it in the door's track, switched off the automation, and held his breath as the door slid to the blockage and stopped. It had cost him an afternoon of studying the electronic latches, and pinched fingers from testing the door's recoil mechanism, to figure it out.

He had smiled as he'd tossed his jacket onto the bed. Took a moment to lock the door between Rajak's room and the connecting latrine before he crouched to sketch the tunnel map in the carpet again. Pulou squatted beside him, following as he traced one of the longer lines. He tapped the spot at its end and nodded.

"He says cargo shuttles are there," Tristan said. "We hide in one and ride away in it."

"To where?" asked Pulou.

"To—orbital station." Tristan found himself having to intersperse his gan with Standard words for which the gan language had no equivalents. "Think about round picture of stars in white room." He pantomimed the shape of the holotank in Operations Planning. "He says big ships are at stations. Maybe one goes to my father's world."

"Maybe not," said Pulou.

Tristan ignored that and smoothed away the map with his hand. They settled on the floor to rest while they waited for the living level to grow quiet.

Tristan didn't sleep. He just lay there with his eyes closed, seeing the glow of the monitor room's map in his mind.

When they rose, what seemed half the night later, the door responded easily to his push. He signed at Pulou to wait while he knelt at the doorjamb to ease the door into its lock.

He'd felt someone watching from behind even before Pulou nudged him. He turned slowly and looked up.

Rajak leered down at him. "It isn't very smart to go for a walk by yourself at night, Tristan."

He came to his feet in one motion. "What are you doing here? We don't want your help!"

"You may need it, though. The doors to the lifts and the emergency stairs aren't as easy to sabotage as your bedroom's."

Tristan glowered and said nothing.

"Aw, come on, that's what you had in mind, wasn't it?" Rajak reached past him to punch the door's open button. "Take out your doorstop."

Tristan studied him: about twice his own weight, a couple fingers' width taller, but with sluggish reflexes. . . .

"Hurry up," said Rajak. "Take it out."

Without shifting his vision from the servant's face, Tristan knelt, picked up the broken piece of clasp, and curled his fist around it. He locked his teeth.

"Give it to me," said Rajak, holding out his hand. "Would you rather tell Governor Renier about this yourself, or should I do it for you?"

"If you say anything to anyone, Rajak, I'll see that you won't need first pick of the women prisoners anymore."

They both started at the quiet, menacing female voice.

Rajak lurched around. Tristan and Pulou hunched lower still, hands moving to their foreheads.

Larielle had come down the corridor, silent on bare feet and clad only in a dressing gown and her loosed hair.

Rajak made a snorting sound. "You little vixen! You wouldn't dare!"

"Wouldn't I?" The smile that flickered at her lips appeared almost evil. "I'd only have to tell Papa that you behaved improperly toward me and you'd be lucky to keep even your life!" She interposed herself between Tristan and the servant. "Get out of here, Rajak."

He hesitated.

"Get out!" She swung at him, something needle-like flashing in her hand.

He staggered back, flinging up an arm to shield his face, and retreated.

She waited until Rajak entered his room, waited until they heard its door click shut before she returned her attention to Tristan. "Don't do this," she said, her voice quiet but urgent. "Be patient, Tristan. If you're caught trying to run away again, your mother will suffer for it, too."

Nine

A light on the keyboard blinked red; a persistent beep announced a priority message coming in on an out-system frequency. Encrypted, Nemec knew. He punched the ACCEPT key, overriding the material on his monitor, and entered his release code to unscramble the text.

It bore a date stamp of 3/9/3307 SY—two days ago—and a classification of Confidential. Nemec's vision narrowed on text spilling onto the screen and noted the imprecise translation from a non-human language. He kept his face impassive, concealing both his interest and surprise as he read it.

He touched the HARDCOPY key and glanced up. The officer in charge lingered across the room. Quick fingers set a directional transmission and hit SECURE DISSEMINATE. Relay's communications receivers would have the message in its entirety before the printout finished in the Issel II Comms Center.

Nemec hit DELETE as he rose, retrieved the printed page, and carried the message to the officer in charge. "This just came in, sir."

The other read it through quickly. "The governor will want to see this right away."

"Yes, sir." Nemec enclosed it in a folder before crossing through the lift to the residence area, where a large man wearing the insignia of the governor's personal security met him and motioned for him to wait in the office.

Beyond lay a dining room; the governor and his household sat at dinner.

The security man said, "Messenger from the Comms Center, sir."

"Thank you, Avuse. Show him in." Renier rose from the dining table and entered the office. "Sergeant?"

At the table behind Renier, the youth named Tristan looked up and froze. Nemec could almost sense how his hand tightened on his knife. He felt the boy eyeing him as he opened the folder on the governor's desk and handed over the sheet of paper. "This just came through, sir."

Renier scanned it. "Mi'ika. From the Bacal Belt," he murmured. "This is much sooner than I had expected." He read the message in its entirety, concentration deepening the lines around his eyes and pursed mouth. After long moments he said, "Return word to the Pasha of Mi'ika that I look forward to accepting his son and the other candidates from his world into the military colleges of Adriat, and that I'll arrange my schedule to be in Aeire City when they arrive, in order to receive them personally."

"Yes, sir," Nemec said, and saw from the corner of his eye how the youth's attention jerked up at that. Saw how he glanced under the table at the alien squatting near his feet.

"Please send notification to the Ministers of Internal Security and Alien Relations on Adriat," the governor said, "regarding the date of our allies' arrival there. Arrangements for their accommodation and entrance into the academies must begin at once." He paused to study the message again. "Please inform my staff at Aeire City of this change of plans also. Order tripled security and assure them that I'll arrive far enough in advance to oversee most of the preparations myself."

"Yes, sir," Nemec said again. "Will that be all?" Relay's analysts, he knew, would work double shifts over this.

"Destroy this." Renier returned the page. "Thank you, Sergeant."

Returning the message to the folder, Nemec gave a curt bow from the neck, and managed to meet the boy's eyes before he faced about on his heel.

* *

Tristan watched the sergeant from Communications leave the room. Watched the governor return to the table and resume his seat.

"I'll conclude the mine inspections this afternoon," Renier said, taking up his napkin, "so we can return tomorrow. We have another journey to make next week for which we must begin preparations at once."

"Papa?" Larielle said.

"We'll be taking our holiday on Adriat early this year," the governor told her, and smiled. "I trust that won't disappoint you, Lari."

She smiled. "Not at all, Papa."

"And what of you, Tristan? What do you know about your mother's homeworld?"

Tristan studied him, trying to read his shadowed eyes. "I know the name of where she lived," he said. His knuckles had grown white, gripping his utensil.

The governor smiled again. "I believe you'll find it an interesting diversion from the histories you've been reading these last few days. You'll have the opportunity to see history in its making."

* *

The shuttle seemed almost familiar this time. Still, Tristan gripped the arms of the acceleration seat through the crushing thrust of launch, and closed his eyes against the sight of a spiraling horizon as the craft banked over the towered city of Sanabria.

Hours later, with Issel a sunlit globe filling the shuttle's rear view, Tristan spotted the glitter of the orbital station drifting ahead. He released his straps and pushed himself toward the pane, where he caught the rail, pulled himself into an upright position, and anchored his feet. Against the perpetual night, the spider's web structure gradually became visible in the midst of its artificial constellation.

As the shuttle circled around the station, Tristan observed the freight vessels at their loading docks and wondered at their destinations. He found his attention drawn to the bristled destroyers in the maintenance docks. One of the large warships, he noticed, had been replaced by two smaller but equally bristled ones.

"We are now making final approach," said the voice from the overhead. "Please take your seats and secure your harnesses until docking is complete."

Lying in his couch, Tristan sensed the shuttle's change of direction mostly by the way the starfield swung around past the viewpanes. The docking berth slid up around the shuttle, an enclosure of girders and guide beacons like the reed spokes of a gan fishtrap, into which the craft seemed to be swimming. Tristan pushed himself back in his chair, willing the shuttle not to pass through the opening which allowed no escape. He felt a mild bump, and the structure outside the viewpanes stopped moving.

He glanced over and found Pulou curled asleep in his seat. Tristan nudged him awake.

They exited through a tunnel sealed over the hatch, corrugated so Tristan thought of a caterpillar turned inside out. The tunnel bent around and downward and emptied into a transparent corridor. Tristan held to a rail on the bulkhead, steadying himself in the buoyancy of low gravity after the shuttle's complete lack of it, and looked back to see the craft floating at its moorings in a cage of girders.

The corridor joined a concourse where a dozen men waited, some in uniforms of the Isselan Space Force, others wearing the bandoliers of ambassadors and various ministries of the Isselan government. The officers drew themselves up as the governor strode into the passage, and their commander stepped forward and saluted. "This way, sir," he said. "Your voyager is standing by for departure."

Another caterpillar tunnel led into a passenger lounge similar to the shuttle's, but larger. The voyager had artificial gravity, but handholds lined the narrow passage between the cabins. "This one's ours," Rajak said, pushing open a door halfway along the passage. "You're in the top berth." He dumped their duffle bags in a corner.

The cabin had only two berths, stacked one above the other. Tristan said, "Where will Pulou sleep?"

"You'll both fit up there," Rajak said. "Or you can take turns, I don't care. Right now you need to go back to the passenger lounge so we can launch."

* *

Three days out of the Issel system, in the middle of the ship's simulated night, they made their first lightskip. A sudden siren echoed from the bulkheads, on and on like a trapped banshee, wrenching Tristan from sleep. He stiffened, lying back-to-back with Pulou, and strained to see across the dark cabin. Nothing.

Its blackness conjured undimmed images in his mind: A locker intended only for a pressure suit. Hot darkness. The fear in his mother's whispers and touch as she tried to calm his own confusion.

Beside him, Pulou shifted and tried to sit up despite the low overhead. "It's what, little brother?"

Rajak turned over below them, making his berth creak. "We're gonna make lightskip," he said, sounding half asleep. "Strap yourselves in and lie still up there!"

Tristan reached for the safety netting rolled up on Pulou's side of the berth, turned onto his back and pulled it over them both. His mouth had gone too dry even to whisper. His heartbeat hammered in his ears. His hands shook so badly he needed several tries to secure the safety net into its latches.

The warning horn changed pitch, rising into a shriek. Nearly choking on fear, Tristan closed his eyes and clenched his teeth.

He felt as if he were melting, evaporating, being pushed through solid stone one molecule at a time. He wanted to scream, but no sound came. He had no breath for sound.

Then he lay in the berth again, flat on his back, sweat-soaked and shaking.

He tried to move. He had no strength, and only enough reflex left to retch. He heaved until he couldn't anymore.

Below him, Rajak swore, his voice sounding dim and distorted. Tristan heard Rajak's foot hit the deck as he tumbled from the lower bunk, and unsteady movements before lights came on in the cabin. The heaving had ended by then. Tristan shifted a little and put his left hand in slippery vomit. Its odor made him gag again.

Still muttering, Rajak staggered against the hatch and fumbled to open it. "I'll get you stuff to clean it up, but you're doing it yourself," he growled as he disappeared into the dark passage.

Tristan raised himself on his elbows and glanced at Pulou. The gan lay still, eyes closed, breath raking over bared fangs, sweat gleaming around his muzzle. Tristan nudged his shoulder with a curled hand. "You're all right?"

Pulou opened his eyes to slits, showing a veil of nictitating membrane. "Maybe," he panted. "Maybe."

"Get down here," Rajak said as he stomped back into the cabin.

Tristan turned over and released the safety net. Reached for the deck with one foot. He lost his grip on the berth and his legs gave way. He caught himself on hands and knees on the deck, and Rajak shoved a self-contained cleaning unit at him. "If you're smart, you'll take a patch before the next 'skip," he said.

"A patch?" Tristan asked, and grimaced. His mouth still tasted sour and gritty.

"You stick it on your forehead and it knocks you out for a couple of hours."

Tristan remembered a legionnaire kneeling on his arms on the floor of a stone cell and a man with a pair of metallic discs in his hand leaning over him. All of that seemed surreal now, like part of a nightmare.

There were no legionnaires this time, nor any patches—yet—but the queasiness in Tristan's stomach warned that the nightmare hadn't ended yet.

Ten

Lujan Sergey shrugged off the wet weight of his coat, handed it to the servo that whirred up to him, and ran his free hand through hair grown gray but not thinner.

"Good morning, sir." His executive officer offered a mug of hot shuk. "Still sleeting?"

"Just raining now. Thanks." Lujan accepted the mug and took a sip as he turned toward his office. "Anything new, Jiron?"

"Just the usual message traffic, sir," the captain said, "and this." He picked up a metal box off his desktop. "A courier from the Isselan Embassy delivered it after you left last night."

"Isselan?" Lujan raised an eyebrow and smiled beneath his mustache as he took the case. "What is it, explosives?"

"No, sir. Hobarth ran it through scan. Non-lethal contents."

Lujan chuckled. "Thanks."

On entering his office he activated lighting with a motion at the sensor and set down the mug to turn the strongbox in his hands. Its markings—PERSONAL FOR ADMIRAL LUJAN SERGEY, CHIEF COMMANDER, SPHERZAH—caught his eye first, but the place of origin held his attention.

He tried the latches. They gave at his touch; the cover fell open. He tipped the contents into his hand: two crystal pendants, an audicorder, a pair of ID tags dangling on their chain. The tags bore a flight surgeon's symbol.

Her tags.

Light caught the image suspended in one pendant. He took it up to look more closely.

A wedding portrait. A young pilot in ceremonial grays holding a girl in pale blue in the circle of his arms.

"Darcie," he whispered. His throat suddenly felt too tight for sound. He swallowed against the constriction and stood paralyzed, remembering.

Adriat, her homeworld, had been liberated less than a month when they married there. He still remembered the solemnity of her face as they kissed over the altar at the rite's conclusion, how tightly she had held him on the dance floor later, and how quiet she had become when they were finally alone.

"Is it Berg?" he'd asked gently.

"No," she said first. And then, "Yes—sort of." She'd been widowed once already, and she said, "I'm so afraid of losing you, too!"

He remembered how she had gripped his hands through her labor with Tristan, closing her eyes to concentrate on her breathing as he coached her, and how he'd stroked the sweat from her face with a cloth as each spasm passed. He remembered how once, in a lull between contractions, she'd taken the cloth from his hand and reached up to mop sweat from his forehead, asking with a weak but mischievous smile, "How are you holding up, Luj?"

Issel fell a few weeks later. All the noncombatants, including Darcie, had been withdrawn to Topawa while the fighter squadrons deployed forward to Tohh. Lujan remembered cartons of rich Anchenken nutloaf called urdisch and audicorded letters with Tristan's first babblings sent from Topawa.

He remembered how she'd come on emergency leave to Tohh after his injury in a flying mishap. By the time she arrived he'd been released from the hospital, though he still limped, and he'd needed her moral support more than her medical skill. A fellow pilot and good friend had been accused of attempted murder and treason, and he had been named the prosecution's key witness. She hadn't understood why he'd found it so hard to testify, but she'd accompanied him to the proceedings and mourned along with him when the court-martial found his friend guilty.

He'd only seen her once more after that. They'd had a few days together on Topawa before he began six months of basic Spherzah training on Kaleo and she accepted an assignment to a medical unit on Adriat. He remembered walking up the flightline with Tristan riding on his shoulders, and kissing her good-bye in the golden light of dawn before he boarded the transport.

He had received no audicorded letters or cartons of urdisch on Kaleo; Spherzah training demanded celibacy of the mind as well as of the body.

His first mission had taken his Spherzah team to Enach. They had penetrated the Dominion's command station a few hours before the Unified Worlds launched its attack and had accomplished their mission as they'd been trained to. The battle that followed had been the final blow to the Dominion.

He had sent a message to Darcie four days later. He wanted to return to her on Adriat, but the Unified Worlds Command had required Spherzah as mediators and witnesses at the Accords. So she'd taken leave and booked passage for herself and Tristan on the next transport out of Aeire City.

He would never forget how he learned of their loss. The messenger might as well have been his older brother. Also a pilot, he wore the patches of Lujan's old interceptor squadron and an atypically grim expression.

"Sean!" he said. "You look like you just flew into a field of space mines. What's wrong?"

The taller man had taken him by the shoulders and pressed him backward to a bench. "Sit down, buddy," he said, his tone oddly quiet. "I have to talk to you."

Puzzled, Lujan yielded to the physical insistence to sit. "Look," he said, "if this has anything to do with the negotiations, you know I can't talk—"

"Blast it, just listen to me, will you?" Sean's face showed strain. His hands tightened like twin vises on Lujan's shoulders and he muttered, "I don't even know how to tell you this."

Studying his eyes, Lujan had felt bewilderment give way to premonition. He swallowed, but his voice stayed steady. "Just tell me, Sean."

The older pilot turned his face away, and his grip produced pain. "Darcie and Tristan are—dead, Jink. Or worse."

"What?" He had stiffened, staring at his friend. "That's impossible! They're supposed to dock in . . ." His voice trailed off when Sean shook his head. The hands gripping his shoulders never loosened and he'd seen shared pain in his friend's eyes.

"Dead?" He could manage only a strangled whisper. "Are you sure? How?"

Sean released his shoulders at last and began to pace. "All I know is that a message came in through the Comm Center. A transmission from the Korot system—part of one, anyway; it was cut off. Something about masuk slavers and the transport being boarded." He'd shrugged. "And then nothing. It just—broke off."

"Slavers?" Lujan said. "In the Korot system?" His blood turned to ice water. "Have its planetary governments been contacted?"

"Yeah. There's only one, on Ganwold, and they claim they don't know anything about it." Sean lowered his head. "I'm really sorry, buddy."

Lujan couldn't even nod. He'd just sat staring at nothing until the full weight of it washed over him. Then he'd slumped forward, elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. "Slavers!" he whispered. "No!"

He'd led the team that searched the Korot system for missing personnel after sealing the Accords, but the year's efforts had yielded nothing. At its end he'd put his seal to the required documents and tried to accept his loss. But night after night he had dreamed of Darcie running through a ship's passage, panting and pale and clutching his son to her breast.

That had been twenty-five years ago.

He'd never stopped missing her.

He shifted the objects in his hands and raised the second holodisc to the light.

Tristan. About a year and a half old, perched on Lujan's shoulders and gripping his hair. The image still made him smile.

Tristan will be a young man by now.

He set the holos and ID tags on his desk and examined the audicorder. His thumb found its play button.

"—stop playing ignorant," said a male voice. The tone belonged to a practiced interrogator. "We know who you are. We've had these for several years. Do you know what they are?"

Short silence. A sharp slap.

Lujan recoiled as if he'd taken the blow himself.

The interrogator's voice suggested threat. "Answer me, Tristan! Where is your mother? Why did she send you here?"

"Sir." A younger voice, anxious. "The drug's disoriented him."

"It'll also break him, Captain. We need answers. Where is she, Tristan?"

"Sick . . . fr'm th' coughing sickness. . . ."

Lujan knew the boy's voice, despite the drug's slur, despite the lost years. He had his mother's Adriatish accent. "Tristan!" he whispered.

"Why did she send you here?" he heard. "Where is she?"

"Out there . . . man' nights away. . . ."

Another slap, an audible catching of breath.

Lujan punched the 'off' button, locking his teeth.

Several moments lapsed before he could steel himself to reactivate the audicorder and hear the rest.

Comments meant originally for the Sector General followed the interrogation. Lujan played through them twice:

"Sir, I have included several articles for your examination which should be sufficient to prove the boy's identity. At the time he was apprehended he had in his possession the enclosed ID tags and a Unified issue energy pistol manufactured circa thirty-two eighty Standard Years.

"The holodiscs have been in the possession of the Department of Security and Investigation since thirty-two ninety-one, when Lieutenant Dartmuth escaped our legionnaires after the transport on which she was a passenger entered the Korot system under the control of masuk slavers."

Lujan couldn't suppress a slight smile. Escaped. That's Darcie all right.

"According to your orders, sir, we have pin-pointed the woman's location via reconnaissance drones and will continue surveillance. We are standing by for further orders.

"This is Brigadier General Jules François, Commander, Ganwold Forty-Second Defense Squadron, concluding this report on the tenth day of the eighth month, thirty-three-oh-seven Standard Years."

Barely a standard month ago!

Lujan checked the dispatch date on the metal box: 27/8/3307. Two weeks ago.

More recent than that—only one week ago—he had received that unusual message from Nemec about the boy called Tristan accompanying the Sector General on his inspection tour. It had to be his Tristan. He could have been transported from Ganwold to Issel II very easily in the last standard month.

When the audicorder shut itself off, Lujan set it down and moved to the diaphametal wall behind his desk. He leaned against it to gaze out over the lights of Ramiscal City. The glacier-jagged mountains rose beyond, pink in the pre-dawn light. His mind kept shifting back to Darcie. "She's on Ganwold," he whispered. "Sick. . . . But thirty-two ninety-one?"

The puzzle provided its own solution: "Timewarp!" he said aloud. "It must have been. No wonder we couldn't find them!"

He glanced back at the articles on the desktop and his hand tightened into a fist. "No demands. Blast it, Mordan, what do you want?"

He already suspected the answer.

* *

"There's a greater threat in this than to my family alone," Lujan said.

He sat in conference with the World Governor of Sostis and the Triune, the three executives of the Unified Worlds Assembly. As civilians with ambassador rank, the four hundred sixty Assembly members under the Triune represented the major cultures of the nine Unified Worlds at the highest level of interplanetary administration.

Though Lujan sat on the Defense Directorate, which came under the Assembly's jurisdiction and included the top military commanders from each member world, the nature of the Spherzah kept his forces separate from that chain of command; he answered only to the Triune.

Pite Hanesson of Mythos glanced across at his counterparts and kept his arms folded over his chest. "In what way, Admiral?"

"It may have been intended as a provocation."

Hanesson raised an eyebrow. "To what? Surely not to war!"

"Perhaps not directly," Lujan said, "but that can't be ruled out. Hostages have been at the origin of many conflicts."

Hanesson looked skeptical. "I don't understand why . . ."

The other members of the Triune moved uneasily in their chairs, and Kedar Gisha, Governor of Sostis, reached out her hand to touch his arm. "Pite, you're too young to remember the Enach Accords, or how Sostis and Tohh were lost during the Great War. Mordan Renier sold them out to the Dominion."

"I've studied history," said Hanesson. Of Lujan he asked, "What evidence is there to suggest that Issel may be—preparing for war?"

"We've seen several significant indications in the past few months," Lujan said, "including upgrades in the Isselan space fleet's order of battle." He opened his folder and removed several plasticine image sheets, which he passed around to his counterparts. "At the Secret level, Kaleo Sector sources have in the last two weeks observed eleven war ships—two spacecraft carriers, three frigates, and six destroyers—in space docks at Issel and Adriat for apparent refitting. And message traffic from Yan has reported the delivery of fourteen training craft to the piloting academy at Aeire City. A major expansion was completed there last month which will allow classes to be increased by fifty percent.

"Last week, Sostish sources also noted shifts from Issel's machine and light industries to support increases in the military area—the second time this has occurred within the last eight months," Lujan emphasized. "The spacecraft plant at Sanabria is capable of rolling out a fighter every three days or commissioning a battleship through space dock in less than six months." He glanced around the table. "Issel has five of these plants and Adriat has two. Lately they've been operating non-stop.

"They're producing newly developed munitions as well as spacecraft. We haven't been able to determine yet what they are, but I consider it a matter of importance.

"Most recently, we've received notification from the planetary governor of Adriat that they're going to conduct military exercises in that system next month. They're supposed to run for about three weeks. That's the normal time frame for Adriat's training, but the expected number of participants is unusually large. They're including divisions from Issel, Saede, Na Shiv, and three Bacalli worlds."

"Bacalli?" Kun Reng-Tan of Kaleo straightened in his chair. "Then those reports of talks between Issel and the Bacal Belt are true?"

"Yes." Lujan placed a sealed pouch on the table. "Spherzah Intelligence has acquired a copy of their Cooperation Pact. Among other things, it provides for the sale of Isselan weapon systems to three worlds in the Bacal Belt and for admission of Bacalli candidates into Issel Sector military colleges."

"But what's the pay-off?" asked Alois Ashforth of Jonica. "The Bacalli worlds can barely even feed their own populations!"

"That's what we need to find out." Lujan paused, then said, "I know Sector General Renier. When he and the Na Shivish hold-outs were finally forced to the Enach Accords, he vowed that he'd someday regain what he'd lost. He knows he can't gain that objective with anything less than force of arms. Even five years ago that would have been impossible, but today the Issel Sector's military capability rivals our own."

Hanesson still appeared doubtful, but a glance at the expressions of Gisha, Kun, and Ashforth evidently made him think better of what he'd seemed about to say. Instead he asked, "What are you going to do, Admiral?"

"With your approval," —Lujan addressed them all— "I'm sending a Spherzah surveillance ship into the Issel system. There's too much we don't know."

"No rescue operations?" asked Hanesson.

Lujan fixed a gaze on him like blue ice. "No," he said. "That's exactly what Mordan wants us to try. It would be all the excuse he'd need to initiate hostilities."

* *

The depiction onscreen made one feel that one stood on the bridge of a ship, observing the orbits of Issel and her two moons in real time from within the system. Commodore of the Spherzah Cerise Chesney traced the ingress route through narrowed eyes and slapped the folder of Mission Plan 891 against her leg. "Well, Jink, it looks like we'll get to see how good Sentinel's new cloaking system really is."

"More chance for that than you may want," Lujan said with a grim smile. "Even orbiting in the moon's radar shadow, you're going to be avoiding three watchdog satellites. Their ephemerides are given in the mission folder."

"Nice." Chesney tossed back her shoulder-length honey blonde hair, then furrowed her brow. "Why does the Command Post on Issel II bounce all of its comms off the other moon, anyway? That just seems to be asking for interception."

Lujan said, "It's used as a relay for intersystem transmissions to avoid interference from surface mining and shipping comms. The facilities on Issel I will be your major source but you'll also receive messages from our people on the primary and on Issel II."

Chesney favored him with an inquiring look.

"Most of them are already in place; we've had deep cover agents in the Issel system for some time," Lujan said. "Your call sign will be Echo. You'll receive the code specs and secured frequencies at your pre-mission brief. Any questions?"

She hesitated, studying him for a moment before she said, "Only one, Jink. What about Tristan?"

The Chief Commander of the Spherzah lowered his gaze, though he knew he couldn't conceal the raw emotion in it. Not from Chesney. He drew a deep breath before he said, "Tristan's not in danger. Not yet. Any attempt to rescue him at this point would only jeopardize both him and Darcie, and probably trigger the conflict we're trying to prevent."

"But if the situation should change?"

Lujan looked at her directly. "The mission plan assigns a Spherzah combat company to your ship. We also have our own people on the inside. If it should become necessary, Ches, use your own judgment and capabilities."

Eleven

Retro rockets vaporized the ice layering the landing pad as the ship-to-surface shuttle touched down. Encircling lights shot luminous pillars through eruptions of steam, obliterating visibility from the passenger hold.

As clouds of vapor dispersed, an enclosed passenger carrier grumbled up to the craft, backwards, and crewmen wearing insulated coveralls and gloves connected a boarding tube between shuttle and vehicle. Still shaky from the descent, Tristan shoved himself out of his acceleration seat and followed Larielle and the governor.

The sight beyond the carrier's windows, as he came aboard, made him stop in mid-stride and stare: the whole world, as much of it as he could see, lay buried under white.

He had sometimes seen patches of Ganwold's prairie that looked white—or yellow or blue or red—when wildflowers bloomed in the spring; but this whiteness lay over everything as thick and heavy as a peimu robe. Tristan dropped into the carrier's nearest seat and rubbed frosty condensation from the window with his sleeve so he could see out. He barely glanced up when Pulou settled beside him, huddling deeper into the blanket he'd wrapped around himself. He couldn't tear his vision from the whiteness.

Shuttleport lighting illuminated white particles large as lomo feathers drifting down from the night sky. Tristan observed the crewmen shuffling around in it on the ground. When a piece of it struck the window in front of him, he studied its six-pointed structure, intricate as the lace on one of Larielle's dresses, until it slid down the pane and disappeared.

"It's what, little brother?" asked Pulou, peering over his shoulder.

"Snow, I think," Tristan said. "My mother tells me about it. She says we live too far south on Ganwold to have it."

Pulou blinked and cocked his head at that.

The crewmen disconnected the passenger carrier from the shuttle, folded its ramp closed, and it drew away from the landing pad and lights and burrowed into the early winter storm with a growl of engines.

Several minutes later it began to crawl up a hillside, under trees that rose like skeletal black hands clawing at the gray veil of snowfall. The Governor's Mansion stood at the crest, a tower of cantilevered blocks extending to the eight points of the compass. White under floodlighting, it appeared to have been constructed out of ice. Tristan shivered, eyeing it.

At the mansion's entry, they stepped out of the carrier's steamy shell into a wind laden with snow. The layer on the ground gave a brittle crunch under their boots. Tristan paused to trail his hand through a drift, felt its crystalline cold bite his fingertips, and jerked them away. Behind him, Pulou urged, "Go, little brother," and placed his feet gingerly in Tristan's bootprints.

At the threshold, Pulou stopped to shake snow from his mane—and froze, nostrils working. His eyes widened, his nose wrinkled, he drew his lips back.

Tristan, shrugging off his coat, saw him and stiffened. "What's wrong?"

Before Pulou could answer, he started at a whine, a whimper, and the noise of claws clattering on the stone floor. When three furred beasts bounded into the vestibule, he bared his own teeth, his hands curling hard, and Pulou pressed up behind him, hissing and hyperventilating.

The beasts' broad heads reached to Tristan's midsection. He stared at slavering jowls, at small eyes rimmed with red, at ears almost lost in mottled haircoat as long as Pulou's mane. He backed up a step.

"Jous!" Pulou hissed over his shoulder. "Jous!"

They shoved around him, their tails beating his legs, and thrust their muzzles into the governor's hands. Renier smiled, stooping to fondle their heads and speak to them with words Tristan didn't understand.

"My pets," Renier said. "Their breed, Sybrin bearhound, is almost extinct now. I don't like leaving them here but they're ill-suited for our residence on Issel." He snapped his fingers and pointed, and the largest dog shifted its head toward Tristan.

Tristan started to draw back but Renier said, "Reach out to him slowly. Bearhounds don't readily accept strangers; they were bred as much to be bodyguards as bear hunters."

Tristan felt Pulou's claws dig into his shoulders, heard his hissing heighten near his ear, and wondered if Pulou would attempt to climb up his back. But he gritted his teeth and put out a hand to the beast.

Its black nose touched his palm, cold as a fish. He flinched away.

"Hold!" said the governor. "Bearhounds can smell fear. They know threat and flight, and either may provoke an attack. If you pull back your hand too suddenly, Tristan, it might be torn from your arm."

Mouth pressed closed to keep from hissing, Tristan stood rigid and let the dog snuffle at his hand. Let it butt and sniff at him from belly to boots until the governor called it back.

"He's identified you now," Renier said, smiling. "Abattoir never forgets a scent."

Tristan followed Rajak to a suite at the outermost end of one upper wing, relieved to leave the dogs behind.

He didn't wait until the valet left to push aside the drapery covering the far wall. The gray-tinted pane behind it dimmed the floodlights and snow below. Cold numbed his fingers and face when he leaned on the pane, and it clouded with his breath. This was no holograph screen.

Beyond the hill and the park, clouds above and snow below held the glow of nighttime city lights.

Aeire City.

His mother's home city.

Tristan stood looking out into the dark for a long while.

* *

The shuttle sent thunder across the low sky, appearing first as a flash, then as a streak like a meteor. It hovered, firing landing rockets, and descended gradually over the VTOL dish until it touched on pillars of fire that shook the ground and boiled the ice around it. Steam rolled as it settled, making its skin shimmer, and even the honor guard turned their faces away.

Tristan braced himself against a wall of wind, still heavy with moisture though last week's snowstorms had passed. He felt the cold as an ache in his legs and chest; he fisted his bare, stiffened hands and tried to resist shivering.

He heard a clipped order, saw the honor guard snap to attention and bring weapons to present arms, forming a double file that faced the shuttle. The order and the stamp of boots rippled through four companies of soldiers assembled on the tarmac behind the receiving party. Tristan slid a glance sideways at the governor in military cloak and medals, and Larielle in furs.

A hatchway slid open on the craft's underside and a ramp lowered. Tristan saw shadowed movement within as the first figure emerged onto the ramp and others followed.

They stood taller even than Renier, wearing tunics and cloaks of various colors that brushed their knees with golden fringe. Thick hair on ruddy skin darkened their exposed arms and lower legs, heavy beards covered more of their faces than not, and the hair of their heads tumbled longer and wilder about their shoulders than a gan's mane. Heavy brows could not conceal ursine eyes, nor did mustaches hide fanged smiles more menacing than a jou's.

Tristan recoiled, remembering the hirsute shape that had seized his mother in the dark of a captured transport's hold.

They wore leather boots, strapped tight around ankles and muscled calves. Scuffing footfalls up a ship's corridor echoed in the pulse pounding hard in Tristan's ears.

He glimpsed knife hilts stuck into belts among the rich fringe, and saw again the flash of a blade at his mother's throat, close to his own face.

Ten of them, representing Mi'ika, the chief world in the Bacal Belt, strode down the ramp and approached the governor's party as if they owned Adriat. They paused barely two yards in front of Renier, and the foremost raised one hand before his chest in greeting, his palm forward, his three thick fingers tense.

The wind rolled itself into a cold ball in Tristan's gut. His hands curled involuntarily, hard as claws. He bared his teeth. "Masuki!" he hissed. "They're masuki!"

Twelve

The Commander of the College of Surface Warfare clasped wrists with b'Anar Id Pa'an, son of the Pasha of Mi'ika. They embraced briefly and smiled for the bank of holocorders at the rear of the viditorium. All around the half circle of stage, humans and nonhumans rose, cheering and applauding, from tiered seats.

Cheers echoed in the amphitheater, swelling anew as Pa'an's fellows came forward to salute the Commander in similar fashion and be presented to the college's assembled officials.

Two junior officers in the center of an upper tier exchanged looks as everyone resumed their seats at last and the Sector General took the podium. Neither young officer had come from Issel; one was nonhuman. Both wore instructor's badges.

"Here comes another load of 'Progress Through Cooperation' rubbish," said the human, a native Adriat, under his breath. He sat back in his seat and folded his arms over his chest.

His counterpart, an umedo from Saede, agreed with a brief darkening of its ashen skin and swept a damp pad over features that resembled thumbprints in firm clay. Its whisper rasped through the translator at its throat. "I am not concerned for advantages to growing the industry and the economy. We do not need a conflict against the Unified Worlds."

"Especially not in an alliance with the Bacal Belt," said the Adriat. "Establishing even trade relations with a species that deals in slaves would make me uncomfortable. But this—" He twisted his features in distaste.

"Trading of slaves has been a crime in the galaxy since the Stedjaard Convention," the amphibian said. "Did the masuki not seal it?"

The human shook his head. "Some of the masuk worlds are party, for what that may be worth. We're dealing with nonhu—uh, I mean uncivilized—mindsets and amorality here, for whom compliance with laws is determined mostly by convenience.

"Masuki," he said, "value life only by what it'll bring on the market. Our new allies have nothing to lose and quite a bit to gain by selling off their undesireables as mercenaries."

"What is this, Ian?" asked the umedo.

"Didn't you know? That's how the Bacal Belt is paying for all the weapon systems we've given them—with mercenaries. Proxy soldiers to carry out the Sector General's 'progress.'"

He would've continued but an officer seated in front of them shot a glare over his shoulder. Ian sat through the rest of the speech with his jaw set, stood mechanically when the Sector General and his entourage departed for a tour of the college. He sat again to watch the viditorium empty around him, the assemblage moving down sloped aisles like water rolling to the bottom of a basin.

Beside him, the umedo said, "I am not understanding how the Sector General will prove the need for a war against the Unified Worlds."

"It's revenge, Katja, pure and simple," said Ian.

The other stared at him. "That is niijik—insane! Does it desire a Tarssyginian Peace?"

"No. The governor's public motives are to free his homeworld from its subjugation to the Unified Worlds." Ian looked sideways at his counterpart. "You heard what he said about liberation."

Katja's skin seemed to undulate with wave after wave of dark coloring. "It is niijik! It is not worth the elements of cost and risk, the expenses for the procurement, or the distances of transport. And it is estimating too low the Unified Worlds' capability."

"And overestimating the complicity of the masuki," said Ian.

The umedo's shade stayed dark. It appeared pensive, thoughtful.

Ian sighed resignedly and rose. The amphitheater had emptied by now. When his umedo companion stood, too, he began moving toward the aisle. They strode down it together, Katja mopping at its face again.

Stepping outside, Ian glanced around the portico as he put on his service cap and fastened his coat collar against the wind. "Did you notice the boy sitting near the governor in there?"

"Yes," said the amphibian. It drew up the hood of its coverall uniform and touched a patch on the chest to activate heating filaments in the fabric. "Was it not an aide or a page?"

"He's the son of Admiral Sergey, the Chief Commander of the Spherzah, the boy that's been missing for twenty-five standard years."

Katja darkened under its hood. "How does it have to do with this?"

"He's the catalyst," said Ian. "A hostage. He's insurance for Sergey's cooperation."

* *

Boarding the carrier in front of the college administration building, Tristan deliberately trod on a foot thrust into the aisle to trip him and shoved his way between shoulders broader than a bull peimu's. With Pulou close behind him, he glowered back at ursine leers, wrinkling his nose at rankness that rose from masuk bodies like steam in the cold. Dropping into an empty seat at the back of the carrier, he pressed his forehead to the one-way window pane in feigned boredom.

As the carrier began to move, he peered out between bands of violet bunting meant to disguise the vehicle's armor and focused on landmarks: the hillside that rolled down from the campus to the city beyond, the distinct shapes of buildings against the winter sky. A couple of times he nudged Pulou and silently pointed.

At the back of his mind he envisioned the city map he'd studied, an historical work painted like a mural in one of the administration building's vaulted concourses. Comparing map symbols and landmarks, he began to estimate distances and directions.

The vehicle entered the grounds of the governor's mansion, and Tristan squinted through the dusk at something he hadn't noticed before. A line of slender poles hemmed the forest. He noted their height and the intervals at which they were set. A lightning wall, like the one he and Pulou had leaped through on Ganwold.

He kept his gaze on the forest through the rest of the ride, thinking, planning. The trees cast a tangle of black upon white, fading into shades of blue in the approaching dark. He scarcely noticed.

He and Pulou hung back when the carrier drew up before the mansion, letting the masuki disembark ahead of them so they and the governor would intercept the bearhounds' greetings. He let his hands tense, watching the dogs lumber from the entry.

"Whelps!" b'Anar Id Pa'an snarled. He bent to show his fangs and the dogs cringed, hackles raised but tails between legs. Pa'an straightened, grinning at his companions. "Whelps!" he said again.

Behind them, Tristan flexed his hands and locked his teeth in a hiss.

He turned on lighting as he came into his room, and Pulou slipped past to settle himself on a rug in the corner, where he removed his wet leg-wrappings. Tristan sat down beside him to tug off his own boots.

"In big—picture of this camp," Tristan described the map in gan, "on wall of big lodge where we go, I find Elincourt, where my mother lives when she is small. It takes maybe part of one night to walk there."

Pulou cocked his head. "Her family is there?"

"Yes."

"You know that, little brother?"

He didn't. Not for sure. He lowered his eyes. "They are when I'm small," he said.

In another moment he rose, crossed to the drapery, and pulled it aside to stare down through dark diaphametal on darker woods. "She's sick, Pulou!" he said. "Where else can I go to help her?"

Pulou said, "You think of what?"

"They take jous out to run at night," Tristan said. "When they do that, we dress in warm clothes and wait. Keep your knife at dinner."

"We go out how?" Pulou asked. "Lodge only has one door, at bottom."

"In latrine," said Tristan, "there's hole in roof."

Pulou blinked at him and grinned. "Like lomos from burrow."

* *

Tristan's vision kept fixing on Larielle at dinner. He kept remembering what she had whispered to him in the corridor the last time he'd tried to escape.

She looked up at last. "Is something wrong, Tristan?"

"No," he said, too quickly, and fingered the handle of the steak knife he'd stuck into the waistband of his trousers. "I'm just tired."

He switched off the door's automation when he and Pulou returned to their suite, locking it to the outside. He gathered up his warmest clothing and divided it into two piles.

Struggling to put on human garments, Pulou said, "Skin that," and gestured at the bed.

"Clothes are warmer," said Tristan.

"No, not for warmth. Why do I teach you to make stripes on your body?"

Tristan glanced out on a forest wrapped in white, and grinned. "To hide!"

Shrouded in a sheet over his winter coat, he paced before the partially opened drapes, watching the floodlit grounds. He saw handlers leaning against leashes as the hounds came into the open. The diaphametal shut out the noise of their baying but his hand still tensed on the pane.

They took more than an hour to come back. Tristan observed them until they disappeared through the entry, though he couldn't see it from his window. He waited until he heard commanding voices and barks and claws rattling on the floors below. Then he motioned to Pulou.

A ventilation duct ran up through the hygiene booth's ceiling. Tristan yanked out its fan, revealing a shaft less than a meter long with wind whistling through the vented cover at its top. Standing on a chair he dragged into the booth, he squeezed into a space almost too narrow for his shoulders and reached for what appeared to be latches holding the cover on.

He tugged at one. It didn't budge. He reached for the second. It moved sideways. He twisted it experimentally and it loosened—came off in his hand. A wingnut. He dropped it and reached for the first again.

The wingnut still wouldn't turn. Glancing down at Pulou, he saw the fan lying on the floor and said, "Give me that."

Two fan blades bent together served as pliers to grip the wingnut. With a few quick twists, it bounced down on his head and shoulder. He used the fan blades on the third and fourth wingnuts, too. The vent cover shook in the wind and a sharp gust ripped it away. Tristan dropped the fan, pulled on his gloves, and reached up for the rim.

Pulling, straining, he thrust his arms, then head, out into a blizzard. Sleet in his face took his breath. He ducked his head away from the wind, gasping, and pushed himself up on his arms until his hips cleared, followed by his legs. Lying flat in the snow on the roof, he reached back into the shaft for Pulou's hand. In another minute the gan emerged onto the roof beside him.

They hugged the core of the spiraling structure, shaped like a cantilevered staircase of three-meter steps. Helping each other slide from one level to the next, landing lightly on the balls of their feet with knees bent to take the shock, they moved as if stalking a peimu. Once on the ground they crouched in shadow to catch their breaths and listen. Pulou sniffed the wind, grimaced at its iciness, but he motioned, "Go."

The snow lay nearly knee-deep, wet and heavy. Too heavy to just plow through, and too deep to continuously step over. Almost like walking upstream in knee-deep water, Tristan thought, but harder because the snow concealed everything underfoot.

"Stupid things, flat-tooth boots!" Pulou said once, and flung out his arms to keep his balance. "I can't feel ground where I walk!"

Tristan only nodded agreement. He panted with his own efforts, actually sweating under his layered clothing.

They had pushed their way a mile into the forest when the wind brought distant baying like a warning. Pulou heard it first. He stiffened at Tristan's shoulder, baring his teeth. "Jous!" he said.

Abattoir never forgets a scent, the governor had said. Tristan stared about himself. Saw a broken branch protruding from a drift. "Go on," he said, nudging Pulou, and tugged the limb free of the snow.

Baying swelled on the wind, closing on them. The wind buffeted their backs but it wouldn't cover their trail. Not in time. "Hurry!" Tristan panted. "Lightning wall is close. They won't follow through that! Run, Pulou!"

Something slammed into his shins; the snow rose up to catch him in its cold. Tristan shoved himself up on shaky arms, gritting his teeth at throbbing in his shins, and saw Pulou in the snow beside him, trying to gain his own feet and shake the whiteness from his coat. He glanced back as he struggled up.

Drifted snow had concealed the trunk of a fallen tree.

The bearhounds' cries carried to him. Pulou stiffened, and Tristan retrieved his branch. "Hurry! They're closer!"

In the splintered lantern light swinging after them, three shapes materialized, lumbering easily through snow that drifted as deep as their bellies. Their baying echoed from trees stripped by the elements.

"Too close!" Pulou hissed. His claws closed hard on Tristan's shoulder and his eyes grew vicious on the verge of tsaa'chi. "Too close to run from!"

On impulse, Tristan pushed him toward the nearest tree. "Get up there! Hurry! I come behind you."

He had no time. Pulou barely got out of reach before the lead bearhound crashed through brittle brush and launched himself over the fallen log. Pursuer's bay died to killer's snarl. Tristan seized his branch like a quarterstaff and put his back to the trunk of Pulou's tree.

The dog leaped for his throat.

Tristan intercepted with the limb.

Fangs grazed his glove. One broke on the frozen wood, but the bearhound held on. The dog shook his head, snarling, tugging to wrest the limb from Tristan's hands. A dark splash stained the back of his glove and he gasped, surprised that he felt no pain.

Paws broader than his hand raked his shoulders, shredding the sheet. Teeth flashed around the gag of branch, straining to reach him. Steamy dog breath tickled Tristan's face.

He shifted his grip on the limb, abruptly twisting it up to the right. It threw the dog off his feet, rolling it over in the snow.

The other two lunged in, growling, before the first regained its feet. One took the thick end of the limb in the chest and reeled back, yelping; the other caught a swipe across the face with the branching end.

The first dog sprang again, slavering blood.

Lights flared over the area and a voice, sharp on the wind, brought the dogs to a quivering stance. The leader licked it abused mouth, questioning its master with its eyes as its mates drew up at its flanks.

Tristan didn't lower his weapon.

Renier strode across the clearing, the lanterns at his back casting him into stark silhouette. His face remained in shadow, indiscernible, and Tristan shifted his hands, tightening his grip on the branch. His whole frame shook.

"What is this, Tristan?" the governor demanded, his tone taut, but whether with anger or exertion Tristan couldn't tell. "What's going on here?"

"My mother's sick!" Tristan shouted. He let his anger color his own voice. "Her family is here and you know it! All I want is to help her!"

Renier gestured. Two shapes carrying lamps detached themselves from the darkness to leash the hounds. Masuk shapes. Tristan ignored them, waiting, aware that they had withdrawn only by the snow's crunch under their boots and the dogs' diminished whuffing. He kept his vision locked on the governor.

When they stood alone in the icy dark Renier said, "If your mother's life is so important to you, Tristan, this will not happen again."

Thirteen

Tristan turned his head, squinting against gusts that slashed his face with liquid ice. He raised one hand to shield himself, and stumbled. He staggered to stay on his feet and paused, panting.

Whuffing came hard behind him, eager, encouraged by a handler loosening the leashes. Tristan glowered over his shoulder. b'Anar Id Pa'an leered back through a mustache matted with snow, showing his teeth, and shook the leashes again. "Move, pup," he snarled.

Moments later, Pulou's boot caught in underbrush. He tugged at it twice to free it and lost his balance. Both hands flailed to catch himself. He got to his knees, snow covered, and flung up an arm to shield himself when the bearhounds lunged.

Pa'an jerked them up inches from closing on Pulou. His laughter rose over the wind as he twisted the leashes about his wrists.

"Jou's whelp!" Tristan interposed himself between gan and dogs, his hand hovering near the knife in his belt. "Don't do that again!"

Pa'an raised bushy eyebrows. "Look what's whining whelp!" He loosed the leashes—

The knife flashed free in Tristan's hand.

Something slapped it away, caught at his wrist; the knife sliced into a drift at the foot of a tree and vanished. He wrenched around—and recoiled from fury in Pulou's eyes.

"Don't," the gan said, still gripping his wrist.

Pa'an showed his canine teeth in a leer and played with the bearhounds' leashes.

Tristan shot a glance at the spot where his knife had disappeared and felt Pulou's hand tighten.

"Turn your back, little brother."

He hesitated. Glowered at the masuk. And turned his back to him.

An hour later he sank to his heels in the mansion's lift, away from Pulou, and leaned his head against the wall, his eyes closed against the others' gazes. He gulped at the warm air, coughing at the cold ache in his lungs and shivering in sodden clothing.

The lift didn't stop on the level where his room was located. He glanced up, questioning the governor with his glower.

Renier said, "Your room is too badly damaged to occupy now, Tristan. Avuse is moving to let you have the servant's quarters outside my rooms."

The lift door sighed open. Tristan didn't move, just sat until Rajak poked him with his boot toe. Then he shot to his feet, twisting about with his teeth bared and his hand raised.

Pulou caught his arm, gripping it hard enough for him to feel claws through his sleeve, but Tristan winced at the expression in his eyes.

Rajak only grunted and shoved him toward the door, and everybody else followed him into the foyer.

"This way, Tristan," said Renier.

The servant's room turned out to be a curtained antechamber outside the governor's sleeping room, a mere box smaller than his quarters on Issel's moon and as chilly as the suite downstairs. It had no window, no lavatory of its own, only a bed and a tall cupboard against the facing wall.

He didn't step inside until Pulou nudged his shoulder. He kept his back to the governor as he tore off what remained of his camouflage sheet, wadded it, and hurled it onto the bed. When he glanced up again, Renier and the others had gone.

Blood stained his right glove. He examined it, found no tear in it, no mark but a small bruise on his hand when he pulled off the glove. He remembered teeth closing on frozen wood, hot breath in his face, the bearhound slavering blood as it held him at bay. He shuddered, and flung the glove into a corner.

Wet parka and boots and trousers peeled off with more difficulty. Tristan tugged at them with stiff hands as he shivered. His teeth still chattered. The bruises across his shins had already swollen and discolored.

Pulou offered him a blanket pulled off the bed and said, "Sit down," as Tristan wrapped himself in it.

Tristan sat, sullen, his back to the gan.

"I'm sorry," said Pulou, "that I take your knife when masuk watches."

Tristan glared at the wall. "Then why do you do it?"

"Tsaa'chi is serious thing, little brother. Always, someone dies."

Tristan snapped around to face him. "You let tsaa'chi come when we fall!"

"Yes." Pulou nodded once, slightly. "Because I see no way out. You show me, in tree. If jous are too strong for you, I let it come again, but they're not."

"But masuk turns jous on you when we come back!"

"Not real danger," said Pulou. "He teases, like jous at home when they're not hungry. To turn your back is best."

"He makes me angry."

Pulou stared at him, eyes narrowed to amber slivers. "Yes. But tsaa'chi brings death. Is anger important enough to die about?"

Tristan lowered his head, turning his face away. "No," he said after a moment, and sighed. "I'm sorry, Pulou." He felt suddenly exhausted.

But, curled back-to-back with Pulou for mutual warmth, he stared at the wall. Half-sleep brought nightmares of the woods, and the governor standing like a threat between himself and the lights of Aeire City, a threat that left him with no way out.

* *

The overcast had blown away by the next morning, uncovering a sky bright enough to make Tristan squint. The wind hadn't died, though. It drove snow before it like sand, shaping ripples and dunes that glittered in the sunlight. Gusts reddened faces and stiffened hands in mere minutes, and watching it even from the enclosed gallery made him shiver.

He turned his vision on the landing strip, on four starcraft waiting in a row like so many needles. He raised a pair of televiewers to his eyes.

For a moment he thought he'd been transported to the side of one ship; he felt surprised that he couldn't hear the voices of the crewmen moving over and around it. He began to put out a hand to touch its skin, then jerked back, feeling foolish at being caught in the illusion. He glanced at Larielle and Pulou to see if they had noticed and felt relieved when they hadn't.

The starcraft had short wings swept close to their fuselages, canopies that rode like streamlined bubbles where a fish's dorsal fin would be, and twin vertical stabilizers. Scrutinizing them, Tristan felt his breath catch in his throat. He nudged Pulou. "My father flies in things like that," he said.

"These IS-30 Javelin fighters are the most recent addition to our arsenal," the governor told his guests. "They are transatmospheric craft capable of deploying either from surface bases or spacecraft carriers. Although they are not lightskip capable, they can reach hypersonic speeds within the atmosphere to achieve escape velocity, and they are exceptionally maneuverable in both atmospheric and space flight, as you will see. They are armed with two internal plasma cannon and have six internal wing rails for launching a variety of ordnance."

Tristan shut out the monologue and watched as groundcrews scrambled clear of their craft and stood in rigid files behind the mounting ladders. Movement at his right caught his attention; he focused on four men in silver flight suits, egress packs on their shoulders, helmets in the crooks of their arms. They strode across the landing field in step, heedless of the snow-laden wind, and each pivoted sharply to his own ship. Tristan watched one man hand his helmet to his crew chief, romp up the mounting ladder, settle into the cockpit. Watched his groundcrew secure his harness and help him with helmet and oxygen mask.

"Our pilots," the governor continued, "are trained here at the Aeire City Academy. We'll take a tour of the facilities after the aerial demonstration. These particular pilots are instructors with at least three thousand hours of flight time each, mostly in interceptor-type craft."

His masuk guests grunted acknowledgement. Tristan couldn't help wondering how much they actually understood. He felt quite certain that no masuk could squeeze into a cockpit.

In a moment the crewmen withdrew. Crew chiefs and pilots exchanged hand signals; engines fired up one by one. Walking backward before the lead Javelin's starboard wing, its crew chief beckoned. The needle rolled forward, pivoted to starboard; the others fell in line. Tristan saw the leader's afterburners flare orange, baring black tarmac behind it as it melted off snow and began to move. Tristan felt its thunder as it accelerated; his heart rate accelerated with it. It shot down the strip, forward landing gear thrusting its nosecone to the sky, and rotated. It rocketed vertically from the surface, and the others followed in a wedge.

Thrusters' echoes shook the gallery. Tristan felt breathless. His hands tightened on the televiewers. The whole world had disappeared except for him and that starcraft, one in flight.

Flashing splinters left vapor trails across the frozen sky, twisted them into a helix, braided the wind. Wingmen rolled out in opposite directions, turning on ailerons into level attitude, and banked around to cut a crossover with their leaders before rejoining the formation like fish swimming close in a school.

An hour later they screamed into final approach as one. Landing gear reached for the surface; they taxied to a halt before the gallery. Canopies popped, oxygen masks fell away, gauntlets touched helmets in salute.

Tristan studied the pilots' faces.

He and Pulou lagged behind the others as they walked through the academy's hangars. He paused to run a hand along a trainer ship's short wing, to fix its stiletto shape in his mind for a dream he wouldn't have to wake from. That night, lying on his belly in a shroud of blanket, he traced the Javelins' aerobatics in the carpet with his finger.

* *

Tristan glanced up from the Pocket Tutor as Renier entered the sitting room flanked by Avuse and two masuki, but Larielle patted his arm and said, "Go on, Tris. You're doing very well."

Conscious of the governor pausing across the table from him, he returned his attention to the display. "De-spite their limi-ted role in de-ter-min-ing the final . . . out-come?" He glanced at Larielle for confirmation.

"That's right," she said. "It means how something turns out in the end."

Tristan nodded and went on. "—the final outcome of the con-flick— What's that?" He pointed at the miniature monitor.

"Just a minute, one at a time," Larielle said, and tapped the monitor. "What's that again?"

"Conflick," said Tristan.

"Not quite. What does that little mark on the second character do to it?"

"Oh. Con-flict." Tristan planted an elbow on the table to support his head in his hand. "What does it mean?"

"Ask the Tutor," said Larielle.

Tristan sighed. "Define 'conflict,'" he said.

"Conflict," the Tutor responded. "War; struggle; disagreement between opposing ideas or forces."

"Do you understand that?" Larielle asked.

"Yeah."

"Good. Now," she said, "look at the other word, one character at a time."

Tristan said, "Na Shiv-ish?" and questioned her with his look.

"Yes," she said. "People from Na Shiv. That's another world in the Issel Sector."

"Na Shiv-ish," Tristan repeated to himself, and continued, "—troops formed the ma-jor-ity of the sur-face forces."

Larielle nodded. "Good. Why don't you ask the Tutor to read that passage back to you now?"

Tristan shrugged and opened his mouth to make the request, but the governor chuckled. "I think that's enough reading for this evening, my dear. Come now." He turned away. "We'll have chelle tonight, Avuse."

Reaching for the Tutor's 'off' button, Tristan nudged Pulou with his foot and rose, and the gan emerged from under the table. They joined the others before another fireplace with artificial flames, and Tristan took the chair farthest from the masuki.

Avuse brought a tray of goblets and a crystal carafe from the vacuwaiter, placed the tray on the table at the governor's elbow and poured crimson liquid from the carafe.

Tristan accepted the glass offered to him. The red liquid smelled spoiled, but the others either didn't notice or didn't mind. He took a sip. The drink tingled on his tongue. He grimaced and set the glass down.

Across from him, the governor said, "I'm pleased with your progress over this past month, Tristan."

He glanced up but said nothing.

"Your reading skills and confidence with the Tutor are improving," Renier continued. "I sense your hunger for the education you've never had." He ran a finger around the rim of his own goblet and looked at Tristan directly. "I think it's time you were granted that opportunity."

The words seemed generous, but something about his tone left Tristan wary. "Why?" he asked.

The governor appeared mildly surprised. "Your father would have wanted the best for you, my boy. Since he's not able to provide it, I feel that I should."

In his periphery, Tristan saw the masuki grinning at him with their bared teeth and tongues. Something about all of it put him on edge, making him increasingly uneasy. "Why?" he said again. "You don't even like my father."

The governor's expression turned suddenly cold. "'Why' is of no concern to you, Tristan. I expect only your compliance in this matter. The arrangements for you to enter the Aeire City Academy next month have already been completed."

"Next month?" Tristan stared at him, stiffening in his chair. "I can't do that!"

"You can and you will," the governor said. His voice grew quiet, his jaw taut, but his eyes, locked on Tristan's, burned with warning. "It's very important to me, young one," he said.

Tristan studied him, and Weil's advice suddenly slipped across the back of his mind. "What about Pulou?" he demanded abruptly. "If I have to go, Pulou does, too!"

The governor appeared annoyed. "Don't be ridiculous, Tristan," he said. "Your friend can't read. He doesn't even speak a human language. I doubt—"

"That doesn't matter!" Tristan curled his hands tightly about the arms of his chair, digging his fingernails into its upholstery and gathering himself as if for a spring. Near his feet, Pulou had bristled his mane and bared his teeth. "You won't take us away from each other!" Tristan said.

The governor's jaw worked and his dark eyes fixed on Tristan's. Tristan met that gaze and held it, letting feigned fury mask his mounting fear. Several silent seconds passed before the governor said, "Very well, he may go with you. But you will attend the Academy, young one."

Tristan said nothing after that. He let his vision drop to the drink in his hand, red as blood in the goblet, and kept sliding his thumb and first finger up and down its stem.

He felt the other's vision still fixed on him. Sensed a suppressed threat when the governor said, after a long minute, "Tristan."

He looked up, glaring.

"Most young people in the Issel Sector can only dream of attending the Aeire City Academy," Renier said. "It would be very poor manners not to thank someone who gives you such a generous gift."

Tristan met his narrowed gaze. Held it once more, and let the silence stretch for as long as he dared before he said sullenly, "Thank you."

* *

He lifted his attention from the Pocket Tutor only long enough to glower when Larielle entered the sitting room the next afternoon and sat down before the desk terminal. She winced when she met his eyes, and her dim smile melted into a sigh. "You're still upset about going to the academy, aren't you, Tris?"

"Yes." He clipped the word.

"But you want to learn piloting, don't you?" she said. "I saw how that demo flight affected you, and the way you admired that starcraft in the hangar."

He ducked his head. "Yes. But I can't do it right now."

"You're worried about your mother."

"Yes."

She sighed again. Sat silent for several moments before she said, "Remember how, the first time you tried to run away, I told you to be patient?"

He studied her, wondering at her. Said warily, "Yes."

"It's even more important that you be patient now," she said.

"But there isn't time!" He made a desperate gesture with both hands. "My mother is dying! I have to find my father!"

"Tristan." Larielle placed a firm hand on his arm, cast a furtive glance back at the doorway, and leaned nearer him. "Listen to me for a minute. Your father knows where you are, and where your mother is."

"How do you know that?" he demanded.

"Because my father made sure that he knows," she said. "He—"

"Your father doesn't like my father," Tristan told her. "Why would he tell him?"

"Because he wants to use you and your mother to force your father into—a very dangerous situation," Larielle said. "You're the bargaining pieces in a complex political game, the —the bait in a massive trap."

Tristan stared at her, shocked. He shook his head, and started to shove his chair back from the table, to rise. "I have to get away from here!"

Her hand tightened on his arm. "No!" she said.

The urgency in her voice, the suggestion of her fear, caught him up short. He let her pull him back down by her hold on his arm. "That's the worst thing you could possibly do right now, Tris. This is a very precarious situation, for a lot more people than just you and your mother. It could cost the lives of thousands, maybe millions of people, on Sostis and Issel and who knows how many other worlds if—if something goes wrong.

"Your father knows it, too, and he doesn't want that to happen. He's going to have to be very careful to get you and your mother out and that's going to take time. You've got to trust him. Can you do that?"

He didn't know if he could or not; the whole thing seemed impossible. Whole worlds at risk over me and my mother? He sat stiff in his chair, every muscle tight, his mouth so dry he could barely ask, "How do you know all of that?" He rasped the question.

Larielle lowered her eyes. She let go of his arm to rub it with her fingers. "My father told me," she said quietly. She didn't look up. "He feels it's important for me to know about these things, since he's named me to be the next Governor of Issel. He's trying to prepare me, he says." She shook her head slightly, spilling her long hair about her shoulders. "I know this is wrong but I haven't been able to change his mind about it."

She looked into Tristan's face, and he saw in her eyes the same fear he'd seen there on the morning he first met her. "I'm so sorry about all of this," she whispered, and lay her hand over his. "Right now, Tris, the best way you can help your mother is to cooperate with my father. Don't complicate things. Just go to the academy and be patient."

Tristan managed a nod. He felt too shaken, too drained to do anything else.

Fourteen

In the darkened lecture hall, the instructor pointed out the components of an altimeter as a diagram of one rotated in the holotank behind his podium. Tristan slipped into the viditorium, motioning Pulou to stay with Rajak just inside the door as he made his way to an empty seat in the middle of a row near the back.

The cadet to Tristan's left, a narrow-faced young man named Siggar, glanced up as he dropped into his seat. "Five demerits for coming late to formation, Sergey," he said, holding up his hand with fingers spread as if to let Tristan count them.

Tristan took off his coat, flung it over the back of his chair, and shot him a silent glare.

"That's about six tardies now, isn't it?" Siggar persisted. "Man, you're gonna spend your whole off-duty day on the drill field!"

"Shut up, Siggar," said the cadet on his other side. "I can't hear what McAdam's saying."

With Siggar distracted, Tristan switched on the desk attached to his chair. The altimeter diagram in the holotank appeared in its display. He studied the labeled parts.

". . . The only time your altimeter will show the true altitude," the instructor said, "is when the actual air temperature and pressure match those of the 'standard atmosphere.' Since that seldom happens, your altimeter reading will usually be off, and how much it's off depends on how much the in-flight temperature and pressure differ from the standard. Anybody who doesn't understand that?"

Tristan furrowed his brow, trying to make sense of it, but with Siggar watching his every move he didn't dare tap the button on his desk to request a repeat or a more basic explanation.

The instructor scanned his audience and continued, "All right then, even though you have the right altimeter setting, changes in in-flight temperatures are going to cause differences in your indicated altitude. For example, colder temperatures are going to put your aircraft at a lower altitude than what your altimeter shows, and warmer temps will put it higher. Any questions?"

None must have appeared on his podium monitor because he said, "Good. Do the problems on your desks."

Fifteen questions replaced the diagram on Tristan's desk display. He read through them carefully to be sure he understood them.

4.1 The altimeter is essential only to the pilot of an atmosphere-bound craft flying in IFR conditions. (True/False)

4.2 Identify the components of the altimeter diagrammed below and explain its operation.

Tristan keyed in FALSE for the first question. He labeled the altimeter components and then paused. "I didn't hear him explain how it works," he said.

"Maybe you would've if you'd been here on time," Siggar said without looking up from his own desk.

Tristan ignored him. "Sajatte?" he asked of the cadet at his right.

"Nothing to it," said Sajatte. "When your 'craft climbs, the air leaves this outer case," he tapped the diagram on his display, "and these discs spread apart. That makes your readout change. It works the opposite way when you descend."

"What?" Tristan wrinkled his brow.

Sajatte's expression showed mild exasperation, but he explained again anyway. "D'you get it now?"

"Yes," Tristan said. "Thanks." He looked over the next few questions:

4.3 According to Ministry of Aerospace Activity regulations, an atmospheric craft flying at or over 18,000 feet above planetary sea level (PSL) will have its altimeter set to _____________.

4.4 Determine density altitude when launching from a spaceport at 5279 feet PSL. Reported temperature is 86oF, altimeter setting is 29.8 in., and pressure altitude is 5400 feet. Note: Set your altimeter to 30 in.

Tristan keyed in 5400 and P/ALT, entered 30, then wavered between IndicatedoF and TrueoF before he chose IndicatedoF and hit COMP.

A cue line appeared at the bottom of the display:

ERROR. WORK PROBLEM AGAIN.

He sagged back in his chair and scowled at the screen for a moment before he reached out to jab the CLEAR key. The cue line vanished.

From his left came a muttered curse and the thump of a fist on the computer desk, followed by a rapid tapping of fingers on keypad.

Tristan didn't glance over. Brow furrowed, he entered the givens again and closed his eyes to sort out the formulas in his mind. He punched the COMP key once more.

The cue line reappeared:

ERROR. WORK PROBLEM AGAIN.

Frustrated, he locked his teeth in a hiss and hit the CLEAR key again.

The instructor's voice interrupted his third effort. "All right, if you're not done with the questions yet, do them during study period. We've got more material to cover on altimeters before we move on to vertical speed indicators."

Tristan lingered over the problem for some moments before he hit SAVE, watched his display go blank, and hit WRITE.

His monitor remained empty when the instructor cleared the holotank behind his podium and said, "We'll wrap up instruments tomorrow. Your test will be the day after that, and then we'll start on propulsion systems. Those of you who are having trouble with this stuff, I want to see you in the multimedia booths during study period. You know who you are."

Siggar flicked a glance at Tristan's empty desk and smirked. "So do we."

Tristan shut off his desk and shoved it away. "You didn't do very well on the last test yourself!"

"At least I passed it the first time."

"By one point!" said Tristan.

Sajatte collected his coat and cap. "Get moving, Siggar, you waste of skin," he said. "You're holding up the rest of the row."

Siggar slogged toward the aisle, and Tristan and Sajatte and the others followed.

Tristan didn't so much as glance in Rajak's direction, but he felt the servant's presence like an unwanted shadow as he filed into the corridor. Glimpsing Pulou, however, observing everything through half-closed eyes, he let out a sigh of relief.

Stay in line, stay in step, no talking while in formation. The rhythm of boots rang in the hallway. Square your corners, keep your vision caged, show some discipline!

Tristan could almost hear the drill master's voice in his mind. "This is so stupid!" he said under his breath.

After a month and a half it seemed even more stupid than it had at the outset. Tristan's impatience had heightened and his frustration had mounted. He knotted his hands into fists at his trouser seams until his blunt fingernails bit into the heels of his hands.

The line turned a corner where the corridors intersected, and entered another viditorium's double doors. The cadets marched down its steep aisle and filled its encircling rows of seats, like a small stadium, one after another.

"There's only one good thing about Isselan history," Siggar said as he slouched way down in his chair. "I can catch up on my sleep."

"This is better than having to read it," Tristan replied.

"Aw, this Great War stuff isn't so bad," said Sajatte. "My old man's war stories finally mean something." He watched Siggar settle his head back against the seat and turned to Tristan. "Did your old man fight in the War?"

Tristan hesitated. "Yes."

"Does he talk about it all the time, too?"

"No," Tristan said. "My mother told me."

In the darkness, the other's face showed as only an oval with shadows for eyes, but Tristan saw the questions in them. "I was about a year and a half old the last time we saw him," he said.

"Oh," Sajatte said. "Sorry."

Tristan only shrugged.

A globe-shaped holotank filled the stage of this viditorium, a holotank so large its life-size projections gave one the impression of being on location in history instead of viewing it as holocordings compiled from decades of newsnet transmissions. Blocky words appeared in the tank, three-dimensional white against a starfield.

A UNIFIED BLOW: DOMINION STATION

The words faded. The projection took the cadets aboard a shuttle making final approach to a battle station orbiting a green world called Yan. As if through tinted viewpanes, they surveyed communications towers, antispacecraft emplacements, docking arms for resupply and warships. Monotone narration cited statistics on manning, on firepower, on basing for strategic operations.

Holography provided passes into briefing rooms and command councils conducted by participants long since dead or deposed, documenting dramas of decision as the Dominion's leadership sought to bring a collection of balking worlds under its galactic government. When those worlds joined as allies, Dominion war efforts had begun to meet a coordinated resistance. The Unified Worlds forces used unconventional tactics and struck from unpredictable quarters, but their direction came from the ruling house of Sostis. The resistance had to be killed in its cradle.

Yan's station served as both staging area and command post. Dominion destroyers and troop ships arrived in the system one after another and prepared to move against Sostis.

But on the eve of their departure, the Unified Worlds attacked. A spacecraft carrier group had erupted from lightskip into Yan's space, disgorging squadrons of one-man attack craft that penetrated the station's defenses. Despite heavy losses from low altitude surface guns, the Unified fighters decimated the Dominion fleet in its berths with men and munitions aboard. The station itself lost eighty percent of its solar power production, all of its communications, and a third of its area to depressurization.

Three-dimensional graphics diagrammed inadequacies in the defenses and demonstrated how the enemy ships had reached their targets, undetected until too late.

As the resistance gained momentum, the Dominion began to gather dossiers on its most important enemies: warriors, political figures, spies. Pilfered portraits appeared in the holotank, accompanying biographies pieced together by war correspondents and historians.

Tristan gave it little attention until the narrator said, ". . . Lujan Sergey, fighter pilot from Topawa. Credited with twenty-six kills in space combat throughout the war, his career is believed to have begun with the attack on Dominion Station. He was appointed Chief Commander of the Unified Worlds' Spherzah assassins in thirty-three-oh-four and still holds that position."

Tristan sat forward in his seat to study the young man in the flightsuit, his blue eyes squinting and hair disheveled in a wind, a young man whose image he'd seen before only in a holodisc.

Siggar leaned over and poked him with an elbow. "You any relation to that Topowak, Sergey? He looks enough like you to be your father!"

Tristan met his look. Held it for a long moment. "What if he is?"

"You must be a real disappointment," Siggar said. "He was a supposed to be a really hot pilot and you can't even tell an altimeter from an attitude indicator! That's probably why he sent you here instead of the Sostis Aerospace Institute, isn't it?"

Tristan let his hand curl. "I'll beat you out for Alpha Flight, Siggar!"

"Aw, you couldn't beat me out for anything but the cut list!"

"Cadets Siggar and Sergey!"

They both twisted around.

An instructor stood at the end of the row, barely discernible in the amphitheater's darkness. He said, "Write up three, both of you, for talking in formation."

Siggar waited until the officer moved out of earshot to mutter, "Thanks a lot, Sergey. That's eighteen demerits this week!"

* *

When his eyes would no longer focus on the display's configurations and the ERROR line appeared for the fifth time on problem 6.3, Tristan touched CLOSE to disconnect from his online text subscription and fumbled for the 'off' switch. Without the monitor's glow, the only light in the sitting room came from the projected fire on the grate. Waiting for his eyes to adjust, Tristan rubbed at his temples, trying to ease their throbbing.

The governor and b'Anar Id Pa'an had come in after dinner, the bearhounds wagging thick tails against their legs and whuffing at them for tidbits. When one of the dogs followed the governor over to the table where Tristan sat working, Pulou retreated into a chair, pulling his legs up away from the dog's nosiness and baring his teeth at it.

"Well, Tristan," the governor said, "what's so important that you'll miss dinner for it?"

"Aerospace Dynamics, sir," Tristan said. "Exams are next week and if I fail, I'll be cut from the program."

The governor arched an eyebrow. "Suddenly so urgent, and you didn't even want to enter the Academy." He smiled. "There's no need to be so concerned. I rather doubt you'll fail."

Tristan questioned the governor's enigmatic expression with his stare until Renier smiled and sauntered away.

He paid no attention to any them after that, giving his full attention to his studies until the ERROR line appeared three times in a row on one problem. Then, teeth locked, he brought his fist down hard on the tabletop.

Sudden silence replaced the conversation in the circle before the fireplace, and b'Anar Id Pa'an said, "The pup is learning new tricks at the academy. What other new tricks have they taught you, pup?"

He met the masuk's leer. "I'm not a pup, you waste of skin!"

"Tristan!" said Renier. His hand tightened on his walking stick as if it were a weapon.

Tristan met his gaze, still glowering, but he felt Pulou's claws close on his forearm in wordless correction.

After the others left, taking the bearhounds with them, Pulou slipped out of the chair to sit near the fireplace. He still squatted there on the hearthstones, facing the artificial coals. The light showed serenity in his silhouetted posture.

Tristan pushed himself from his chair, crossed to the fireplace, and dropped to his heels beside Pulou. The gan turned his head ever so slightly, his slitted eyes widening just enough to reflect the light, like golden embers themselves. He said, "You're finished, little brother?"

"No," Tristan said.

"But you stop."

"I'm tired. Can't think."

Pulou studied him, unblinking. "You're always tired, little brother. You don't eat enough, you don't sleep enough. You do that—rub your head like it hurts."

"It does hurt," Tristan said.

"You're sick?"

"No. Just tired and . . ." He shrugged.

Pulou continued to study him doubtfully, and he took his hands away from his head to fold his arms over his knees. "I don't like—academy," he said. "It's stupid." He stared numbly at the projected fire. "Stupid to walk everywhere in straight lines and call all the teachers 'sir,' and if we do it wrong they shout at us. I never even see any starships!" He made an urgent gesture with both hands. "How does that help my mother?"

"Who tells you it does?" Pulou asked.

"Larielle," Tristan said.

"Why?"

He wondered how he could explain it to Pulou. Realized he didn't understand all she had told him. "I don't know," he said. He couldn't look at Pulou; it sounded foolish even to himself. He said, "She says it's important."

Silence lingered for a long space.

"You think she's right?" Pulou asked at last.

"I don't know." Tristan shook his head. "We're here long time; I don't like it."

On an impulse he began to count on his fingers. Fifteen nights from the gan camp to the flat-tooth camp, five nights in the stone room, fifteen more on the ship from Ganwold to Issel—more than one month right there! Almost another month traveling to Issel's moon and back, and then to Adriat. And they'd been on Adriat for . . . about three months now!

The tally chilled him. "It's five flat-tooth moons from when we go away from camp," he said. "A hand of months, Pulou!"

He felt suddenly sick. Too shaken to sit still, he shot to his feet and strode about the room, back and forth, aimless. "We're here too long!" he said. "If we stay here, she dies!"

A shadow slipped up at his periphery as he paced; a familiar hand caught his wrist and held it fast, gently, without claws. "Stop, little brother," Pulou said. "You're tired. No good to think and work when you're tired. Time to sleep."

Wrapped in a couple of blankets, Tristan curled on his side on the floor and closed his eyes, but he couldn't relax. Memories of his mother, pale in the light of the cooking fire, filled his mind. Memories of his mother, and visions of the funeral pyre at the top of the hill. Tension tightened his huddled limbs and chest until they ached. Fear made his breath come too fast and his heart race.

He turned onto his back, eyes still closed. His stomach knotted up, like a stone in his middle.

When he finally dozed, he dreamed that he crouched in the center of their lodge on Ganwold. His mother's things remained there—her tools, her storage pouches, her sleeping robe—but he couldn't find her. And instead of peimu blood on his hands, as he sometimes had after a hunt, his palms bore a coating of black, powdered ash.

He woke abruptly in the dark, breathless. His heart hammered rapidly again, as if he'd been running.

A chill filled the little anteroom. He drew the blankets closer around his shoulders, turned onto his belly, concentrated on drawing slow, deep breaths to calm his pulse.

He started from another doze at a creak somewhere in the mansion. He shifted onto his side again, drawing up his knees and wrapping his arms over his head.

I shouldn't have left her, he thought. It would've been better to be there with her when she died than to get back to Ganwold and find her gone.

He hadn't slept again before he heard a step near his head and Rajak's boot toe nudged his back. "Get up, Tristan."

He stayed quiet, pulling on his uniform shirt and shorts for physical training. He went through the motions mechanically. His hands seemed detached from himself, his body numb, except for the pain in his heart. In the skimmer he stared at his knees all the way to the academy.

Mist lay over the parade ground, pale in the dark, idle in the wake of an early spring rain. Tristan's gaze settled on it without seeing as he waited in the skimcraft. He barely heard Rajak yawn beside him.

Reveille startled him from his numbness. He actually jumped, his head jerking up. He groped for the skimmer's hatch handle and popped it and forced himself to climb out.

Cold, clammy mist settled on his light clothing, his face and hair. He began to shiver, but he didn't care. Not waiting for Rajak and Pulou, he swept up his gym bag and moved across the puddled tarmac to fall in with the dim shapes spilling out of the barracks.

"How're your bodyguard and your pet whatever-it-is, Sergey?" someone asked, jerking a thumb at Rajak and Pulou on the sidelines.

"If you were really smart," put in somebody else, "you'd make your bodyguard do your calisthenics for you."

Tristan didn't even glance at them.

The cadet class leader, hair tucked into her cap and damp shirt clinging across her breasts, called them to attention and marched them double time to the drill ground.

Muscle stiffness had passed weeks ago, but calisthenics still produced sweat despite the morning's chill. Tristan scarcely felt the tiny bits of gravel that pierced the heels of his hands with each push-up, scarcely felt the cold when his shirt back and shorts got soaked doing sit-ups, and checked his stride to the others' to run five miles in formation. His lungs ached from the cold by the time he finished, but the ache in his soul burned far worse.

The sky turned pre-dawn pink while they worked out. The cadets fell out in front of the barracks and raced for the hygiene booths. Tristan deliberately hung back to avoid the jostling.

He was still waiting in line when someone shoved his shoulder. "Hey, Sergey, have you seen your last test score?"

He turned. Saw Siggar, looking smug.

Tristan favored him with a glower. "No."

"If I were you," said Siggar, "I'd start reaching for the yellow handles." He twisted one hand in an arcing nose-dive toward the floor and said, "Bail out! Bail out! Bail out!"

* *

Rain fell again the night after final exams, a downpour that held on into the morning as a cold drizzle, weather like the winters Tristan had known on Ganwold.

He ached to be there right now.

He scowled at the overcast. "Stay here," he told Pulou, and slammed the skimmer's hatch closed without acknowledging Rajak. Hunching his shoulders under his jacket, he strode toward the cadet squadron office.

A couple of noncoms in the coveralls of flightline mechanics stood in the entry, peering out at the grayness and grumbling to each other. They shifted away from the doors just enough to let Tristan come in and he brushed past them, half expecting one or the other to put a foot into his path as b'Anar Id Pa'an would have done.

Cadets filled the hallway, most gathered around the monitors outside the orderly room. Gray light etched distress on some faces, relief and even excitement on others. Tristan saw Siggar in the crowd at the same moment the other spotted him. Siggar's expression turned colder than the drizzle outside as he pushed clear of the group and approached.

"So, how much did your old man pay for your slot in Alpha Flight?" Siggar asked.

"Alpha Flight?" Tristan tore his attention from Siggar to scan the nearest screen and found his name fourth on the roster traditionally filled by only the top cadets in the class. He shook his head. "That's wrong! I didn't earn that!"

"Maybe you should remind your old man of that," Siggar said. "Not all of us have fathers with reputations big enough to ride through on. It's not fair to the rest of us who have to work for our grades."

Tristan didn't fully understand the accusation, but Siggar's tone of voice came through loud and clear. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded.

"Aw, c'mon, Sergey," said Siggar. "Everybody knows you're the Spherzah Commander's brat. That's the only reason you haven't washed out of here yet!"

Two days of numbness abruptly shattered. Tristan let his hands curl. "My father didn't have anything to do with this!"

"Oh yeah?" Siggar looked him in the face. "Why don't you live in the barracks, then? Why don't you have to march off demerits like the rest of us? How'd he even get you into an Issel Sector academy, anyway?"

Tristan felt the sudden silence in the corridor, felt the crossfire of others watching. "My father isn't the one who sent me to this lomo's hole academy!"

"Sure, Sergey! Who else'd buy a slot in Alpha Flight for you? Or did he use political pressure?"

"Buy it?" That pulled Tristan up short. He glimpsed mockery in the encircling faces and shook his head. "He didn't do that!" he said.

"You know he did!" Siggar said. "He couldn't let you make a laughingstock of him at SAI."

"Tell him, Siggar!" said someone from the sidelines, and others took it up, jeering.

Tristan ignored the others. "Eat it, Siggar!" he said, and brought his hands up before his chest, hard as claws.

He saw how Siggar darted a glance around the circle of cadets and sneered, hunching himself in a parody of Tristan's stance. "Am I supposed to be scared?"

"Don't push me," Tristan said through his teeth. "I've killed bigger animals than you!"

Siggar laughed at that. He sidled a few steps back and forth and took a swipe.

Tristan's right hand caught the left side of Siggar's face, snapping his head to the side and leaving four livid gashes across his face from his ear to the corner of his mouth.

Siggar swayed but recovered, his eyes blazing and jaw clenching. "Snotty Spherzah brat!" he said, and shot out a fist.

It met Tristan's cheekbone just under his left eye, making him stagger. He avoided the punch from the right and retreated a step.

The jeers swelled to shouts: "Get him, Siggar! Get him, Siggar!" Someone behind Tristan shoved his back, pushing him toward his adversary.

Siggar advanced on him, grinning. "What'll your old man do to me if I bloody your nose, Spherzah brat?"

Tristan ducked the next swing. Siggar's blow missed, overextending him, and Tristan caught him like a charging peimu, by his head and shoulder, and wrenched.

Siggar's feet flew over his head; his free arm flailed. Tristan saw it crumple under him at an impossible angle as he hit the floor, so hard that the impact robbed him of breath. Siggar's face paled.

Tristan straddled his antagonist, holding him with one knee. He seized a handful of hair, jerked his head back—

The cadets sank back at a sudden movement among them, and they opened the circle. Suddenly wary, Tristan rose, letting Siggar sit up. The other gasped and clutched his limp arm to his body.

Tristan held his ground as the first noncom advanced on him. He met the man's steely gaze and saw a split second's shock there, like abrupt recognition, before the other demanded, "What's going on here?"

* *

Tristan kept his head down, his face turned away. "I warn him," he said. "He hits first."

Pulou didn't say anything, just cocked his head and eyed the bruise on Tristan's face through half-closed eyes.

"He says things that aren't right."

"So you hurt him." Pulou narrowed his eyes still more. "You're with flat-teeth too long."

Tristan didn't reply.

"Is it important enough to die about, little brother?" asked Pulou.

Tristan hung his head. "No," he said, and then burst out, "Pulou, I'm afraid!"

"Tristan," said Rajak from outside the anteroom, "the governor wants to see you."

Tristan glanced at Pulou.

Pulou said, "Turn your back to it."

Tristan got stiffly to his feet.

The governor rose from behind his desk when Tristan and Rajak drew up in front of him. He came forward, strode a slow circle around Tristan, touched the discoloration beneath his left eye. "I was informed that you got into a fight, Tristan."

"Yes, sir." As if on the parade ground, Tristan kept his eyes caged.

"Why, may I ask?"

Tristan addressed the wall: "One of the cadets said—my father—bought me the slot in Alpha Flight, and he called me a Spherzah's brat."

The governor actually smiled. "I told you that you wouldn't fail, Tristan. But I think you should be thanking me for buying your slot."

Tristan jerked his head up to stare at him, and his hands clenched into fists. The fury that had seized him outside the orderly room welled up again, barely controlled. "Why should I thank you?" he demanded. "My mother's dying and you're keeping me here! I don't want that slot! I don't want your help! I don't even want to be here!"

The governor's walking stick struck like a viper, knocking Tristan to the floor and leaving a welt from cheekbone to chin. Scrambling back to his feet, he let his hands curl—but Pulou's words echoed in his ears. He drew himself up, clenching and loosening his hands at the searing across his face, and looked the governor in the eyes.

"I would appreciate it if you would show a little more gratitude for my efforts in your behalf from now on," Renier said very quietly.

The stroke throbbed on Tristan's face, hot as a burning brand. He didn't answer.

The governor turned the walking stick in his hands. "You would also be wise to remember that I have my own reasons for your attendance at the academy. I will not take your lack of cooperation lightly, Tristan."

* *

The people from the newsnets occupied the walkway between the Physiological Training and Simulator buildings like a pack of jous waiting to ambush their quarry. Spotting holocorders on their shoulders, Tristan pulled the bill of his cap down on his brow and hunched deeper into his jacket. But he couldn't lose himself in a knot of cadets with Rajak at his elbow.

One of the media people detached himself from the covey, a voice pickup in his hand. "Tristan Sergey! May we talk with you for a moment?"

"No," Tristan said, and tried to shoulder past him. "Leave me alone."

Rajak's hand on his shoulder stopped him short. "Answer their questions."

Tristan eyed them all, suspicious. "What do you want?"

"Mostly, to congratulate you on your position in the academy's top flight of first year cadets. Your father would be proud of you—if he knew."

Tristan tightened his jaw, but then lowered his head and turned away. "No, he wouldn't," he said. "I didn't earn it."

The man didn't seem to hear him. "We understand that you and your mother have spent the past several years living among the natives on Ganwold," he persisted. "Was she rescued the same time you were?"

Sudden fury jerked Tristan's head back up. "I wasn't rescued!"

The newsman paused for half a heartbeat, but he didn't change his line of questioning. "Is your mother still on Ganwold?" he asked. "The common belief is that she's ill and you're trying to find your father. Is that true?"

"What if it is?" Tristan didn't try to mask his anger. "What does it matter to you?"

The newsman actually blinked at that, but he kept his tone neutral. "It might matter a great deal to your father," he said.

Tristan stared at him, his hands flexing and unflexing at his sides.

"Then again, it might not," said the media man, watching him. "We understand that he's never responded to the message Governor Renier sent at the time of your rescue from Ganwold. Do you really believe a man you haven't seen since you were a baby still cares enough about you to help?"

The question struck Tristan like a fresh blow to the face, a blow that cut far deeper than the governor's walking stick. He actually recoiled. Stared at the man and swallowed convulsively.

That possibility had never crossed his mind before now. What if that's true? What if my father doesn't care?

His throat and heart and lungs suddenly seemed to constrict, so much that they hurt. He shook his head, let it droop. "I don't know," he managed to whisper. "I don't know."

Fifteen

Lujan stepped out of the bathroom with his hair still damp and accepted his shirt from the waiting servo. He gave a short whistle as he shrugged it on, and the dog, lying near the foot of the bed and watching him, rose up on legs like stilts, stretched and yawned, and came up to him, wagging its tail. It lay its head in his hands, and Lujan rubbed its ears and said, "Ready for breakfast, boy?"

He turned when the visiphone on the night table buzzed. The red button blinking at its base indicated the exec office downstairs, on the main floor of the Flag Officers' Residence. That meant a call from Headquarters. Fastening his shirt with one hand, Lujan punched the button with the other, securing the line, and said, "What is it, Kierem?"

"There's a call from the Watch, sir. Stand by."

Kierem disappeared from the monitor to be replaced in a moment by the watch officer, a young man who said, "Sir, we've got a new development in the hostage situation. The newsnets are running an interview with your son."

Lujan hit the remote button beside the visiphone. The holovid in the far wall came on with a ripple of iridescent color and focused on a sullen youth who said, "What do you want?"

Tristan!

Lujan's jaw tightened. "Call the imagery section and get someone on this," he said with a glance at the watch officer.

"We have, sir. They've got a team on the way."

"Thank you."

In the holovid a newsman said, ". . . congratulate you on your position in the academy's top flight of first year cadets. Your father would be proud of you—if he knew."

Lujan read a moment's fury in the youth's eyes and taut jaw before he twisted his face away. "No, he wouldn't," he said. "I didn't earn it."

"Son," Lujan whispered.

He watched silently for a few seconds before turning back to the lieutenant on the visiphone. "I'll be in by oh-seven-hundred," he said, checking his timepiece. "Can you have a preliminary report ready by then?"

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said.

"Thanks. Out here." Lujan touched the disconnect, then buzzed the exec office. When Kierem's face reappeared in the monitor, Lujan said, "Please call my office and warn Captain Jiron that the local newsnets will probably jump on this. We don't need their people underfoot while we're working on it."

"Right, sir."

Lujan's attention returned to the holovid.

". . . he's never responded to the message Governor Renier sent at the time of your rescue from Ganwold," the interviewer said. "Do you really believe a man you haven't seen since you were a baby still cares enough about you to help?"

Lujan saw how the youth stiffened at the question, then let his head droop. "I don't know," the boy whispered. "I don't know."

The words pierced Lujan's soul like a knife.

Only when his finger began to hurt did he realize how hard he held down the visiphone's disconnect button.

* *

His staff must have already put them out of the Command Section, Lujan thought when he spotted the people with the holocorders. They stood just off the VIP skimmer pad atop the Unified Worlds Tower, huddled together near the doors.

His driver saw them, too. "Would you prefer one of the mid-level platforms, sir?" the sergeant asked.

"No, this's all right." The skimmer set down and Lujan released its hatch. He smiled as he stepped out. "There's only three of them."

They stepped between him and the entrance, coats wrapped tight and breaths clouding on the morning's crisp air. Waiting for him.

He strode directly toward them.

"Admiral Sergey," said one, thrusting a voice pickup at him. "You're no doubt aware of this morning's news interview with a young man purported to be your missing son. Can you tell us if he is—"

Lujan looked the reporter in the eye and said only, "Excuse me, please."

The man stepped back from him, and Lujan strode past the others toward the entrance.

"Sir?" the man said from behind him.

He didn't look back.

They didn't follow.

Tinted panels parted at his approach, admitting him to an oval lobby built of marble. He surveyed it with a glance, spotted two more media personnel by the controller's desk, and pivoted toward the nearest bank of lifts. Stepping into one, he said, "Spherzah Intelligence Section."

He emerged in an entry control booth and paused before the visual monitor to place his hand on the square plate below it, where an infrared scanner read the capillary pattern in his hand. The monitor's synthesized voice said, "Sergey, Lujan, Admiral, identification confirmed," and the security door swung open.

He turned right, strode down a tiled corridor to a door marked Imagery Interpretation, and punched in its entry code.

Half a dozen junior officers and NCOs started up from their work stations as he stepped inside, but he said, "Carry on," before anyone could call the room to attention.

"This way, sir." The officer in charge came around his desk, offering a cup of shuk. "Lieutenant Brookes is set up in the conference room."

Like Chesney and Ashforth, Brookes was Jonican: blonde, and taller than himself. She slipped an image chip into the laser scanner beneath the holotank on the wall, and when Lujan had seated himself at the table she touched the 'on' switch. "Sir, this briefing is classified Secret, releasable to the Unified Worlds," she said.

The holotank lit up and she took a pointer from her pocket. "We have determined that the interview was conducted at the Aeire City piloting academy. This building in the background has been confirmed to be the Physiological Training facility. Analysis of the conversation suggests the interview took place no more than three days ago. The Academy's winter term concluded on the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth standard month, and student appointments for the next term would have been posted a day or two later."

". . . No, he wouldn't," said the youth in the recording.

As he turned his face away, Brookes pressed a couple of buttons on her remote, and the image froze and magnified. With her pointer's beam, she traced a shadow below the boy's left eye and another mark that angled across his left cheek. "Sir, these marks are bruises," she said. "Depending on the treatment given they could be as recent as two days or as old as two weeks."

Something twisted in Lujan's gut. His jaw tightened. He gave a curt nod and motioned for her to continue.

"He's also under guard, sir. The uniform and insignia worn by the man standing here behind your son are those of the Sector General's personal security force."

"Which would indicate he's in Renier's direct custody," said Lujan.

"Yes, sir."

Lujan nodded again. "Go on."

". . . Was she rescued the same time you were?" asked the Adriatish newsman in the holovid.

The youth's head snapped up, his features hard with fury. "I wasn't rescued!"

"Where did this come from?" Lujan asked.

"Adriat's Ministry of Public Media, sir," said Brookes, "via Intersystem Broadcast transmission."

"Normal news channels. . . . Have our psychological warfare analysts seen it yet?"

"Yes, sir. We prepared this briefing together," said Brookes. "They believe it's an attempt by the Issel Sector to apply pressure through public outrage."

"Apply pressure." Lujan raised an eyebrow. "To whom? Me?"

Brookes glanced at her superior, standing at Lujan's shoulder, and said, "Yes, sir."

"That fits Renier's methodology." The recording ended and Lujan said, "Thank you, Lieutenant." He addressed the division chief as he rose. "Tell your people I appreciate their extra efforts."

The lieutenant commander nodded. "We'll have a more complete evaluation ready in time for the staff briefing at oh-nine-hundred, sir."

* *

The cockpit rocked again, throwing Tristan against his acceleration harness, and all the lights turned red. His fingers worked the thruster switches, fighting to maintain control. He punched DAMAGE CONTROL, and the flight computer's screen filled itself with hopeless data. He braced himself against another rolling lurch. The red lights increased the cockpit's heat; his hair clung to his forehead in sweaty strands under his helmet.

Another light began to flash. The screen blanked, and a new message glowed out of it:

LIFE SUPPORT HAS FAILED

ESTIMATED RESERVE: 3 MINUTES

PREPARE FOR EGRESS

He heard his breath catch in his earphones before he realized he'd done it and felt the Instructor Pilot watching him through serious eyes. The airflow through his oxygen mask seemed to diminish. He fought the urge to gulp at it but his heart slammed into full throttle and his hand shook as he thumbed the comms button. "Base, this is Hammer four-three requesting clearance to punch out! I say again—"

"You don't have time to ask for clearance, 'specially when your radio's already gone," the other said without emotion. "Just do it."

The screen flashed:

EGRESS! EGRESS! EGRESS!

Tristan braced himself: heels planted hard at the seat's base, spine straight, shoulders and head pressed into the chair back. He reached for the yellow handles on either side of the seat and closed his eyes as he tugged the handles.

He heard the explosion of ejection. Felt the egress capsule blast clear of the cockpit with a pressure that faded his consciousness and threatened to snap his collarbones and neck. He clenched his teeth to prevent an outcry.

The pressure lifted almost immediately; the seat bumped and stopped. Through his headset, the IP said, "Debriefing's in ten minutes, Sergey."

"Yes, sir," Tristan said without looking at him.

Riding the simulator's ejection seat back down its rail, he pulled off his gloves and fumbled with hands that still quivered to unfasten one side of his oxygen mask. Then he sat back, breathing through his mouth and waiting for his pulse to steady.

The cockpit's lighting returned to normal; the sensors and readouts functioned again. Tristan disconnected his helmet's intercom and oxygen lines, released the flight harness, pushed himself to his feet. His knees wobbled.

Captain Coborn sat at their table in the classroom when Tristan came in from the support room. He gestured at one of the two students' chairs opposite his own and said, "You got an unsatisfactory on that ride, Sergey. If that'd been the real thing, we'd be conducting this debriefing in the morgue."

"What, sir?"

"Watch the recording," Coborn said, "and tell me what you did wrong." He flicked on the desktop holovid.

Tristan watched himself at the simulated controls, listened to the radio dialogue. He cocked his head at the instructor when it ended.

"Off the top," the captain said. "What's the first thing you do when a malfunction light comes on?"

Tristan recited the Emergency Procedures text: "Maintain control of the 'craft."

"You did that right. Then what?"

"Check Damage Control to determine the nature and extent of the damage and take necessary action to correct it."

"All right, you did that. You had a mechanical failure. Now what?"

"Declare a distress condition and request assistance immediately," Tristan said. "Squawk mode three-alpha, seven-oh-seven Emergency Code, and establish communications with the ASTC facility."

"Good enough. You're still alive to that point. But look at the egress sequence again." Coborn hit FAST FORWARD on the holovid.

Tristan said, "I was in the proper position, sir!"

"That's not going to do you a whole lot of good if you haven't switched over to your capsule's emergency life support," said Coborn. "You're just committing slow suicide by suffocation."

"Yes, sir," Tristan said quietly.

The IP studied him. "I don't get it, Sergey. You've never blown a written Emergency Procedures quiz. Never blown a standup EP—you rattle those things off like an audicorder!" He rose, shaking his head. "You've got one more shot at this. Nobody goes to the flightline until they've passed the EP simulator ride."

* *

"We missed you at dinner again this evening," Larielle said from the antechamber's curtained doorway.

Tristan sat cross-legged on the bed with his back to the wall. He didn't look at her. "I'm not hungry."

Through his peripheral vision he watched her cross the little space toward him, felt her sit down on the edge of the bed near him, but when she reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder he jumped and stared up at her, almost raising a hand to touch his forehead.

"Tristan," she said, "are you ill?"

"No," he said. He let his gaze fall to hands knotted white in his lap and drew a long breath. His stomach felt like a knot in the middle of his body.

"Something's wrong," she said gently, and moved closer to him. "You've missed dinner more often than you've come lately, and even when you do come you hardly eat anything. You're tense and jumpy all the time."

"How long do I have to keep doing this?" he asked abruptly. "Going to the academy, I mean. It's been almost six months since I left my mother. She could be dead by now!"

"Sh-hh!" Larielle twisted around, and he followed her gaze toward the doorway. She didn't relax. "I don't know, Tris," she said. "I'm sorry." Before he could say anything else, she asked, "Did something happen today? Is it something I can help you with?"

He shrugged and ducked his head. "I failed the simulator test. I forgot a couple of things, and if it'd been real, I would've died."

She said, "You'll remember next time."

"I don't know if I will—and I don't even care anymore. How can I think about piloting stuff when my mother is dying?" He made a desperate gesture with both hands.

"Tris," she said, trying to comfort him.

He shook his head and didn't glance up. "I can't stay here!" He shoved himself off the bed, to his feet, and began to pace the cubicle. "I need to be with my mother! I shouldn't ever have left her. I—didn't even tell her good-by!"

"Tris," Larielle said again, and rose, and crossed to him. Standing in front of him, she studied his face for a moment before she raised both hands and began to gently knead his neck.

Her touch, where his clan mark rose from the skin at his nape, sent a shiver down his spine and heat up over his face. His heart accelerated. He couldn't take his vision from her face.

"Tristan," she said suddenly, "you're blushing." She sounded surprised.

His mouth felt dry. "Why are you doing that?" he asked in a rasp.

"You're so tense." He heard her voice as if from miles away as she continued to knead. "Your muscles are in knots."

Her fingers sent sensations through him that he'd only known in dreams from which he woke embarrassed. He stood paralyzed, watching her, waiting for the caress to turn to claws at the clasps of his jacket.

"Peace in you, mother!" he said in gan, and used the word for one's mate. He gasped it. "Peace in you!"

Larielle drew back her hands. Her eyes showed perplexity. "Tristan, what's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

"No." He shook his head, still watching her. "No."

"Then what is it?"

"Gan females do that," he said, "when they choose their mates." His face throbbed. He lowered his eyes. "It's part of mating."

"Oh." Larielle's face grew pink. After a pause she said, "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"No," he said, and dared to look at her. "Don't be sorry."

He recoiled, shocked at himself for saying it.

She studied him for several moments, her expression gentle, almost a smile. Then she raised one hand, as cautiously as if he were a wild creature that might bolt, and touched his temple. She slipped her fingers through his hair, running them lightly above his ear. "Humans have a different way to show their affection," she said, her voice very quiet. "Would you like me to show you?"

He felt breathless again. He swallowed hard. "Yes."

She leaned up to him, closing her eyes. Her hand slipped to his neck again, drew his head down. Her mouth met his, warm and firm, and made it tingle. He started to lift one hand, to reach for her, and froze.

Her hand slid from his neck, from his shoulder. She stepped back, and her gaze touched his, her smile suddenly shy. "You'll do fine on the sim ride," she said, still quietly, and turned and left the room.

He thought about her for a long while after he curled up in the warmth of the blankets.

But he dreamed of Ganwold, of standing alone beside a smoldering funeral pyre. He woke up cold, his body rigid, his hands and teeth and stomach clenched.

When the nightmare didn't fade with waking and the tension didn't ease, he sat up in the dark, drew the blankets about his shoulders against the chilliness, and released a despairing sigh.

I shouldn't have left. None of this would've happened if I had never left. She would've died but I would've been with her. Now, because of me, she's dying anyway—alone.

His heart and mind felt weighted, burdened with guilt. He couldn't lift his head.

He felt someone studying him. He glanced over his shoulder without twisting around.

Pulou sat cross-legged on the cot behind him, grooming his mane. He cocked his head. "You do what, little brother?"

"I think," Tristan said, and sighed again. "It's my fault she dies like this."

Pulou blinked at him, puzzled. "Why?"

Tristan couldn't answer for a moment. When he did, he said, "If I stay there, she isn't alone when she dies. If I stay there, there isn't all this—" he gestured all-inclusively, "—this trouble with the governor and my father." He let his hands drop.

Pulou studied him for some moments. "You try to help, little brother," he said at last. "You do what you think is right. Maybe it helps, maybe it doesn't. There's no fault in that."

He thought about Pulou's words for a long while afterward. Wished he could believe them. But the ache inside, and the deep fear, wouldn't let him.

He still sat there, wrapped in the blankets, when Rajak came to wake him up.

* *

". . . deflectors full front, nose down thirty degrees, thrusters at one and two to make one-three-five, roger." Tristan's fingers moved over the thruster switches. His gloves' linings had grown damp with sweat.

The cockpit rocked again, throwing him against his harness. The impact came from port this time. More red lights blinked on. He hit DAMAGE CONTROL; the screen lit up. "Base," he said, "I've lost my forward port thrusters, too."

"Acknowledged, Hammer."

The comms died with an electronic shatter in his earphones, and the impact it seemed to anticipate threw him back in his seat. The instruments blanked, except for the computer screen:

LIFE SUPPORT HAS FAILED

ESTIMATED RESERVE: 3 MINUTES

PREPARE FOR EGRESS

Tristan drew a deep breath. "Emergency life support," he whispered, and heard it in his headset. He felt Coborn observing beside him. The ring lay over his left shoulder, where the oxygen hose attached. He fumbled for it with gloved fingers and tugged. Cool air rushed into his oxygen mask.

The screen flashed:

EGRESS! EGRESS! EGRESS!

He stiffened into egress position, reached for the yellow handles, locked his teeth against the launch.

When the simulator seat bumped to a stop, he heard the IP release his breath. "See you in the classroom, Sergey."

* *

Tristan stood at attention before the table, his vision fixed on the back wall, his face expressionless.

"You passed," the captain said, "but I hesitate to recommend you into the flight program. You're already exhibiting MOA. You'll never make it through elementary flight training if you don't get over it."

"MOA, sir?"

"Manifestation of apprehension," said Coborn. "I'm passing you, Sergey, but only on conditional status. I need your sponsor's name so I can submit the report."

"Governor Renier," Tristan said, his throat tight.

The IP stared at him, hard, for a full minute. "Oh," he said at last. "Then I guess you'll be flying whether you should be or not."

Whether I want to or not, Tristan thought.

Sixteen

Dylan Dartmuth pulled two food trays from the warmer and placed one in front of the old man before he took his own seat. He dropped into his chair stiffly, grimacing.

"Dampness bothering you again?" Beaumont asked.

Dylan glanced up. "Yes, Uncle. The damp and the overtime." He picked up his utensils and bent over his meal.

He felt the old man observing him but he didn't raise his vision; he concentrated on his food. He had nearly emptied his tray before Beaumont said, "The bum leg isn't the only thing, eh, lad? You've not been this grim since the lieutenant refused your request for spare parts. What's it this time?"

"Masuki," said Dylan. His gaze locked on the old man's. "The colonel told us today at commander's call that the academy's to admit the first masuki to pilot training within six months."

Beaumont raised sparse eyebrows. "A provision of the Cooperation Pact?"

"The same." Dylan's hand fisted around his utensil. "It was masuk scum that took my sister and her baby."

"I remember," said Beaumont.

The old man rose from the table then, as if suddenly remembering something else, and made his slow way across the room to pull a packet from a cabinet near the door. "A courier brought this for you today."

Dylan accepted it, flipped it over. The packet bore the seal of the Topawan Embassy. "What in great space . . ." he murmured, and slid a finger under the packet's flap to tear it open. He withdrew a single sheet of paper, folded in half.

The page contained the hardcopy of a message transmitted from Ramiscal City, nation of East Odymis on Sostis. "What the—?" he began, and pushed his tray aside to spread out the sheet on the table.

He read it twice, then sat staring at the tabletop.

"What's the matter, lad?" asked Beaumont.

The old man's voice cut across a distance like a dream. Dylan started, looked up. "It's from Admiral Sergey," he said. "He's putting me on assignment."

"On assignment?" Beaumont lowered himself into his chair and folded knobby hands on the table.

"Yes. Remember when I told you about the boy in the med capsule? The prisoner transfer from Ganwold? And the cadet who got in a scrap over a slot in Alpha Flight a couple of weeks ago? He is my sister's son! My nephew. And he's attending the academy on the governor's sponsorship."

"The governor's?" Beaumont arched his brows. "That's an interesting twist."

"Right. And it smells bad to me. Very bad indeed."

Beaumont said, "What's Lujan asking of you, then?"

"He wants me to look out for Tristan," Dylan said. "Make sure he's all right. That sort of thing." He pushed himself to his feet and collected the empty trays. "For now."

"Which means?"

Dylan paused at the disposer in the kitchen. "It means that if there's a change in defense status," he said, "I'm to take Tristan to safe haven at the Topawan Embassy."

* *

Governor Renier crossed to his chair at the head of the conference table and the two masuki flanked him, taking places on either side. Renier paused behind his chair to survey the table, to study the faces, human and nonhuman, of his war council. He saw the veiled shock, the questions narrowed eyes and creased brows, and he smiled. He motioned the council to be seated, but he remained standing.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I present to you b'Anar Id Pa'an, son of the Pasha of Mi'ika and emissary of our allies in the Bacal Belt." He scanned the circle again. Smiled again at its grimness. "We have much to offer one another," he said. "All of our peoples—human, umedo, and masuki —have much to gain by this alliance." He turned to face b'Anar Id Pa'an.

"My sire thanks you, Sector General." Pa'an inclined his head. Slightly. Narrowed eyes and the curl of his lip lent irony to his smile. "Your enemies will become the wealth of the Bacal Belt."

Human and umedo advisors and generals shifted in their chairs with obvious uneasiness and revulsion. Renier saw how many couldn't prevent it from showing in their faces.

Pa'an saw it, too. He smiled on them all, baring canine teeth thick as tusks. "Be pleased," he said, "that we are your allies. Be careful that you remain that way. One human slave is worth to us three slaves of our own kind."

* *

Tristan stepped into a booth just large enough for one person, a closet for a medical monitor with two screens: one at waist level, angled like the keyboard beside it and marked with the outline of a hand, the other at face level, like a reflector. The upper screen displayed instructions:

1. ENTER NAME AND STUDENT ID NUMBER.

2. PLACE RIGHT HAND ON SENSOR PANEL AS SHOWN WITH FIRST FINGER THROUGH SPHYGMOMANOMETER SENSOR BAND.

3. MAINTAIN HAND PLACEMENT UNTIL READOUTS APPEAR.

Tristan followed the instructions without reading them. It had become part of his daily routine by now.

The upper screen cleared itself. After several seconds its cursor began to shoot back and forth, unrolling a block of information:

SERGEY, TRISTAN, ID#TS9392, CLEARED.

BLOOD GASES: NEGATIVE FOR INTOXICANTS CONSUMED WITHIN PREVIOUS EIGHT HOURS.

BLOOD PRESSURE: 142/83*

PULSE: 88/MIN*

TEMPERATURE: 98.6oF

*PASSING BUT IN CAUTION RANGE. IF CONDITION PERSISTS, PLEASE CONSULT FLIGHT SURGEON.

He didn't have to read the bottom line, either; it had appeared six days in a row now. He withdrew his hand, wiped it down the leg of his flightsuit, and flexed it.

He felt the med-tech watching from his own console as he stepped out of the booth. Tristan avoided his eyes but the man asked, "What's wrong, cadet?"

Tristan hesitated. My mother is dying on Ganwold! he wanted to shout, and I'm being held prisoner here as bait for my father, and nobody will let me help her!

But the governor's threats echoed in his mind. "If your mother's life is so important to you, Tristan, this will not happen again." And, "I have my own reasons for your attendance at the Academy. I won't take your non-cooperation lightly."

In his memory, the stroke from the governor's walking stick still burned across his face.

"Nothing," he said, dry-mouthed.

"It doesn't look like 'nothing' to me," the medic returned. "You're hypertensive. You're too young for that sort of thing. You should see the flight surgeon."

"I'm all right," Tristan said.

The medic shrugged. "Fine. But I'm keeping an eye on you."

Tristan felt the other's gaze following him as he walked away.

In the support room he collected his helmet and egress pack. He tested the oxygen and radio lines mechanically. The door sighed open at his approach, letting him out to the slideway where Coborn and Pulou waited.

The slideway sloped down into a subterranean corridor that ran as far as Tristan could see. They stepped onto the outbound conveyor. It carried them in silence, but for the shush-shush of its track, past one arched portal after another. With a glance at Pulou, Tristan placed his egress pack between his feet and mentally reviewed the lesson plan, his call sign, his ship's number.

They stepped off the conveyor at the sixteenth arch and rode its lift up, emerging in a launch bay domed only with sky, crisp with pre-dawn chill. Floodlighting lit the bay like daylight, glanced from the skin of the trainer ship, etched into sharp detail the men and machinery moving around it.

Tristan shifted his helmet in his hands and paused beneath an abbreviated delta wing. He reached up with his free hand to touch it and released a shaky breath.

He felt someone watching him.

He froze. Cocked his head just enough to look over his shoulder.

His crew chief stood there, a man with gray hair and mustache and eyes like steel. The man who had broken up his fight with Siggar. Tristan nudged Pulou and pointed with his chin before he turned his back to make his walk-around check of thruster nozzles and landing gear.

In the pilot's seat he lost his harness clasps twice before he got them secured, and then they seemed to constrict his heart; he could feel it pounding against the webbing. His breath raked through his earphones. His hands curled into fists, resting on his thighs.

". . . checklist," Coborn's voice said in his helmet. Tristan jumped, looked at him.

"Start your checklist," Coborn said again, with a note of impatience.

"Yes, sir." Tristan swallowed. Reached for switches and buttons, exchanged hand signals with the crew chief as he tested each system. He glimpsed Pulou watching from the doorway of the maintenance room beyond him. When he finished the checkout, the man gave him a thumbs-up and limped clear.

"All systems green, sir," Tristan said.

"Start your engines."

A gloved finger flicked the switches, one at a time, and the roar mounted around the ship as each engine came to life. The craft trembled with contained power.

"What're you waiting for?" asked Coborn.

Tristan started again. "Huh?"

"Call for clearance."

"Yessir. . . ." Tristan drew a long breath, carefully, so it wouldn't be audible to his IP. His voice held steady when he said, "Clearance control, this is Hammer four-three—disregard, disregard!—Hammer three-two requesting clearance for launch."

Clearance said, "Hammer three-two, you're cleared to space station papa tango via SID foxtrot tango two-two-niner. Do you copy?"

"Roger that," said Tristan.

"Now what?" Coborn prompted.

"Ground," said Tristan, and thumbed the comms button. "This is Hammer three-two—"

He heard chuckling in his headset. "Hammer three-two, where're you calling from?"

He swallowed again, at being caught in such a state of distraction. "Launch bay zero-one-six, sir."

Beside him, Coborn folded his arms over his chest and stared straight ahead through the canopy.

"Hammer three-two," said Ground, "there are ten ships ahead of you. Bays on both sides of you are filled. Wind is from zero-three-zero at twelve knots, and . . ."

Tristan listened to the final weather report, adjusted his altimeter for atmospheric flight, and when Ground instructed him to switch to tower frequency, he said, "Roger."

The tower frequency was filled with chatter. Tristan called, "Tower, this is Hammer three-two—"

"Hammer three-two," a sharp voice came back, "you are eleventh in launch sequence. Do not acknowledge until we give you clearance."

He nodded. Shot a sideways look at Coborn. Waited. His mind lingered on Ganwold.

The insides of his gloves were already damp.

He heard, "Hammer three-two, please hold. . . . Hammer three-two, you now have three launches ahead of you, please hold for launch time. . . . Hammer three-two, you have clearance to launch. You have traffic ahead and will have traffic behind. . . ."

"Roger, Tower," he said, and glanced at Coborn again.

"So take us out, Sergey," the captain said.

Locking his teeth, he spread his hand over the thruster switches.

"All at once," said the IP. "If you don't, you'll lift at an angle and hit the bay dome. Cadets who do that don't get their crests even if they live to tell about it."

"Yessir." Sweat plastered Tristan's hair to his forehead. "This is Hammer three-two lifting," he said into his pickup. "I've got four green, no red or amber, line on line, point on point, eight good engines and squawking normal." He toggled all eight switches together.

He felt the tremor increase, the roar swell to a scream. It flattened him into his seat, pushed his stomach down like a stone dropped into a pool. His teeth closed on his lip.

They cleared the bay. He heard Coborn release his breath.

He brought up the landing gear and leaned back in his seat.

"You forgot something," said Coborn.

Tristan jumped. Stared at him. "What?"

"Make contact with Departure."

"Yessir." He licked dry lips before thumbing the mike. "Departure, this is Hammer three-two requesting vectors to space station papa tango."

"Roger, Hammer three-two." The voice rattled through his earphones; he winced. "Have you on radar, passing point one-niner-two. Proceed on your present course . . ."

Pre-dawn pink riddled a northeastern horizon filled with clouds. Tristan glanced at the vertical speed and attitude indicators; his right hand rode the thrust switches, holding his course until the controller gave him a heading.

"When we break atmosphere," the captain said, "switch over to the space station's frequency and start trying to establish communications. It won't take long to come into range."

Surface detail diminished, disappeared beneath cloud, and the craft broke clear of white billows into a sky so bright Tristan squinted despite his helmet's dark visor. The blue deepened and darkened, and the pressure eased. Constellations appeared beyond.

For one mad moment Tristan thought of wrenching the craft out of its flight profile and aiming it at one of those constellations and running.

Only for a moment. He wouldn't leave Pulou. Besides, even if Coborn didn't seize control of it, he knew the craft would never make it to the outskirts of Issel's solar system.

Teeth locked, he reset his radio to the space station's frequency and listened for its VOR signal. "Station papa tango," he said, "this is Hammer three-two requesting vectors to bay one-four echo."

"Station to Hammer three-two," he heard, "continue on present course and stand by for heading."

The lesson plan included landing in and launching from three horizontal-plane bays in the academy's training station. "Approach angle and speed are critical," said Coborn. "Cut your engines and drift; you've got enough momentum to carry us in. Watch your approach guidance lights. If you come in at an angle, you'll crash into the bulkhead."

The bay loomed up like a square mouth lighted from within. The AG lights above and below it showed amber.

"You're too high," said Coborn. "Pull up and around and make another approach."

"Roger," said Tristan. "Station, this is Hammer three-two on the go."

The AG lights showed green on the second approach. Tristan cut the engines again and kept his hand tense on the switches.

"Watch your speed," said the IP. "Fire retros one second on, one off."

Tristan's lower lip had gone numb, clenched between his teeth, by the time the ship slid into the bay.

"Request clearance for departure," said Coborn. "We're not going to stay long enough to go through the pressurization cycle."

Launch was easy by comparison: fire thrusters at two and one to clear the bay, ignite the engines, roll out. As he cleared the space station after the final docking, Coborn said, "All right, get us home now."

He hit turbulence eighteen thousand feet from the surface. Descent built painful pressure in his ears and made his stomach rise into his throat. The craft bucked like a peimu caught by the horns. He fingered the switches, fighting to maintain control.

"Give it here," said Coborn.

Tristan relinquished the controls without a word and put his head back, eyes closed.

"Feeling green, Sergey?" he heard in his headset.

"Yessir. . . ."

"Switch your oxygen to a hundred percent."

He opened his eyes only long enough to find the switch; he concentrated on breathing. Sweat broke cold around his nose and mouth. His stomach turned under his ribs.

The ship lurched up again; his stomach rose with it. He gagged on gorge and sat rigid, swallowing over and over to keep it down.

"For Zi'sake, get the oxygen mask off!" Coborn said in his earphones. "D'you want to drown yourself in it?"

He had to pull off his glove, and found his hand white and wet. It shook so he could barely release the mask. He pressed his fist to his mouth and kept his eyes closed, felt the craft rock in the crosswind, and heard Coborn's breath sucking through his mask as he fought it. Tristan swallowed the retch reflex. The ship dropped, dropped, dropped until it finally settled with a tremor and a roar.

"We're down!" Coborn shouted into his pickup. "We're down! Get your tail out of here! If you puke in this cockpit, you're cleaning it up!"

Tristan groped for his hatch handle and popped it. Wet wind struck him cold in the face. He gasped. Tore his cockpit straps loose and his helmet off. Stumbled on the mounting ladder. His legs gave out. He caught himself on his hands on the hot tarmac and gave in to the heaving.

From the corner of his eye he saw the IP standing over him, watching him spit and wipe at his mouth. Tristan didn't meet his gaze.

"And you're Lujan Sergey's brat?" Coborn slapped his gloves against his leg, and the wind laid bare his disgust like a knife cutting to the bone. "He'd probably disown you if he saw you puking all over the bay like that!"

Tristan's head jerked up at last. His throat went tight.

"Don't keep me waiting for debrief," Coborn said.

Tristan spat again and didn't answer. He watched Coborn walk away.

Pulou slipped up, crouched beside him, stroked his pressure-suited arm with curled fingers. Then, abruptly, those fingers closed about his arm. Tristan wrenched around, looked up.

He found himself face-to-face with his crew chief. Humiliation burned his cheeks, ached in his chest. "Leave me alone," he said.

"It happens to more of them than it doesn't," said the sergeant, and held out a drinking bottle. "Here now, wash out your mouth and don't take it so hard."

Tristan eyed him briefly before he accepted the bottle and took a mouthful of water.

"How'd the bird go?" the crew chief asked, still crouched beside him. "Any problems?"

Tristan swished the water around in his mouth and spat it out on the tarmac. "No."

"We'll give her a look. You hit a nasty bit of weather."

Tristan raised the bottle again and felt the sergeant still studying him. "What's wrong now?" he asked.

"Your mother, Tristan," said the crew chief. "Where is she?"

Tristan slammed the water bottle down and shot to his feet, abruptly angry. "On Ganwold!" he said. "Dying—if she's not dead already! What does it matter to you?"

"She's my sister," the sergeant said.

Tristan stared at him. Drew back. "How do I know you're not just telling me that?"

The crew chief made a helpless gesture with both hands and rose, too. "I can't prove anything to you," he said. "You probably don't remember living in Elincourt before you were lost on Ganwold."

Suddenly subdued, Tristan said, "I remember some things."

"Do you remember the boy named Dylan who used to pack you about piggyback?"

Tristan studied him, cocking his head, recalling distant images of a solemn boy with a crooked leg, dark hair, gray eyes. . . . "You're—Dylan?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Help her!" Tristan said. "Tell my father! The governor won't let me go!"

"Your father knows," Dylan said. "But he's concerned about you, too."

Tristan's vision dropped to the vomit splattered on the tarmac at his feet, and Captain Coborn's parting words burned through his mind again. He said nothing.

"It may get worse before it gets better," Dylan said. "Will you be able to trust me if it comes to that?"

Tristan looked up. The steely eyes held him, dangerous as the eyes of the black man in Issel's Communications Center. He swallowed. "Yes," he said at last.

"Right then," said Dylan, and forced a smile. "You two—" he glanced at Pulou, "—better get going now before Coborn's back out here looking for you."

* *

Tristan dropped to his heels before the artificial fireplace in the sitting room and chewed at his lower lip. His mind kept skipping back to that morning, to the conversation with his crew chief in the landing bay. At last he sighed and shoved himself to his feet again and paced back to the table where Larielle sat.

They were alone in the sitting room. He glanced around to be certain of that before he leaned on the table with both hands and said, "I talked to Dylan this morning."

"Dylan?" Larielle looked up from her studies. "Who's that?"

"My—mother's brother. He's my crew chief. I—think he's talked to my father."

"What?" Larielle straightened, looked him hard in the face.

"I knew my mother's family was here somewhere," he said. "We lived here—for a while —when I was little. I remember Dylan."

"You're very sure this is the same person?" Larielle asked. "Not just someone telling you this?"

"Yes." Tristan said. "He told me some things that only Dylan would know." After a pause he added, "He asked me if I could trust him if it came to that."

"Can you?" she asked.

"Yes," he said again. Firmly.

Larielle reached out and placed her hand over his, but her eyes were serious and her voice only a whisper. "Then, Tris, if he suddenly tells you to go with him, do it. This is probably what I've been telling you to be patient for."

Her gaze softened. She let go his hand to stroke his hair back behind his ear. "I'm so relieved—but I'll miss you, Tristan."

He didn't know what to say to that, but she didn't give him a chance to think of something before she pressed her mouth to his.

In his dream later, their mouths melded again and again, and her hand roamed lightly down his chest and belly, heightening his breath to hyperventilation. He reached out for her . . .

"Get up, Tristan," said Rajak from somewhere over his head. A boot toe nudged his shoulder. He rolled over in a tangle of blanket, sweating, and flung up an arm against the sudden glare of lights.

He pushed himself up, blinking, and squinted at the timepanel on the wall: 0214. "What are you doing, Rajak?" he demanded. "It's two and a half hours before I have to get up!"

"Get dressed," said the servant. "The shuttle is waiting. There's trouble on Issel and we have to go back right now."

* *

Lying propped against a rolled peimu robe, Darcie watched listlessly as Shiga stirred the cooking pot. She couldn't smell whatever was in the pot, but it didn't really matter; she had little appetite anymore.

She had forced herself to eat at first, trying to keep her strength up, but the illness was too far advanced for that to make any difference now. She could no longer get to her feet without assistance. Couldn't walk more than three or four yards without tiring.

She had pain now, too, in her spine and shoulders and legs, aches that seemed to throb from the very marrow of her bones, and she had nothing to deaden it but herbal remedies that made her dizzy and lightheaded. She would welcome death when it came, would open up her arms to it as it embraced her. Perhaps it would be Tristan who would come through the light to guide her. Perhaps it would be Lujan.

A change in Shiga's posture, a sudden stiffening of her frame, brought Darcie out of her reverie. Shiga had stopped moving the ladle in the cooking pot and sat staring past the doorflap, head cocked. She sat motionless for several seconds, nose wrinkled with her sniffing.

"It's what?" Darcie asked, watching her. The question came in a bare whisper; she could manage nothing more.

"Something comes, mother," said Shiga.

Darcie turned her head slightly and listened.

She heard only twilight sounds at first: crickets trilling in the grass, a baby wailing somewhere, the first stirrings of activity among the lodges. Then she heard a throbbing sound, a long way off but coming gradually closer. Engines? She couldn't be sure; it had been almost seventeen years since she'd last heard engines.

Within minutes it became unmistakable. The thrumming stilled the crickets, overpowered the music of the creek, made the ground tremble.

Shiga moved to the doorflap in a silken motion, pushed it aside—and recoiled as brilliance flashed across her face. Darcie saw how her eyes narrowed to slits, her lips drawing back in a silent snarl.

Outside, the engines cut to an idle. Darcie heard bootfalls and shouts. Human shouts.

"Shell people!" said Shiga. Mounting tsaa'chi turned her voice to a hiss, made her mane stand on end.

Shell people? Darcie thought.

Humans in armor.

Legionnaires!

Her heart contracted. "No!" she whispered, and struggled to sit up.

The effort shot pain through her body, took her breath, made her cough. Eyes closing against a wave of dizziness, she gulped for air like a swimmer too long submerged. "They—do what?" she asked Shiga.

"They hunt," said Shiga. "They go into lodges." Still crouching, she reached for the work basket beside the door. Her clawed fingers found the hide fleshing knife and curled around it.

"They hunt—for what?" Darcie asked.

"I don't know," Shiga said.

Sudden screams mingled with shouts over the explosive roar of a lodge on fire. The evening wind abruptly turned heavy with ash and heat.

"No!" Darcie gasped. She choked on smoke; its bitterness brought up involuntary tears. She squeezed them back, blinked away the burning.

She knew what they were hunting for. Knew there was only one way to keep them from burning the entire camp. She reached out for the lodge's nearest support pole. Her hand—her whole arm—shook; there was no strength left to pull herself to her feet. "Shiga, help me!" she cried.

Shiga only hunkered down, gathering herself for a spring. Firelight emphasized her taut muscles, flashed off the fleshing knife in her hand.

A rifle's muzzle tore back the doorflap. Darcie saw the glint of a sooted shoulder plate, a helmet—and the swift shadow of Shiga's attack.

Fleshing knife drove at throatpiece. The soldier staggered back, swinging his weapon up like a club. Its stock struck Shiga's face with a noise like a nut cracking and she crumpled, overturning the cooking pot, scattering coals across the floor. Emberlight briefly showed a long gash in her forehead before blood obliterated it.

Gasping, Darcie crawled from the sleeping hide on hands and knees that barely supported her, reached out for Shiga—but a human wall moved between them. Her breath stopped in her throat. Reflex brought up her hand against the hot armor of his chest to hold him off.

His gauntlet closed around her wrist, dragged her to her feet. She sagged, bracing herself to avoid contact with him, as over her head he shouted into his helmet's pickup, "Captain, I have her!"

Seventeen

"According to a message received at oh-eight-hundred local," said the briefer from Spherzah Intelligence, "Governor Renier's personal voyager left Adriat a few standard hours ago. Though the stated reason was to settle factory strikes on Issel, the actual destination is believed to be the Command Post on Issel's second moon. The passenger list included the governor's highest level military advisors from Adriat, Issel, Na Shiv, and the Bacal Belt as well as his immediate household. The ship is expected to arrive in the Issel system in seven standard days."

Around the table in the command conference room of the Unified Worlds Tower, the members of the Defense Directorate exchanged glances. Lujan tapped a note into the microwriter under his hand: Notify Ches.

"In possibly related activity," the lieutenant continued, "a transport left Adriat for Saede a few hours before Renier's departure. A military exercise is slated to begin in Saede's western hemisphere this week. Indications suggest it will be small, but this is outside the normal Saedese training cycle and the participants will consist mostly of Bacalli surface forces. Imagery received at oh-four-hundred this morning revealed two Bacalli troop ships in synchronous orbit over the Unkai peninsula."

The holo changed from a map of Saede to a view of the vessels, and the lieutenant said, "On the ship in the foreground you can see that all eight launch bays are empty of their landing craft." He drew his finger across the video repeater on his podium and an arrow moved through the holotank behind him. "The absence of the shuttles suggests that a full troop complement has been transported to the surface. Each of these ships is capable of carrying two thousand heavily armed troops, plus surface assault vehicles and weapons."

The lieutenant scanned his audience. "Coinciding as it does with other indications briefed in the last two weeks, we believe this exercise possibly could be cover for a forward deployment. Our patrol craft are closely monitoring all activity in the Saede system." He paused. "This concludes my briefing. Are there any questions?"

"Yes." The Commander-in-Chief of Jonica's space fleets raised her hand. "What led to the factory strikes on Issel, and how are they affecting its military production?"

"Production in heavy industry has fallen twenty percent short of quotas in the past week, ma'am," the lieutenant said. "The strikes began with the diversion of transports from public commuter systems. One report states that some workers have been unable to leave the industrial centers for several days because there aren't enough seats available on the limited number of transports still operating."

"Where have the transports been diverted to?" CINC JONSPAFLT asked next. "Are you seeing any deployment support activity?"

The briefer said, "Not yet, ma'am, but we suspect that's what the transports were pulled for. With minor work they're capable of transporting armed troops, heavy equipment, or a combination of both."

Silence settled over the head table, emphasizing narrowed eyes, taut jaws, concentrated features.

The Commander of Sostis Surface Forces leaned forward. "When the exercise begins on Saede," he said, "I want to know what kind of training the Bacalli are conducting, what weapon systems they're using, and how well they're accomplishing their objectives."

"Yes, sir." The lieutenant keyed some notes into his microwriter. "Are there any more questions?"

"Yes." An admiral from Mythos gestured. "In the event of an Isselan offensive, what do you see as the probable course of action?"

"Sir, we expect an attack on the Sostish Protectorate of Yan first," the lieutenant said. He touched a button. A constellation like a kite with a tail appeared in the holotank. "Sostis would be the real objective, but Yan is nearer the Issel and Saede systems." He moved the arrow over the map. "Control of Unified early warning and communications complexes on Yan would be vital in a campaign against Sostis. It would give Issel a forward staging area and reduce our opportunities for isolation of enemy forces or interdiction of their supply routes.

"With Yan secured, Renier would probably move against Sostis in a two-pronged attack." The arrow traced flight paths from Yan and Saede.

Lujan straightened in his chair, eyes narrowed, to study the diagram.

After several silent moments, Sostis' Chief of Planetary Defense said, "How soon could the Issel Sector be prepared to launch such an attack?"

"At their present level of readiness," the lieutenant answered, "we believe they could possibly do so within a month."

There were no more questions after that. The briefer left his podium and the audience dispersed in a murmur of subdued discussion. The Sostish Defense Committee withdrew to a smaller conference room and turned to the representative of the Triune at the head of the table.

Pite Hanesson, arms folded over his chest, said, "You may proceed, Governor."

Kedar Gisha made a slight bow in his direction and addressed her Chief of Planetary Defense. "General Choe, I need a list of requirements for putting Sostis and Yan into wartime postures and an estimate of how long that will take."

"There are sufficient ground troops and equipment already on Yan," the Defense Chief said, and the Commander-in-Chief of Surface Forces confirmed it with a nod. "But," he went on, "there's only one space fleet based there."

"What will we need?" Gisha asked.

"At least two numbered fleets, Your Honor."

Gisha looked at CINC SPAFLT. "What have we got?"

"Ch'on-dok's Eighth Fleet is at dock at the Shinchang, Ro, and Qarat orbital stations," the space fleet commander said, "and several carrier groups of the East Odymis Sixth have just returned from nine months of out-system patrol."

Gisha said, "How quickly could they be prepared to launch again?"

"Not in less than a week, Your Honor."

Gisha considered that. "Start making the preparations," she said. And then, "What of Sostis?"

Defense Chief and planetary commanders made their statements, laying out numbers and proposing strategies, and Hanesson moved impatiently in his chair. "This is beginning to suggest a pre-emptive strike."

"No," said Gisha. "It's a demonstration of commitment. By the time our defenses are mobilized, I will have prepared a statement advising Sector General Renier that we're watching Issel's activities closely, that I am concerned about it, and that actions perceived as threatening will not be tolerated."

Hanesson pursed his mouth. "And if Issel fails to be impressed by your commitment, Kedar?"

"Then we'll be prepared to fight." Gisha paused. "Should it come to that, we'll need the support of the Unified Worlds."

"That must come through the Assembly," said Hanesson. "The Triune cannot commit the forces of the other worlds without the consent of their governments. We can only call up the Spherzah."

Gisha met Lujan's look across the table. "That will be enough," she said.

* *

"Sir," said Jiron as Lujan crossed the outer office, "the Isselan ambassador requested a meeting with you today."

Lujan checked his stride. "Isselan. Did he say what for?"

"No, sir, except that it's extremely important."

Lujan let his eyes narrow. "Schedule him in—and inform Governor Gisha and the Triune's offices of it. I'll meet with them at their earliest convenience afterward."

Jiron said, "Yes, sir," and handed over a chip containing messages from Yan.

He looked up when Lujan emerged from his office shortly before oh-nine-hundred. "Fourteen-thirty for the ambassador, sir."

"Thanks," Lujan said. "I'll be off the pager until the briefing's over."

The command conference room had grown crowded with more of the Unified Defense Directorate in attendance lately. Aides and junior officers from the various worlds stood against the angled walls behind their respective senior officers, displaced from even the last rows of seats. Lujan took his place near the head of the table and returned the others' nodded greetings.

The lieutenant at the podium appeared grim. "Ladies and gentlemen, this briefing is classified Unified Worlds Secret. The information is current as of oh-seven-fifty local."

He touched a button, lighting the holotank with an image of Saede. Standard symbols and dotted lines arcing out like planetary rings depicted the world's territorial space and the operation areas of Unified and Isselan spacecraft. "At approximately oh-two-twenty local," he said, "the Sostish patrol craft Prevoyance was fired on by an Isselan-flagged ship, probably an observer of the Saedese exercises which began four days ago.

"Prevoyance was patrolling parallel to but outside the boundary of the planetary defense zone at the time." The officer slid an arrow along the reported heading, pointing out the locations of the vessels involved. "According to the captain's report, the Isselan ship was following a parallel course along the edge of the planetary zone, apparently shadowing Prevoyance. Its captain claims that Prevoyance violated the planetary zone and that he attempted twice to establish communications to warn the Sostish craft away before opening fire.

"Another Sostish vessel and a Topawan patrol craft operating within tracking range of Prevoyance confirmed that the stricken ship was well outside the planetary defense zone and moving further from the area when the Isselan craft closed on it from behind and began shooting. Captain Claydor of the Topawan vessel Chermenke reported that she had been monitoring the Isselan ship for some time because it had already crossed into interplanetary space twice in the course of its patrol."

The holotank blinked to display a broadside view of a Sostish patrol craft with a gouge across its stern. The briefer said, "This hologram, made by personnel aboard Chermenke as she approached to assist, shows that the bursts were probably fired from a position one hundred seventy degrees relative to Prevoyance's heading. Prevoyance sustained damage to her external hull, but she was reported capable of powered movement as of oh-three-forty. Five crewmembers injured in the attack are in satisfactory condition. The incident is under investigation by both Unified and Isselan authorities."

Probably the reason for the ambassador's visit, Lujan thought. But why does the man want to see me? And why is Issel so nervous about the Unified Worlds observing an exercise on Saede?

* *

When Jiron came to his office door at fourteen-thirty and said, "Sir, the ambassador's here," Lujan switched off the message traffic on his terminal, closed it down into his desktop, and nodded to his executive officer.

He appraised the man who entered with only a look. "Ambassador Kapolas," he said, and gestured. "Please be seated."

Kapolas lowered his bulky frame into the indicated chair and pressed his fingertips together in a steeple. "Admiral Sergey," he said, "my government appeals to the Unified Worlds to cease its threatening postures toward Saede. The Saedese want only peace and security. They have no aggressive intentions against Sostis or the Unified Worlds."

Lujan concealed surprise. "What particular activity does your government perceive as threatening, Ambassador?"

"Don't toy with me, Admiral," the ambassador said. "Several of the Unified Worlds have patrol craft operating along Saede's planetary defense zone at this moment. Surely you are aware of this morning's incident?"

Lujan gave a slight nod.

"We regret that our captain found it necessary to fire on the vessel," said Kapolas. "We sincerely hope it won't become necessary again."

"I'll relay your regrets to Governor Gisha," Lujan said with the barest suggestion of sarcasm. His eyes narrowed on Kapolas' and his tone turned serious. "The patrols will continue, however, until your government ends its military exercise on Saede. The unusual activity of the troops and combat vessels involved are a matter of great concern to the Sostish government. They see it as a threat to their own security."

He noted how Kapolas moved uneasily in his chair before he shrugged. "We have provided the Saedese with some defensive systems, of course, along with the technicians and training necessary for their implementation. But I assure you, Admiral, that they are strictly defensive weapons."

The Saedese, Lujan thought. No mention of the Bacalli. He let his vision burn into the other man's soul. "In order that there be no mistake about the Sostish position on this," he said, "World Governor Gisha has prepared a declaration warning Issel to expect the most serious consequences if there is any escalation of activity in the Saede system. You will make certain that this message is unequivocally clear to your government, Ambassador."

* *

"Of primary interest, ladies and gentlemen, is the increase in deployment activity in the Issel system since Renier's return five days ago." The ensign from Sostish Space Fleet Intelligence switched on the holotank. "According to sources on Issel, transports of the type diverted from the public commuter system have been observed in flight between several major transshipment points, including the spaceports at Sanabria, Rempel, and Gualata." She guided the arrow on her video repeater to each red dot on the projected map. "Shuttling to the orbital docks appears to have begun.

"In related activity, two probable Vuki-class destroyers and a starcraft carrier have been sighted at an Isselan orbital station which has served only freighters in the past. The number of vessels at the military space docks has continued to increase as well.

"Logistics activity has also begun on Saede." An image of that world appeared in the holotank, and the briefer continued, "Surface freight counts at the main transshipment areas on the Unkai peninsula have tripled, and up to six transports have transitted from the continent in the last twenty-four standard hours.

"During that same reporting period, two more Bacalli troop ships have arrived in the vicinity of the peninsula. The additional troops are believed to be masuk transfers from Adriat military colleges.

"There have been dramatic changes in Issel Sector space fleet orders of battle during the past week as well." The ensign pressed a button and a chart full of numbers came up in the holotank. "The first column gives the normal number of ships, by class, in Isselan, Adriat, and Saedese inventories," she said. "The second column gives the current counts by location."

She allowed her audience a few moments to study the chart.

On an impulse, Lujan began punching numbers into his microwriter and comparing the totals. His mouth tightened at the results.

At the podium the ensign was saying, "There was another violation yesterday of Yan's planetary space by an Isselan reconnaissance drone—the second occurrence in four days." The holotank blinked, showing a map of Yan's eastern hemisphere with a flight profile marked over it. "The drone was visually identified by a Cathana-based pilot who intercepted and destroyed it.

"In both cases, the intruders were short-range platforms, probably launched by one of the Isselan vessels patrolling the Yan Sector. All are capable of carrying drones." A three-dimensional model of the intruder rotated in the holotank, and the briefer said, "We expect this collection activity to continue."

She paused, looking over the conference room. "Last week our combined analysis team projected that Issel would need a month to launch an offensive. If preparations continue at their current pace, however, it's possible we could see it launched in as little as ten days. This concludes the briefing, ladies and gentlemen. May I answer any questions?"

"What tactics or techniques are being utilized in the Saedese exercises?" asked the Commander-in-Chief of Sostis' Surface Forces.

The ensign said, "Mostly airmobile assault and ground warfare in a rain forest environment, sir. The entire Unkai peninsula is heavily wooded. This type of activity would suggest training for an attack on Yan's Cathana Range complex; the terrain is very similar."

"And their weapon systems?" CINC SURFOR persisted.

"Soldier-portable projectile launchers and energy weapons, sir," the briefer said. "The region isn't conducive to the use of mechanized systems or troop vehicles. Much of the activity has been carried out in a simulated chemical environment."

There was silence for several moments at that.

Then a general from Topawa said, "I understand, Ensign, that masuki are not subordinate as a species, particularly in dealing with races they consider to be inferior, such as humans. What have these exercises shown about that?"

The briefer said, "There have been some problems noted, sir. At least one human officer reportedly has been killed by masuk soldiers for disciplining other masuki. In their slave-keeping culture, which prefers taking prisoners over killing the enemy, such a murder is the deepest kind of insult, as it implies that the victim is without value. No action has been taken against the killers, probably out of fear of further retaliation."

Whispered comments rippled through the hall.

"Are there any other questions?" the ensign asked.

"Yes," said Lujan. "I'd like to see the orders of battle again."

The chart materialized in the holotank.

He studied it for a long minute. "There's a discrepancy between the former and current totals," he said. "The equivalent of three carrier groups isn't accounted for here. Do you have locations for them?"

The ensign said, "We expect they're still in transit, sir."

"Confirm it," Lujan said, "or find them. I want to know where they are."

* *

In the Strategy Center, Governor Gisha studied the images in the map table. "What's the status of our space forces?" she asked without looking up.

"The Sixth and Eighth fleets are assembled and on-loading," said CINC SPAFLT, "and the planetary reserves are being mobilized. Our First and Fifth fleets are continuing normal planetary defense ops."

"How long before the Sixth and Eighth will be ready to launch?"

CINC SPAFLT said, "By tomorrow, Your Honor."

"Good. And the reserves?"

"They're mostly merchant ships for resupply. That may take up to ten days."

"We may not have ten days." Gisha pushed away from the table and began to pace. "How does our capability compare to Issel's?"

"The Sixth Fleet task force consists of seven spacecraft carrier groups, and the Eighth has six. The First and Fifth fleets each have six, and there are nearly five hundred reserve boats," CINC SPAFLT said. "You saw the Isselan orders of battle in the briefing, ma'am. Renier will probably reinforce his fleets with Adriat as well as Bacalli ships, since most masuk vessels are little more than troop carriers. Adriat still has a large, viable space force, although most of its ships are of Great War vintage."

Gisha nodded. "You expect a massive attack against Yan, then?"

"I doubt Renier has a choice, Your Honor," said the Chief of Defense. "If he loses his bid for Yan, he'll have lost his campaign for Sostis, too."

Gisha came back to the table to study it once more. "What's the EFT from here to Yan?"

"Seven standard days," said CINC SPAFLT.

"Seven days . . ." Gisha repeated, and glanced up. "And from Issel?"

"Five days. Four from Saede."

Gisha looked across at CINC SPAFLT. "By tomorrow I want the Sixth and Eighth Fleets on standby to move out for Yan, along with every resupply ship we have ready."

Eighteen

Avuse paused at the threshold of the dining room. "Messenger for you, sir."

Tristan glanced around as Renier rose from the table.

Behind Avuse stood the black man from the Communications Center.

Tristan put down his utensil. He couldn't hear the conversation but he saw how the sergeant looked at him around the governor's shoulder. Hard, like a blow to the face.

Like a warning.

He couldn't eat anymore. "I want to be excused," he said to Larielle, his mouth suddenly so dry he could scarcely get the words out.

She didn't ask why, just said, "All right," but he felt her watching as he pushed himself back and beckoned to Pulou.

Turning away from the table, he tripped. He barely caught himself, by the back of his own chair and b'Anar Id Pa'an's. The masuk withdrew his foot and leered at him. "Clumsy pup!" He reached over with his knife to spear the meat left on Tristan's plate. He tore half of it from the point and chewed so that it showed between his teeth and tongue.

Tristan glowered at him for a moment, hands knotted. Then he turned his back.

He could almost hear Pulou release his breath.

In his room he stripped off boots and jacket and shirt and squatted down to trace a pattern in the carpet.

Pulou perched on the bed behind him. "Something's wrong, little brother. It's what?"

"I don't know," Tristan said.

"You know how?"

"Dark man in there." He nodded in the direction of the dining room. "He looks at me and his eyes say 'danger.'"

Pulou blinked, cocking his head. "You do what?"

"Think of ways out."

"At night?"

"Yes," said Tristan.

He had grown drowsy with waiting when he heard voices in the corridor outside his room. Fully awake at once, he sat still and listened. The governor's voice. And Pa'an's. But he couldn't make out all the words. On hands and knees he slipped up to the door, crouched, pressed his ear to it.

". . . transport from Ganwold docked at Delta Station earlier this evening," said the governor.

"At last," said Pa'an. His tone seemed a snarl. He asked, "What of its passenger? The woman?"

"The message the captain relayed to me," said the governor, "stated that she was taken directly to the colonial medical facility after she was brought in from among the natives. The personnel there were able to stabilize her before she was taken aboard the ship, but they consider her condition incurable. They were unable to determine what it is." The governor paused. "Perhaps including that information with my next message will encourage my old friend Lujan Sergey to take some action at last. . . ."

Tristan stiffened, listening. "My mother!" He pushed away from the door, twisting around to stare at Pulou. "They bring my mother here, to Delta Station—and they tell my father!"

* *

Striding on down the corridor, Pa'an shrugged. "Perhaps it would be more effective to let her die."

"No." Renier's hand tightened on the grip of his walking stick. "That hasn't become necessary yet."

"I think that it has." The masuk stopped walking and turned, blocking the governor's way. "The Unified Worlds have not reacted to your provocations, Sector General, except to prepare their defenses."

"I'm aware of that," Renier said. "But it's of no concern to us."

"Your window for success is growing smaller."

"Not necessarily. Our real strike force will soon be fully assembled."

"My forces are already sufficient," said Pa'an, "to accomplish the Pasha's purposes."

"What do you mean by that?" Renier clipped the words, his features hardening.

Pa'an showed his canines. "My sire's world needs human slaves, Sector General, and it does not matter to my sire what world they are brought from. If the supply from Sostis is denied us, then slaves from Issel will suffice."

"You jackal!" Renier spat it.

"It is a necessity," said Pa'an. "Please remember, Governor, that I have command of the Pasha's soldiers and they are already within your system."

Renier stared at him. "You wouldn't dare!"

Pa'an cut him off with a motion of his hand. "The hostages," he said, and smiled again, slightly. "It is ironic about hostages. Some must be killed to give the others value with which to barter." He eyed Renier. "Make a choice, Sector General. Which one of them is worth more to you?"

The governor hesitated. "Kill the boy," he said.

Pa'an reached for the knife in his belt and started to turn.

Renier caught his arm. "No. That's too easy. I've waited a long time for the opportunity to teach Lujan Sergey what it means to ache for the loss of what he loves. I'll take care of the boy myself."

* *

Tristan fingered the lock panel. "Door's closed on outside!" He tapped the switch impatiently and glanced around the room. "This way, Pulou," he said suddenly. "We go through latrine and out through Rajak's room. It's not locked." Scooping up his boots with one hand, he said, "Be quiet," and reached for the latrine door—

—as Rajak, only a shadow in the darkness, stepped through it. "Not very smart, Tristan," he said.

The boots swung up, more out of reflex than by design, catching Rajak in the jaw and snapping his head back so he staggered.

"Pulou, go!" Tristan said. "Go! I come behind you!"

He swung the boots at Rajak's head again and tried to duck past him. The other countered the blow this time, striking the boots from his grip. He caught Tristan's arm and twisted it behind his back. Pain lanced through Tristan's shoulder, forcing him to his knees.

"That's enough, Rajak."

Tristan jerked his head up, startled, as the room's lighting came on.

The governor had come in through the hallway door behind him with his walking stick in his hands. b'Anar Id Pa'an followed him. But Pulou had escaped.

Renier crossed the room to press the latrine door's switch, locking it. "Put him over the end of the bed and tie him," he said.

The hold on Tristan's arms eased just enough for Rajak to shove him forward, still on his knees, and push him face down over the foot of the bed.

"I'm sorry, my boy," Renier said from behind him, "but the situation has become such that I can't afford to keep you alive any longer."

While Rajak pinned him, Pa'an knotted cords around Tristan's wrists, stretched his arms over the bed, tied the cords to its legs. The position made every breath an effort.

He heard a footstep behind him, and started at the sensation of something blunt and cold gliding down his bare spine. "I wish I could assure you that your death will be quick and painless," the governor said, "but that wouldn't begin to repay what I owe your father."

The cold tip slid to the right, tracing his lowest rib. "His betrayal of me, Tristan, eventually cost the lives of my wives and children, besides the loss of my motherworld."

The tip withdrew—then slammed into the same spot with a force that seemed to pierce Tristan's back. The floating rib snapped; he felt its stab when his body recoiled. His vision momentarily tunneled.

"I've borne that ache for a long time, young one," the governor said from somewhere above him. "It's time that he learned what I've suffered."

The end of the walking stick moved up Tristan's spine again. He shuddered.

"And he will suffer, Tristan. He'll ache as I have when he sees the holograms and realizes how long it took for you to die."

The tip paused at the nape of his neck. Withdrew once more.

Tristan closed his eyes, clenched his teeth.

The walking stick whistled out of nowhere, slamming red hot across the top of his shoulders. He buried his face in the bedcover to stifle an outcry and felt sweat well up all over his body.

* *

Pulou crouched outside the latrine door. He grimaced at the scent of human blood. It stirred his pulse, made him hyperventilate. The whistling whacks of metal on flesh pinned his ears back. The muffled screams raised his hackles, drew his lips back from his fangs. The snarl that started low in his throat swelled into a banshee's shriek as he tore at the door.

One claw caught in the doorframe's seam and snapped off at the quick. He sprang back, hissing with pain, shaking his hand.

It would take another human to open the door and let him in, he knew. There was one human who might.

He clawed at Larielle's door, mindless of the broken nail.

He cringed when it opened. He touched his forehead over and over. "Peace, mother!" He panted it, beckoned. "Come! Come! Tristan is hurt!" He kept beckoning, "Come, come!" and backing away, and she followed, her expression puzzled and worried.

She was the jwa'naan here. She could make them stop.

* *

Tristan closed his hands around the cords and tried to pull up on them to relieve the pressure in his chest. He couldn't scream anymore; he could barely even breathe. His palms were slick with sweat and his fingers had become stiff. He dragged in one breath before his hands went slack.

He didn't hear the door sigh open, heard only a cry that wasn't his own. "Papa, no! Papa, what in the worlds are you doing? Stop!"

He heard a sound like a nut being crushed with a stone. And a choke. Then the metal walking stick struck the wall and the governor's panicked voice penetrated his swooning fog. "Lari! My soul, I hit her! I didn't even see her! My soul, her throat! Oh, Lari, my dear one! Rajak, get the medics!"

"No . . ." Tristan gasped it, the word only a breath. He tried to raise his head, to turn it, but lightning shot through his ribs and spine.

He couldn't see anything but the masuk staring at something on the floor, couldn't hear anything but the rattling gasps of someone strangling and the governor sobbing, "My soul, my soul, she's all I have left! She's all I have!"

"Larielle . . ." Tristan moaned. He gulped and shuddered, and everything faded.

Something touched his jaw, his neck, and hesitated. A hand. He let his eyes flicker open.

"Lie still," a distant voice urged in a whisper.

He did.

The hands moved to one wrist, picked at the knotted cord until it loosened, then untied the other.

"Go limp, don't make a sound," the whisper said.

Hands pulled him up from his knees and onto the bed. Something warm ran down his sides and the middle of his back and into the top of his trousers. His arms hung useless, without feeling; his chest felt crushed; his back and shoulders burned. He locked his teeth on a groan and sweat broke over him again.

The hands eased him onto something that seemed to float—it rocked, gave as his weight settled on it—and then they pulled a sheet over his head.

* *

Emerging from the lift into the dispensary, Captain Weil felt something brush his leg. He glanced down. Amber eyes blinked up at him, questioning. He nodded, motioned Pulou to stay back, and let his two corpsmen go ahead of him. "Take her down to the morgue," he said. "I can prepare this one in the trauma unit."

He didn't wait for the others to maneuver the second repulsion sled on down the corridor. When the doors of the trauma room slid closed behind him, he pulled the sheet away from the youth's head and said, "It's going to be okay, kid. You're going to be all right."

The boy groaned when Weil moved him onto the surgical table. "I'm sorry, kid," he said.

The gan moved around the table, began to stroke the youth's hair with the back of his hand, began to keen. With great effort, Tristan turned his head. "Pulou . . ."

Weil switched on the hemomanagement system at the head of the table to prime its pump and selected whole bloodsub over Parenteral-5. Reaching for packaged IV lines, he paused, reconsidered, then took a field pack from the storage cabinet instead. He tore it open on the counter and assessed its contents: medications for shock, for pain, for poisons, all in dermal infusers; aerosol cauterizer and suturing strips; two units of universal bloodsub in gravity canisters. Primitive but mobile.

He hung one canister over the table, swabbed the youth's forearm, set the intracatheter.

Dulled eyes followed his motions but scarcely blinked at the momentary sting. Shock.

Weil selected a dermal infuser, yanked off its cap with his teeth and pressed it to Tristan's shoulder. He turned on oxygen and slipped a mask over the youth's nose and mouth. Checked his pulse again, and blood pressure.

He didn't relax for several minutes.

Using buttons like a computer's cursor pad, he shifted scanner antennae above and below the table and adjusted the holographic display to eye level. Radio waves emitted and received between the antennae and translated into digital computer code produced a three-dimensional image in the display. Weil touched fine tuning dials, deleting muscle and skin to focus on bone, and enlarged the cervical vertebrae.

"I'm going to put an electronic neural clip in the back of your neck, kid," Weil said as he turned away to scrub. "You won't be able to move as long as it's in place but it'll block the pain. Understand?"

No response. He wasn't sure the boy had heard him but he didn't have time to ask again.

It took only a moment and a small pair of forceps, using the 'scanner's display for magnification. When the tautness left the youth's body, he sighed his relief behind his surgical hood.

The 'scanner revealed everything: five ribs cracked and one broken, all on the right side; seven cracked vertebral processes in the thoracic curvature; contusions and hemorrhage of both kidneys, particularly severe in the right; lacerations and contusions to a computer estimated thirty-one percent of the dermal surface and underlying tissues.

Weil clenched his teeth.

Under Pulou's scrutiny, he stripped off Tristan's bloodied trousers and repositioned him on the table. "I've got to catheterize you, kid," he said. "He managed to bruise your kidneys."

". . . killed Lari . . . ?" Tristan moaned.

Weil paused, recalling what they'd found in the small room. The girl's larynx had been fractured when the backlash of the governor's stroke caught her in the throat. By the time he and the corpsmen arrived, she had already suffocated from the larynx's swelling. Weil's stomach turned again at recalling it. "She died quickly, Tris," he said, even though he knew that was a lie. He added, "I'm sorry."

Unfocused vision touched his for a moment. Then the boy turned his face away, teeth clamped tight on his lower lip, and Weil heard his breath catch.

Guided by the holographic display, he used a laser apparatus to cauterize and close the deepest lacerations, to fuse cracked ribs and vertebral processes.

Maneuvering the laser apparatus away on its robotic arm, he felt the youth watching him again. Dazedly. "We're almost done," he said, reaching for an aerosol container. He sprayed its contents over the boy's back with several sweeps. Mist settled into a transparent layer like a gel. "When that dries," Weil said, "it'll form an artificial skin that'll peel off as yours heals. It has a topical antibiotic as well as medication to reduce swelling."

He set down the container, peeled off his surgical gloves, turned toward the medications locker. "I'm going to start you on a regen to help you heal more quickly and a sedative so you'll sleep, and I'll keep an eye on your vital signs for the first few hours. We should pretty well have you back on your feet in five or six days."

Tristan didn't answer.

But he jumped at a voice from outside the doors: "Need some help in there, sir?"

Staff Sergeant Ricker, one of the corpsmen.

Weil stiffened, too. "No," he said, a little too quickly. He forced himself to take a breath. "No, I'm just about finished." The timepanel on the far wall caught his attention. "You two might as well take off. The day shift will come in a little while."

"What about the pictures?"

"I'll process them while I'm waiting for the day staff." He kept his voice under control.

"All right, sir," Ricker said. "See you tonight."

Weil listened to two sets of footfalls retreat up the corridor. He met Pulou's inquisitive look and let out his breath.

Easing Tristan back onto the med sled, he collected the catheter and IV canister, a monitor kit, blankets and sterile towels, and concealed them all under the sheet with his patient before leaving the room.

The morgue was chilly and smelled of embalming fluids. Pulou wrinkled his nose and grimaced. Weil tried to ignore the cabinet with the new tag on it, but he felt the skin prickle at the nape of his neck.

The slab stood at the back of the room, where light from the doorway didn't reach. The blankets would have to suffice for padding. Weil folded each in thirds and laid them on the table. Then he shifted Tristan from the sled, positioned limbs rendered limp by the neural clip, and placed folded towels to ease pressure points.

Pulou slipped up on the counter and watched with his head cocked as Weil hung up the IV and infused it with the sedative and regen. Watched him apply vital signs patches and make a final check of pulse and blood pressure, temperature and respirations.

"You're doing okay, kid," Weil said. "Pulou will be here with you, but there's one more precaution I think we'd better take." He forced himself to meet the boy's eyes as he placed dressings and suturing tape on the slab near his head. "I'm going to bandage your mouth closed. We can't risk you moaning or something and being heard. Right now your survival depends on making people believe that you're dead."

* *

And making sure the boy's father knows he's still alive, Weil thought a little later. He studied the death certificate form on the terminal's screen and wrinkled his brow.

The situation struck him with a sudden sense of deja vu. Had it been only six months ago that he'd concocted the report about a psychological bond between gan hunting partners? Here we go again, he thought, and turned back to the task at hand.

Leaving the death date and time blank would be too obvious. So would be filling in "Unknown." He gave the correct date and approximate time of the beating.

MEDICAL EXAMINER

On an impulse he deleted the title and replaced it with Attending Physician before he entered his name.

CAUSE OF DEATH

That was it. He chose the words carefully: medical terms that cataloged his patient's injuries and stated their extent. Precisely. They would mean nothing under scrutiny by the governor or the Comms Center, but any physician in known space would understand.

Nineteen

The intercom on the desktop buzzed. Lujan reached for it without turning his vision from the document on his desk terminal and hit its button. "What is it?"

Jiron's voice answered. "Intelligence has brought up the report you requested, sir."

"Tell them to come in."

The ensign who had briefed the previous day stepped into his office. She removed a folder from her case, extended it to him over the desk, stepped back and stayed at attention.

"Thank you," Lujan said, and detected—awe?—in her face, in her rigid posture. That never failed to surprise him. He smiled to put her at ease, and gestured. "Have a seat while I look at this, Ensign Dicharia."

She had provided imagery, an astral map, a one-page summary. He read it completely and nodded. "That's what I suspected." He looked up. "How many combatants are out there now?"

"Thirty-nine, sir. Almost four carrier battle groups, plus some resupply boats."

"And more are expected?"

"Probably, sir."

Lujan leaned back in his chair. "He's done this before. Once at Enach with the fleet he hid near Kvist, and again when he took Adriat, five years after the Great War ended. There's always a concealed weapon." He straightened, placing the folder on the desktop. "Good work, Ensign. There's one more thing. We'll need everything you can give us about air and space defenses in the Saede system."

* *

In the Triune's private conference room Lujan said, "Issel is assembling a fleet beyond Ogata, the sixth planet in the Saede system. According to this imagery, it consisted of thirty-nine ships at oh-one-hundred this morning, and more will probably join them." He spread the pictures on the table before the Triune and Governor Gisha. "In another five days, Ogata's orbit will place it in an optimum position for that fleet to launch against Sostis."

"Sostis?" Pite Hanesson straightened in his chair. "Why do you think it's not another force targeting Yan, Admiral?"

"Because Renier has always worked this way," Lujan said, "using multiple fronts to distract and divide his enemy's forces. And because, although he wants Yan as well, his real objective has always been Sostis."

Hanesson sat back, eyeing the astral map and stroking his chin.

"Wouldn't that involve a considerable risk?" asked Ashforth.

"Not if enough of Sostis' defenses were diverted to Yan, which is what he seems to be counting on," said Lujan.

Silence. The weighted space grew more so, until Hanesson said, "What do you propose, Admiral?"

"The Spherzah fleet that entered your spacedocks two weeks ago is ready to launch again. You have the authority to order it; I suggest that you do so. It should be in position here at Buhlig—" Lujan pointed to a minor star system on the astral map, "—when the Isselan strike force returns to real space from its first lightskip. When that's contained, we'll move on to Saede."

"No!" Hanesson shot to his feet. "That world—"

"—houses a main forward operating base," Lujan said, "and ports which are vital links in Renier's chain of logistics support. If we don't eliminate those facilities now, they'll be used against us again."

"But our enemy is Issel," Hanesson protested, "not Saede!"

Kun Reng-Tan raised one hand in a conciliatory motion. "A world which aides your enemy is not your ally," he said.

Hanesson surveyed the circle of his peers and read a grimness in their eyes, born of events and places they had survived and he had never seen. He let his hands drop to the tabletop, let his shoulders go slack. "Then you approve of the admiral's attack on Saede?" he said to Kun at last.

"Counterattack," said Kun. "Yes, I do. If that fleet launches, if it comes through the Buhlig 'skip point, then it has committed itself to attack. It has struck the first blow."

"And you, Alois?"

She gave a single nod. "I approve."

Hanesson turned to Lujan. "I can't in good conscience give you my own approval, Admiral Sergey, but I am overruled. Therefore, do what you must to defend Sostis."

Lujan acknowledged him with a nod.

Hanesson turned to Sostis' World Governor. "What of you, Kedar?"

She glanced across at CINC SPAFLT. "Are the fleets ready?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"What of the resupply ships?"

"Only twenty-five have finished on-loading."

Gisha looked at Lujan. "The Sixth and Eighth Fleets are standing by to launch for Yan today," she said. "According to the information you've presented, Admiral, we're at D minus nine right now. The flight to Yan will take most of that time, and the commanders will need the rest of it to establish their defense positions."

"The Eighth fleet and the twenty-five resupply ships will be sufficient to defend Yan," he said, "at least initially."

"You're certain of that, Lujan?"

He said, "Nothing is certain in war, Your Honor."

She considered for several moments. "And the other fleets?" she asked.

"I suggest you keep the Sixth fleet ready to launch," Lujan said, "to reinforce Yan, should that become necessary. Keep your First and Fifth fleets in a defense perimeter around Sostis. If the Spherzah fleet can't achieve its objective, you'll need those fleets here."

* *

He didn't return to the Command Section until late afternoon. Jiron and most of the office staff had already gone, making final preparations for their departure. But he found the outer office occupied.

Ambassador Kapolas stood in the center of the reception area, tapping the corners of two envelopes into his palm. He said, "I've been waiting for some time to see you, Admiral."

Lujan motioned the man into his office and said, "What is it, Ambassador?"

Kapolas ignored his gestured invitation to be seated. Said only, "I regret that I must be the bearer of bad news," and extended one of the envelopes.

Lujan accepted it. Examined it briefly before he slipped its catch.

"It's not an explosive," Kapolas said. "Not in the physical sense, at least. However, you would be wise to sit down before you look at the contents."

Lujan looked across at him, hard, but the other's expression remained inscrutable. Seating himself at his desk, he opened the envelope and reached into it.

Holography film. Two or three sheets of it. With another glance at Kapolas, he slid them out onto the desktop.

He felt the ambassador watching him with eyes like lasers and masked his horror. All but a twitch at one corner of his mouth.

He forced himself to look at all three holograms. Kept his face impassive. He noted the transmission codes along the top and bottom of each.

He studied the death certificate for several moments. The standard date and time caught his attention: 0423 on 7/2/3308. Only yesterday.

But there was something irregular about it. . . .

He looked directly at Kapolas. "Why?" he said.

"A number of reasons," said the ambassador, "some of which are known only to you and the Sector General. But mostly because of your failure to cooperate at earlier opportunities."

"To be coerced, you mean."

Kapolas shrugged. "Semantics are meaningless at this point, Admiral. But Governor Renier is offering you a final chance to cooperate." He handed over the second envelope.

Lujan pulled it open, withdrew another sheet of holography film.

Darcie.

She appeared very thin, very pale, with only a masuk guard on either side keeping her on her feet.

"The picture was made yesterday as she was taken aboard the Bacalli vessel s'Adou The'n," said Kapolas. "Obviously, Admiral, she's in very frail health. She wouldn't last as long under torture as your son did."

Lujan crushed the envelope in his hand.

He regained control in the next instant and locked onto the ambassador's gaze with his own. "What are you leading up to?"

"The fact that it isn't too late to save her—yet. Nor is it too late to recall the warships which departed Issel a few standard hours ago. But that is up to you."

Warships have departed Issel.

Lujan masked that shock, too. "What does the Sector General expect me to do?" he said. "Sell out Sostis the way he did twenty-seven years ago?"

The ambassador betrayed a split second's surprise, and Lujan rose to his feet. "Treason is not an alternative, even at—the cost of my family." He indicated the door. "Good day, Ambassador."

Kapolas paused at the threshold. "There are still forty-eight hours before the fleet reaches its first 'skip point, Admiral."

"Good day, Ambassador." Lujan let his eyes and voice turn hard.

Alone, he sank back into his chair, suddenly strengthless.

Warships have departed Issel.

He punched the secure phone and passed the message to the offices of the Triune and the World Governor.

His vision kept touching the holograms lying on the desk, finally fixing on them for several minutes until, nauseous, he turned his face away.

Something about the death certificate drew his attention back.

Attending Physician. I've never seen that before. He reached for the intercom button. Remembered before he pressed it that Jiron was no longer there. He called the Command Surgeon's office instead, wondering if anyone would still be in.

* *

Beyond the diaphametal wall, Ramiscal City appeared mirage-like under the thin fog of early spring, but Lujan, leaning against the pane, scarcely noticed. He glanced over his shoulder when he sensed a presence at the doorway behind him, and turned away from the view.

"Surgeon's Office, sir," said the woman who stood there. She wore commander's rank. "You requested that someone come up?"

"Yes." He moved to his desk, reached for the death certificate lying there, passed it across to her. "There's something unusual about this," he said.

He saw her glance up once, swiftly, when she read the name of the deceased, but he said nothing. He only watched her and waited.

She read it through. Read it twice, in fact, and appeared to consider it for a long while.

Then she said carefully, "Sir, the way this is worded suggests to me that your son wasn't dead when this certificate was submitted. It gives a detailed description of his injuries but it makes no actual statement of death." She hesitated. "I suspect it was done that way intentionally. I'd guess that someone wanted to be sure you'd know he was still alive."

Lujan only nodded; his throat had abruptly gone too tight to speak. He turned his vision abruptly back to the city outside, clenching his hands and his jaw.

The commander turned her eyes from him in apparent deference to his emotions. But she didn't withdraw. She waited until he'd regained control before she asked, "Are you all right, sir?"

"I will be," he said. He managed to keep his voice steady.

"If there's anything we can do to assist you . . ." she offered.

He shook his head. "I don't think so, not right now, but thank you."

Lujan opened up his desktop terminal after the surgeon left. It took only a few minutes to draft a set of new orders, a few sentences, brief but explicit. He read them over, then added a directive: "Dispatch at highest precedent to Commodore of the Spherzah Cerise Chesney."

Two keystrokes released it into secure communications channels.

He glanced up at the timepanel on the wall. Two hours until launch.

* *

"Message just in for you, ma'am," said the ensign at Comms.

Chesney turned away from the personnel seated at the receiver banks. "Is it urgent?"

"Yes, ma'am. It's from Admiral Sergey."

"I'll take it in my quarters."

Striding through the ship's passages, she said under her breath, "It's about time!"

In her cabin, Chesney secured the door before punching an access code and MSG REL into her desk terminal.

The text came up in green characters, barely filling a quarter of the screen. She scanned it rapidly first, narrowing her eyes. "Tristan," she said. "I knew it."

But the rest made her straighten in her chair. She read it again, slowly this time, her brow creasing with concentration. "Ogata? Holy Dzhou!" She whistled. "Brilliant as usual, Jink."

* *

Weil glanced over his shoulder as he touched the door switch. No one in the corridor. Stepping into the morgue, he said quietly, "It's just me, kids," and gestured at the light sensor.

Pulou, huddled at the base of the slab, blinked in the abrupt illumination, squinted, and came to his feet in a serpentine motion.

Tristan started when Weil pulled the sheet away from his head. His hair lay in a damp fringe across his forehead, and his eyes showed fear and a pain which wasn't entirely physical. "What is it, Tris?" Weil asked, easing the gag off. "Nightmares again?"

"Yes." The boy gulped a breath. "I keep hearing Larielle scream . . . and hearing them talk about my mother."

"I'm sorry," said Weil. "I'll give you a stronger sedative that should help you sleep better." He checked the readouts on the vital signs monitor.

"They've got my mother!" the youth said again.

"Take it easy, kid." Weil lay a hand on his head, looked into his face. "I know," he said, "I know, but we've got to worry about you first. Take it easy."

He waited a little, until Tristan seemed calmer. Then he said, "Let me look at your back now," and he drew the sheet down.

Under the dermal seal, red lacerations had just begun to close. Much of the swelling had receded. "In a couple more days," Weil said, "you'll be able to move around without risk of the skin injuries pulling open again."

"How long've I been here?" Tristan asked.

"Two days."

"Feels longer," the boy sighed.

"I know," said Weil. "I'm sorry. That's one of the reasons I've kept you asleep so much. . . . Are you starting to feel hungry yet?"

"A little."

"Good." He picked up the boy's arm. "I'm taking you off the IV and starting you on a soft diet with a high protein content, a step up from the ice chips and clear liquids you've been getting. It'll help you start to regain your strength."

Tristan said nothing.

"Your temperature's almost down to normal and your blood pressure's good," Weil said, "but we'll keep you catheterized a little longer to be sure you've stopped passing blood." He turned the youth onto his side and bolstered his head with rolled towels. "I'm going to put you through the range of motion exercises again, and then I'll feed you."

"I hate this, being fed and tended like a baby!" Tristan said.

Weil saw humiliation in his face. "I'm sorry, kid," he said again. "It was the best way to relieve your pain under the circumstances." He began the exercising with Tristan's right arm, manipulating each finger in turn, then his wrist, then his elbow. "I'll pull the clip in a couple more days."

No answer, but the youth's listless gaze followed his actions.

"Sir?" It was Ricker's voice, in the corridor. "Are you down here? There's someone at the front desk to see you."

"Oh, no," Weil said under his breath. He touched Tristan's gaze with his own and reached to draw up the sheet. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Stay with him, Pulou."

Sergeant Ricker, still standing in the hallway, eyed him when he came out of the morgue. "I misplaced something the other night," Weil said. "I think I must've lost it while I was moving the boy's body."

"It must be pretty important, sir," Ricker said, a suggestion of skepticism in his tone. "You've sure been spending a lot of time in there looking for it."

"Yes, it is important. To me, at least." Weil's mouth went dry. "It's—my grandfather's service ring." He forced his vision to meet the other's. "So who's at the front desk at this hour of the night?"

"Somebody from Communications," said Ricker, still eyeing him. "Says he's got stomach pains, but he wouldn't let me look at him. He said he knows you."

"From Communications?" Weil furrowed his brow.

He didn't recognize the man who stood beyond the front desk, one hand pressed to his abdomen. "What's wrong, Sergeant?" he asked.

"It started aching right after mess," the sergeant said, "and it's been getting worse ever since. Now it feels like somebody hit me." He stood slightly hunched, as if doubling over would have been more comfortable.

"Food poisoning maybe," said Weil. "Look, I'll give you something to counter it."

"No, sir, I don't think so. This has been going on for some time."

"Why didn't you come in before?" Weil could hear impatience mounting in his voice and he didn't try to disguise it.

"Because it wasn't serious then," the NCO said, and his eyes, his tone of voice took on a dangerous shade. "Now it is."

"What's wrong?" Weil asked, suspicious.

"Maybe you'd better find out, sir."

Weil eyed him for a long moment, feeling increasingly uneasy, before he said, "Come back here."

In the examining room, he touched the door switch and turned to see that his patient no longer hunched. He swallowed, his heart suddenly hammering. "What's going on?" he asked once more.

"You're not going to be able to hide Tristan much longer," the man said. "It's too dangerous. It's time to get him out."

Weil stiffened. "Who are you?"

"Lieutenant Commander Ajimir Nemec, Unified Worlds Spherzah."

Weil swallowed. "I don't have any reason to believe that."

"Except that right now you don't have a choice," said Nemec. "Your life is in danger, too, and I'm under orders from Admiral Lujan Sergey to get both of you out of here."

Weil stared at him, still wary. "How?"

"There's a ship waiting. What condition is the boy in?"

"He's got cracked ribs and vertebrae, and bruised kidneys."

"Can he walk?"

"He's been immobilized for two days," Weil said, "and I just took him off the IV. With one more day he can be back on his feet."

"I doubt we have one more hour." Nemec punched the door switch.

Sergeant Ricker almost toppled into the room when the door slid open.

Nemec felled him with the motion of one hand, like an ax at the base of a sapling, and bundled him onto the examination table. "Leave the light on and the door closed and go," he said. "It's a safe bet he's already called Security."

Twenty

"I'm back, Tris." Urgency laced the medic's voice as he pulled the sheet away. Urgency creased his face. He placed a backpack and a towel bundle on the counter and said, as he turned Tristan from his belly onto his back, "Listen, we're getting you out of here. We'll do everything we can to make it easier for you. This is sooner than I'd planned but we don't have a choice."

"What?" Tristan watched as the medic peeled the monitor patches off of his chest. He couldn't feel anything. Still, when Weil reached for the catheter, he locked his teeth and squeezed his eyes closed.

"Your father sent one of his men to get you," the surgeon said as he cut the tubes and withdrew them, "and one of my corpsmen overheard us talking. He probably called Security before we caught him."

Weil shifted him onto his side and met his look. "I'm going to pull the neural clip, kid. It's going to hurt. I'm sorry we don't have time to place some specific clips for your ribs."

Tristan felt a twinge at the nape of his neck, and then—pain! Fire through his upper arms and chest and shoulders, a dull ache down his back. He closed one hand hard on the edge of the slab before he was fully aware he could even do so.

"You'll have to sit up now," Weil said, and slipped a hand under his side, under his arm. "Here, let me help you."

The movement sent lightning through his spine and right side, took his breath, produced involuntary tears. He tried to swallow a groan, tried not to look at Pulou.

"Just sit still for a minute," the medic said, and opened the towel bundle. "I'm going to put another layer of dermal seal on your back and give you another dose of antibiotic and something for pain, and then we'll put you in a brace to support your ribs."

Weil applied a thermopatch to Tristan's forehead first, then took an aerosol container from the bundle, shook it, moved around behind him. The spray felt cool up and down his back.

Weil traded the container for a dermal infuser. It made a small ache when he pressed it to Tristan's shoulder. Dropping it into a trash receptacle, Weil reached for an object that resembled a microreader, about three inches long, two wide, and an eighth inch thick. It had a display and several buttons on one side and backing on the other that the surgeon peeled away, revealing a duct in the center of an adhesive surface.

"This is a multiple infuser; it holds sixty grains of morphesyne," Weil said. "There's a miniature syringe here in the back." He indicated the duct. "When you push the pad on the front, it'll give you a small preprogrammed dosage and record the time and amount in the memory. You can use it up to six times an hour if you need to. Frequent small doses control pain better than large doses at long intervals do." He checked the infuser's readout against the timepanel on the wall and pressed it to the center of Tristan's chest.

Weil held up a brace, made of plastics with a lining like fleece. "Sit up as straight as you can," Weil said, "and hold your arms away from your body."

Tristan sat motionless with his eyes closed and his breath hissing through his teeth. He didn't have to watch the medic apply it; he could feel how each strap pulled through its eye, how each was fastened.

"Now the clothes," said Weil. "The best I could get you was a surgical suit."

Tristan opened his eyes as the surgeon pulled wadded blue cloth over his head, shook it out into a tunic, and said, "Put your arm through here. That's it. Now the other one." Then he said, "There're trousers, too. You'll have to get off the table."

Tristan looked down. Half a meter of space gaped between his feet and the floor. He swallowed and questioned Weil with his stare.

"Just slide off," the medic said. "Reach for the floor with one foot first. Yes, it'll hurt, but I've got your arm. I won't let you fall."

He took hold of Weil's shoulder with one hand, placed the other on Pulou's shoulder.

The jolt of his feet meeting the floor sent a shock through his ribs. His knees buckled. Weil and Pulou held him by both arms, keeping him on his feet. He sagged until the swoon passed, until he could draw a cautious breath. Then he heard Pulou keening close to his ear.

"Easy," Weil said. "Easy. That's the worst part." And in a moment, "Can you stand now?"

Tristan only nodded. Even the thought of so much as saying "Yes" hurt.

"Good. Hold onto Pulou," Weil said. "Right foot first."

The surgeon crouched at his feet, gathering up the trouser leg to make it easier. He stepped into the right leg, then the left, and let Weil pull the trousers up and draw the waistcord snug. "Not too tight!" he pled.

Behind him the door clicked. Weil jumped. Tristan turned his head.

It was the sergeant from Communications, the dark man with the dangerous eyes.

Tristan stiffened. He felt Pulou tense, too.

"They're coming in!" the man said. "Get him out of here!"

Tristan swallowed. "Who's coming?"

"Security." Weil flung his backpack over one shoulder and asked, "Get out how?"

"There's an access to the emergency stairs from the ward," said the black man. "It'll have a pressure shield door. Go! I'll cover you."

Tristan hesitated, looked at Weil.

"It's all right," the surgeon said. "He's one of the Spherzah."

The corridor was a blur of bright light and pale walls and smooth floor. Lower lip caught between his teeth, Tristan pressed his right arm to his side and let Pulou and Weil support him up the passage, across a long room with several beds, to the door at its opposite end.

From somewhere behind them rang shouts and running bootfalls.

The Spherzah lunged at the door's security bolt, shoved it free. The door swung away, admitting enough light to reveal a stair landing. "Go!" the man said.

Tristan stumbled over a door track wider than his body. Pulou caught him, practically pulled him through, and Weil and the Spherzah came after.

". . . the stairs!" someone shouted from the room behind them.

The Spherzah punched the pressure door's manual trigger. With a small explosion, the shield slammed down over the doorway.

The sound of it rang on forever, above and below, in sudden blackness. The platform they stood on shook with it.

The stairwell felt hot, its air motionless and musty. The Spherzah switched on a palm light and played it around the walls, over a sign with arrows marking an evacuation route.

"We're directly under the passenger shuttles," he said. "Start working your way down while I go up and seal off the access from the top." He slipped the light from his hand and gave it to Weil.

"What?" the surgeon said. "Why?"

"Because Security will expect us to try for the shuttles. They'll probably send someone down to meet us."

"But what's down there?" Weil turned the lamp and peered through the grating under their feet, down a well webbed with steel stairs. It sank to a depth the beam couldn't find the bottom of.

"There're caves," Tristan said. He turned his vision away from the view and swallowed hard. "They go everywhere."

The black man nodded. "But they're almost two miles below us," he said. "Don't force your pace. There's enough time." He hesitated on the steps. "There will be an explosion, maybe two. Don't stop; I'll catch up to you."

Then he vanished, one with the dark and the quiet.

"Who—is he?" Tristan asked of the doctor.

"Lieutenant Commander Ajimir Nemec," said Weil. "He—said he's one of your father's people."

Tristan saw, by the palm light, the lingering uncertainty in Weil's eyes. "Do you believe him?"

"Right now, Tris," the surgeon said, "we don't have a choice." He hesitated, then asked, "How are you doing?"

Tristan's mouth felt like dust, his limbs felt limp, his whole body seemed to throb to his racing heartbeat. He couldn't remember ever feeling worse in his life, but he said, "I'm okay."

"Then let's go," said Weil.

The steps had narrow treads and steep risers and there were fifteen between each landing. Teeth locked, Tristan leaned on the handrail and reached down with one foot. Held his breath as that foot took his weight so the other could follow. The stretching, the shifting of weight felt as if his ribs jarred and scraped against each other.

On the nineteenth landing he eased himself to his hands and knees. The movement produced new pain through his chest and back. He sank over and sat down.

"Little brother?" Pulou squatted close. "It's what?"

"It hurts," Tristan said. He hissed it, teeth clenched, and held the brace tightly to his side with one hand.

Kneeling in front of him, Weil checked the patch on his forehead and then his throat pulse. "Is it mostly your ribs?"

"Yeah . . ."

"Have you used the morphesyne infuser?"

"No . . ."

"Here." Weil reached under the brace and pressed the pad.

There was a tiny sting, like the prick of a thorn, in the center of Tristan's chest.

"Just try to relax and let it take effect," Weil said. He fumbled something from his backpack. "Here, drink some of this, too. You should have all the fluids you can take."

Tristan found a drinking bottle in his hands. He sipped at it, found it cool and vaguely fruit flavored, but his stomach felt queasy. He handed it back.

The pain had already begun to dull, making it easier to breathe. Weil asked, "Feeling better now?"

"A little," Tristan sighed.

"Let's go, then."

He crawled back to his feet, teeth gritted, and reached for the handrail.

In the haze of morphesyne, the stairwell took on a nightmare quality, an endless repetition of effort that caused pain, that cost strength, and seemed to bring him no nearer the bottom. He lost count of the landings, lost count of the times he had to stop and press the infuser pad.

Once his legs gave way altogether, five steps from the next landing. Pulou caught him as he buckled, helped him sit down on the step. He rubbed the infuser on his chest once, then again, and felt nothing. "It's not working," he told Weil. "Hasn't it been ten minutes yet?"

Weil checked his timepiece. "I guess not. Is it getting worse?"

"Yeah . . ."

The surgeon felt his pulse and offered him the drinking bottle. "Try to take some more."

Tristan managed two swallows and passed it back, his hand unsteady. "That's enough."

A distant concussion, a tremor through the landing startled him. Pulou's eyes widened. Tristan looked at Weil.

"That'll be Nemec sealing the shaft," the medic said. "I hope." The palm light showed the tension in his jaw as he glanced up, and then over at Tristan. "Ready to go again?"

Tristan hesitated. "How much farther?"

Weil turned the palm light downward. "I think I can see the bottom."

Nemec caught up to them before they reached it, a voice first, and then a shadow materializing out of the dark above. His breath came hard, like a runner's at the end of a long race.

"What's going on?" Weil asked.

Nemec tapped his ear, and Tristan saw that he wore a receiver plug like those used by the air traffic controllers at the academy. "Right now they're staking out the stairway entrance to the shuttle bays," Nemec said when he could. "I triggered the shield doors into other levels as I went up to encourage that. But they won't hold those positions forever. We'd better be gone by the time they start looking down here."

He unclipped a sensor from his gunbelt when they reached the bottom. Sinking down to lean against the wall, Tristan watched as he ran it over the door frame. Its hum didn't fluctuate. "No electronic devices," Nemec said. He tested the door's security bolt, then threw it, and winced at its thunk.

They waited.

The echo exhausted itself up the stairwell behind them but they heard no bootfalls, no alarms.

Nemec slipped through the door first, sidearm in one hand, sensor in the other. Then he returned, beckoning. "Still clear," he said in a whisper. "Hurry!"

Holding onto Pulou, Tristan regained his feet. He swayed, closing his eyes against a wave of dizziness.

They stepped into a maintenance tunnel, gray with a low ceiling. Weil's palm light illuminated glow-painted words on the wall: TERRARIUM MAIN ACCESS, with an arrow pointing the direction.

"I know where this goes," Tristan said.

But Nemec knelt, pulling up a circular cover from the floor. It scraped, shifted. He wrested it aside, and Weil flashed the palm light around a shaft with rungs down one side. Tristan remembered Pulou's description of burrows like a lomo's. It seemed ages ago.

"You first, Doc," Nemec said, "and then you." He pointed at Pulou. "It's about five yards down. Be careful! It's damp and the rungs will be slippery."

Weil disappeared into the hole first. Pulou hesitated, until Tristan said, "Go. I come behind you," and looked at Nemec.

The man nodded. "Sit down on the edge with your feet in the hole," he said. "It'll be easier to get onto the rungs that way." He took Tristan by the tunic, a handful of cloth at the nape of his neck. "I've got you," he said. "One at a time now. Take it slowly."

Bearing part of his weight on his arms felt like having his ribcage pulled apart. It strained the lacerations over Tristan's shoulder blades. He felt one pull open, felt warm fluid ooze down his back. It itched. Eyes closed, breath raking through his teeth, he hung motionless for long moments, hugging the ladder. Then he reached down with one bare foot. . . .

He felt the grip on his tunic release only when Nemec could lean no farther into the shaft to hold onto him.

Stretching for the next rung, he felt something give in his lower back. Its twinge made him gasp, stiffen. His foot missed its hold—

His arms couldn't take the sudden weight. The tug as he dropped was like an explosion in his chest. He didn't feel the rung pull out of his grip as his consciousness collapsed on itself, or the arms that caught him when he fell.

He came to lying face down on damp ground, roused by Pulou keening and stroking his hair. He moved one hand enough to nudge the gan and sighed, "I'm a'right, Pulou." But he didn't want to move anything else. A knot throbbed in his lower back, and the reopened wounds burned across his shoulders.

The others had seen him stir. "As soon as he can move . . ." Nemec urged out of the darkness.

"He needs to rest!" That was Weil.

"Not here. We're sitting at Security's back door right here."

Tristan heard a little pause before Weil said, "Come on, Tris. You've got to sit up now." He offered a hand to assist. "Easy. That's it. Just sit still for a minute."

Tristan closed his teeth on a groan. Dragged a hand over his face when his vision spun.

"What happened to make you fall?" Weil asked.

"Don't know." He rubbed at his back. "Felt like—something inside moved."

"In your back?"

"Yeah . . ."

He saw how Weil's features tightened. "Let's get you out of here," he said, and held out the brace.

Tristan realized only then that he no longer wore the shirt. He looked at the medic and cocked his head.

"A couple of the lacerations were bleeding," Weil said. "I had to take this off to apply the suture strips. Can you raise your arms a little?"

The thought of it made Tristan wince. "No," he said. "I don't want it."

"You may need it later."

"Do it later, then."

He let Weil put the tunic over his head and guide his aching arms into the sleeves, though drawing it down to cover his back made his breath catch. He let Weil and Pulou help him to his feet. Dizziness swept over him again. He reached for the infuser's pad. This time he felt a sting and a spread of sudden warmth under his skin.

He blinked at the cavern's floating lights, at its turquoise walls. "Where're we going?" he asked.

"To Malin Point," said Nemec.

He saw the map of green lines and red lights in his mind. "That's almost seventeen miles!"

Nemec said, "We have two days to get there. You'll be able to rest when you need to."

Tristan studied his dark face, his fierce eyes. He nodded acquiescence.

The knot in his back seemed to settle into his right side, hunching him that way as he walked, almost making him limp. He pressed his arm to his side and locked his teeth at the smart of sweat in his opened lacerations. Sweat soaked his tunic until it clung to his body.

He had to rest often. He stumbled frequently—went to his knees once. Pulou saved him, eased him down, and Weil, crouching beside him, said, "You're in shock, kid. I think we'd better stop for a while."

Nemec said, "There's a side tunnel up ahead. It'll be easier to defend, if necessary, than a spot here in the main cavern."

The side tunnel was also darker, its floor rough and uneven.

"Put this under your head," Weil said, offering his pack.

Tristan did. But when the medic peeled backing from a silver patch and reached out, he turned his face away. "I don't want a patch!"

Weil said, "You've got to sleep, Tris, and I don't think you will without help."

He took his lower lip between his teeth and kept his eyes closed, unwilling to watch Weil press the patch to his temple.

It took effect almost immediately.

He woke some time later because he was too warm, and sweating again, and thirsty. He lay in quiet darkness. He turned his head—winced—and whispered, "Pulou?"

He felt Pulou's hand on his head. "Little brother?"

"I'm thirsty," he said.

Pulou reached for the drinking bottle, but Tristan glimpsed movement nearby, and a shadow leaned over him. "How do you feel, kid?" Weil asked.

"Ache all over." Tristan shifted onto his side, and decided not to try sitting up.

The surgeon pushed away his hair, damp with sweat, to read the thermopatch, then felt his carotid pulse. "You're feverish," he said. Tristan couldn't see his face but he heard concern in his voice. "I'd think it was an infection except I've been giving you enough antibiotics to prevent that." He paused. "I think I should check that sore spot in your back."

Tristan bore the careful prodding with his eyes closed and his teeth locked.

When he finished, Weil said, "By the localized tenderness I'd say that your kidney is out of position. Its connective tissues must have been damaged, too."

Tristan swallowed. "Is that serious?"

"It—can be," Weil said, "but we should have you under proper medical care before it gets that way." He drew a handful of dermal infusers from his pack and shuffled through them until he found the one he wanted. Snapping off its cap, he pressed it to Tristan's shoulder.

Tristan glanced up when Nemec, standing at the tunnel's mouth with his sidearm prominent on his hip, left his post and came over to them. Dropping to his heels, he studied Tristan for a moment before asking, "Do you feel ready to go on again?"

"What is it?" Weil said. "Security?"

"Yes." Nemec indicated his earpiece. "I'm picking up radio chatter from several areas. A couple of patrols have entered the terrarium now, and they can move more quickly than we can."

"How much further to Malin Point?"

"About nine miles." Nemec looked back at Tristan. "Can you make it that far?"

He glanced at Weil. "I guess I have to," he said.

He rubbed at the infuser pad on his chest as he crawled to his feet and felt grateful for its sting. He wanted to rub at the knot in his back, too, but Weil said, "Don't do that. You'll only aggravate it."

He couldn't walk without limping now. He leaned on Pulou, holding his side. He had to rest more often but he couldn't sleep. He swallowed obediently, one or two sips, when the gan offered him the drinking bottle, although it made his stomach roll.

Hunched over, he focused his vision on his feet, on placing one in front of the other, until their motion mesmerized him. Until it seemed like only a dream of walking, for days, through a cave that never changed, never ended. And everything, including his feet, turned the blue color of the lichens. . . .

He woke on the ground several times, woke to the chill of wet cloths placed on his forehead and the back of his neck, and couldn't remember that he'd even stopped walking. His mouth felt fuzzy. He tried to catch the trickles that ran along his jaw from the cooling cloths, but they only dripped from his chin. He tried once or twice to raise up, but it hurt; and a hand on his shoulder pushed him back down and a voice told him to take it easy. The voice always sounded too far away to go with the hand but he knew both were Weil's.

He heard voices each time he began to come around:

"I need water for cold compresses." Weil.

And Nemec: "I can get it from the misting system but it'll take a little while."

Once he heard Nemec ask, from somewhere above him, "How is he?"

"The fever's getting worse," Weil answered, "and he's stopped sweating. That concerns me." Tristan heard a brief silence, then, "How much farther is it?"

"Just over three miles."

He drifted out of awareness, into a nightmare of a walking stick flashing across his back, laying open his flesh like a knife. He dreamed of being lost in a blue cave that never ended, and of falling down a stairwell that had no bottom.

His own scream and a hand clamping over his mouth shocked him awake. He gasped, and tried to twist his face away from the hand. His eyes wouldn't focus.

Quivery hands stroked his hair. "Be calm, little brother, be calm." Pulou.

Then Weil, saying, "Relax, kid. Easy now," as he took his hand from Tristan's mouth.

And Nemec, his voice grim: "They heard him. They're heading this way. We've got to get him out of here!"

He felt hands sitting him up, hurting him, and snatches of talk half lost in a swoon:

". . . don't want him walking . . ."

". . . carry him, then. Tie his hands."

He groaned, "No! I'm a'right!" But he heard cloth ripping—could almost feel it—and bands being wrapped around his wrists. He tried to pull away. "Don't!"

"Easy, easy!" Weil said. "It's going to be okay."

Weil pulled his arms over Nemec's head, around his neck. His body lay against Nemec's back, and Nemec wrapped arms around his legs so he rode piggyback.

He blacked out at the jarring of Nemec's pace. Knew nothing else until hands lowering him to the ground roused him. Someone put the drinking bottle to his mouth. He pushed it away with both tied hands. "I can't. I'll throw up."

"You've got to," Weil said. "You'll dehydrate if you don't."

This time he lay stretched on the floor of a dark tunnel and Weil crouched beside him, applying wet cloths again. He sipped cautiously at the nearly empty drinking bottle.

As his senses cleared he became aware of machinery sounds in the distance, and the dirty smell of burning. He said, "We're where?"

"Malin Point," said Weil.

Nemec joined them. "This is where it's going to get tough," he said. "I'm going in to check out the complex and cause a distraction. Wait for me here. If there's anything you can do to help Tristan travel more easily, do it. When I come back we'll have to move fast."

"What about Security?" asked Weil.

"That patrol is going on up the main cavern. It's about a mile ahead of us now."

Tristan heard the surgeon's sigh of relief.

After Nemec left, Weil cut the strips binding Tristan's wrists and pulled the brace out of his backpack.

"No," Tristan said.

"You're going to need it, kid."

He grimaced as the surgeon helped him sit up, wrapped the brace around him, secured its straps. "That hurts!" he said.

"I'm sorry. It'll hurt worse without it."

Weil pulled the dermal infusers out on the backpack's flap. Most had been used by now. He selected two, pulled the cap from one. "This is more antibiotic."

Tristan's shoulders felt bruised. He twisted his face away as Weil reached for his arm.

"I'm going to give you a stimulant, too," the surgeon said, uncapping the second cylinder. "Let's see your other arm now." Pressing it to Tristan's shoulder, he said, "This'll trigger your adrenaline and help you keep going."

"Why didn't you give me that when we first started?" Tristan demanded.

"Because it has a drawback," Weil said. "It'll increase the pain."

It made Tristan restless, too. He couldn't lie still, couldn't sit. He tried to gain his feet, holding onto the wall, and staggered. When Weil caught him by the arm to steady him, he jerked away. "Leave me alone!"

He started at a noise up the tunnel and stiffened. Nemec appeared, brandishing his sidearm and panting. "Come on! I shut down the containment field in the cellblock. The prisoners are trying to take the control room. That should keep Security busy long enough for us to reach the loading bays."

* *

The shouting and thumping outside the control room crescendoed. Captain Krotkin pressed the commceiver harder to one ear and covered his other ear with his hand. "We've had a power loss!" he shouted into the pickup. "The whole cellblock is down and we've got a mass breakout! Get some reinforcements out here!"

He paused, straining to hear over steady banging at the door. "Say again, Command Post? . . . No, we don't know what caused it! There aren't any failure lights. They're storming the control room! We need reinforcements!"

Someone in the Command Post must have turned up the volume; the voice that came through the commceiver boomed loud and clear. "Negative on the reinforcements, Malin Point. We have reason to believe your unexplained power loss may have been caused by the fugitives from the headquarters dispensary. They were last noted heading in your direction."

A veil of static dropped over Krotkin's channel and another voice cut in. "All patrols to quadrant delta-five! I say again, all patrols to delta-five!"

Twenty

The tunnel made a corner and then became two, one going up, the other down. Nemec chose the one that rose.

Tristan clenched his teeth, leaning into the climb. The knot in his back had become a fireball, and his heart beat too hard and too fast. He could feel it against his ribs. It made him breathe too quickly.

The machinery noise grew louder, a thrum of compressors and scream of valves, until Tristan's head throbbed. The smells of heat and lubricants turned the air bitter, turned his stomach.

He made it to the top of the ramp only because Weil and Pulou half carried him. He stood panting between them while Nemec ran his sensor around a door marked D-5 UTILITY PLANT, and saw him abruptly freeze. Touching his receiver plug, Nemec listened for a moment and let his jaw tighten.

"What is it?" Weil asked.

"They're diverting Security from the cellblock to the loading bays." Nemec waved at the door's trigger. The door scraped open. He urged Weil and Tristan and Pulou through and switched off its automation. "Keep going," he said, "straight up the passage. This door won't hold indefinitely as a pressure shield would, but it'll buy us some time."

The passage grew narrow and dim. It echoed with the shriek and thump of machinery, and Pulou grimaced and pinned his ears back.

It grew hot. Very hot. Tristan's mouth burned, but he had emptied the drinking bottle.

"This passage opens into the loading area," Nemec said. "It's a ring of five launch bays. The one they use for passengers has a lift from the mine complex below, and they're sending Security troops up in it. We could step out of here into a fire fight."

He moved swiftly forward with his pistol in his hand. "If we do, I'll draw their fire while you get to the nearest cargo boat. We'll be setting a course for the other moon." He looked at each of them. "Got that?"

Tristan felt winded. He could only swallow and nod.

The passage ended at another automatic door with a pressure shield for back-up, a necessity this near the moon's surface. Nemec eyed it, scowling, before he said, "Get behind me!" and waved the automatic door open.

Ribbons of energy sizzled across the loading area from several nooks and corners, searing holes into the walls and floor of the passage before the door slid closed again.

"Security's in position out there," Nemec said.

A series of muffled explosions began at the far end of the passage behind them: energy weapons blasting at its automatic door.

"They're closing from the rear, too," he said. "Let's go! The nearest bay is to your left as you go through this door." He pulled the receiver plug from his ear and adjusted a dial until it buzzed like a tsigi. "Simulated bomb," he said with a tight smile. "When I throw this out, run! There's plenty of cover. Stay low, keep moving, and don't clump together."

Up the passage behind them, the blasting had stopped. They heard bootfalls instead, coming closer.

Nemec waved at the door trigger and rose up just enough to lob the receiver into a maze of starter carts and ore chutes. Its buzz filled the concourse.

A dozen Security troops dove for cover.

"Go!" Nemec said through his teeth. He twisted around, pistol leveled, to guard their backs.

Pulou, teeth bared and eyes wide with tsaa'chi, pulled Tristan's arm over his shoulder. "Run!" he hissed. "Run!" He ducked behind an ore chute, dragging Tristan with him. Yards away, the chute disappeared through a dark arch into a launch bay.

"Hey!" A shout rang across the concourse. "Hey, there they go!"

A bolt of energy seared across the top of the chute and smashed into the wall behind them. Its burst sent fragments of concrete flying.

Still at the mouth of the passage, Nemec squeezed off a shot at the sniper and gave Weil a shove as he spun to take aim at their pursuers in the passage.

The whole concourse flashed with flying energy, concentrated on the passage entrance. Bursts gone wild shattered off the pressure door's frame. One exploded on its trigger—

—and the shield slammed closed, sealing Nemec inside the passage.

Weil leaped for the cover of the ore chute. A burst caught him in midair, in the shoulder. Its impact smashed him to the wall, marking it with blood as he crumpled. He didn't move.

"Weil! No!"

The scream startled Tristan; it took a moment for him to realize he had shouted. But Pulou pushed at him and panted, "Go! Run!"

Bolts followed them under the arch, glanced from the ore chute, shattered off the walls. Pulou fell headlong, taking Tristan down with him. The fall slammed the breath from his body, made his consciousness reel.

White heat screamed over their heads. It lit the launch bay beyond with a shower of sparks as it struck the deck. It showered the shuttle that waited with three of its cargo holds closed, the fourth still open.

Pulou grimaced, gaining his feet. His mane stood on end, his eyes half crazed. He staggered, pulling Tristan up. He hyperventilated, and his breath rattled from his chest. "Run!" he said. "Run!"

They tumbled up the ramp to the shuttle's cockpit in a hail of fire. Panting, Tristan swiped twice at the hatch closure before he managed to punch it. The ramp bumped as it folded itself, clunked and hissed as its pressure seals locked.

A volley of energy ricocheted off the shuttle's hull and crisscrossed the launch bay like trapped lightning.

Tristan dragged himself up from his knees and pushed Pulou toward the copilot's seat. "Strap in!" he panted. "Gotta—get us—out of here!"

He winced, gasped, as he dropped into the pilot's seat. Fumbling for the harness, he saw Pulou doing the same, confusedly, awkwardly. "This way," Tristan said, reaching for the clasps.

The gan only nodded, watching him. The wildness had left his eyes; the nictitating membrane showed in their corners instead. He still breathed through his mouth, too quickly and with his tongue showing.

Sporadic bursts of energy showered the craft, each sounding like a small explosion.

Teeth locked, Tristan snatched up the headset from its hook and put it on. Swept the instrumentation with a glance and released a breath of relief: it had the same configuration as the academy's training shuttles.

One hand ran over the console, found the systems check switch, flipped it on. Blue readouts filled a tiny screen. All systems showed green except a light that warned of one cargo hatch still open. Two coolant reservoirs read low but all engines had maximum fuel levels. Tristan pulled the manual lever to close the cargo hatch.

"Start engines," he said under his breath, and toggled the switches.

In the dark of the launch bay, pink clouds erupted from beneath the craft as the engines screamed to life. The barrage of fire broke off and several dark shapes leaped clear.

Out of habit, Tristan keyed the comms pickup. "Control, this is—"

He stopped abruptly, released the button. "No, it'll give us away!" Locking his teeth again, he hit the bay dome's remote control button.

Warning horns blared through the launch bay. Lights flashed over its entry. The gunmen, shadows in motion, dashed for the arch before its pressure door slammed down.

Above him, the dome's fins began to spiral slowly open, showing space beyond: stars, and the mottled light of the second moon.

Tristan spread his hand over the row of thruster switches, eased them up one fraction, then another, and felt a tremor as their roar crescendoed and the hole full of sky expanded.

Blue letters began flashing on his screen:

DOME OVERRIDE ACTIVATED

He glanced up. The fins, like petals of a flower, stood half open. In his earphones, Control said, "Malin zero-five, abort launch sequence! You are not cleared for launch! I say again, you are not cleared for launch!"

The eye of space began to contract.

"No!" Tristan shouted it. "No!" He shoved at the thruster switches with a shaking hand, missed the three on the end—

The craft lifted sideways; the attitude indicator showed an angle of fifty-four degrees. The bay wall loomed up, tilting before his canopy.

Cadets who do that don't get their crests, Coborn had told him once, even if they live to tell about it.

The impact threw him against his harness. He heard a crash and shriek of metal on metal, and the shuttle rolled. He caught a glimpse of twisted fins on opposite edges of the dome's eye as the shuttle momentarily hung inverted over it, and realized he wouldn't have cleared it at all if he had lifted correctly.

He took the row of switches with both hands. As the craft completed its roll, so its thrusters pointed at the surface, he fired them all.

Its leap flattened him back in the seat, leaving him breathless. His vision tunneled.

A trilling and a flashing red light on the console snapped him back to awareness. His gaze shot to the traffic scope, then out of the canopy.

Another shuttle, its red and white anti-collision lights flashing against the starfield, banked hard to avoid him, mere yards away. Through his headset he heard, "Control, this is Malin zero-three. Where're your heads? You had us on a collision course with another ship!"

Suddenly weak, Tristan let his hands slide from the console. He couldn't control their shaking. They felt hot and dry. But he must have been sweating; his soaked tunic clung to his back again, burning, itching. He shut out the voice rattling through the headset, ordering him to return, and closed his eyes for a moment.

A new voice in the earphones made him jump. "Malin zero-five, this is System Defense, Bravo Station. You are in violation of regulations nine-one-point-nine, nine-one-point-seven-three-delta, and nine-one-point-eight—"

Tristan stared, then keyed his comms. "Shove off, Defense! I'm operating under regulation nine-one-point-three-bravo. A pilot in command may deviate from any rule to the extent required to meet the emergency!"

"Malin zero-five," said System Defense, "you are ordered to return to your point of departure and surrender to the authorities. Failure to comply will warrant destruction of your ship."

"Destruction?" Tristan stiffened in the seat.

"Malin zero-five." The voice remained impassive. "We are launching fighters with orders to engage and destroy. I say again, we are launching fighters with orders to engage and destroy. Acknowledge, over."

Tristan checked his traffic scope. Empty, for the moment. With a hand that shook, he switched off the radio, tore off the headset, and reached again for the thrusters. "Hold on, Pulou," he said. "They're coming after us."

He couldn't outrun them; he knew that. But he rolled the shuttle like an attack ship over its target and aimed it at the second moon.

In a few minutes a beep from the traffic scope begged his attention. A point of light blinked at its edge, one hundred ninety-five degrees relative to his heading. The fighters! Clenching his teeth, he gave the shuttle full throttle.

The beep grew louder, faster. Tristan glanced down. The single blip of light had become two, close together and crossing the scope's outer ring toward the middle one. Closing the distance.

When the pair of blips split into four and penetrated the scope's inner ring, Tristan wrenched around in his seat, trying for a visual fix. Position lights blinked against the starfield. The fighters had come in high, ranging from one-seventy to one-ninety degrees relative to his heading and flying in fluid four formation. The leaders drew close enough to turn the warning beep into a trill.

Tristan caught a flash at his periphery. They were firing on him! He reached out to activate deflector shields.

The shuttle didn't have any. His hand froze over the emergency release for the cargo holds.

The craft rocked at the hit. Hands hard on the thruster switches, Tristan brought it out of its tumble, and stared at a pair of damage lights blinking on the console. His starboard aft thruster had been hit.

Manipulating the switches, he put the shuttle into a series of banks and rolls, altering attitude and heading at random, trying to shake his pursuers.

The lead and one wingman stuck with him. Their blips hovered near the center of the traffic scope, practically at point-blank range.

Tristan reached for the deflector shields' switch again. Again his hand closed on the cargo release lever.

Three of the cargo holds are full.

Yanking the lever back, he shoved the shuttle into a spinning dive.

He heard thunks somewhere aft of the cockpit, a few moments of scraping and sucking sounds, and jettison lights flashed on the console.

A silent explosion blossomed at the shuttle's one-eighty, then another, nearly close enough to be a secondary of the first. Their light reflected red against the cockpit canopy.

Pulling the shuttle up, Tristan glanced over his shoulder and saw two fireballs dissipating in a cloud of chunk ore that tumbled and spread like an asteroid field. He saw the remaining wingmen bank clear of it, one rocking as if he'd been hit.

Tristan let out his breath in a rush. His heartbeat shook his whole body.

He didn't relax. The traffic scope showed the two fighters regrouping.

They flanked the shuttle this time, keeping their distance but staying within firing range. Tristan fingered the thruster switches, jerking his craft about as if in a storm, rocking it on its longitudinal axis.

The blast that connected was sheer chance. It sent the shuttle into a flat spin that threw Tristan into the console and pinned him there. The starfield whirled in Doppler circles beyond his canopy.

Pressed to the instruments, stomach in his throat, Tristan dragged one hand to the thrust switches. Malfunction lights blinked over most of them. He toggled the ones that remained to counter the spin and kept swallowing down the gorge that burned in his throat.

As thrusters slowed the craft and the pressure began to ease, Tristan pushed himself back, panting, and scanned his console.

Half the cockpit flashed red. A diagram on the screen showed depressurization lights in all but three compartments. The cockpit was sealed off. Structural stress lights blinked at six points. Only three of eight engines remained.

The traffic monitor still worked. Its beep matched the throb of the damage lights. Tristan glanced at the scope.

A third blip filled it now, bearing seventy-five degrees on his relative vertical and closing fast on a collision course. Its position put his shuttle at the center of a diminishing triangle, between it and the fighters.

He tore his vision from the scope to scan space.

The swollen glow of Issel I filled half the canopy, almost over his head. As he stared, the space between moon and shuttle seemed to ripple. He blinked, straining to make his eyes focus.

A ship materialized out of nowhere, massive and black and bristled with weapons.

Twenty-One

Tristan sat paralyzed for a moment, staring at it, watching its bulk gradually block out Issel's moon. His hand moved on the thruster switches, willing them to respond, to push the shuttle out of its way.

A pair of guns at the ship's bow swung around like fingers pointing out its next victim.

Tristan swallowed dryness. "So finish me off!" he whispered.

Red energy belched from the muzzles.

He locked his teeth, braced himself.

A blossom of light at the edge of his vision made him twist in his seat.

The fireball swelled for a moment, then dissipated, leaving behind a shower of debris that had been a fighter a moment before.

The ship held its collision course.

Tristan leaned on the switches. "Go!" he urged his craft. "Go!"

One thruster fired, then another, feebly. The cargo shuttle began to slide backward, away from the ship. He didn't even have enough power to change course.

Tristan watched the guns swing around again.

"Jou!" he tried to shout at the ship, but it came out as a croak.

Energy arced over his shuttle, sweeping the dark with tracers until it touched its quarry. On Tristan's traffic scope, the blip that marked the last fleeing fighter flared and vanished.

The comm set buzzed for his attention. It had been doing so for some time, he realized. Scanning the damage lights, he wondered what had shorted out to make it do that.

The traffic scope's warning beep rose to a trill. The ship loomed almost on top of him.

He reached across the console, shutting down everything he could, routing all the power he had left to life support and thrusters.

It wasn't enough. The ship slid over his shuttle like a hawk seeking its prey, blocking out the moonlight. Its hull panels parted like jaws, and a bank of search lights washed over his craft. Tristan grimaced, half blinded even through the tinted canopy, and blinked at a flash like rockets being launched.

He heard a thunk against the overhead. Then another. The craft lurched as if it had been brought up short at the end of a line, and something began to whine.

On his console, the comm set continued to buzz.

The shuttle began to haul toward the larger ship.

"No!" Tristan threw the thrust switches against its pull. "No!"

Thrusters flared; the canopy reflected their fire. Something metallic moaned and shrieked at the strain. Lights from the ship's hold cast shadows of quivering hawsers across the cockpit.

Tristan held the switches down until their ZERO FUEL and OVERHEAT lights began to flash, until the red lights in the cockpit dimmed and he had no more strength. Then he lapsed back in his seat, panting, shaking. "They've got us, Pulou," he whispered, and watched as the ship's hull enveloped them.

Pulou didn't answer.

Tristan turned his head.

The gan sagged in his straps.

"Pulou?" Tristan said.

He struggled free of his harness, tried to rise from his seat.

His legs gave way. He hit the deck on his knees, and the shock blacked him out.

He came to with his head lying against Pulou's leg. He pushed himself back, slowly.

Pulou's eyes were open but unblinking, unseeing. Blood stained his fangs, his tongue, and the hand that had been pressed to his body.

"No!" Tristan gulped it, shook his head. "No, Pulou!"

He fumbled with the buckles. When they opened, Pulou crumpled forward on top of him.

Tristan caught him, pulled him from the seat, lowered him to the deck.

From outside the shuttle came a clatter, the squeal and bang of heavy equipment, the ring of bootfalls and voices. They echoed in the hollow of the ship's hold.

Catching his lower lip in his teeth, Tristan began to stroke the gan's mane.

He had been here before, waiting in the close dark, years ago.

An outer hatch slammed open. Voices reached him, two or three of them, only yards away, but he couldn't understand their words.

Boots rang in the outer compartment. Over the pulse in his ears, he heard an oscillating hum.

The hum shot to a sharp whine; the boots stopped outside the sealed door. Tristan heard an order, and then banging. Metal clashed on metal until he thought his head would split. He clenched his teeth to keep from crying out.

When the shield door tore away, Tristan stared up at three fire-suited shapes silhouetted against the dull light.

* *

Motioning the others to wait, Chesney stepped over the wreckage of the shield door into the cockpit. Her palm light swept its interior, picking out the boy, who huddled beside one acceleration seat and cradled a second figure across his lap.

He recoiled from the light in his face, bared his teeth and lifted a hand curled like claws. "Leave us alone!" he cried.

"Oh, boy," she breathed into her pickup. "Brandt, I think we're gonna need some assistance in here."

The ship's surgeon shouldered past her.

"Get back!" the boy said. "Stay away from my brother!"

"Calm down, son." The surgeon edged nearer him. "It's okay now."

The boy shoved himself to his feet—and buckled.

Brandt caught him under the arms, kept him from falling. "Get a sled in here!" he shouted into his pickup.

Chesney heard a moment's scramble and moved back to let the medics through, guiding their repulsion sled.

Brandt eased the boy onto it, and paused to pull off his smoke mask and heavy gloves. "Kid feels like a reactor gone critical," he said with a quick glance up at Chesney as he accepted a medkit from a subordinate. She watched as he knelt by the sled and motioned at one of his techs. "Get his vital signs, Kerin."

When the youth stirred, gasped, attempted to sit up, Brandt pushed him back down and dodged a swipe at his face. He caught the boy's hand, and Chesney saw how he had to struggle to keep his grip. "Schey," he called, "we're going to need restraints here!"

"No!" Tristan screamed. "Let me go! Leave me alone!"

"Calm down, calm down," Brandt said, and held onto his wrist while Schey slipped a padded cuff around it and clamped the cuff to the edge of the sled. He repeated the procedure with the other wrist and both ankles as well.

"Let me go!" the boy gasped. His eyes rolled, wild with delirium and fear.

Brandt placed a hand on his shoulder. "Relax, son. It's all right now. Relax and let us help you."

Chesney watched as he took an intravenous pump-pack, designed for use in zero-G environments, from the medkit. Normal saline, its label said. Brandt clipped it to his patient's tunic and reached for his arm.

Crouched across the sled from him, Kerin pressed the boy's other hand to a sensor screen. She looked up from its readouts. "Sir, temperature is one hundred five degrees Farenheit, pulse is one-twelve, and blood pressure is ninety over fifty-six. Respirations are shallow."

"Give supplemental oxygen, and apply cold packs and a hypothermic wrap," Brandt snapped. He let go of the youth's arm. "Won't do. Schey, I need a cut-down kit and an extra hand here. We'll have to put the intracath in the subclavian." He seized the tunic near Tristan's neck and ripped it away from his shoulders.

It tore down the shoulder and side seams, revealing the brace and morphesyne infuser.

Brandt raised an eyebrow, glanced up at Chesney. "Somebody's been taking good care of him," he said. He touched the memory button. The last infusion had been almost three hours earlier. He pressed the pad. "This should help, son."

Schey unrolled the cut-down kit on Tristan's chest, smeared his collarbone with antiseptic and local anesthetic, sprayed liquid gloves over Brandt's hands.

At the hum of the laser scalpel, Tristan jerked at the restraints, trying to wrench away. "No!" The oxygen mask didn't muffle his voice much. "Leave me alone!"

"Hold him still!" said Brandt.

"I'll do it." Chesney pulled off her gloves and crouched near the top of the sled. Taking the boy's head, cold packs and all, between her hands, she turned his face away from the scalpel and began to smooth back his hair with her fingers. "Settle down, Tris," she said quietly. "Settle down. You're going to be all right. Brandt's the best."

She felt him stiffen at the incision, saw the fear in his face, and kept smoothing his hair. "You'll be all right," she said again.

A few moments later, Brandt said, "Good," and sat back on his heels, studying the pump-pack as he peeled off the spray-on gloves. "Okay, move him," he said. "Get him nerve-clipped, catheterized, and onto the hemo system. He'll only need minimal sedation. I'll be in to run a 'scan as soon as I've seen to this other one." He jerked a thumb toward the slumped figure Tristan had been supporting.

Schey and Kerin maneuvered the med sled out of the shuttle, and Chesney followed, pulling off her smoke mask.

She slowed as they entered the trauma unit. Stopped just inside its doorway and watched, hands knotted hard at her sides, as they moved the youth onto the table and attached its tubes and wires. He seemed to have given up struggling. He only groaned once at the handling.

Brandt followed minutes later, looking grim. He didn't appear to notice Chesney standing inside the door. "How are his vital signs now?" he asked.

Kerin read them off, and he nodded and checked the tubes that ran from the hemomanagement system to the intracath near his patient's collarbone. "What about blood gases?"

"Stabilizing, sir, and the sedative has taken effect."

"Good." Brandt flicked on the holoscanner and studied its display from beneath lowered brows. "Necrosis has set in," he said, almost to himself, and looked at the med-techs. "Get him prepped for surgery."

Turning away from the table, he finally spotted Chesney, still standing near the door. As if reading the questions in her face, he crossed to her. "We'll have to destroy the right kidney," he said. "It looks like it dropped when the connective tissue tore. That put a kink in the ureter and the kidney's been backing up. It's swollen to half again its normal size." He glanced over his shoulder and shook his head. "It would've poisoned him before long."

Chesney shook her head. "What are his chances?"

"He should pull through," Brandt said, "but it's going to be touchy for a while."

She allowed herself a sigh. Then, recalling the battle she'd watched from the bridge, she asked, "What in great space kept him going?"

"Adrenaline, probably," said Brandt. "The blood work shows high levels of it. You can't predict how that will affect people."

She considered that for a moment, then looked at the surgeon directly. "Has the rescue team found any sign of Nemec or the doctor yet? There were supposed to be four aboard that shuttle."

"Not a trace," said Brandt.

She shook her head again and let her vision settle to the deck for a while, pensive, before returning it to the youth on the surgical table. "Maybe he knows what happened."

"Well, if he does," Brandt said, "he won't be up to being debriefed until at least tomorrow. Excuse me, ma'am, I have to go scrub."

Through a window, Chesney watched him manipulate the surgical robot, using keys like a computer's cursor and the holoscanner's display to guide its skipping laser over Tristan's right side. Watched via the display as the laser gradually vaporized the damaged kidney and ureter and repaired the torn tissues. Watched as Brandt cleaned up and closed the opened lacerations across the boy's back.

"He should make a complete recovery," Brandt told her afterward. "I'm putting him on antibiotics and a regen, and we'll keep a close eye on him for the next few days, but what he needs most now is rest."

Chesney released a breath in a rush. "Let me know when he wakes up," she said.

* *

He was in the blue cavern again, running, and soldiers he couldn't see were shooting at him and Nemec and Weil. He was telling them to hurry when a shield door closed across the tunnel behind him. He tried to reach the door, to stop it, but Nemec disappeared behind it with a startled expression on his face.

He turned around in time to see an energy bolt catch Weil in the shoulder and throw him into the wall. "Weil!" he shouted, and tried to go to him, but he couldn't move. And then Weil disappeared, too. "Weil, no!" he said. He stood alone, paralyzed, in crossfire that screamed around him.

"Tristan." A hand closed on his shoulder. "Tristan, wake up."

The hand, the voice seemed familiar. "Weil?" he gasped, and turned his head with an effort.

He didn't know the man who stood beside him. He swallowed. "You're not Weil," he said.

"No. I'm Commander Brandt, ship's surgeon," the man said. "You're aboard the Spherzah ship Sentinel."

"Spherzah?" Tristan hesitated. "Is—my father here?"

"No," Brandt said, "but he sent us. Just relax now. You were dreaming."

He lay a small screen with the outline of a hand on it on the bed and pressed Tristan's hand to it, like the computer in the academy's med booth. He scanned the readouts when they appeared and, seeming satisfied, put the screen away. "You're doing pretty well, considering," he said. "How do you feel?"

"Sore," Tristan said. "All over."

"That's understandable. Can you sit up?"

Tristan turned onto his side, wincing, and let Brandt help him sit up. He sipped at the cup of water Brandt brought him.

"Tristan," the surgeon said, watching him, "can you tell me who this Weil is that you were dreaming about?"

"He's the doctor who helped me." The dream flashed across his memory again, and he stopped, looking away from Brandt. "I think he's dead," he said, his voice a bare whisper. "Both of them are. The shield door closed Nemec into the passage." He shuddered, almost spilling the water.

Brandt took back the cup and studied him briefly, then said, "We need to get you up and walking a little. I think you'll feel better. Put your feet over the side first. That's it. Now, hold onto my arm."

Pushing himself to his feet, Tristan locked his teeth at the rending ache in his muscles. He was surprised that he didn't feel more pain in his ribs or his right side. He questioned Brandt with a look.

"We applied some neural clips to specific nerves," the surgeon said, "so they'll block localized pain without immobilizing you. They can come out in three or four days."

Tristan still limped a little, walking. Had to lean on the surgeon. But the effort cleared the grogginess and the clinging dream from his mind.

Coming back to his cubicle, he stopped at the door to scan each corner and then the shadowed space under the bed. He felt his chest tighten. "Where's Pulou?" he asked.

Brandt supported him to the bed before he said anything. Then he looked Tristan in the face. "He didn't make it," he said. "It was already too late when we found you. I'm sorry."

Tristan's head drooped. His throat constricted so tight it hurt. He couldn't even whisper.

"I don't think he suffered much," Brandt said. "He may not have even known he'd been hit. There was very little external bleeding."

Tristan shook his head, unable to speak. It made his whole chest ache inside, made it hard to breathe. Suddenly weary, unable to sit any longer, he turned away from the surgeon and lay down on his side with his face to the bulkhead. He waited for sobs to come, but they didn't. The ache just swelled like a stream behind a logjam until he thought it would stop his heart.

Twenty-Two

The Saede system had no orbital stations. The Bacalli carrier s'Adou The'n and its convoy assumed standard orbit around the planet while the landing parties boarded their shuttles.

When his aide brought word to the bridge that they were ready, b'Anar Id Pa'an gestured to its captain, the human named Mebius. "You will leave this system when I order it," he said.

His boots rang in the corridor. His battle gear rattled as he walked. The noise of it heightened his pulse, heated his blood. Seeing his glower, others in the corridor pressed themselves to the bulkheads until he passed.

In the lift to the launch bays he asked his aide, "Where is the human woman?"

"She is aboard the shuttle as you asked, sire."

She sat by herself in a corner at the back of the craft, under guard. She looked weary but not frightened. Even when Pa'an pushed the guard aside and stood staring down at her, she returned his gaze steadily.

He grunted and turned away. "She will stay with me at the Command Post," he told the guard.

They touched down on one of the shuttle pads serving the Unkai peninsula's main supply and transshipment depot, in a narrow valley ringed with mountains like a carnivore's teeth, except they towered green with jungle foliage. The air, when the shuttle hatch opened and it burst inside, felt hot and wet and smelled of vegetation. Pa'an wrinkled his nose at it as he came down the ramp.

Masuk troops stood in loose formation among the trees that hemmed and half concealed the landing pad, waiting to board the shuttle for the flight to their troop ship. As Pa'an and his party touched soil, umedo captains called their troops to attention, their translators carrying electronic words over the rasp of their natural voices. Pa'an disregarded their salutes, strode past with his canines bared at them, and boarded the waiting troop carrier.

It lurched forward, its tracks clawing into the loam. Pa'an saw how it almost threw the woman from her bench. She only braced herself, ignoring his leer, as the vehicle left the clearing and rumbled along its track under a canopy of living green.

A few miles later it pulled into a clearing before a tunnel entrance.

Command Post and control facilities, vehicle shelters and storage vaults had been bored into the mountains. At the entry control point, where umedo guards held the gates, Pa'an left his party with the carrier, left the heat and misty sunlight for the cool of underground.

With an umedo escort he crossed the hollow of the main loading area and the intersection of corridors beyond, took a lift down into the mountain's bowels, and emerged in another corridor. The amphibian led him straight on, to double doors that parted as they approached.

The Command Post had been built like an amphitheater: four tiers of seats, all equipped with secure visiphones, facing a holotank that covered the opposite wall. At the moment, the holotank displayed an astral map of Saede and Ogata, Sostis and Yan, and showed the positions of the Isselan and Bacalli fleets.

Pa'an surveyed it before he acknowledged the presence of the others. Mostly human flag officers from Issel and Adriat, a few umedos, the masuk field commanders who had come for the exercise. He put out his hand to the masuki, palm forward in greeting, and each clasped it in turn, baring tusks in a grin.

He didn't approach the humans or umedos. He held his place until they approached him, as befitted a son of the Pasha of Mi'ika.

One of the humans addressed him, a man with many medals and thinning hair. "You've arrived earlier than expected, Pa'an. We've had no orders from the Sector General."

"That is because I carry them." Pa'an reached into his tunic and produced a sheaf of folded pages. "They will be executed at my command."

"At your command?" Indignation narrowed the human's eyes. Pa'an saw distaste in his face, in the squaring of his jaw. But a second human, his features no less grim, put a hand on the first one's arm.

Pa'an unfolded the sheaf with care, smoothed the creases, passed it over to the human who wore the greatest rank, and waited while he and his deputies examined the Sector General's seal laser-burned through each page, making the document official. As if they disdained to believe a masuk.

"The orders are plain," Pa'an said. "The Isselan First fleet and the Saedese Fourth are to launch at once. The Fourth will move against Yan, and the First, when it is joined by the ships I have brought from Issel, will depart Ogata for its strike against Sostis."

* *

Captain Benjamin Horsch glanced at the timepanel over the navigator's station and turned to Lujan. "Think I'll try to get some shut-eye while I've got a chance, sir. Who knows what we'll be in the middle of in another few hours."

"Good idea," Lujan said. "I'll probably turn in soon myself."

Horsch nodded, and addressed the officer of the deck. "Mr. Dowlen, I'll be in my quarters if anything comes up before zero-six-hundred."

"Aye, aye, sir," said the OOD, and added as Horsch stepped into the lift, "Captain off the bridge!"

Lujan returned his attention to the forward screen.

According to classified message traffic, Issel's hidden task force had broken orbit from Ogata fourteen standard hours ago. It would be ten or twelve hours more before the long-range scanners picked up the first contacts, when the Isselan fleet made lightskip.

Buhlig rolled before them, tugging at its elliptical orbit like a rotund pet on a leash. The light of its star turned its atmosphere of methane and ammonia to amber and gave its windswept cloud cover the appearance of long, soft fur.

But it wouldn't provide a gentle landing for Isselan ships emerging from lightskip. They would have to use the planet's gravity and rotation for propulsion into their next 'skip, and that flight path already had been calculated. Sostish minelayers plied the corridor now, seeding it with langrage the size of skimcraft. There were no explosives; mass and timing alone were necessary. In a few standard days Buhlig's gravity would clear the junk, drawing it to it surface in decaying orbits.

Meanwhile, the Spherzah fleet could only wait.

Allowing himself a sigh, Lujan turned toward the lift. As the door slid closed behind him, he heard the OOD announce, "Admiral off the bridge!"

He took the long way up to the flag quarters, crossing through the hangar decks but staying well back to watch the deckcrews at work, so they wouldn't glimpse him and call the area to attention.

Destrier had four hangar decks, each supporting a squadron of twenty fighters with its own maintenance crews and equipment, its own launch and recovery ramps. Destrier's fighter complement was almost twice that of Venture's, the carrier from which Lujan had flown against Dominion Station, but everything felt the same. He read it in the faces of the deckcrews, and in the fighters poised in their bays.

Except for the pilots on cockpit alert, no spacecrews could be seen in the hangars. All were on crew rest, supposed to be sleeping.

Lujan knew better. They might be in their berths, might be lying with closed eyes, but unless they had taken patches they wouldn't be asleep. Every nerve, every muscle would be taut, anticipating the klaxon that would call them to their cockpits.

Lujan wouldn't be flying in this battle, but he felt the same tension in his own body.

He found the flag quarters dark when he stepped inside. Almost. Starlight poured through its three observation panes, each nearly the height and width of a man, and spilled over the carpet.

Lujan crossed to the nearest pane. He stood there for a long while, looking out on the silent stars, the spinning planet.

In another few hours all of space surrounding that planet would be littered with the debris of battle: battered hulks of ships, frozen fragments of human bodies. He set his jaw, remembering the aftermaths of battles he'd fought during the Great War.

But he knew what the cost would be to Sostis if the price were not paid here at Buhlig. He'd also seen what the Dominion had done to Issel during the Great War.

The weight of his responsibility made his shoulders sag. He stepped back, still facing the starfield, and knelt, resting his hands on wide-planted knees and bowing his head.

He had no idea how long he'd been praying when the intercom on the bulkhead buzzed. He raised his head, turned slightly. "Open."

The officer of the deck appeared in its screen. He looked instantly apologetic. "Excuse me, sir."

Lujan reassured him with a motion of one hand and rose to his feet. "What is it?"

"Sir, scan has reported a contact, bearing zero-four-three, declination two-seven, range six thousand miles. Speed is undetermined. It appears to be decelerating from lightskip reentry."

Lujan glanced at the timepanel. Twenty-five standard hours since Issel's fleet departed Ogata. The timing's right. He said, "Only one contact?"

"Two now, sir—no, three. Captain Horsch is ordering the ship to general quarters."

"Good," Lujan said. "Tell him I'll be in the Combat Information Center."

As the stateroom door slid shut behind him, the address system filled the passages with the alert horn and the deck officer's voice. "General quarters, general quarters! All personnel man your battle stations!"

In moments the slam of hatches and shield doors sealing echoed through the bulkheads, insurance for the carrier's integrity under attack. Lujan strode through the passage with one shoulder to the bulkhead as spacers pressed past him to their posts. Some wore the pressure suits and oxygen packs of Damage Control, others the helmets and heat vests of gunners. Recognizing him, they nodded acknowledgement and quickened their paces.

* *

The fleet looked like a new constellation, Mebius thought. Like stars winking into existence in the shadow of Buhlig.

Until one of them exploded.

It didn't happen all at once. Secondary detonations ripped along its hull in what seemed to be a chain reaction, rolling it over and over and leaving it to burn until its internal atmosphere had vented itself.

"We've lost the carrier Accolade!" said the communications officer.

Mebius spun about in his chair. "What? Scan!"

The scan operator bent over his console, brow creasing. "Asteroids," he said after a minute. "We've come out in an asteroid field!"

"Shields full front!" said Mebius. "All ships, fire braking thrusters! Reduce speed to—"

"All ships have not cleared lightskip, sir."

Another ship broke clear as he watched, and smashed, still scan-blind, into an asteroid. It blossomed like a supernova, just to port of the s'Adou The'n, lighting up space with a moment's fireball and hurling debris through the fleet like shrapnel.

"Lost radio contact with the destroyer s'Ahbad!" said the comms officer.

"Sir!" The scan officer sounded as if he'd almost choked. "We have numerous contacts, bearing three-one-seven, declination three-three-three! Estimate sixty contacts, range five-niner-five-two miles."

"On screen," said Mebius.

Beyond the asteroid field, the blips came up like a three-dimensional wall across space.

Mebius sank back in his command chair and cursed. "These aren't asteroids," he said. "They're space mines."

The masuk personnel on the bridge looked puzzled. K'Agaba Id Qum, the officer who stood at Mebius' right, growled, "What is this?"

"An ambush." Mebius straightened, in control once more. "All ships, battle stations! Accelerate to launch speed and prepare all fighters for take off."

* *

The last "manned and ready" calls came in as Lujan entered the Combat Information Center. He looked at the Operations Officer.

"All stations report manned and ready, Condition Zed set throughout the ship, sir," Ops reported, and turned to the three-dimensional display glowing above the projection table. "We had forty-two contacts, lost two in the mine field. Range is five-three-four-four miles, speed is point-eight-three miles per second."

Lujan absorbed the display with a glance. Forty points of red light slid into battle positions against his fleet of sixty, marked in green. "Fighter status?" he asked.

"Three squadrons launched, sir. The fourth is standing by."

"Get them off. And the other carriers?"

"The same, sir."

"Let's go," said Lujan.

The Ops Officer keyed his pickup. "Charger Fleet, this is Charger Base. Launch all remaining fighters! I say again, launch all remaining fighters. Execute!"

Lujan saw the hangar decks through the vision of memory. Pilots sealing their helmets and canopies and firing up engines until their screams drowned the orders ringing through the address system. Deck crewmen in tethered pressure suits pulling power cables, guiding the fighters into the ramps, setting the catapults.

"Charger Group, this is Charger Base," Ops said into his pickup. "We've got multiple contacts bearing zero-four-three, declin two-seven, holding positions at range four-niner-two-zero. Acknowledge."

"Charger Base, Charger Lead. Contacts at zero-four-three and two-seven, roger." The lead pilot's voice crackled over the bulkhead speakers. "Request release to vector for intercept with weapons free."

Ops glanced back.

"Given," said Lujan.

"Release is given," Ops said into his pickup. "Bag us some hairballs, Charger Group!"

Lujan studied the display over his Ops Officer's shoulder, watching the points of light which were the fighters forming up, one squadron taking defense stations around the carrier, the others arcing away to the attack.

* *

"Sir, we have numerous incoming small craft!" said the scan officer. "Coming in from bearing three-five-zero, declination three-three-three, range four-eight-niner-three."

Mebius leaned forward in his command chair. "All ships, Warning Red! Weapon systems to active mode! All carriers, launch your fighters."

In a few moments they became visible on the forward screen, points of light that shattered into whole squadrons of attacking craft as they drew near enough for scan to distinguish them. Mebius' hands turned hard on the arms of his chair. On either side of him, masuk eyes narrowed to slits and masuk lips curled to reveal tusk-like teeth.

* *

"Charger Base, this is Charger Lead." The pilot's voice rattled through the Combat Information Center. "I'm picking up numerous weapon signals but only from half the fleet. My scope says the rest of 'em are—transports."

Ops exchanged a glance with Lujan. "Are you sure of that, Charger Lead?"

"Dead sure, sir."

"First wave, target only the combatants," Lujan said quietly, "but stay sharp; it looks suspicious. If they are transports, the third wave can take them."

"Roger, Base," said Charger Lead. And then, "Charger Group, form into first, second, and third attack waves according to squadron. Each wave make your run from a different angle and heading to throw off their trackers. Acknowledge."

"Lead," another flyer broke in, "I'm painting multiple bogies, bearing zero-one-zero, declin five-four, range one-three-niner-eight."

"I've got 'em, too," Lead said after a moment. "Heads up, Group. They sent out a welcoming committee!"

Lujan studied the tactical display. He couldn't see the enemy fighters in it yet, but it would be too late by the time he could. He saw how the Spherzah battle cruisers and destroyers held their battle spread formation, loose enough to prevent the enemy from shooting into a crowd, close enough to provide mutual cover. "Request all ships to up-load missiles and put fire-control on standby," he said.

Ops relayed the order.

Pilot chatter filled the speakers:

"Tally two, tally two! Coming in at zero-one-four!"

"Got 'em noses on, inside one thousand miles!"

"Plasma cannon armed. Centering the box. . . ."

Green lights converged on red, too far away to follow the attack with any visual detail. The audio painted a clear scenario.

". . . heavy fire from the destroyers. Lost Devin and Raphel!"

"Closing on the frigate. . . . It's a kill, it's a kill!"

And then, "I'm hit! I'm hit!" The cry burst through the static of distance, rang over the rest of the chatter. ". . . ordnance launch and targeting systems are disabled . . . aborting the mission."

"Alert the deckcrews," Lujan said.

* *

System failure lights warned that she had lost her starboard engine, too. Gryfiss shut it down, pulled the T-handle to cut off fuel, toggled the switches of the starboard directional thrusters. They would have to substitute for the main thrust to get her home.

As she left the destroyers' rockets and the fighters' searing ribbons of plasma cannon-fire behind, her breathing began to steady under her oxygen mask. But her voice rasped when she said, "Base, this is Charger Eight. I'm coming in with my starboard engine blown. This'll be an emergency egress."

"Roger that," said the controller. "You're cleared for ramp one, Charger Eight. Emergency personnel are standing by."

Approaching the carrier, Gryfiss concentrated on the emergency landing and egress lists: check pressure suit integrity, initiate cockpit depressurization, release canopy locks for nonejection egress, check landing gear, fuel lines, electrical systems. . . .

She had to bring the craft around twice, leaning hard on the thruster switches to make a tight enough bank before the AG lights showed green. Ramp one loomed up like a square mouth. She fired braking thrusters, extended landing gear and hooks, and locked her cockpit harness against the impact with the arresting net.

Emergency personnel in pressure suits shot out from equipment bays, surrounding her craft even before the ramp doors slammed closed. Gryfiss didn't notice. Both hands flew over switches and knobs, shutting down the remaining engines, fuel lines, electrical systems. Sweat streamed off her forehead under her helmet. She yanked the canopy trigger, popping it open.

"Engine's in bad shape," she heard in her earphones, "but it doesn't look like there's much risk of fire. Go ahead and pressurize." She glimpsed her crew chief, standing under the damaged engine and gesturing at an unseen ramp operator.

A noise like a wind filled the bay. The influx of oxygen snatched flames from the stricken engine and swept them up at the cockpit.

Gryfiss dived headlong over the port wing, knocking over two crewmen who reached up to break her fall. Personnel with extinguisher packs shot gray foam at the engine, sending it splattering off the wing and across the canopy before the crew chief confirmed the fire was out. He sent a couple of deckies up to pin the ejection seat and plasma cannon studs, and secure the tow bar that swung down from its overhead track.

Gryfiss followed her craft down the ramp, through four sets of shield doors that opened before them and closed behind, into the heart of the hangar deck. She loosened her helmet seals as she walked, and pulled off its rounded weight.

"You did everything right, Lieutenant," said the crew chief, clapping her on the shoulder. "Emergency procedures, safety checks, everything by the book. We'll replace that engine and check out your ordnance systems and have your bird turned around in forty-five minutes."

Gryfiss only nodded, watching men and mechanicals maneuver her fighter into its bay, and running her hand through sweaty hair. She was still standing there watching, working off her gloves, when the fighter exploded.

Twenty-Three

The concussion hurled Lujan over the projection table in the Combat Information Center, two levels above the hangar bays. He struck the deck hard on his right shoulder as all the displays in the Center blacked out.

He knew what it meant. The ship's computer had cut power to threatened areas and sealed off the Combat Information Center, with only emergency lighting and communications and minimal ventilation, until the fire danger had been contained.

Lujan pushed himself up, teeth locked. He had to use his left arm to do it. The right one wouldn't bear his weight, and pain lanced through his shoulder.

He reached up for the table to pull himself to his feet, and heard someone groan on the deck nearby. In the dimness he couldn't see who it was, or even where he was at first, but Lujan recognized the Ops Officer's voice. "Robard," he said, turning toward the sound. "What's wrong?"

"My back!"

"Don't move. I'll try to contact the bridge."

Lujan winced, gaining his feet. He staggered under a moment's dizziness, and leaned on the intercom button. "Sergey to bridge, come in!" The words came as if he'd been running.

They had no visual, and static disrupted the audio, but he recognized the captain's voice when he replied. "Admiral, are you all right?"

"We're intact, Ben, but," Lujan glanced around the CIC, at the shadows of scan operators slumped over blank consoles and Robard on the deck, "there're some injuries. What happened?"

"Explosion in hangar deck one, sir. Cause unknown at this time," said Horsch. "It started fires in hangar two and the pilots' quarters up one deck as well. Damage Control is on the way."

Lujan nodded. "How many casualties?"

"Thirty-nine presumed dead, sir. Sixty-seven reported injuries so far, some serious."

"There's at least one serious injury down here," Lujan said, glancing around at Robard, "and there may be more."

His own knees felt as if they might give out. The pain in his shoulder mounted, and the CIC already felt stuffy and too warm. But he said, "Our intership comms and tracking displays are down, Ben. Is Communications still functioning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Patch through to the carrier Ouray and request them to keep us informed until we're back on line."

"Aye, aye, sir," he heard, and then remotely, "Admiral? Are you still there?"

* *

Someone moved him, turned him. A stab through his shoulder shocked him back to awareness, made his breath catch. Lujan opened his eyes.

A firefighter and a med-tech, both with sweaty faces and smoke masks dangling, bent over him in the dim red of emergency lighting. Sweat soaked his uniform, too. "Help Robard first," he said, and motioned at the Ops Officer.

"Relax, sir," the fireman said. "They're with him already."

"The crew at the consoles?"

"Mostly just cuts and bruises, sir. They're okay. Take it easy."

The med-tech ripped his uniform from his shoulder with one practiced yank, baring massive bruises down his right side and the old scars that twisted around his upper arm. His shoulder appeared misshapen, already discolored. He grimaced. "Is it broken?"

"Dislocated, sir," said the med-tech, probing the joint. "It's swollen some but it doesn't look too bad. More painful than anything else." She shifted back and offered a hand to help him sit up. He clenched his teeth at the pain that came with the movement. He passed his good hand over his face when his vision momentarily tunneled.

"Take it easy, sir," the medic said. She took the canteen from her web belt, twisted off its cap, offered it to him. "If you'll come back to sickbay with us, we can run a holoscan and reposition your shoulder."

Lujan took a couple of swallows from the canteen. "There'll be time for that when the battle's over. Just wrap it up so it's not in the way. I'll come in later." He surveyed the Combat Information Center, saw medics strapping Robard onto a med sled and shaken scan operators being ushered away from dead consoles. "Right now," he said, "I have to get up to the bridge."

* *

"Admiral on the bridge!" someone shouted when the doors slid open to admit him.

Lujan said, "Carry on," and crossed to the communications station, where he steadied himself against its rail. But for the medic's blanket thrown around his shoulders, he was naked to the waist, his right arm braced and bound against his chest.

"Admiral?" said Captain Horsch.

"I'll live," Lujan said through clenched teeth. "What's the battle status?"

"We're recovering the first wave of fighters now, sir," said the officer of the deck. "The second wave is over the target area. We've taken some losses but we've inflicted worse." He indicated the forward screen, where green lights and red, transmitted from Ouray's Combat Information Center, diagramed the battle. Only two enemy carriers, two destroyers, and five planetary attack frigates remained of the combatants, and their flashing markers indicated damage.

"The first wave got a visual confirmation on the troop transports," the OOD continued, "and the third wave is forming up for a run on them."

"Are the transports armed?" Lujan asked.

"Minimal weapons, sir," the OOD said. "They're dependent on the combatants for defense."

"Then they're not to be destroyed," Lujan said. "Relay orders that only weapons and propulsion will be disabled. If life support systems are left intact, the transports will suffice as POW facilities until we can remove the personnel."

"Sir!" The communications officer pivoted around in her chair. "Sir, we've lost comms with the carrier Ichorek!" She pressed her earphones hard to her head, straining to hear. "Two internal explosions, seconds apart. . . . Both hulls have been breached!"

"On screen," said Horsch.

Across the distance, Ichorek looked like a broken, burning toy ship in the moment before another blast tore it to spinning fragments.

There was silence on the bridge for a full minute. Then Horsch said, "Where did the initial explosions occur?"

"In hangar deck two, sir," said the comms officer. "One of the forward launch areas. They had just recovered a couple of damaged fighters."

Lujan stiffened. "Where was Gryfiss' fighter recovered?"

"Deck one, sir."

"That's what I thought," Lujan said. "Alert the deckcrews on all carriers to inspect incoming fighters for anything abnormal, and to take appropriate action. These explosions are not coincidences."

* *

"Charger Fourteen, you're cleared for ramp three," said the controller.

"Ramp three, roger." Lieutenant Marney checked off his landing list and banked into final approach. The AG lights came into line. He reached out to extend landing gear—

—a system failure light blinked on. His port gear hadn't come down.

"Base, this is Charger Fourteen on the go," Marney said. "My gear's stuck. I'm giving it another try."

He went around three times, toggling the switch, tugging at the manual lever. The light stayed on.

"Base," he said, "I'll have to make a gear-up landing, arresting hooks only."

"Roger that," the controller said. "Emergency fill and arresting nets are in place, and artificial grav level is being reduced to point five."

No shower of sparks, no shrieking noise filled the ramp's vacuum when Marney's craft struck the emergency fill. It bounced, then fishtailed as it snagged the arresting net. When it skidded to a halt, he popped the canopy and leaped clear. His deckcrew moved in from all sides.

In another moment, one of the deckies gulped, "Holy Dzhou!" and scrambled out from under the fighter. "Clear the area! There's an unexploded ordnance the size of a pulpfruit jammed up against the landing gear cover!"

* *

"Bridge, hangar three." The speaker sounded like he'd been holding his breath. "I think we've isolated the threat, sir."

Horsch pressed the intercom button to reply. "What is it?"

"A high explosive, sir, in a casing with suction surfaces," the crew chief said. "It came in attached to Lieutenant Marney's fighter. The EOD crew took it apart and found an ambient pressure-timer detonator set to blow ten minutes after the pressure registers one atmosphere—just long enough to get a bird down into the hangar bays after pressurization."

Horsch glanced up at Lujan. "Limpets. Devious," he said. "How difficult are they to detect?"

"Not very, sir, now that we know what we're looking for," the crew chief answered.

"Then don't your lower guard," Horsch said. "There may be something else as well. No fighter will enter the pressurized hangar areas without a thorough inspection."

The crew chief said, "Aye, aye, sir."

Lujan said, "Make that a general order to all carriers."

As the comms officer spoke into her pickup, Horsch returned his attention to the forward screen, his brow furrowed. "Battle status?" he said after a moment.

"The third wave has just cleared the target area, sir," said the comms officer. She listened briefly to the dialogue in her headset. "Ouray reports three transports destroyed and the rest disabled. According to Charger Lead, all enemy vessels are dead in space and some are still visibly burning."

Horsch acknowledged with a nod. "Open hailing frequencies to the Isselan flagship," he requested.

"Aye, aye, sir." The comms officer worked briefly over her console keyboard, toggled a row of switches. In a few moments she said, "Sir, the carrier s'Adou The'n is responding."

The s'Adou The'n.

Lujan felt his heart contract, his stomach knot up. Darcie had been taken aboard the s'Adou The'n.

"Admiral," said Captain Horsch, and deferred the communication to him.

Lujan drew a deep breath and straightened. Made himself loosen his sudden grip on the comms station railing. "Put them on screen," he said. If Darcie was still on board, he would know soon enough.

He noted the mix of human and masuk officers in the bridge crew when the flagship came on screen, and remembered the hologram of Darcie that Kapolas had delivered.

He recognized the ship's captain. Knew him, via intelligence briefings and news media, to be Edouard Mebius, one of Issel's foremost space fleet commanders. Lujan fixed his vision on him. "In the name of the World Government of Sostis and the Unified Worlds," he said, "I order you to surrender your fleet."

"There is no honor in surrender!"

One of the masuki had spoken, the equivalent of a space fleet captain by the shoulder clasp on his cloak. He said it with his teeth bared.

Lujan studied him as he said, "You don't have an alternative, Captain."

But if they're holding Darcie they'll try to offer me one.

They didn't.

"We will die before we will surrender," said the masuk officer. "We will be worthless to you, Admiral Sergey. And the most worthless one among us will die first!"

He half turned, snapped words that sounded like a snarl, and reached for the knife that rode bare-bladed in the sash of his tunic.

Two masuk subordinates flanking Mebius' command chair seized him by the arms, dragging him to his feet and forward before their superior. Mebius had no chance to struggle. He started to shout, "What—?" but one masuk twisted a hand into his hair and jerked his head back, stifling him.

"It is a worthless commander," said the masuk captain as he placed the point of his blade at the base of Mebius' neck, "who leads his force into an ambush. We will all die, Captain, but it is by your mistake, and you will die first."

With a motion surprisingly deft for thick masuk fingers, he flicked the blade up on its edge—

"Screen off!" said Horsch.

The faces of the bridge crew had paled. They appeared shocked when Lujan glanced around. They knew as well as he did what was happening on the bridge of the s'Adou The'n. They also knew what would be left when it was over.

Lujan forced it from his own mind. He watched Horsch press the intercom button, listened as he said, "Damage Control, report. What's our condition?"

The OIC who answered said, "Fires are out, Captain, but hangar deck one's been gutted and deck two's got fire damage as well."

"Ouray will have to recover some of our fighters, sir," said the officer of the deck.

Horsch nodded agreement. "See to it, Mr. Dowlen. I'm going below to check on the damage."

* *

Standing in the blackened cavern that had been hangar deck one, Horsch and Lujan studied the scattered wreckage of Gryfiss' fighter. Flying debris had touched off the fuel network and severed power cables. The Damage Control officer pointed out evidence of secondary blasts, the source of the fires.

Horsch asked, "How extensive is the structural damage?"

"Severe enough that we're not lightskip capable, sir," said the DC officer. He indicated support beams across the overhead, which were bent like sportsmen's bows from the explosions. "Those would never withstand the stress of making 'skip, sir. They'd buckle, and we'd have a chain reaction that would end with an implosion."

"Can the necessary work be done underway?"

The other studied the sundered overhead for a few moments and let out his breath in a whistle. "Yes, sir, it's possible," he said at last, and returned his attention to his captain. "But it'll take time."

"How much time?" Lujan asked.

"At least a full day, Admiral."

Lujan glanced at his timepiece. They had no alternative, he knew. But there were only forty-six standard hours until the rendezvous at Saede.

Twenty-Four

"How's he doing?" Chesney asked.

"Physically," said Brandt, "he's doing okay. His vital signs are back to normal, the remaining kidney is functioning, and he's starting to get some strength back. But he still has no appetite and he's not sleeping well. He has a lot of nightmares. He's really touchy about his back and ribs, understandably. Looks like post-trauma stress."

Chesney glanced through the doorway into the cubicle. The boy lay on his belly with his face turned toward the bulkhead. The bedsheet didn't cover the livid welts across his shoulders. She grimaced. "He's probably got enough reasons for that."

"More than enough." Brandt sighed. "I've tried to persuade him to talk about it, but I haven't had any success. I thought that giving him some time alone with his dead friend might help, so yesterday I took him next door," —he jerked a thumb toward the neighboring cubicle— "where we're storing the body. He stood by the stasis capsule for a couple of hours, stroking the alien's hair, but that was all. He just seemed numb, even after I brought him back here." Brandt shook his head. "If he doesn't externalize it, he's going to end up with some real problems."

"So you want me to give it a shot?" asked Chesney.

Brandt nodded. "He seems more responsive to you, ma'am. It's worth a try."

Tristan didn't seem to be aware of her until she stood beside his berth and quietly spoke his name. Then he jumped. He turned his head as if it were too heavy and questioned her with eyes that betrayed his inner ache.

"Sorry, hotshot," she said. "I didn't mean to startle you. Feeling any better?"

"No," Tristan said. His eyes kept asking why she was there.

Chesney unfolded the seat attached to the bulkhead and sat down. "I thought you might want somebody to talk to."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "It helps more over the long-haul than drinking does. Besides, your father would probably deep-space me if I got you blitzed."

There was a brief silence, and then, "I can't talk about it," the boy said.

Leave it alone for now, Chesney counseled herself. She leaned back on the narrow seat, stretched out her legs, crossed her ankles. "You're quite a pilot," she said. "Even delirious. I didn't have to watch you handle that boat for very long to know it was Jink's kid at the controls."

"Jink?" said Tristan. He wrinkled his nose in evident puzzlement.

"Your father's nickname from pilot training," said Chesney. "It ended up becoming his running name. . . . He'd really be proud of you."

The boy looked away from her. "No, he wouldn't," he said.

She wasn't expecting that. She softened her tone. "Care to tell me why you think that, Tristan?"

He shrugged, as well as he could lying down, and kept his face toward the bulkhead. "I don't know what to think about my father anymore," he said. "All that stuff about betraying people, and being an assassin. . . ."

"What?" Chesney straightened on the fold-down seat. "Who told you that?"

Tristan's vision jerked back to her. He swallowed. "Governor Renier," he said.

Chesney rolled her eyes. "He would," she said, and leaned forward. "Tristan, your father never betrayed anybody. He just did his duty, and it was probably one of the hardest duties he's ever had to carry out." She shook her head. "We'd probably all be eating live dirvilice with pointed sticks and chanting prayers to some despot at the galactic center right now if he hadn't."

Tristan didn't make any reply to that, so she asked, "Does that clear up a few things?"

He only shrugged again.

"Feel any better now?"

He shook his head.

She studied him for a long while before she reached out to brush his hair away from his eyes. He started at her touch, locked his teeth on his lip, watched her warily.

"You're sure you don't want to tell me what's hurting you?" she said.

He only shuddered.

"Does it have to do with your father?" she persisted.

His features were taut, strained. He shook his head once more. "I can't tell you!"

"Even if it'd release all that pressure inside you?" she asked. "Even if it'd let you sleep without nightmares?"

"I can't!" he said again, and his breath caught.

For an instant Chesney thought he might break down, spill it out that way and free himself. But he didn't. He just turned his face away and wouldn't look at her again.

"I'm sorry," she said at last, and drew the sheet up over his shoulders and left the cubicle.

On her way back to her quarters she wondered what it would take, outside of Jonican whiskey.

She didn't have time to think about it when she arrived. A message line flashed on her desk terminal. She sat down with a sigh and keyed in her code. The text rolled down the monitor.

She scanned it quickly first, then leaned forward in her chair and read it through again:

IMMEDIATE

131638L 2 3308SY

TO COMMODORE C CHESNEY, ABOARD UWS SENTINEL

FM ADMIRAL L SERGEY, ABOARD UWS DESTRIER

S E C R E T

1. CONTACTED ENEMY ON SCHEDULE. IMMED THREAT TO SOSTIS CONTAINED AT COST OF ICHOREK AND BD TO DESTRIER.

2. ATTK ON SAEDE STILL ON SCHEDULE UNDER CMD OF CAPT RASSAT NIGHIA OF OURAY DUE TO BD TO DESTRIER. YOU HAVE YOUR ORDERS. WILL JOIN YOU WHEN ABLE.

3. DARCIE CONFIRMED NOT ABOARD S'ADOU THE'N. POSSIBILITY SHE IS AT UNKAI UGF ON SAEDE.

4. MASUK MORALE APPEARS SERIOUSLY DEGRADED. EXPECT SUICIDAL TACTICS AND DESPERATE ACTIONS.

E N D O F M E S S A G E

Chesney cleared the terminal's memory, but one paragraph of the message kept repeating itself in her mind. Maybe it won't take Jonican whiskey after all.

She returned to sickbay when Evening Watch began and the ship's lighting dimmed to simulate nighttime. She paused in the doorway of Tristan's cubicle.

The boy didn't appear to have stirred since she'd left. "You awake, Tris?" she asked.

He didn't answer at once, and when he did his pillow mostly muffled the single word. He didn't move at all.

She went in and unfolded the seat and sat down again. She didn't say anything at first, just reached out to run her hand up and down his bare arm where it lay on the bed.

After a while she said, "You're blaming yourself for whatever happened, aren't you?"

He turned his head to look at her then, the agony in his eyes undiminished. "They were trying to help me. It should have been me that died! I never should have—"

"Tris, don't." Chesney placed her hand over his. "This is war. Nemec was a soldier—a Spherzah. He knew the risks when he accepted the Issel assignment. The medic and—your friend—probably knew, too. They chose to do what they did for you."

The boy lowered his gaze. "For me," he whispered. "It's not fair. Why would they do that for me?"

"Probably," said Chesney, "for the same reasons you chose to risk your life for your mother."

His vision shot up to meet hers. "My mother is dying! All I wanted was to help her!"

Chesney tightened her hold on his hand and leaned closer to him. "When I left here this morning," she said, "there was a message waiting for me. She's still alive, hotshot, but this little crisis is far from over."

She saw how his face changed at that, how his jaw tightened and the pain in his eyes retreated before an edge of anger. "She's at Issel!" he said. "They brought her to Issel!"

"She's not there now," Chesney said. "The night you were flogged, they took her aboard another ship and left the system."

Tristan pushed himself up on his elbows. "For where?"

"We believe for Saede," she said, "and we're going after them."

"I'm going with you!" Tristan turned over and sat up fully.

"Wait, wait, throttle back a minute!" Chesney said. "You're getting the wrong message, hotshot. You've been through more than your share already. You just had major surgery three days ago."

"I have to go," Tristan said, suddenly solemn. "I have to keep my jwa'lai."

"Your what?" Chesney wrinkled her brow.

"My duty—my promise—to my mother."

"Tris," Chesney said, "you've already done your part. I think your mother will forgive you if you leave this one to the trained troops. Your duty right now is to get yourself well, you got that?"

He didn't answer.

* *

When Schey brought him dinner a short time after Chesney left, Tristan asked, "How long until we get to Saede?"

"About a standard day and a half," the med-tech told him. "We'll make our last lightskip tomorrow morning."

Tristan grimaced.

"You can take a patch," said Schey. "You got through yesterday's 'skip okay."

Tristan didn't say anything. He just eyed the dinner tray.

He made himself eat everything on it, though most of the food lacked any flavor.

"It's good to see you getting your appetite back," Schey said when he came back to collect the tray. "You've lost a lost of weight in this ordeal."

Tristan only shrugged.

"Do you want a patch to help you sleep?" the medic asked.

"No," Tristan said. "It won't stop the dreams."

He resisted sleep as long as he could. It wasn't difficult at first, even in the darkness. His mind tumbled with thoughts of his mother and his jwa'lai.

Then he found himself running through the blue caverns again. It always ended the same: the shield door that cut off Nemec's escape, the bright bolt of energy that slammed Weil to the wall.

He woke, sweating, at the sound of his own outcry and a hand patting his left shoulder.

"Are you sure you don't want a patch?" Schey asked, offering him a glass of water.

"Yes," Tristan said. "It won't help."

The next time he dreamed it was of Pulou sagging in his acceleration harness and bleeding from invisible wounds, and his mother's body on a funeral pyre, enveloped by flames.

He still lay awake after that one, staring at the bulkhead to keep from sleeping again, when Brandt came in. "You need to take a patch now."

"No," Tristan said. "I don't want one."

"We make lightskip in less than an hour," the surgeon said.

He didn't argue further. But he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth when Brandt pressed the patch to his temple.

He woke in mid-morning with Kerin placing his hand on the vital signs sensor. She said, "Hello, Tristan. Don't move for a minute. Are you ready for breakfast?"

"I want to get dressed," he said when she took his hand from the sensor plate and let him sit up.

She looked a little surprised, but she said, "I don't see why not. Go ahead and eat while I see what I can find for you."

She came back with a battle dress uniform in shades of streaky green and brown. "The stores officer doesn't have any shipboard uniforms," she said, "just a lot of these. It may be too big but at least it won't irritate your back."

The trousers were loose enough not to pinch or chafe, and the tunic allowed him to move his arms freely. Satisfied, he picked up one of the boots. He examined it, turned it in his hands, then put it aside, wrinkling his nose.

"What's wrong?" Kerin asked, watching him.

"I can't walk in those."

She looked amused. "How far were you planning on going?"

"As far from this box as I can!" Tristan said, and indicated the cubicle with a motion. "I'm tired of being in here."

She raised an eyebrow. "What brought this on? Yesterday we could hardly pry you out of bed even to go to the head."

He ducked his head and wouldn't look at her. "I—don't like just sitting here and thinking. I need to do something else."

"Yes, you do." Kerin's teasing subsided. "You haven't even seen the ship yet, have you? Maybe we can find someone who can give you a tour."

She didn't return for quite a while. He'd almost given up on it when he heard a step at the doorway and Kerin said, "Tristan, you have a visitor."

He sat up on the bed as the young man came in, a trooper from Sentinel's surface assault force who appeared to be only a year or so older than himself.

"Tristan Sergey?" he said. "I'm Eddie Yedropolappano, Petty Officer Second Class, Unified Worlds Spherzah."

"Yed-what?" said Tristan.

The other laughed. "Never mind. Nobody else can say it, either; I go by Yeddy. How are you doing? They said you were hurt pretty bad when you escaped."

"I'm all right," Tristan said. "I'm just tired of sitting in here."

"Well, let's go have a look at the ship, then," Yeddy said, "and I'll introduce you to some of the others."

Starting up the passage beyond sickbay's doors, Yeddy glanced sideways at him and asked, "What's it like to have the Old Man for your father?"

"The old man?" Tristan cocked his head.

"That's what we all call him," Yeddy said. "It's sort of a—title of respect."

Tristan glimpsed unabashed admiration in the other's eyes. He puzzled over that for a moment. "I don't know what it's like," he said at last. "I don't remember."

They went forward from sickbay, crossing the recovery bay where Tristan's shuttle had been taken aboard, and climbed a ladder up one level to the troop quarters. Coming into the first bunking area, Yeddy said, "Be glad you have a room to yourself. There're twenty-four of us in here, and seven more areas just like this one."

Yeddy didn't take Tristan through all of them. Half the combat company was on its sleep shift. But he seemed to know everyone he met, and he introduced them to Tristan by name. The troops gathered around, asking questions and wanting to talk, until the faces lost their individuality and melded into a crowd. Tristan shot a desperate look across at his guide.

"That's enough, people," Yeddy said. "Give him some space."

Beyond the bunking area, the passage opened into a small dayroom furnished with holovids and cabinets full of chip texts. Several more troops sat there, occupied with some kind of studies.

"We spend our off-duty time in here and working out in the rec deck," said Yeddy.

Tristan scarcely heard him. The far bulkhead consisted mostly of viewpane, and in the center of it drifted a teal green globe. Tristan crossed to it, Yeddy still at his shoulder, and touched the pane. "Is this a holograph screen?"

"No," Yeddy said. "That's really Saede out there. That's where we're going."

"Why does it look so blurry?" Tristan asked.

"Because we're under cloaking," Yeddy said. "Do you know anything about jamming?"

Tristan remembered something from an academy class. "A little," he said.

"That's kind of how it works," Yeddy said. "It makes us invisible to Saede's detection systems until we're close enough to launch the landing craft. The rest of the attack force is probably out there by now, but they're under cloaking, too."

Tristan acknowledged with only a nod, his vision narrowing on the planet. "They've got my mother there," he said.

"They won't after tomorrow." Yeddy shot him a tight smile. "We're going hunting for hairballs in the morning."

"Hairballs?" Tristan furrowed his brow.

"You know, masuki. We call 'em that because they're all hairy." Yeddy's smile turned mischievous. "That's not a title of respect!"

Tristan recognized the expression in the other's eyes. He studied Yeddy for a moment. Then he said abruptly, "You said there were landing craft. Where are they?"

"Right under us, forward of the recovery bay," said Yeddy. "I should've shown you on the way up. You'll hear the klaxon in sickbay. You'll probably hear all of us running down there, too."

Tristan turned back to the viewpane and lowered his head. "Probably," he said.

He felt Yeddy watching him. "You're dying to go with us, aren't you?" the other said.

"I have to go," said Tristan.

Yeddy hesitated. "We'll get your mother out," he said. "I promise."

Tristan glanced back at him, then out at Saede. His right side had begun a dull throbbing with all the walking. He rubbed at it for a few moments, and suddenly realized how weak he was, how worn he felt. "I need to go back to my room," he said.

He didn't speak, climbing the ladder back down to the recovery bay and crossing its ringing expanse. He kept his teeth locked against the growing ache, and his vision fixed on the deck. Yeddy didn't say much either, until they stood at the doorway of his cubicle. Then he said again, "We'll get your mother out. You just take it easy, Tris, and don't worry."

Tristan didn't answer.

Alone, he undressed and dimmed the lighting in his cubicle and lay staring at the bulkhead. Thinking. Planning. Reviewing in his mind what Yeddy had showed him about the layout of the ship. . . .

He was still lying there when Brandt came in on his evening rounds. Tristan barely glanced up when the surgeon put the sensor plate on the bed beside him and motioned for him to place his hand on it.

"Your blood pressure's up a little," Brandt said a few moments later. "Did you wear yourself out, touring the ship today?"

"Yes," Tristan said.

"Well, maybe that'll help you sleep better tonight." Brandt put the sensor plate away. "I'll send someone with your dinner in a few minutes."

Tristan ate everything on the tray again. He felt hungrier tonight and it wasn't so much of an effort, although it didn't taste any better.

He got up after Schey came to take the tray, and put on his battle uniform again. Then he lay back down to wait.

He'd never slept before the klaxon sounded.

Twenty-Five

Tristan jumped at its sudden scream and sat up, staring around the cubicle. His heart slammed hard and fast against his ribs, making him gulp for breath. Shoving himself out of the berth, he almost stepped on the discarded boots. He hesitated, then left them where they lay.

Dim lighting shone in the corridor beyond the cubicle. Quiet on bare feet, Tristan made his way down it. The klaxon's repeated blasts covered the sound of the automatic door opening to let him through and then closing behind him.

The horns blasted louder outside sickbay, but they didn't drown the sudden noise of bootfalls from the deck above. Tristan jogged across the shuttle recovery bay, pressing a hand to his right side when the motion sent little jabs through it.

The bulkhead that separated the recovery bay from the launch bay was designed to retract, to allow movement of craft from one to the other on rails and tracks. It could be opened only by a controller in a booth tucked up next to the overhead. But Tristan spotted utility doors marked MAINTENANCE PERSONNEL ONLY in the forward corners, secured with manual bolts. Tristan tugged at the lever of the nearest one.

It grated part way open and stuck fast.

Beyond the bulkhead, the clatter of bootfalls crescendoed. Tristan heard voices, too, shouting orders, but he couldn't make out the words.

"Open up!" he gasped. "Come on, open up!" He shifted his grip on the lever and threw his whole weight against it.

The effort shot lightning through his right side, despite the nerve clips blocking his healing ribs. His vision tunneled; he sagged against the door. But the lever fell. The door swung inward.

Panting, he slipped through and shoved the utility door closed behind him.

The clatter of boots swelled to thunder. He looked up. Troops came down catwalks on either side of the launch bay in close file, double time, to board the landing shuttles. They wore helmets and half-armor over their battle uniforms, and carried energy rifles on their shoulders.

Tristan fell in at the rear of one column and followed it up the boarding ramp into the closest shuttle.

In its dimness, the troops strapped themselves into web seats that ran the length of the shuttle's hold. Tristan glanced around at them as he fastened his own straps. He saw tight jaws, and eyes narrowed behind camouflage paint. He didn't recognize any of them, but he lowered his head to avoid being noticed.

When the ramp folded up at the rear of the craft, clanked into place and sealed, and the roar of engines shook the hull, he braced himself for the crush of acceleration.

* *

K'Agaba Id Qum transmitted his message in masuk. B'Anar Id Pa'an knew, by the time he received it, that Qum and his crew, both masuk and human, existed no more. He felt no grief, no loss. Qum had failed, and failure had exacted its price.

Pa'an had put the base on Warning Yellow status and hadn't left the Command Post since. Almost forty-eight hours had passed. When the Unified forces struck Saede, he would not fail.

He straightened in the commander's chair when a light began to blink on the console before him. He looked at one of the human officers, who pushed its button and said, "Command Post, Colonel Pryce."

"We've got contacts, sir." Another human spoke, at the scan station. "Multiple tracks, range one-two-two-zero miles, speed one-zero-five miles per minute, bearing three-five-four. They just appeared out of nowhere, sir, inside the orbital detection platforms."

Pa'an saw shock on the faces of the humans. "Inside the detection systems?" said one. "Have you got an identification, Lieutenant?"

"Not yet, sir," came the reply.

They exchanged glances, and the human with the greatest rank said, "Recommend we go to Warning Red, sire, with air defense weapons in passive tracking mode for the moment."

Pa'an considered, inclined his head slightly. "So be it," he said.

* *

"Listen up, troops!"

Chesney's voice. Tristan started, wrenching around to look.

She wasn't there in the shuttle's hold. Her voice came through speakers in the overhead. "The attack's underway," she said. "The fighters are going in after the air defense systems and we'll come in right behind them. ETA is fifty-two minutes."

Tristan released his breath in a rush.

He knew when the craft entered the atmosphere. Weightlessness gave way to the pressure of descent, and turbulence took the craft in its fist and shook it and roared at it. Tristan put his head back against the webbing, closed his eyes, drew in each breath through his mouth. It quelled the discomfort in his stomach but his hands still felt clammy. He rubbed them on his trouser legs.

The thunder of landing rockets swelled, then subsided, and the shuttle hovered on its thrusters. Around him, the troops scrambled free of their seat straps, adjusted battle harnesses, retrieved rifles from bulkhead racks. Then the aft hatch grated open, admitting a wave of wet heat and moonlight mottled with smoke, and the platoon leader shouted from the forward section, "Move out, double time!"

Tristan shoved himself out of the web seat and moved, and the others came close behind.

Several shadows stood clear of the ramp and the thruster wash: platoon leaders, company commanders, and Chesney. Armored and armed like her troops, she pointed, gestured, gave orders.

Tristan tried to lose himself in a knot of soldiers, but Chesney spotted him. She caught him by the shoulder, and he cringed, half expecting for a moment that she would shake him, as gan mothers did to discipline their young. But she only said, "Have you lost your stabilizers, Tristan? What in great space do you think you're doing?"

"This is my battle!" he said. He had to shout it over the roar of thrusters as the empty shuttle lifted from the landing zone.

"Like crikey it is!" Chesney's vision followed the shuttle, too, banking away over the tops of the trees. "Blast it!" she said. "Now I can't even send you back to the ship! Those crates aren't coming back until we've cleaned out this hole."

When she returned her attention to him, she wore a grim expression. "I don't have any choice now but to take you along, so you listen to me, hotshot, and you listen good. If you so much as try to get out of my reach, I'll have you put under guard in restraints like a prisoner of war! You got that?"

The fire in her eyes left no doubt that she'd do it. Tristan said only, "Yes'm."

She watched the troops form into platoons and move out in different directions. "Come on then," she said, and her voice had softened slightly. She started to turn away—but then she stopped short. "You don't even have any boots!"

"I can't walk in them," Tristan said.

She rolled her eyes. "Well, don't expect anybody to carry you when you step on a burr beetle."

* *

". . . no response from air defense batteries thirty-nine and forty-eight," a human voice said over the speakers. "Several hits were registered in those sectors. Scan shows multiple light craft on approach to . . ."

Pa'an paused in his pacing to study the tracks on the holotank map through narrowed eyes, and his lips curled back from his teeth.

"Sire!" said the human at the communications console. "Message coming in from the Issel system."

Pa'an turned around. "Put it on the holotank."

The holographic map and tracks vanished. Another human face, larger than lifesize, replaced it, one of Governor Renier's chief generals at the Isselan Command Post.

Pa'an had grown weary of human faces, hairless and tuskless and impotent as a whelp's. He snarled, "What is it?"

"Word from Yan, sire." The general appeared apprehensive at facing him even across lightyears of space. "Our task force there was outnumbered and overwhelmed. The survivors were forced to retreat. It's absolutely imperative that you hold Assak Base on Saede."

Pa'an curled his lips back from his fangs. "I will not fail."

* *

The night air steamed with vapor rising from soil and foliage, laden with the scents of vegetation and decay. Its heat plastered clothing to skin with sweat and made every breath an effort. It felt like traveling through Issel's blue caves again, Tristan thought, except for the scream and flash of fighters overhead and the shock of explosions shaking the ground underfoot. One step ahead of Chesney, two behind the platoon leader, Tristan pressed a hand to his side and forced himself to keep up.

A stench of decay persisted over the biting scent of smoke as they marched. When a fitful wind struck him full in the face, Tristan gagged. He and Pulou had once come upon a peimu carcass, dead for three or four days and only half eaten. It had smelled like that.

A shout rose from up front in the loose formation, and several members of the platoon drew up around the bole of a tree.

"Umedo," said Chesney when two or three soldiers played their palm lights over it. "At least, it was. Looks like a masuk execution."

The corpse was vaguely humanoid but its face seemed unfinished to Tristan. It had mere slits where its nose should have been, tympanic membranes in the place of ears. Its eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets, its mouth was contorted in a silent scream, and all were caked with a milling layer of insects.

It had been tied to the tree trunk and laid open with a knife stroke from gullet to groin. Carrion eaters had long ago disposed of its entrails.

Grimacing at the odor of decomposition, Chesney pulled a knife from the back of her web belt and severed the cord that held the umedo's hands. It fell forward into bloodied undergrowth, and the flies rose up in a cloud.

Chesney sheathed her knife and motioned at the platoon leader, and he said, "Move out."

Resuming their positions, the troops moved easily through the trees, probing the dark on all sides through nightvision helmet visors.

Several minutes later, the soldier in the point position raised his hand in a signal to halt, dropped to his belly, and crawled forward. Only a brief ripple of fern fronds showed where he had disappeared.

The platoon leader touched his headset and turned to glance at Chesney. "He says the trees end about five yards beyond him and there's a clearing in front of the tunnel entrance. Says the ground's been torn up by tracked vehicles, but there's no sign of personnel outside the entrance or in the vicinity."

Chesney nodded. "Tell your troops to take their positions, and have the other platoons report when they're in position."

In another few yards, Chesney and the platoon leader went to their bellies, and Chesney pulled Tristan to the ground, too. "Keep your head and butt down."

"I know how to do it!" Tristan panted. "I hunted peimus this way on Ganwold."

It had been easier then. His shoulders and legs hadn't ached from lack of use. His back and side hadn't throbbed from the pull at recent wounds. He locked his teeth and pushed himself forward.

Concealed behind the trunk of a fallen tree, the lieutenant pulled his voice pickup away from his mouth enough to say, "All platoons are in place, ma'am."

Chesney nodded. "So now the waiting begins." She passed her electrobinoculars to Tristan.

He scanned the clearing beyond, focusing on the tunnel entrance. It looked like a yawning mouth at the base of the mountain. They lay far to its left but with an unobstructed the view of the entrance. The binoculars made it seem they lay almost at its mouth, though it was at least fifteen yards away.

"They've got my mother in there," he said through gritted teeth.

"Yes," said Chesney, "along with a few other people we'd like to take alive."

"What are we going to do?"

"Wait." Chesney looked across at him. "A couple of Spherzah were dropped on the mountain about the time we landed. They're going to penetrate the complex and open up that main entrance from the inside. And when they do, we're going in."

"But, my mother—"

"My people know she's in there," said Chesney. "They'll get her out."

Tristan glowered. Restless, impatient, he fidgeted with the damp soil under his hands, raking at it with his fingers.

Chesney eyed him. "Look, hotshot," she said, "this isn't a game and I didn't just send you to the bench. It's a dirty business and it costs lives. Too many of 'em. Your mother's going to be rescued. That's what counts, isn't it? A moment of glory isn't worth dying for."

Tristan glanced over at her, teeth clenched. She met his glare and held it, the way Pulou would have.

Tsaa'chi is serious thing. Always, someone dies.

Pulou.

And Weil and Nemec.

And Larielle.

Tristan's hand curled around a ball of soil.

Is anger important enough to die about?

* *

A sudden siren blasted through the Command Post. Everyone stiffened. A light began to flash on the security monitor, and the sergeant at its console spun around in his chair, his face pale in the half-light. "The controls to the main shield door are malfunctioning!" he said. "It's opening up!"

"Override!" shouted a human officer, leaping toward the console. "Enter the code for override!"

The younger human did. A system failure light flashed on the console.

Thunder rumbled in the passage beyond, the heavy bootfalls of masuk security troops running toward the main loading area.

Pa'an rose from the command chair, gesturing at a masuk subordinate. "Bring the woman to me," he said, and reached for the naked knife in his belt. "It is time to learn how much she is worth as a hostage."

* *

"This is it, ma'am." The platoon leader glanced over at Chesney, touching his earphone, and gathered himself into a crouch. "Our men report deactivation of all the shield door controls. The main entrance is opening up!"

Chesney spoke into her helmet's pickup. "Company commanders, the barricade is going down. Move in on my order, weapons set to fire. Expect return fire." She glared at Tristan. "And you stay behind me and stay low, got that?"

He only nodded. His mouth had gone dry.

He heard the scraping shriek of the shield doors retracting. The mechanical scream echoed between the mountain and the forest.

"Move!" Chesney barked, and sprang from her concealment.

Tristan cleared the log close behind her, winced at the impact of landing, and clamped a hand to his side.

Two hundred shadows emerged from the trees as if from a different dimension and swept across the clearing like tsigis in a swarm.

Chesney's platoon burst through the tunnel entrance first. Bright energy whistled at them across the dark of the loading area, and soldiers on either side of Tristan went down.

The troops hit the deck, rolling for cover. Infrared rifle sights picked out masuk snipers crouching in the corners. Spherzah rifle fire riddled their concealment. The platoon leader signaled his troops to advance.

Something stirred at the tunnel's rear doors. Chesney shouted, "Hold your fire!"

Two figures moved to the center of the loading area.

One was small, wrapped in a pale robe, fragile in the limited light and her captor's hold. The other appeared dark as the cavern in which he stood. His bared tusks gleamed like the blade he held to his hostage's throat.

Tristan's heart contracted at the sight of his mother in the masuk's grip. "Pa'an!" he said. The name turned into a hiss through his teeth.

Jwa'lai was important enough to die for.

Twenty-Six

Tristan jerked the knife from the back of Chesney's web belt and sprang past her. "Pa'an, you jou!" His voice rang across the loading area. "Let go of her!"

Pa'an's blade flicked toward the sound of the shout. "Whelp!" he snarled, and tightened his grip on Darcie.

"Let her go!" Tristan shouted again. He felt like a gan in tsaa'chi. He advanced warily, in a crouch, ready to spring.

Behind him, Chesney's marksmen raised their rifles, waiting for a clear shot.

But Pa'an took a combat stance, holding Darcie hard to himself and shifting the knife in his hand.

* *

Destrier cleared lightskip near enough Saede for the gravity well to pull it into braking orbit. With the planet turning from lighted side to night in the forward screen, Horsch said, "Open communications with Ouray."

"Aye, aye, sir." The comms officer worked over her console.

In a few minutes she said, "Ouray reports that the attack is underway, sir. Air defense systems are down and our ground troops have penetrated the subterranean base."

"Tell them reinforcements are on the way." Lujan turned toward the lift doors off the bridge and said, "Call my landing force to the aft shuttle bay."

* *

Tristan leaped at the masuk headlong.

Pa'an shoved Darcie away and planted his feet wide, his knife poised to impale.

Tristan shunted it aside with his own. His momentum flung them both to the floor. He turned the fall into a roll and came up on his feet. He staggered at the shock through his body and steadied himself.

They circled for a moment, testing each other with thrusts and feints. Tristan felt a rush of heat through his blood, felt his muscles loosening up. The giddiness and shakiness passed. Baring his own teeth, he lunged at the masuk's midsection.

Pa'an pushed his blade away and snarled at him.

* *

She had no strength left. When the masuk pushed her away, Darcie crumpled to the floor and lay still. She couldn't lift her head. She could barely breathe.

Somewhere, someone shouted, "I'll watch out for this one. The rest of you, secure the base. Move it!"

Bootfalls rang up the length of the tunnel, echoed beyond the opening through which the masuk had dragged her. She heard a scuffed footstep close beside her. Firm hands raised her up. Her head sagged back, but it let air into her starving lungs. She gulped at it and gasped, "Tristan?"

"No, Darcie." A woman's voice. "He's—doing all right. Lie still."

Her eyes flickered open. It took a few moments to recognize Chesney, wearing Commodore's crests. Chesney had been only a lieutenant when Darcie saw her last.

A flash caught Darcie's focusing vision. She turned her head.

* *

Edged steel drove at Tristan's chest. He dodged sideways, dove in under Pa'an's guard. His knife point caught in a tunic fold. The masuk roared at the slice, and smashed his arm down across Tristan's.

Fire shot through bone and nerve, convulsing Tristan's knife hand. He fumbled for his weapon, dropped to one knee to save it. Pa'an brought his knee up sharply under Tristan's jaw.

The blow snapped him backwards, sending a shock through ribs and right side, sending his knife spinning across stone.

Pa'an planted a boot on its blade and bared his canines. "Foolish whelp!"

Stunned, Tristan stared up at a silver glint over his head. His lip streamed blood.

Pa'an's knife came down in a flashing arc.

Tristan rolled clear. Fingers scrabbled on stone, closed about the hilt of his knife. Coming to his feet, he took the masuk in a flying tackle.

Pa'an went down on his side with Tristan on top. They grappled, lethal steel gleaming inches from either throat.

In another moment, Tristan found himself flung onto his back with a force that winded him. Cold lightning whistled across his vision. He jerked his head away. The dagger clinked into stone, close to his ear.

He twisted, using one leg for leverage to wrench himself over. The movement pulled at some laceration along his ribs. He ignored it, seizing Pa'an's right wrist with his left hand.

* *

Landing lights pierced the jungle like alien eyes, uncovering the landing pad concealed beneath the foliage. The shuttle hovered over it for a moment and then settled on pillars of thruster fire.

Lujan scanned the steaming growth beyond the landing circle as the hatch opened. The sky was turning pale to the east. He switched on the headset in his helmet and narrowed his eyes at what he heard.

"This way," he said, and motioned his troops to follow. "Move out."

He swung the energy rifle off his shoulder, disregarding the twinge there. He'd had the bindings removed. The analgesic patch and regen infusion had done their work; only a little soreness remained, as if he had overworked his arm.

He moved out with the ground-consuming stride of a warrior accustomed to the forced march. Around him, the troops spread out in patrol formation and found themselves hard pressed to keep up.

* *

They pushed apart. Came to their feet together.

Panting, trembling, Tristan locked his left hand over his right side and adjusted his grip on his knife. Sweat plastered his uniform to his flesh, smarted in myriad raw spots across his back. He circled with Pa'an, watching his eyes, watching his blade.

The masuk lashed out.

The knife point caught Tristan's sleeve, ripping it to the elbow. Cold steel grazed his skin. He staggered back, stalling for time to catch his breath, to gather a little strength.

The battle had taken them to the far end of the main cavern, where the thin, shifting veil of dust they stirred up separated him from his mother and Chesney.

Pa'an jabbed at him, a couple of rapid feints. Tristan dropped back, barely managing to parry.

The passage from which Pa'an had come, through which the troops had gone, loomed behind him. Pa'an deliberately steered him toward it. Tristan tried to circle around, to maneuver away from it, to hold his ground. But the masuk countered him and lunged. He only had one way to evade.

At the moment he retreated into the passage, shadows fell across the tunnel entrance.

* *

Lujan glimpsed only Chesney first, kneeling in the middle of the loading area floor and supporting someone on her arm. One of the casualties, probably. The shapes crumpled on the floor and the stench of blood and burned flesh confirmed that there were several. "Secure the area and get the medics in here," he ordered the platoon leader at his shoulder, and crossed to Chesney at once.

It wasn't a dying soldier she held.

He sank to his knees. "Darcie."

He could only whisper her name, but she lifted her gaze to his. "Lujan?" She sat up, weak but without assistance, and stretched out a hand to touch his cheek, his jaw, as if she didn't trust her eyes alone.

He couldn't speak. He cradled her face in his hands and pressed his mouth to hers.

Her eyes clouded with fear when he drew back. "Tristan!" she whispered.

Lujan glanced at Chesney.

"He went after the hairball that had her," Chesney said. "They went through the rear doors."

Lujan's jaw tightened. His eyes met Darcie's again. His fingers stroked reassurance along her face as he rose.

* *

Tristan put out a cautious hand and touched stone. The passage turned. He shot a glance over his shoulder. Caught a shadow's flicker against the dim emergency light a few yards behind him. And then nothing. Soundless on bare feet, he slipped around the corner, keeping his back to the wall, and stood still, listening.

Waiting.

In those few moments he felt how every muscle in his body ached, how his back burned, how his right side throbbed. His legs shook, supporting his weight. He slid down against the wall, into a crouch, and closed his eyes.

He heard the scuff of a boot upon stone. He looked up. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness. He could make out the masuk's shadow on the wall facing the turn.

He clamped his mouth closed so Pa'an wouldn't hear the noise of his panting. Gathered himself, as if he were stalking a peimu. Turned the knife hilt in his hand.

Pa'an strode around the corner with his knife extended—

—and Tristan lunged up, putting all his remaining strength behind his blade.

He felt it go in upward, under the breastbone. Felt the masuk stiffen, roaring with shock and fury as he staggered back against the wall. His knife grazed Tristan's shoulder as it fell from rigid fingers.

Tristan jerked his knife from Pa'an's body. Blood spilled over his hand and spattered his uniform. His breath caught like a sob. He raised the knife—

"Tristan!"

The voice stayed his blade as abruptly as a hand on his wrist. He paused, panting hard. Lifted the knife again.

"Tristan, it's over."

He straightened a little, shaking. Swayed on his feet. He tried to turn around—and buckled, the knife still in his grip.

Hands caught him by the shoulders, kept him from falling. The blade clattered, harmless, to the floor.

"It's over, son," Lujan said, quietly this time, and drew Tristan to himself with both arms.

Twenty-Seven

URGENT URGENT URGENT

151809L 2 3308SY

TO CP ISSEL II

FM ASSAK SHP DEPOT, UNKAI, SAEDE

UNIFIED WORLDS FORCES HAVE ENTERED UGF. TWO EXPLOSIONS, SEVERAL FIRES, SYSTEMS FAILING, HEAVY CASUALTIES. SECURITY FORCES NOT SUFFICIENT. CANNOT HOLD BASE MUCH LON S Y S T E M F A I L U R E S Y S T E M F A I L U R E

Sector General Renier let the dispatch fall to the desktop. He didn't look at the messenger. Didn't speak. He just stared out through the command booth's panes at the tracking screens.

They had blacked out two hours earlier.

After several minutes he rose, slowly, stiffly, and left the Command Post.

He entered his office alone and closed its doors before he crossed to his desk.

He had a sidearm concealed in one compartment. He took it out and adjusted its setting with hands that shook. It would be swifter than death at the hands of the masuki.

Only he heard its single shot.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Over the years it took me to write this book, many people in many areas contributed in one way or another to its completion. However, I owe particular thanks to First Lieutenant John T. Curtis, Captain Bradley K. Jones, Captain Dan Bartlett, Captain Daniel Smith, Lieutenant Colonel Dave madden, Lieutenant Colonel Max D. Remley, and Colonel Mike Self (Reserve), my fellow officers in the U.S. Air Force; and Lieutenant Commander Warren Jederberg and HM3 Tim Moore, U.S. Navy, for all of their constructive criticism and technical assistance; to Elizabeth "Liz" Moosman, RN, for her expertise and coaching on the medical aspects; and to my longtime friends and fellow writers, Marcha Fox, Mark Rhodes, and M. Shayne Bell, for their long-distance encouragement and moral support.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Originally from Smithfield, Utah, Diann Thornley wrote her first story at the age of five and never stopped writing. She taught herself to type on her father's ancient manual typewriter at the age of six, because it was faster than pushing a pencil. After winning a statewide writing contest, junior high division, at the age of fourteen, she began her first novel, which was based on the Arthurian legends. This endeavor filled most of her high school years and freshman year of college—until a handful of friends introduced her to science fiction. Hooked, she dove in headlong.

Ganwold's Child, her first military science fiction novel, took seven years and countless revisions to complete, due to finishing college and entering the U.S. Air Force. Following a year-long tour of duty in the Republic of Korea, Diann completed Ganwold's Child while stationed at Wright-Patterson AFB in Dayton, Ohio. Echoes of Issel and Dominion's Reach, the second and third books in the series, were also written in Ohio.

Diann transitioned into the Air Force Reserves following Desert Storm, but her military career spanned twenty-three years and included deployments to Bosnia and Iraq. In December 2000 she married Jon Read, NASA "rocket scientist" and martial artist, and moved to Texas. Diann retired from the Air Force in June 2009 and has returned to her writing career. She is now working on The Seventh Shaman series, a new military space fantasy epic.

If you enjoyed this book, please consider posting a review on Amazon. I read all reviews and very much appreciate your thoughts and comments.

You can connect with Diann online at:

Website: www.diannthornleyread.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/d.t.read.author

Twitter: @DiannTRead

Please enjoy the following excerpt from Echoes of Issel, second book in The Sergey Chronicles.

Chapter One

Tristan started when a gloved hand closed on his wrist. The grip drew him out of his dream as hands would pull a drowning swimmer from the water. He broke the surface of consciousness with a gasp and realized he was soaked with sweat.

"Nightmares again?" he heard.

He turned his head with an effort and stared up at the sterilesuited figure standing beside his bed. It took a moment to recognize the face inside the head bubble as Doctor Libby Moses, the ship's surgeon. "Yes'm," he said, and raised a hand to touch his forehead in the gan gesture of respect for mature females.

"Sit up and let your head clear," she said, and reached out to assist him, careful of the welts that cross-hatched his back and shoulders, and the intravenous line that ran from his arm to the hemomanagement system built into the bulkhead. He rolled over slowly and sat up, swayed in a sudden whirlpool of dizziness, and Doctor Moses steadied him. "You should try to take some water," she said, and moved off to fill a cup from the dispenser in the bulkhead.

Images from the nightmare flicked across his memory. He could still feel the crimson heat of blood on his hand. He tried to rub the sensation away.

"Tristan?" Doctor Moses said.

His head jerked up. He glimpsed her querying eyes, and his face warmed with embarrassment. He ducked his head and touched his brow again.

"What's wrong with your hand?" Doctor Moses asked.

"Nothing, ma'am," he said.

She held out a cup to him. He had to take it with both hands because they still trembled. He managed two or three sips, keeping his gaze lowered, but he could see her at his periphery, standing there observing him. His stomach knotted up.

"What are your nightmares about?" Moses asked.

He shuddered. Nearly gagged on another sip of water. Hunching himself in the gan posture of petition, he said, "I really don't want to talk about it."

Moses raised an eyebrow but she didn't insist. Instead, she turned her attention to the monitor mounted above his headboard and studied its display.

Beneath the bed sheet, thousands of tiny white and black and silver beads covered his mattress and pillow. Sensors, Doctor Moses had told him, which constantly monitored his temperature and respirations, his blood pressure and pulse, even his bowel sounds and restless activity, and relayed that information not only to the display above his bed but to the med-techs' desk as well.

Moses pursed her mouth as she eyed the readouts. "Your blood pressure and temperature are still up," she said, "and I'm reading a lot of activity in your brain, like combat responses to an attack. Whatever that nightmare was about, it must've been pretty intense."

Tristan barely heard her. The nightmare curled up at the back of his waking consciousness like a tendril of smoke. A shape—two shapes—solidified in his mind's eye.

"What did he do to my mother?" he demanded.

"What, Tris?" Moses dropped her gaze from the monitor, returned it to his face. "Who did something to your mother?"

Tristan swallowed. I shouldn't have said anything. It only stirs up questions about—everything I want to forget.

"Your mother will be all right," Moses said. Her tone held reassurance, offered comfort. "She's on bedrest but she's getting her appetite back."

He wondered if he dared believe her. Wondered if she thought he was crazy.

"My biggest worry right now," she said, "is how you're feeling."

He ducked his head again and turned away from her. Felt her watching him. "What are you feeling right now?" she asked.

Scared, he thought. He couldn't say that. He shook his head.

Moses still studied him. Closely. But she changed the subject. "Do you still have much pain in your back and ribs?"

Half-healed lacerations throbbed across his back, and every time he moved his cracked ribs jabbed at him, like a knife piercing his side.

The knife went in upward—

No!

He fought the image down, shaking his head.

The wound in his soul ached worse.

Moses pulled out the fold-down seat from the bulkhead by his bed and sat down. Picked up his hand as if to count his pulse. "You're having a hard time getting any sleep between the nightmares, aren't you?" she said, peering into his face.

He didn't meet her eyes. He kept his head down and his teeth closed tight against speaking.

He'd stiffened when she first took his hand but he didn't attempt to withdraw it; he found something comforting in the contact. His hand lay under her sterilesuit glove, his skin hot and dry under her touch.

She released his hand after a moment, rose and unlocked the medications cabinet, and returned to her seat with a packet in her hand. "These will help you relax," she said as she tore it open.

The tension that had just begun to ebb shot up again as she tipped the little discs into her palm, and rose still more as she peeled the backing from one. His whole body went rigid.

"What's wrong, Tris?" she asked.

"The patches." His mouth dried so he could barely rasp out the words. He indicated the discs in her hand. "I don't want them. I don't want to sleep."

"These aren't sedation patches," Moses said. "They're electromagnetic buttons. They pick up your normal brain waves and stimulate the ones that help you feel relaxed. Those are called alpha waves."

They looked like sedation patches to Tristan. He flicked his vision from the buttons to Moses' face, his eyes narrowing with distrust.

"At least give them a try," she said. "If they don't help, I'll take them off when I come back later and we won't use them again."

He eyed the patches once more. Probed her eyes with his. He finally nodded and said, still dry-mouthed, "All right."

He couldn't keep himself from clenching his teeth as she pressed the miniature transmitters to his temples and forehead.

Moses patted his hand when she finished. "You'll start feeling better in a few minutes." She paused then, frowning for a moment before she reached for the keypad above his headboard. "I'm going to put you on NonRem, too," she said. "It's a sleep inducer that keeps you from entering REM, the dream state of sleep, which means it'll prevent the nightmares. We can only use it for a couple of nights, but that should be enough to get you over the exhaustion so you can start to heal."

When the prescription appeared on the small screen beside his monitor, she looked it over and keyed in something else. "There. That won't kick in until tonight." She glanced up at him. "How do you feel now?"

The tension had left his muscles and stomach, he realized at once. His hands had stopped shaking. The gnawing, guilty fear had subsided. "Better," he said.

"Good," Moses said, and then, "Your father would like to see you today, just for a couple of minutes."

Tristan swallowed reflexively. His guts knotted back up on themselves; his palms grew suddenly damp. "Do I have to see him?"

Moses' features remained neutral. "Not right now, if that's what you want," she said, "but you'll have to deal with these things eventually in order to really heal." She studied him again. "What is it about your father that makes you feel uneasy?"

He shook his head a little. Let it droop. He wasn't even sure he knew, except that he didn't know his father. All he knew were the terms others used when they talked about him:

Admiral.

Assassin.

Hero.

Traitor.

Fighter pilot.

Brilliant strategist.

Religious fanatic.

The terms tumbled in his mind, rising from his mother's stories during his childhood and the accusations of Sector General Mordan Renier.

He shuddered at recent memories.

Doctor Moses still watched him when he lifted his head at last. He made a resigned motion with one hand. "Let him come," he said.

"Okay, Tris." She rose. "I'll see you this afternoon." She squeezed his hand and left the room.

Two

One glimpse of Darcie's eyes, one glimpse of the color that rose along her cheekbones when she recognized him, left Lujan feeling as awkward as a teenage boy alone with the prettiest girl in the class; he suddenly felt incapable of putting one coherent word after another.

He'd felt that way for the last several hours, sitting beside her while she slept.

"Darcie?" he said.

She studied him sleepily for a full minute before she said, "I guess I wasn't just dreaming, then. You're still here."

His hands grew damp inside the sterilesuit gloves he wore, but he smiled. "I hope that's a good thing."

The smile with which she responded appeared uncertain. Her gaze searched his for a moment longer, then slipped away. "You're an admiral now," she sighed, "and I'm a right mess. My face feels like peimu leather, my hands are calloused, and my hair—" She broke off, coughing, and turned to cover her mouth.

"I've never seen anyone with hair as long as yours," Lujan said. He hesitated, then added, "I—like it that way."

Her hair tumbled loose and wavy around her shoulders, and when she'd gathered it earlier and drawn it free of the bedcovers, he'd been startled to realize it would reach nearly to her knees if she stood up.

"It's all gone gray," she said.

"So has mine," Lujan countered.

"At least yours looks distinguished."

He laughed at that, but she lowered her attention to her hands, interlocked tightly in her lap, and he found he was once more at a loss for words.

Several silent seconds followed, each more strenuous than the last, until Darcie asked, "How is Tristan? Have you seen him yet?"

Lujan sighed, partly with relief at the change of subject and partly out of anxiety for their son. "Not yet," he said. He leaned forward on the fold-down seat and planted his elbows on his knees. "Doctor Moses says his temperature's still elevated and he had nightmares all night." He glanced up from the deck, met her gaze. "Did she tell you the rest of it?"

"She said that he'd been flogged," Darcie said. Her voice trembled, reinforcing the maternal anguish in her features.

Lujan nodded. Returned his vision to his boots. "Mordan Renier did it to try to coerce me. He sent me the holograms." He suppressed a shudder. But he couldn't keep his jaw from tightening, his eyes from narrowing with fury and horror at the memory of the images.

He felt Darcie's stare. "Mordan beat Tris to coerce you? To do what?"

"To sell out Sostis," Lujan said. "The way he did during the Great War. I wouldn't, of course. I . . ." He couldn't finish. He shook his head. Couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes.

The silence stretched on forever after that, until she finally said very quietly, as if it were a eulogy, "He looks like you. Your blue eyes, your mouth, your hair color. . . . He'll be nineteen in another few months."

Lujan raised his head at that and studied her face. A shade paler now, he thought, than she'd been when he came in. "I'm sorry," he said. "I did everything I could."

"Libby had told me already."

"Then you didn't need to hear it again." He sighed and straightened on the seat and rose to his feet. "I should probably just leave and let you rest."

She didn't say anything, but he felt her gaze follow him as he crossed to the door.

In the isolation lock between her room and the main corridor, he clenched his teeth as he stripped the sterilesuit off from over his uniform. Pretty lousy way to get reacquainted, he berated himself. Almost as bad as the first time.

He headed up the corridor out of sickbay still scowling.

* *

"Ladies and gentlemen," announced the spacer at the situation room doorway, "the Commander!"

The situation room had remained mostly empty for the briefings given earlier during the spacecraft carrier's simulated night, but he found every chair and holograph pad occupied now. Every combatant in the Spherzah fleet was represented, and every officer, whether Destrier's own, present in the flesh, or the other ships' captains attending via two-way holographic transmission from their vessels, came to attention as Admiral Lujan Ansellic Sergey strode into the room.

They formed a somber double file down each side of the conference table's length, men and women clad in battle dress uniforms marked only with nametape, rank, and shoulder patch. The patch bore the silhouette of a bird of prey with talons extended: the Kalese spherzah, from which the Unified Worlds' special operations force took its name.

"Please be seated," Lujan said, crossing to his place at the table's head, and when everyone sat he nodded to the lieutenant standing at the podium. "Good morning, Petra."

"'Morning, sir," the young woman said. "This situation update is classified Top Secret, releasable to the Unified Worlds."

She touched the cue on her podium and a map of a peninsula with several locations identified appeared in the holotank behind her. A key in a lower corner included the time zone notation, to which the fleet's chronometers had synchronized before its arrival in the Saede system.

"During the past night," she began, "Unified Worlds forces on Saede's surface began clean-up operations throughout the militarized zone. Exchange of fire at the Assak surface-to-space transshipment depot on the Unkai peninsula had ceased by seventeen-hundred local time yesterday, with the complex under the control of Unified Worlds forces.

"A POW facility has been set up inside Assak's main depot," she said, "and prisoner in-processing and interrogation are continuing at this time." An image of several enemy soldiers being searched by Spherzah captors filled the holotank. "Our troops report little resistance from human and umedo soldiers, but the masuki prefer suicide to surrender."

"No great loss," murmured someone at Lujan's left, and some of the others chuckled.

"They might have provided some useful intelligence information," Lujan said quietly.

A three-dimensional galactic map appeared in the holotank, showing Saede in relation to the Unified Worlds' protectorate planet Yan, and the enemy homeworld Issel. "The Cathana Range tracking station on Yan has confirmed that the last Isselan vessels departed the Yan system during the past twelve standard hours," the briefer said. "Their last known trajectory was toward the Yan-Issel lightskip point. Though Issel suffered heavy losses at Yan, the remaining ships could reinforce other fleets for another attack. Their most probable course of action is to attempt to retake Saede."

The lieutenant cued up an image of a middle-aged man in an Isselan general's uniform. "In other developments, sir, the Issel system has been placed under martial law. No reason was given for that action and the announcement made no mention of Sector General Mordan Renier, but a military coup seems the most likely explanation, particularly since the statement was signed by General Manua Ochakas, Commander-in-Chief of Intersystem Operations. We have no further information on that matter at this time."

A murmur ran up and down the table at that, taut voices reined in to mutters. Lujan stroked his mustache with his forefinger and furrowed his brow at the implications.

"In conclusion, sir," the briefer said when the murmur subsided, "the following charts provide Isselan fleet status and battle damage assessment to date." She touched the cue; a column of numbers replaced the Isselan general's image. "The charts show Isselan space and surface units by troop strength and equipment holdings, and give numbers neutralized and forces remaining."

She paused to allow the command staff to study the charts, and Lujan spent a few moments on each. "What are our losses?" he asked.

"Lighter than expected, sir," replied the acting Chief of Operations, Lieutenant Commander Merrel. "We had fifty-two killed in action, two hundred nine wounded, and four are listed as missing. We also lost a troop shuttle and two fighters to surface fire. The shuttle had just finished unloading and was lifting off with a minimum crew of three aboard."

Somber silence hung over the conference table for several moments, and Lujan turned back to the lieutenant at the podium. She said, "That's all I have, sir. Are there any questions?"

"Just a request, Petra." Lujan shifted forward in his chair. "Watch the message traffic for any mention of Sector General Renier. His status could be a factor in determining how Issel will carry out this conflict."

"Yes, sir." The briefer nodded. "Are there any others?"

"I have one." The hologram of Captain Kheyl of the destroyer Hoved raised her hand. "If Issel tries to retake Saede as you project, how much warning time will we have?"

"Five standard days from the time of launch, ma'am," the lieutenant said.

Kheyl's hologram nodded.

Lujan turned to his Operations officer. "Have we received battle reports from our fleets at Yan?"

"They hadn't come in before I headed up here, sir," Merrel said.

"Marcus?" Lujan addressed his Intelligence chief. "Any initial reports?"

"Not yet, sir," the commander said.

"I'd like to see them when they do come," Lujan said. "I'd like to know what kind of impression Admiral Ne's people had of the masuki in the Isselan attack force. Did they appear to be assets? Or were they liabilities, as they were to the fleet we faced at Buhlig? That flagship had a bridge crew of better than fifty percent masuki, and they killed Captain Mebius when we defeated them."

"Gutted the man right there on the viewscreen," said Destrier's executive officer, Commander O'Keaf, "and then they all committed suicide." He shook his head. "By the time our boarding party got over there, the bridge looked like a biorecycling plant. Smelled like one, too."

"I don't understand that," said the captain of the heavy cruiser Asgarth. "They killed the captain—a mutiny basically—and then they killed themselves?" He sounded incredulous.

Commander Marcus Ullen, chief of Destrier's Intelligence section, motioned with one hand. "This is masuk mentality we're dealing with, remember. It was a mutiny, all right. The people we took off those ships as POWs confirmed that. But it has different implications than a mutiny by a human crew."

When Asgarth's captain arched a questioning brow at that, Ullen explained, "The masuki are slave-keepers. They prefer capture to killing because captives mean wealth, either as personal possessions or as profit from the slave market. The only prisoners they kill are those they consider unsalable." He spread his hands. "Worthless, in other words.

"On rare occasions, however, they've been known to use killing as a form of insult. It can go two ways, and I believe that's what we saw at Buhlig. They killed Mebius as an insult to their Isselan commanders, implying that they're worthless, and then they took their own lives to insult us, to deprive us of the wealth of slaves."

Asgarth's captain snorted. "They have an inflated estimation of their own value!"

"Masuki aren't subordinate," Lujan said, "particularly to a race they usually enslave." He tapped the table top briefly with one finger. "Makes one wonder how long Issel's alliance with the Bacal Belt can be expected to last, or whether it just ended with a coup." Several others along the table nodded thoughtfully at that, and Lujan leaned back in his chair to look across at Ullen. "This is something we need to keep under a close watch. Monitor every signal coming out of the Issel system."

When the other nodded, Lujan turned to Destrier's captain and more immediate concerns. "Ben, the rest of the staff meeting is yours."

Captain Benjamin Horsch nodded and looked around the situation room. "According to a communiqué we received during this past night," he said, "the Sostis Sixth Fleet out of East Odymis is on its way out to relieve us. It should arrive a few days behind our resupply and tender ships." Glancing down the table, he said, "I'll be glad to see the Sostish High Command take charge of its own conflict. Unless Issel or the masuki pop something new out of the big empty, we should be able to head for homeport early next month."

* *

Doctor Moses must have returned from staff meeting only moments before his arrival, Lujan thought as he entered sickbay. She emerged from her office up the corridor ahead of him, pulling her lab coat back on over her uniform. She spotted him as she paused to adjust the coat and waited for him to join her.

"Lujan, you look like a ghost!" she said as he drew up. "If you don't get some rest soon you'll be in worse shape than your wounded."

He responded with a dim smile beneath his mustache.

Doctor Moses shook her head. "You're a hopeless cause!"

He ignored that; he asked, "How are the wounded?"

"You can go in to see them today," she said. "Most are sufficiently stabilized now."

"Good," he said. "And my family?"

As an empathic specialist trained to read every subtlety of posture, of gesture, of vocal inflection like words on a screen, he knew Moses could sense his unspoken questions. But she probably could've done that even without the training, Lujan thought. They had known each other since he was an ensign in the Sostis Space Force, before he even entered the Spherzah, let alone become its Chief Commander.

"Darcie's responding well," Libby said, "but I'll have to keep her in isolation for a few days. It took us a while to make the diagnosis. When the usual tests came up blank we ran a battery of gene probes and enzyme studies, and ended up doing a complete immunoglobulin profile as well."

Lujan stiffened. "What is it?"

"It's a compound illness," Libby said. "It looks like she picked up some kind of virus somewhere along the way, probably from the natives she and Tristan lived with all those years. But she never knew she'd been exposed because she didn't develop any of the usual symptoms of a virus; it stayed dormant. What seems to have been the catalyst was contact with some kind of local fungal spores. Her body's attempt to fight off a fungal infection triggered the virus."

Lujan's heart contracted. "Can it be treated?"

Libby nodded. "Fortunately, yes. She received an injection with a gene-spliced bacillus just after you left for staff meeting. By the end of the week it will have reproduced enough to inactivate the virus, and the broad-spectrum antibiotics we're giving her will take care of the fungus. Beyond that, she'll need a few weeks of bedrest and proper diet to regain her normal weight and put her back on her feet."

"Good," Lujan said, and allowed himself a sigh of relief. Over the last twenty-four standard hours he'd spent every moment he could spare away from command responsibilities sitting with Darcie or walking the corridor between the cubicles where the wounded troops, including his own son, lay. "What about Tristan?" he asked.

Libby drew a deep breath. "Physically," she told him, "he'll mend, too, once he gets over his exhaustion. He and Darcie are both on interferons to accelerate the healing. It's his mental cargo that concerns me the most. Pretty rough stuff the kid's dealing with, Lujan, and not too successfully at this point. It may take hypnosis to help him talk it out." She sighed. "For now I'm using electromagnetic buttons to relieve his anxiety, and I'm giving him a sleep inducer for a couple of nights to block out the nightmares. But he's also been exposed to that Ganwold virus, and to a few other diseases I thought had been eradicated, so you'll need to wear a full-protection sterilesuit in his cubicle, too, until I can be sure he's not a carrier. We can't risk either one of you infecting the other."

Everything in Lujan's chest constricted as he listened. "May I see him?" he asked.

"Yes," Libby said, and then hesitated as if deliberating over adding something else. "Just keep it short," she told him.

* *

Tristan looked up at him and swallowed, like a child expecting punishment, Lujan thought, when he paused in the doorway.

"Hello, son," he said. He found it difficult to speak, looking into the youth's face. He glimpsed no remnant of the childhood he'd missed, no trace left of the toddler he'd carried on his shoulders and hugged good-bye too many years ago, a few months before the Great War ended.

His duties had detained him in the Enach system following the final battle there, so he'd persuaded Darcie to take some leave, bring Tristan, and come join him. Their transport had vanished several days out of port, and search and rescue teams had never found a trace of it. But a few months ago his wife and son had suddenly reappeared, as hostages in the Issel system, held by Sector General Mordan Renier.

"Tristan," he said, crossing to the bedside, and felt his throat tighten at glimpsing the youth's eyes, devoid of trust, and the welts across his broadened shoulders. Lujan wanted to put his arms around his son, to pull him to himself, but that would doubtless cause pain, and Tristan had already experienced too much of that.

"Sir," his son said.

Lujan tried to smile. "You don't have to call me that, Tris. 'Father' is fine."

Tristan's eyes searched his at that, a multitude of questions burning in them, and doubts, and Lujan wondered what to say. Nothing he thought of seemed capable of being put into words. "I'm . . . very thankful . . . to have you back," he said at last.

Tristan ducked his head, turning his face away. "No, you're not," he said. The words were barely audible but Lujan didn't miss their bitter edge.

He waited several moments but the youth said nothing more, offered no explanation. So he reached out, slowly, and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "Yes, I am, Tris," he said.

The youth only studied him, his features full of doubt, all the questions back in his eyes. They were questions he would have to answer for himself, Lujan knew, but they wouldn't come easily, if they ever came at all. The hurt he saw in his son's face recalled his own grief when Darcie and Tristan were first lost. It had taken him months to put it to rest and years to try to ease the emptiness.

Though Tristan's reconciliation with his recent experiences would have to come from within himself, he wouldn't have to deal with them alone, Lujan vowed. He gripped the boy's shoulder more tightly. "I'll be here when you need me, son," he said.

Tristan didn't answer.

* *

Doctor Moses stood there waiting when he came out into the isolation lock. She activated ultraviolet lights to kill any virus on the sterilesuit. Didn't speak until he'd removed his head bubble and pivoted to face her. Then she said, "When was the last time you got some real sleep, Lujan?"

He tried briefly to remember and couldn't.

"That's what I thought," she said. "You're spreading yourself too thin between your fleet and your family and what's happening down there on Saede. You can't keep going like this much longer."

He handed her the head bubble. "I'm all right," he said, and shrugged out of the sterilesuit.

Libby looked him in the eye. "You're too tired. Your doctor's ordering you to your quarters for a few hours of sleep." She pressed a slip of paper into his hand before she bundled the suit into the sterilization chamber. "Take that to the techs' desk on your way out; they'll give you what you need. We don't need you joining your troops on the patient roster."

Her tone of voice provoked a smile. "Yes, ma'am."

Entering the admiral's quarters a few minutes later, he strode across the compact living area and paused before one of the three observation panes in the far bulkhead. Each stretched nearly the height and width of a man, and at the moment they admitted the only light in the room, reflected from the blue and green world that revolved beyond them.

The berth in his sleeping cabin resembled a small square cave, built into the bulkhead with stowage compartments for clothing and gear above and below. Lujan peeled the backing from the sleeping patch Libby had prescribed and pressed it to his temple before he removed his boots and shirt and stretched out in the berth. He stared at its overhead, unable to get Tristan's haunted eyes out of his mind.

He woke in late morning. He felt no residual drowsiness, just fully rested. With a glance at the timepanel on the bulkhead, he sat up, peeled off the patch, and reached for his shirt.

He tucked it in as he entered his quarters office. Activating the desk terminal, he requested, "Access the ship's main library and list any items on masuk sociology and military history added in the last six standard months."

"Accessing," came the synthesized response. After several seconds the computer said, "There are thirty-seven new items on the topics you requested, sir." The list ran down the right margin of the screen.

Lujan scanned it, selected half a dozen, and stepped away to fill a mug with steaming shuk from the bulkhead dispenser as the first item appeared on the screen.

He'd just taken the first swallow, had barely seated himself to begin reading, when the commset buzzed. "Open," he said. "Sergey here."

The Operations officer appeared in the comm set's display. "Lieutenant Commander Merrel, sir. Those battle reports have come in. No time-critical items. Do you want them forwarded to your desk screen?"

"No," Lujan said. "Notify Captain Horsch and the intelligence section. We'll come down to the CIC."

* *

When Commander Ullen joined Lujan and Horsch in the Combat Information Center, Merrel said, "The reports are in audio only, gentlemen. We also received a log entry made by Admiral Ne, commander of the Sostis Eighth Fleet out of Ch'on-dok." He glanced at Lujan. "That may actually provide more information on the masuk question than the formal reports do, sir." He switched on the audicorder.

"Log entry made at twenty-two-eighteen ship's time, day thirteen of month two," it began. "This is Admiral Ne Chong-Son aboard the flagship Aboji, Ch'on-dok Eighth Space Fleet."

Ne's formal Standard, accented with the inflections of his native language, didn't interfere with understanding him. "Exchange of fire ceased by twenty-thirty-two ship's time," he said. "Eighth Fleet has lost nine ships. Five more have sustained moderate battle damage and eighteen have light damage, but the Isselan attack fleet has been reduced by half, from sixty to approximately thirty ships. I consider it still a dangerous force.

"Our call for its surrender was answered with a statement to the effect of, 'We will not surrender. We will have our revenge.' The response was made in audio only and the speaker refused to identify either himself or his ship despite our repeated order that he do so.

"Whereupon, we again ordered the Isselan fleet to surrender, this time with a warning that failure to do so would force us to continue the engagement. The refusal was repeated. At that point, I ordered the Eighth Fleet to reengage the enemy.

"Within two standard hours the remaining Isselan ships began to withdraw, still returning fire. Our forces continued pursuit to the limit of Yan's planetary defense zone.

"Most of my ship captains and command staff share my suspicion that the Isselan fleet is under masuk command. However, if that is the case, we are puzzled by the fleet's retreat from the Yan system, as that seems an unlikely course of action for a masuk commander. Therefore, we are holding our defensive positions in Yan's planetary space and maintaining our alert status until further notice. End of entry. Admiral Ne Chong-Son out."

Everyone exchanged looks, and Captain Horsch shook his head. "I've never heard of masuki retreating before either, but the rest of the encounter sounds like what you'd expect from them." He glanced sideways at the intelligence chief. "What do you think, Marcus?"

"It sounds like masuki to me," Ullen said. "Above all else, they're unpredictable."

"How do you interpret their statement about getting revenge?" Horsch asked.

Ullen turned their attention to the holotable they sat around, which displayed a map of the Saede, Issel, and Yan star systems. "The most likely scenario," he said, "is that they'll return to Issel to reinforce other fleets for a second strike against Yan and Saede. As the lieutenant said in her briefing this morning, they appear to be heading for the Yan-Issel lightskip point.

"But—and this is where masuk unpredictability comes in—" he glanced around the circle, "—we have no way of confirming right now whether or not they actually made the 'skip. Once outside the Yan system they could have changed course. They could be regrouping for another attack on Yan," he traced a flight path across the holotable with a blunt finger, "or they could be heading toward Saede."

"What?" said Horsch.

Ullen tapped the holotable with his finger. "By the time they began their retreat from Yan, the Isselan fleet would have known the outcome of the battle at Buhlig. Admiral Ne did, after all. Knowing that, they could have projected our final destination. For all we know, the masuki may intend to get revenge for their Buhlig fleet."

"That'd be just like a bunch of those hairballs," Merrel said. "What's their strength?"

"According to intelligence reports from Yan," said Ullen, "it's estimated between twenty-five and thirty ships, including three carriers."

"They're crazy enough to try it with only ten ships!" Merrel pointed out.

An unlikely scenario, Lujan thought, except that the masuki had long ago proven themselves capable of irrational actions. They seemed to be driven only by emotion and the convoluted expectations of their culture, disregarding even the loss of their own lives. A masuk attack against Saede could not be discounted entirely.

"If that's what they're doing," said Horsch, "how soon should we expect the attack?"

"In less than seventy-two hours, sir," said Ullen.

Three

Blood still stained the deck in the center of the Adamaman's bridge where the human captain had died. s'Agat Id Du'ul gave no thought to having it cleaned up, though it had been there for several days and had begun to smell. The scent did not offend masuk noses.

Several locations aboard the spacecraft carrier besides the bridge had been bloodied. Id Du'ul had given the word and humans had died, the ones most likely to oppose him, whose potential for trouble outweighed their worth. The rest, having been made to witness the example of their officers, he'd herded into the spacers' open berthing areas like the livestock he considered them, and posted masuk guards.

Only three humans remained on the bridge, the ones Id Du'ul needed to operate the navigation computers, lightskip drives, and communications console. Their faces, hairless as an infant's, betrayed their youth, and their fear caused their bodies to give off an odor stronger than that of the blood on the deck.

They had value to him, he'd told them. They should feel honored that he, a prince of Mi'ika, had selected them to serve him. He expected they would be wise enough to recognize that and perform their duties well, for he could honor them further by presenting them as gifts to the Pasha of Mi'ika.

They should also remember, he'd said, that on Mi'ika worthless slaves were neither given nor sold, and he'd toyed with the handle of the knife in his sash, the knife he had used to dispose of their captain.

They all sat at their posts now, their faces white and their bodies sweating under their uniforms. Id Du'ul paced the bridge, watching them. They would obey him, he knew. He'd often been told how much humans feared death and would do anything to postpone it.

"Sire," said the one at the nav station, "we are now sixteen minutes from the lightskip window."

Id Du'ul acknowledged with a small gesture and addressed the human at the engineering station. "Begin acceleration to lightskip speed," he said in their language; they didn't speak his.

He didn't return to the command chair until the warning horns sounded, and even then he didn't secure its acceleration straps. They wouldn't have reached around his torso in any case. "Begin countdown to lightskip," he ordered.

An artificial human voice intoned human numbers over the intercom. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise with anticipation. The sensation of 'skip felt like being torn apart in battle, as exhilarating as rutting. He heard the roar of his pulse in his ears and answered with a roar of his own. Space ripped open all around him. He emerged from lightskip sweating and aroused.

He looked around the bridge, still panting.

The humans sagged, unconscious at their consoles.

It didn't matter. They had served him well; they had given him their world. He would keep his promise to them.

Issel's star burned before him on the bridge viewscreen, only a little more prominent than the constellations beyond it in this view from the outskirts of its system. The blue planet that followed the second orbit out from that star wouldn't become visible for another day and a half, but he knew it bore enough human wealth to satiate half the worlds of the Bacal Belt. He ran his tongue over his upper canines.

"Sire."

The human at the communications console had lifted his pale head. Sweat beaded around his mouth and nose. He swallowed once, twice, and his hand shook as he touched his headset. "Sire," he said again, "we're receiving a signal. It's from the command post on Issel II."

Id Du'ul considered that for a moment. His masuk subordinates studied him, silent, until he sat back in the command chair and smiled. "Answer their signal," he said. "Tell them, in your language, that we have battle damage and must enter the system at once for repairs."

"Yes, sire," said the young man.

Id Du'ul saw the way he set his jaw, the tremor of his hands as they moved over the console, selecting frequency and mode. He didn't see the moment's hesitation, or the sudden resolve in the young man's eyes despite the sweat that welled on his forehead as he entered the message.

He had encrypted the silent signal, but everyone would understand it clearly when it burst through Issel II's command post receiver.

* *

General Manua Ochakas glanced around the command post, a compact amphitheater hewn from stone two miles beneath the surface of one of Issel's two moons. The secure commsets placed at intervals along each tier of desks and the three huge viewscreens facing them still didn't function despite numerous efforts to find and fix the problems.

"Are you sending on all hailing frequencies?" Ochakas asked the NCO at the comms console.

"Yes, sir," the tech sergeant said. "All channels are open." He adjusted his headset and bent over the panel again.

An antiquated piece of equipment, pulled out of some storage room and dusted off, the console provided the only back-up system available and Ochakas felt grateful to have it. He furrowed his brow. "Carry on, then," he told the sergeant. "Request acknowledgement."

"Yes, sir."

A stocky native Isselan in his late fifties, Ochakas had a receding hairline and a paunch that tested the clasps of his uniform jacket. He'd never wanted to fight the war he now found himself involved in, had never wanted the position he now held. Both had fallen to him a few hours after the scan screens blanked out, when an aide found Sector General Mordan Renier sprawled on the floor of his study, an energy pistol lying near his cold hand. Ochakas grimaced, remembering the scene.

Mordan Renier had not been Isselan but Sostish—the hereditary World Governor of Sostis, in fact—until the enemy Dominion appointed him Sector General over several star systems in exchange for his homeworld's allegiance during the Great War.

Already devastated by the war, Issel had benefited under his rule as Sector General. In the twenty-six years since the Dominion's defeat by the Unified Worlds, Renier had taken on the task of rebuilding Issel's razed cities, industries, and agricultural areas. The effort had demanded patience and discipline and sacrifice from the people, but it put roofs over heads and food on tables. As Issel reclaimed its lost glory, the success of their efforts had united the people in support of their Sector General. Until he became obsessed with regaining the homeworld he'd lost.

The costs of building an arsenal came from the civilian economy. Over the last two years Ochakas had watched the standard of living sag as industries shifted from consumer goods to heavy machinery. He'd seen universities close as students were conscripted to fill industrial shock forces, and he'd seen those students marching and shouting through city streets until the Sector General's secret police arrested, tried, and sentenced them to hard labor in Issel II's carmite mines.

Ochakas had never approved of either the student arrests or the effort to reclaim Sostis.

Turning away from the empty screens, he began to pace the width of the command post. He resisted a shudder at the sensation of narrowed eyes following him. Forced himself not to glance back at the masuki, who lounged against the command post's rear wall.

Renier had signed a pact with the rulers of several masuk worlds despite all advice against it. Ochakas still didn't trust them, though Renier had granted the masuk officers billets in his attack fleets, had assigned them to his bridge crews, had even given one command of his base on Saede.

Two days ago Renier's bid to seize Sostis had failed. The Unified Worlds had broken both prongs of the attack, at Buhlig and Yan, and moved on to Saede.

No masuki had survived Buhlig; the masuki preferred death to capture. Ochakas suspected that, being slavers themselves, they expected to be enslaved by their conquerors. He could understand that. He didn't understand why they had slain the human captain as well. To prevent him from being captured? He doubted it. Masuki lacked a reputation for compassion.

Half of Issel's Second Fleet had survived the battle at Yan; Ochakas had received its admiral's reports in this command post before the communications systems collapsed. That fleet had been heavily manned with masuki as well.

The Yan fleet was under way, limping home now; it had just cleared the Issel-Yan lightskip point. But with no response to the command post's hails, Ochakas didn't know how many ships had made it through and how many had survived.

He needed those ships, those survivors, despite his dislike for masuki. His distrust of the Unified Worlds in general and Sostis in particular ran twenty-six years deeper. He scowled at the floor. With both Yan and Saede now under their control, nothing remained to prevent the Unified Worlds from making a retaliatory attack against Issel.

At the moment, he knew, a third fleet departed the docking arms of Issel's main space stations. Its original orders, to strengthen the forces launched against Sostis days before, had been cancelled; its battle groups now scattered on early warning system defense patrols. The Yan fleet would be needed to reinforce them.

Ochakas turned back to the knot of men standing around the communications console. "What's our Yan fleet's ETA here from the 'skip point?" he asked.

"Based on the time they were picked up by our early warning systems, a little over seventy-six hours, sir," said his Operations officer.

Ochakas frowned. "They should be receiving our hails by now," he said, mostly to himself. "They should be responding."

"Maybe they can't, sir," said one of the younger men, a lieutenant named Siador. "Maybe they've got damage."

"To every ship's long-range communications systems?" Ochakas shook his head. "That's highly unlikely."

"They may be running silent intentionally," said someone else. "They probably have good reason to out there."

Ochakas didn't want to imagine what that reason might be; his first few thoughts on it sent chills up his spine. "Keep trying to hail them," he said.

* *

After straining for so long to pick up anything, the crackle through his headset came like a thunder clap. Tech Sergeant Tradoc stiffened and shot a glance at his console. One amber panel in a column of twenty had begun to glow; the sender had encrypted the message. Tradoc toggled a couple of switches.

Words emerged from the static, crackling in his earphones: ". . . masuk control! This is an attack! Issel II, this is Adamaman. Our ships are under masuk control! This is . . ."

As the message repeated itself he slipped a surreptitious look over his shoulder and located the masuki, muttering to each other at the far side of the room. He caught his commander's eye with a slight motion of one hand.

"Sergeant?" said General Ochakas.

He scribbled the message on a notepad, as casually as if he were doodling, in case the masuki noticed.

The general arched an eyebrow. His mouth pursed almost imperceptibly as he met Tradoc's vision but he said nothing. He simply clasped his hands behind his back and moved away from the comms console.

He paced the command post for several minutes, his posture and stride as patient as those of a man willing to wait through eternity. Only his eyes, had anyone glimpsed them up close, would have betrayed him with their sudden intensity.

When he returned to the comms console at last, he beckoned, and Tradoc pushed his headset back, letting it hang around his neck while he rubbed at raw spots developing on his ears.

"Have we got two-way communications with the main Comms Center yet?" Ochakas asked.

"Should by now, sir," Tradoc said, "but I can't make any promises." He picked up the headset and placed its 'phones gingerly over his ears again.

He opened the direct line and hit SEND. Got nothing back but the hiss of static.

He shook his head. "Still dead, sir. Guess I'll have to try the patch again."

Though archaic, the long way around, only the patch-in still worked. He punched in the number to Operations Planning and said to the voice that answered, "This is Tradoc in the CP. Do you have your line to Communications back yet?"

A pause. "Sorry, still down," came the response.

Tradoc fidgeted, thinking hard. "How about to the Advanced Warning folks?"

"Don't know. Lemme try."

Another wait. A long one this time. Then: "You're in luck, Trad. I've got Warnings on, and they're back on line to Comms."

"Good," said Tradoc. He flashed a positive hand sign at the general, still standing behind him, and said to the voice, "I need you to patch me through. General's orders."

"Right away."

He heard a crackle, then several seconds of static, and the general reached over his shoulder to lay a message on his console. He scanned it. Drummed the panel with his fingertips while he waited.

He'd nearly given up on getting through at all when a very faint voice, nearly lost in static, said, "This is Comms. Go ahead, CP."

Tradoc glanced across the room at the masuki. The muttering had stopped; one guard, arms folded over his chest, stood there watching him.

"It's coming encrypted," he said quietly.

"Say again, CP? I didn't copy." The voice seemed to be fading, breaking up in the static.

He didn't dare repeat himself. He switched over to encrypt mode, grabbed the general's note, and placed his hands on the keyboard. His fingers moved swiftly, tapping it out:

URGENT URGENT URGENT

172254L 2 3308SY

TO ALPHA STATION CMDR

DELTA STATION CMDR

3RD FLEET CMDR

FM CP ISSEL II

FOURTH FLEET ON APPROACH TO ISSEL UNDER MASUK CONTROL, THREATENING ATTACK. THIRD FLEET VECTOR TO INTERCEPT. MAY ATTEMPT TO SEIZE ALPHA AND DELTA STATIONS. BEGIN EVACUATION TO PRIMARY AT ONCE. REPEAT, BEGIN EVACUATION AT ONCE AND PREPARE TO DESTROY STATIONS, BY ORDER GEN MANUA OCHAKAS.

Tradoc entered SEND, cleared his display, and erased the memory record. He hoped and prayed the message had made it through. Hoped even harder that the faint voice on the other end had been a human's.

Four

Darcie looked up with a start at the sound of Lujan's step at the doorway. She'd been sitting so still, staring with such concentration at the bedcovers over her legs, that he asked, "Are you all right?"

"Y-yes," she said at once. "I was—thinking about Tristan."

He waited in the doorway. "May I come in?"

She hesitated. "Yes," she said again.

He took the fold-down chair beside her bed as he had before. "Libby says he's starting to show some improvement," he offered.

Darcie nodded, and muffled a cough. "Have you seen him today?"

"Briefly." Lujan sat back on the seat. "He always seems uncomfortable to have me there so I don't stay long."

"You're a stranger to him," Darcie said. "Even more so because you're his father."

Lujan drew his brows together. "I don't understand."

"He grew up in a matriarchal culture," she said. "Gan mothers run the clans, and they choose a new male every season. No child knows who his biological father is; it's not important. We'd been there four years before I even heard the gan word for father. The very thought of you telling him you're his father is strange to him."

Lujan considered that, his brow furrowing more deeply.

"Everything is going to be strange to him," Darcie said. "Some things are strange to me now. It'll take time to grow used to it."

That goes for all of us, Lujan thought. He almost said it aloud, but his pager chirped and its little electronic voice said, "Admiral Sergey, please come to the Watch."

He switched the pager off. "I'm sorry," he said, rising. "I'll be back when I can."

She gave a slight nod in reply and watched him leave the room.

He released a pent-up breath as he peeled off the sterilesuit in the isolation lock, then started up the main corridor.

The Watch lay six decks up, just off the Combat Information Center. A startled petty officer began to call the area to attention as Lujan came in, but he made a negating motion and said, "As you were."

Captain Horsch and Commander Marcus Ullen had arrived before him. They stood waiting with grim expressions, and Lujan said, "What've we got, Marcus?"

"We just received a message intercept from Issel, sir," said Commander Ullen. "The surviving ships from its Yan fleet cleared lightskip outside the Issel system a few hours ago. According to communications from its flagship, the fleet is under masuk control and has stated intent to attack the planet."

Lujan arched an eyebrow at that. "What's the possibility this message could be a deception? Could they be trying to divert our attention?"

"I wondered that myself, sir," said Ullen, "but I don't think it's very likely. The message was sent over military channels from the command post on Issel II to its orbital stations and to a fleet commander."

Captain Horsch shook his head, disbelief etched around his eyes. "They're attacking Issel? That's impossible! It doesn't even make sense!"

"Actually, sir, it does," said Ullen, "from a masuk point of view. I should've realized it the other day when we first played Admiral Ne's log." He said, "Masuki don't accept defeat. They're probably blaming their human counterparts for betraying them, so revenge is the natural recourse. Issel is, from their way of thinking, fair game."

Lujan didn't feel surprised, hearing that—except, perhaps, that it had happened so soon. "How is Issel responding?" he asked.

"They're taking the threat seriously, sir," Ullen said. "They've initiated Attack Warning Alert and vectored several carrier groups from system defense patrols to intercept. There's some indication that the main spacedocks are being evacuated as well."

"Are all of their returning ships accounted for?" Lujan asked next.

"We believe so, sir," said Ullen, and nodded toward Merrel. "The original estimate from Admiral Ne was about thirty surviving ships. This message gave a count of twenty-seven."

Captain Horsch, arms folded, still appeared skeptical. "Just how likely is it that they'll really attack?"

The Intelligence Chief made a wry face. "If they're under masuk control," he said, "it's highly probable."

"And what would be their most likely targets?"

"Probably the spacedocks or the command post moon. Maybe both. The spacedocks certainly wouldn't be difficult to seize."

Horsch only nodded, and everyone stood silent for a moment, weighing the likely outcome of such attacks.

"If you haven't already, Marcus," Lujan said, "relay this information to Sostis immediately. The situation has just entered a whole new dimension. We should probably expect some amendments to our current ops orders."

The commander nodded. "Yes, sir."

"At this point, though, all we can do is wait, repair, rearm, and keep watching," Lujan concluded. "I want a status report every twelve standard hours. Report any unusual signals, ships, or other activity."

"Of course, sir," said Ullen.

* *

Lujan was still mulling it over as he pulled the sterilesuit on once more, but he put it from his mind as he reentered Darcie's cubicle.

She had fallen asleep in his absence. He crossed to the seat he had vacated earlier and sat down with a sigh. Picked up her nearest hand and began to examine it, turning it gently between his own.

In another few minutes he began to fondle her fingers, twining them with his. He'd done that often during their intimate conversations before they were married. He'd done it through most of the night that she lay in labor with Tristan.

Her hands had been smooth and immaculately clean then. As a surgeon, she'd considered them her most important tools and had always taken good care of them. That obviously hadn't been possible on Ganwold. Calluses and cracked knuckles and small scars bore a mute account of what it had cost her to survive there.

His thoughts wandered while she slept, but they always came back to the masuki, and to how he'd lost her. The subject had troubled him through the years because it had never been resolved. In fact, it had never been confirmed.

Her hand tensed in his. He glanced up, saw uneasy puzzlement in her eyes, and released her hand. She folded it with the other one in her lap.

"I'm sorry," Lujan said. "It must've been a very difficult life."

"It wasn't easy," she said. After a little silence she indicated his pager and asked, "Did you get—whatever it was—taken care of?"

He managed a short smile. "For the moment. . . . Did you have a good nap?"

"I suppose so."

Silence again. It always came back to the silence, the search for something to say.

The call to the Watch slipped back through Lujan's mind. He hesitated for some moments before he asked, "What happened to your transport, Darcie? All we ever learned was it had been attacked en route to Enach."

She didn't seem startled by the question. She said, "It was attacked. By masuki."

He leaned forward on his chair. "Do you still remember anything about it?"

"I remember nearly all of it," she said.

"Can you tell me about it?"

Darcie drew a deep breath. "The masuki disabled and boarded the ship and killed most of the crew. I took Tris and hid in a maintenance locker—" she drew a difficult breath, "—and a bit later I heard them going through cabins, one after another, and rounding up passengers; I could hear people going up the passage outside the maintenance compartment."

"They were slavers?" said Lujan.

She nodded, and muffled a cough. "Yes."

He suddenly wondered how masuki defined revenge, and exactly what had driven them to seek it against Issel. Was it a matter of pride, of saving face after their defeats in battle? Was there some specific loss they hoped to recoup? The cost of their ships and troops, maybe?

Or was it the spoils of battle denied them by Issel's failure to take Sostis? What promised payment had motivated them to make such an alliance in the first place?

He didn't like the obvious answers. He furrowed his brow and tightened his jaw, and Darcie said, "Is something wrong, then?"

"No; I'm sorry. Never mind." He straightened and, after a pause, asked, "How did you escape?"

"They tried to make lightskip—several times," she said. She fisted her hands in her lap and fixed her vision on them. "They almost destroyed the ship doing it, but they finally came out near Ganwold. That's when the Dominion legionnaires came aboard; I believe they were System Defense troops. They searched the ship then and—they found Tris and me in the maintenance locker." She had to stop to cough again.

He waited, wordless, patient, and when she caught her breath she said, "They had knives. Belts of boarding knives round their waists." He saw her shudder, saw how she began to gather up the edge of the sheet between her hands. "They marched me down the passage," she said. She never looked up. "I—ducked into the cross-corridor and fired the shield door—and then I grabbed Tris and ran.

"I wanted to get to the lifepods." She gripped the wadded sheet with both hands now. "That was all I could think of. The lift to the lower deck was shot up, and there were bodies and smoke in the passages, and the legionnaires were coming round the other way to cut us off. So I took a—a pistol—from one of the dead soldiers.

"I had it—in my hand—when we got to the bottom of—the emergency stairs." Her words came in snatches as if she were running; the vital signs monitor above her headboard showed her pulse had accelerated. "I found a masuk down there, too. He tried to grab me and—I shot him—point blank. I didn't even think about it—I just did it.

"I'd—no idea where we were 'til I launched the lifepod, and then all I could think was—however am I going to care for Tris?" Her hands, kneading the sheet, had grown white and pinched-looking. "I knew I couldn't let the Dommie colonists find us, but I didn't know if I could trust the ganan either."

"Tell me about the ganan," said Lujan.

Darcie glanced up briefly. "They're Ganwold's native race," she said. "They're the people the planet was named for. They're hunter-gatherers. They're nocturnal, and they have—fangs—and fingernails that look like claws.

"They're—very gentle, actually—but they don't look it. I feared them at first."

She sat silent for a while, gazing past the sheet she wrinkled in her lap, apparently remembering. "I don't know why I finally went with them. Perhaps because the legionnaires were searching for us, and I knew what would happen if they found us." She kneaded the sheet in her hands. Released a shaky breath. Didn't look up again. "At any rate, the ganan took us into their clan. They shared their food and played with Tris and taught us how to survive."

"And you lived out there with them all that time?" Lujan's tone had softened.

She nodded. "Until Mordan's soldiers came through the camp and torched it, looking for us." She lifted her gaze at last. "There was no way to escape that time."

Lujan didn't say anything to that. He couldn't. Searching her eyes, he saw the lingering terror in them, a sort of unfamiliar vulnerability. He wondered if he should offer her the comfort of his arms.

* *

"Twelve-point-two hours ago," said the lieutenant from Intelligence, "an Isselan spacecraft carrier group totaling ten warships intercepted the Yan fleet, which entered the Issel system about thirty-six standard hours ago."

Complete silence fell over the situation room; all attention fixed on the briefer.

"The Yan fleet responded by launching fighters against the defending vessels," she said. "Having broken the Isselan ships' outer fighter defense, the Yan fleet seems to have overwhelmed the Isselan main defenders." As she spoke, symbols of ships in the holotank behind her reenacted what Intelligence knew of the battle.

The command staff followed the unfolding action through narrowed eyes. "The fighters were obviously masuk-flown or commanded," murmured the Tactical Officer.

"Exchange of fire ceased within six hours," the briefer continued, "with the defending ships damaged and most destroyed. The Yan fleet also received severe damage, losing five ships, including one of its carriers. As of oh-six-thirty local time, the masuk-commandeered vessels were confirmed underway and moving deeper into the Issel system. If they maintain their last known speed and heading, ETA in Issel's planetary space will be thirty-two standard hours from now."

Lujan nodded acknowledgement, and the lieutenant said, "In the Bacal Belt, Kalese sources have observed a non-merchant fleet on-loading assault troops, heavy weapons, and short-range escort fighters at Mi'ika's three spacedocks. Kalese analysts believe this fleet was intended to reinforce Issel's attack forces, but on-loading has not halted nor slowed since Issel's defeats. Destination is unknown. We will continue to monitor this activity.

"Finally," she said, "the Isselan newsnets have announced the death by suicide of Sector General Mordan Renier."

A few people reacted to that with disbelieving snorts and muttered speculations about how much assistance the Sector General might have had, but the lieutenant said, "This concludes my briefing, sir. May I answer any questions?"

"Yes," said the holographic figure of a frigate captain. "Why are the masuki attacking Issel? I thought they wanted revenge."

"I've thought about that," said Lujan. "I suspect Issel bought their assistance with a promise of payment in Sostish slaves, and having been denied them, they're returning to Issel to collect on the debt." He glanced over at the intelligence briefer.

She nodded confirmation. "That's our suspicion, too, sir. It would fit their pattern."

"How great a threat are they, really?" asked the holofigure of a female cruiser captain. "They don't have much more than a task force."

Another holofigure shook his head. "They practically annihilated a whole carrier group, didn't they?"

"By force of numbers," said the cruiser captain. "They're down to twenty-two battle-damaged ships now. Unless the Isselan space fleet is considerably less capable of than we've always been told, it'll stop them before they can cause much more trouble."

"If it can regroup in time," said a second frigate captain. "Right now it has battle groups scattered all over the Issel system, and they don't appear to have any long-range eyes or any central control."

"There is a potential threat," said the briefer. "The fleet being formed in the Bacal Belt could as easily reinforce the Yan fleet as it would have the Isselans. If it finishes on-loading and launches as expected, it could reach the Issel system within two months. Even if the Yan fleet has been completely annihilated by then, this new fleet would have more than enough strength to conquer Issel."

"Good," said a destroyer captain at the rear of the room. "If the Isselans have their hands full with the masuki, maybe they'll keep their reach out of Unified space for a while!"

Lujan swiveled his chair to face him. "For a while," he said. "And then what? Once the masuk worlds have expended Issel, what will be their next target? Adriat and Na Shiv? Or Sostis? They won't spend their limited resources exploring remote sectors of the galaxy when there are plenty of inhabited worlds to plunder in this one." His gaze touched each face down the length of the table. "We'd be very unwise," he said, "to lower our guard because the threat doesn't appear to be directed at Unified space right now. If anything, the threat has just become more complex."

Buy Echoes of Issel online at Amazon.com at: http://ow.ly/mU1r4

Other books by Diann Thornley Read:

Echoes of Issel

Dominion's

Coming soon:

Running from the Gods

